“They’re opening a new brunch place downtown,” Joe comments, his voice low and smooth. She hums, pressing further into his stomach. His touch, soft and purposeful, lures her towards the trap of sleep. Joe flicks his eyes down to her, and a soft smile blossoms on his face.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he pokes her in the neck, making her body scrunch, “you fallin’ asleep on me?”

“No,” she grumbles, curling closer to him. If she could be in his skin, she would. She was a cat on his lap, purring softly as she melted into his warmth. Joe never minded it; why would he? She was only ever this soft around him.

“Seems like it,” he murmurs, carding his fingers through her hair. He admires her, watching as her muscles relax under his touch. Goosebumps poke up onto her skin, and he knows that his touch feels good.

Not because she asks for head scratches anyways.

She shifts, and she feels the hem of his shirt wrinkle up. Her lower cheek meets the warmth of his stomach, and she nestles into it. Joe just watches, curious as to what she’s doing. In these settings, where it’s just the two of them, she’s always ten times more affectionate. She’s not clingy in public or demanding even. Just when they’re alone. In the safety of their house walls, she lets her own crumble.

Her lips meet his stomach, and it pulls him out of his trance. It shocks him, the sensation not entirely new. It’s just unexpected. He watches with intrigued eyes, her lips puckered as she kisses across his lower stomach.

He doesn’t complain. Not when he’s found the thing he’ll ask for all the time.

“What’re ya doin’, hm?” he hums, every kiss sending warm bolts of electricity through his body. Her lips are warm, more insistent as he speaks. She kisses right above his belly button before settling her chin on his stomach.

“Thought I’d give your tummy some love,” you smirk, pressing another shuddering kiss to his stomach for punctuation. Joe just chuckles, his skin rippling with his laugh. He shifts, tilting his head on the pillow. She’s dangerously close to another more intimate area, but there’s something so intimate about this. Her kissing a part of his body he didn’t think she thought too much about.

“Where did this come from?” he asks, feeling her body shift. She angles herself to settle between his legs, her arms wrapped securely around his waist. Her lips attach to his stomach again, making his breath catch.

It’s so damn sweet yet so damn arousing he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You know your jersey tends to lift up every time you do one of those running passes?” she asks, peaking up at him through thick eyelashes, “yeah, that’s why,”

“Really?” He asks, his lips curling into a small smirk, “that’s what this is from?”

It earns a giggle from her.

“It’s cute!” She argues, pressing a kiss to his stomach, looking up at him. He can’t deny it. She’s cute like this; soft edges and warm skin. She’s worshipping a part of his body he usually didn’t think twice about. It’s not sexual, she’s not asking for something else, she’s purely showing love to a different part of him.

Maybe he could get used to it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmurs, earning a smack on his thigh. He laughs, a genuine and hearty sound that rumbles in the depth of his chest. He guides her up, a steady hand on her chin, and presses a honeyed kiss to her lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “you and your weird obsession with my stomach,”

“It’s cute,” she argues through gritted teeth, “but I love you too,”

The stadium is still buzzing when you step onto the sideline, headset snug over your ears, mic card warm in your hand. Confetti sticks to the turf, to your shoes, to Joe’s shoulders as he laughs with a teammate a few yards away. You watch him for half a second longer than necessary—helmet off, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the cold and the win.

“Alright,” the producer’s voice crackles. “You’re up.”

You exhale, professional mode on, heart very much not.

Joe turns when he hears your voice, and the grin that spreads across his face is immediate and completely unhelpful. It’s the same grin you see at home when you steal his hoodies, when you beat him at Mario Kart, when you crawl into bed already half asleep. It softens when his eyes meet yours, like the world narrows to just the two of you standing on painted grass.

You raise the mic anyway.

“Joe Burrow,” you say, fighting your smile, “huge win tonight. How are you feeling after that performance?”

He leans toward the mic, but his eyes stay on you. “Feeling pretty good,” he says evenly. “Team played great. Crowd was amazing.”

Textbook answer. Of course.

You nod, pretending not to notice the way his pinky hooks around yours, hidden between your bodies where the cameras can’t quite catch it. Your thumb rubs against his knuckle once—a grounding touch you’ve shared a thousand times.

“You threw for over three hundred yards,” you continue. “Walk us through your mindset out there.”

Joe hums like he’s thinking, then shrugs. “Just trusting the guys. Staying calm. You know—doing my job.”

You tilt your head. “That calm mindset seems to be a theme with you.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Any secrets you want to share?”

For a split second, his eyes flick down to your intertwined hands. Then back up. “Good support system,” he says. “Helps a lot.”

Your chest warms, but you keep it together, nodding like that answer doesn’t feel personal at all.

The producer gestures for one more question.

“Last one,” you say. “What does a win like this mean heading into next week?”

Joe finally looks away from you, glancing toward the stands, then back again. “Momentum,” he answers. “Confidence. And—” he pauses, lowering his voice just enough that it feels like it’s meant for you more than the mic, “—something to celebrate.”

You laugh softly, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. “I’m sure you will.”

The light on the camera blinks off. Interview over.

The moment it does, Joe drops the professional mask entirely. He steps closer, forehead resting briefly against yours, his hand squeezing yours properly now.

“You did great,” he murmurs.

“You always say that,” you whisper back.

“Because it’s always true.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple, careful, subtle, still on the field. “Thanks for not asking anything embarrassing.”

You smirk. “Oh, I saved those for at home.”

He laughs, full and easy, pulling you in for a second before a teammate whistles at him. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Always,” you say.

The finishing touches on her look were the diamond earrings she made her signature and a quick swipe of clear gloss. She padded downstairs, the scent of blended fruit hitting her before she even turned the corner. Joe stood at the kitchen island, his broad back to her, focused on pouring a thick, berry-colored smoothie into a travel tumbler. The gray boot on his left foot looked cumbersome against the sleek tile floor, but he still managed to shift his weight easily. Colby perked up at the sight of her, stretching before jumping down from his sunbeam-warmed throne on the breakfast nook cushion, his orange fur practically glowing in the morning light.

“Hi, baby,” she hummed, crouching down to scratch Colby’s chin. The kitten leaned into her touch, purring like a tiny engine. She straightened just as Joe twisted the lid onto his tumbler.

“Do you want some?” Joe asked without turning, his voice still held that warm heaviness this early in the morning. He gestured at the blender’s purple remnants with his tumbler.

“Hmmm, looks good, what’s in it?” The question became muffled as she pressed her cheek against the solid warmth of his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. He was warm through the dark tee he wore for PT, smelling faintly of clean cotton and that familiar blend of vanilla, mahogany, and cedarwood that clung to him after his morning showers.

“Beets, blueberries, spinach, protein powder,” Joe listed, his free hand coming to rest lightly over hers at his stomach. “And a bunch of Greek yogurt. It’s pretty good.” He finally turned in her embrace, his blue eyes still sleepy but brightening as he took her in, her skin glowing in the light. The movement brought him closer, his height forcing her to tilt her head back. He took her hands in his, his thumb brushing the back of her knuckles. “Sure you don’t want a glass? Won’t take a sec.”

“Sure. Thank you, baby,” she murmured, puckering her lips for a kiss Joe readily delivered, tasting strongly of toothpaste and blueberries. He turned back to the blender, pouring the thick purple mixture into a second tumbler.

Her gaze drifted downward. The fabric of Joe’s sweatpants hugged his ass perfectly. Without thinking, she reached out, giving his left cheek a soft pat followed by a firm, appreciative rub. “Mm, very firm,” she murmured, a grin spreading across her face before reaching forward to wrap her arms around his waist once more.

Joe didn’t flinch or pause his smoothie-pouring. “Havin’ fun back there?” he drawled, voice thick with dry amusement. He turned to face her, tumbler in hand, leaning back against the countertop.

She kept her hands anchored low on his hips, thumbs tracing the waistband of his sweats. “Just admiring the architecture.” Her palms slid over the firm muscle she’d just patted. “Solid foundation work, Mr. Burrow. Very load-bearing.”

Joe snorted, setting her tumbler aside. His hand slid up her arm, fingers brushing the embroidered cuff of her scrubs. “Never met a girl who liked touching my… ass like this.”

“Am I supposed to apologize?” She countered, her fingers digging into his hips playfully. She tilted her head, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ve got a world-class asset. It’d be rude not to appreciate it.” Her thumbs slid beneath the waistband, grazing warm skin at the top of his sweatpants.

Joe’s laugh was a low rumble. He trapped her wandering hands against his sides, his large palms easily engulfing hers. “Appreciation noted,” he said dryly, leaning down to bump his forehead gently against hers. “Did you eat?”

“We’re getting it catered this morning,” she murmured, tilting her chin to brush her lips against his jawline. “Office meeting with all the MDs.” Her hands slid around to his back and up the solid warmth beneath his shirt. She traced the ridges of muscle bracketing his spine, a map she knew better than her old textbooks.

Joe hummed against her temple. “So you’re stealing my ass-appreciation time and then abandoning me?” His fingers slid into her curls, gently tugging her head back until her brown eyes met his blue ones. “Cruel.”

The dry sarcasm didn’t mask the softness in his gaze. He thumbed her bottom lip where her gloss had smudged. “You’ve got…” He trailed off, leaning in to thumb the sticky sweetness away before kissing her properly. She melted into it, tasting yogurt this time and the faint bitterness of protein powder beneath it. Her fingers tightened on his tee, pulling him closer until his chest pressed flush against hers. His boot scraped tile again as he shifted his weight.

The kiss remained slow, at that longing tempo unique to weekday mornings. She felt Joe's fingers tighten in her hair, not pulling but anchoring, as if she might evaporate before his PT session. “Mmm, baby,” he mumbled against her mouth, the curse softened by exhaustion and affection. “You’re gonna be late.” He muttered, kissing her once more before pulling away with a peck she chased.

Colby chose that moment to leap onto the countertop, his orange fur fluffed in indignation at the lack of attention. He bumped his head against Joe’s smoothie tumbler, his sniffing nearly knocking it over. “Hey, menace,” Joe chuckled, scooping the kitten up with one large hand. Colby immediately burrowed into the crook of Joe’s elbow. She watched as Joe scratched behind the kitten’s ears with his free hand.

“We need to train him not to get on the counters,” she hummed, using her reflection in the microwave’s metal to fix her gloss while Joe wrestled Colby into a purring submission hold. “This is a Black household. He can’t get away with this. He’ll lick your smoothie clean off the lid.”

Joe hummed in agreement, shifting Colby to cradle him like a football, he kitten sprawled belly-up. “You heard your mom. Countertop privileges revoked, Colby Jack,” he declared, though his tone held no conviction.

She shook her head, smiling, reaching for her tumbler. The smoothie tasted earthy-sweet, the beets cutting through the berry tang, and cold enough to make her teeth ache pleasantly. “What time’s rehab?” she asked, swallowing the thick liquid. “And don’t say ‘early’. Be specific.”

“Eight sharp,” Joe replied, shifting Colby upright. The kitten draped himself over Joe’s shoulder like a fuzzy stole, blinking sleepily. “Two hours.”

She nodded, sipping her smoothie. “Okay,” she murmured. “Please don’t push it today.” She reached out to pet over Colby’s fur with her free hand. “I know you want to get back ASAP, but—”

“I know,” Joe interrupted gently, catching her wrist and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I hear you say that every morning. My mom might say otherwise, but I swear I listen.” His thumb traced the veins beneath her skin. “But I also know you tell patients to ‘trust the process’. So trust mine. Please.” He leaned forward, bumping his nose against hers. “Gimme a kiss goodbye before you leave.”

She obliged. As she pulled away, Colby launched himself from Joe’s shoulder onto hers, claws pricking through her scrubs. “Traitor,” Joe muttered, watching the kitten nuzzle her ear. 

She laughed, disentangling Colby’s claws gently. “He knows who goes to the store to buy his food.” She whispered to Colby, “I will see you later, my favorite boy.” She set him back on the floor, where he immediately flopped onto his side.

Joe grabbed his keys from the hook by the garage door. She watched him move: the careful pivot on his good foot, the slight hitch as he compensated for the boot’s weight. “Text me when you’re done with rehab,” she said, picking up her tumbler.

Today, the guys spent most of the day watching snowboarding events while the girls hit the slopes and explored the hotel’s amenities. Come dinnertime, the group planned to meet once again at the hotel’s restaurant for a meal together. The guys sauntered into the restaurant first, the girls finding them seated just as they were about to recite their drink orders to their server. Joe noticed the girls approaching first and pulled out her chair without a word, tugging her close enough that she could press a kiss to his cheekbone.

Dinner flowed between bites of chicken and steak, glasses of wine, and accounts of college misadventures half the group was already familiar with but still laughed at. Joe’s arm remained slung over the back of her chair throughout most of the night, offering her bites of his food, and happy to finish off what she didn’t care to finish of hers. By the time 10 o’clock rolled around, the group was heavy-lidded as they made the short walk from the restaurant to the elevators. Their rooms were scattered among different floors with the “hosting” couple’s room on the highest floor.

When the two of them finally passed through the doors of their room, Joe was toeing his shoes off before he’d even crossed the threshold, kicking them into the corner with a sigh. She peeled off her own layers, dropping them onto the armchair, her chilled skin prickling against the difference in temperature without the extra fabric. Joe groaned as he collapsed onto the mattress, his broad frame sinking into the plush duvet.

“How’s your neck, babe?” She asked, climbing onto the bed over him, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Joe exhaled through his nose, tipping his head back against the pillows as her fingers crept up his shoulders, her square nails scraping lightly over his collarbones.

“Stiff,” he muttered, but the tension in his posture eased when her thumbs pressed into the muscle beneath his jawline. His eyelids fluttered shut, lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones.

She hummed, leaning down to brush her lips against his forehead. “Mmm, maybe you should’ve let me give you that massage last night instead of falling asleep while I was in the shower.”

Joe kept his eyes closed, his mouth quirking. “You took too long. Thought you forgot about me. Decided to sleep instead of facing the heartbreak.” She rolled her eyes and pinched his earlobe between her fingers, earning a half-hearted swat to her hip from his hand.

“It’s colder in here than the restaurant,” she remarked.

He could feel the goosebumps rising on her skin, his brain finally processing the fact that her legs were bare, leaving her in her black fitted turtleneck and underwear. He pulled her down into his chest, his hands inching up her spine underneath the black fabric, and huffed when she yelped at the contact of his cold palms.

“I’m helping you…” he mumbled, receiving an indignant huff from her as she curled tighter against him.

To distract her from his hands slowly warming against her skin, Joe tilted his chin up to catch her lips, his mouth curving into a smirk when she melted into him immediately. She loved kissing him, loved when he let her take the lead with her tongue sweeping against his bottom lip, but she loved it even more when he wrestled control from her, when his grip tightened and his teeth scraped just enough to make her gasp. Right now, he was playing nice with his lazy kisses that tasted like the rich red wine they’d shared at dinner. But she could feel the shift when his palms slid down to grip her back side, when his hips lifted just slightly beneath hers.

Inevitably, the moment was destined to get out of hand. Her fingers curled into his hair as her hips rolled instinctively, the friction drawing a low groan from his chest. His hands slid up her sides, dragging the fitted fabric of her turtleneck with them until the cool air hit her bare skin. The sudden exposure made her shiver, but Joe didn’t give her time to protest, his palms already molding to the soft curves of her breasts.

“Perfect,” he thought aloud, allowing his hands to drift down to her ass, dragging her center over his. His lazy kisses turned hungry, his teeth nipping at her lower lip before soothing it with his tongue, his rhythm growing more urgent. She gasped when his grip tightened, pulling her hips to grind down harder, the heat between her thighs impossible to ignore.

She felt her body moving before she registered his intentions. Strong arms guided her up his torso, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his shoulders. The first brush of his breath against her thighs sent a jolt through her, making the muscles in her stomach tighten reflexively. “Relax,” he murmured, as if that were possible when his arms hooked around her thighs, anchoring her in place.

Her breathing grew shallow when his right hand reached to tug her underwear aside, exposing her heated core to the chilled air of the room. Then his mouth was there, his nose resting perfectly against her clit, rubbing slow circles even before his tongue began its lazy dance along her folds. She choked on a gasp, unsure of what to do with her hands. One hand gripped the headboard for stability, the other tangled hopelessly in his hair, neither offering her any sort of control. There was none to be had anyway, not with Joe’s arms locking her thighs flush against his face, not with the way his lips sealed around her, working relentlessly, mercilessly, until she was lightheaded.

Every flick of his tongue drew another cry from her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, her head falling back on her neck, her hips twitching against his grip. “I—” she gasped, clamoring for words as the heat grew to be unbearable, her thighs trembling.

Joe showed no mercy. His tongue curled inside her just enough to tease her entrance, then withdrew to torture her clit again. She choked on her breath, undulated in his grip uselessly. She felt him grumble against her when her underwear slipped back into place. His annoyance lasted precisely half a second before he tore the fabric aside with a rough jerk, letting it snap against her thigh and flattening the full expanse of his tongue against her.

She swore the room spun, or maybe she just jerked her head violently enough to imagine it, when the orgasm slammed into her so hard her toes curled, her thighs quivered, and her hands clawed at the headboard in a desperate attempt to ground herself. Joe didn’t let up, swallowing every whimper and shudder as she rode it out, his grip only easing when she weakly tugged at his hair, a silent plea for mercy.

When she finally peeled herself off him with her limbs shaky and her breath ragged, she collapsed beside him, staring at the ceiling while her pulse thundered in her ears. “Jesus,” she wheezed, pressing a hand to her chest as if she could slow her racing heart. “I’ve never cum that fast.”

Her body felt weak and completely limp, her thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. She felt Joe’s weight lift from the bed before his hands, which were much warmer now, slide her torn underwear off completely, tossing them somewhere unseen. The mattress dipped again as he pressed a knee beside her, his fingers trailing idly up to her calf.

“Sub three,” he mused, pressing a soft kiss to her ankle.

His face came into view, the tip of his nose brushing against her skin as he hovered over her, his lips still glistening. She blinked up at him, her brain struggling to piece together his words through the post-orgasmic haze. “Sub… three…?” she echoed, the tone of her voice still uneven.

Joe’s smirk was infuriatingly smug as he dragged his thumb along his bottom lip, his other hand working open the button holding his pants together so casually it made the heat pool again in her lower stomach. “Took three minutes, give or take,” he clarified, his voice thick with amusement.

Her eyebrows shot up as she tried to reconcile the absurdity. “You were counting?” she blurted, propping herself up on her elbows. His shrug was nonchalant, but the glimmer in his eyes gave him away.

He was showing off.

“Clock management comes in handy sometimes,” he quipped, tugging his zipper down just enough to free himself, his fingers stroking lazily along his length. She watched, transfixed and more than just mildly annoyed at how effortlessly he could make her entire body shudder just by looking at her that way. “I was aiming for two but,” his shoulders lifted in another shrug, “got wrapped up.”

She scoffed, flopping on her back once more, earning a deep, genuine laugh from her boyfriend. “I should be offended,” she muttered, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyelids.

“Should be?” Joe strained out amidst a hiss as his hand wrapped around himself, stroking slowly to the sight of her still sprawled beneath him, her thighs parted just enough to taunt him. “I think I deserve a trophy.”

“And I might actually give it to you. I’m so turned on right now,” she admitted with a stubborn huff.

She smiled to herself as she watched his eyes track the graceful lift of her right hand to her mouth, her middle and ring fingers dipping past her lips to moisten them before she slid those same fingers between her thighs. She grinned at the way his teeth clenched when she let out a breathy sigh. “It’s really annoying.”

“I hope to god Travis was joking about him cooking because I’m starving.” Y/n murmured as Joe grabbed both of their suitcases for the weekend from the car. Joe chuckled, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile.

When y/n told Joe Travis had invited them out for the last weekend before the season began, Joe had agreed to go along. He figured it would be nice for the two of them to spend an entire weekend together before the chaos of the season truly began… and Joe still felt like he needed to really prove himself to y/n’s brothers that he was serious. He knew he didn’t have to prove it to anyone, but for her sake he wanted to make sure everyone knew— without a doubt— how much he liked her, and if that involved spending his off weekend cozied up in the house of his team’s biggest rival’s star tight end, he’d do it.

“His cooking can’t be that bad.” Joe said as the two of them started making their way up to the front steps of Travis’ house. On the other side of the door, y/n could hear the unmistakable sound of her brothers’ booming laughs.

“Joe,” y/n said gently, “he once burnt pasta when he was babysitting me. Pasta, Joe.”

Joe sucked in air between his teeth before letting out a long exhale and shaking his head with a small chuckle. He looked down at y/n, his eyes flicking down her silhouette as she leaned forward and pressed the doorbell.

“I still can’t believe you agreed to come to Kansas City on your weekend off.” Y/n murmured, turning to look up at Joe, who continued to look at her with a gentle smile on his lips.

“I’m not sure I believe it either, but,” Joe leaned down until his lips hovered above y/n’s ear, “I like you a lot and wanted to spend time with you in your element.”

“In my element?” Y/n quirked a brow, the corner of her mouth curving up into a smirk.

“Yeah,” Joe said, straightening and moving to rest an arm around y/n’s waist. “Surrounded by people who care about you, giving your brothers shit. I love seeing that version of you.”

Y/n felt her cheeks warm, a smile spreading across her lips. Joe gave her hip one last squeeze before the front door swung open to reveal y/n’s brother, Travis. 

“Well, shit, look who it is!” Travis said boisterously, immediately leaning down to hug his sister. “What’s up, lil’ sis?”

“Not much.” Y/n chuckled against her brother’s chest before she let out a bit of a yelp as Travis lifted her off her feet. He sat her back down, giving her a pat on the head before turning to Joe.

“Burrow actually made it out to KC?!” Travis said before pulling Joe into a hug, though, thankfully, not as intense as the one he gave his sister. Travis was a very affectionate guy… something Joe had grown accustomed to over time.

“Thought a change of scenery might be nice.” Joe nodded. “Even if that scenery is nowhere near as nice as Cincinnati.”

“Oh come on!” Travis chuckled, playfully shoving Joe away. Joe smiled and y/n laughed as Travis stepped back before ushering the two of them inside.

“Just set your stuff by the door, I’ll get it later. There’s someone I want you to meet first.” Travis said. Y/n raised a brow as she slipped off her shoes.

“Should I be worried?” Y/n asked, turning to her brother. She noticed the mischievous smirk on his face as he gave her a simple shrug. Joe took off his shoes and deposited their suitcases by the foot of the stairs before turning to y/n. His hand fell on the curve of her back as they followed Travis down the hall and into the kitchen. At the island, Kylie and Jason were chatting with glasses of wine.

However, on the other side of the island, there was a girl. However, not just any girl.

There, in all her tall, long blonde hair, red lipped glory was Taylor fucking Swift. As in Grammy winning musician, biggest tour ever, Taylor fucking Swift, standing in her brother’s kitchen.

Y/n immediately froze in place, Joe bumping into her before he finally noticed the reasoning behind her intense reaction.

“Oh shit.” Joe said under his breath.

“Oh my gosh, hello!” Taylor said, quickly rounding the island before stopping in front of a still frozen y/n. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

“H–Hi.” Y/n stammered, her eyes wide as she looked up at the woman in front of her. The same woman whose music she’d grown up with, the same woman y/n begged her brother to get tickets to see on tour.

“I’m Taylor, it’s so great to finally meet you.” Taylor smiled before leaning in for a hug. Y/n reciprocated. Over Taylor’s shoulder, Travis, Jason, and Kylie were trying their best to stifle their laughter at the intense reaction they had known was going to happen when their little sister finally met the girl Travis was talking so much about.

“I’m— I, uh, yes. It’s nice to meet you…Taylor.” Y/n said, her arms falling numbly to her sides as the two of them pulled apart. Taylor smiled down at her before her eyes moved to look over at Joe. Y/n took that as a sign she should probably introduce him rather than continue to just stand dumbfoundedly in Travis’ kitchen staring at Taylor.

“This is, um, my boyfriend, Joe.” Y/n stammered, pointing to Joe, who was also quite shocked, but did a much better job at hiding his surprise.

“It’s great to meet you, Joe, I’m Taylor.” Taylor said before giving Joe a short hug.

“Great to meet you,” Joe nodded before looking over at y/n… who was currently staring at her brother with such an intensity, Joe was worried she was going to burn holes straight through his head.

Just then, a timer on the oven went off.

“Oh, sorry, let me get that real quick.” Taylor said, grabbing the oven mitts that were sitting atop the counter. “I promise I’ll be back!”

“Travis, can I speak with you for a second?” Y/n choked out, cocking her head to the side.

“Uh… sure?” Travis said, hesitantly taking a step towards his sister. As he did, he passed by the oven, giving Taylor a quick squeeze on the hip before following his sister out of the kitchen and into the hallway. As soon as they were comfortably out of earshot, y/n whipped around before shoving her brother full force. Of course, with her brother being a giant NFL player and y/n being nearly a decade younger than him, it didn’t do much, but the intention was still there.

“Are you fucking crazy?!” Y/n spat. Travis held his hands up, a stupid grin on his face as he let out an incredulous chuckle.

“What?” Travis scoffed.

“You told me you’re seeing someone, you didn’t tell me it was fucking Taylor Swift!” Y/n seethed. Travis laughed, still impressed by his sister’s intense reaction, which only made her madder.

“This is not a joke, Travis!” Y/n snapped. “You can’t just dump that shit on me, you know how much I like her!”

“I know, she knows that too—” Travis began.

“You told her I’m a fan?!” Y/n gasped. “She’s gonna think I’m a– an obsessed weirdo!”

“I promise she does not think that.” Travis said. “She’s actually been really excited to meet you, she’s been talking about it all week.”

Y/n let out a long groan, dragging her hands down her face.

“Travis, this is not a fucking joke… you can’t just play around like this.” Y/n sighed, gnawing on her bottom lip slightly.

“I’m not playing around.” Travis said, his voice entirely serious. “We’ve been going out for a month and… I really like her. A lot.”

Y/n felt her heart skip at the sincerity in her brother’s voice.

“Ok, ok.” Y/n sighed, half attempting to compose herself. “Look, I’m glad you’re happy, but I’m not okay with you dumping this on me without giving me time to… prepare myself. A– and god knows what the hell Joe’s doing in there, you know how he is with new people— damn it, I need to get back in there and save him.”

Y/n brushed past her brother, who followed her back into the kitchen.

“... and it is, like, basically the idea that you can travel through time by going through these sort of theoretical tunnels.” Joe rambled nervously, his hands gesturing wildly. Jason was listening intently, Kylie trying to stifle her laughter, and Taylor smiling politely and nodding along.

“But, it would take like a bunch of energy and— oh, hey.” Joe said, his face lighting up when he noticed y/n was back.

“Yeah, sorry, we were just discussing… mom’s Christmas present.” Y/n explained as she rounded the counter to stand next to Joe.

“It’s September.” Jason muttered, causing Kylie to give him a quick shake of her head.

The tension in Joe evaporated as she brushed against his side. At the same time, Travis leaned over the dish sitting atop the stove.

“This looks great, honey.” Travis said gently, coming up behind Taylor and pressing a quick kiss to her temple before leaning against the counter. Y/n blinked quickly, still coming to terms with the idea that her brother was dating The Taylor Swift.

“Thank you,” Taylor grinned. “I’m just hoping the cinnamon is strong enough this time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” Travis said before turning to look at everybody else. “Tay makes the best bread, I’m talking cinnamon, blueberry, chocolate chip—”

“The french toast one was very good.” Kylie nodded. Travis grinned, looking over at Taylor with a look of pure pride. Y/n’s eyes flicked between the two of them, but Joe’s just stayed on her.

Even if a world famous superstar was in the room, Joe only had his eyes set on one person: y/n.

“Ok, well, we’re gonna get the table set up.” Travis said. “Y/n and Joe, the second bedroom is set up for you guys if you wanna get settled in.”

“Awesome, thank you man.” Joe said, clapping a hand on Travis’ shoulder. Y/n shook her head to herself before her and Joe made their way over to where their bags were.

“You still going through shock?” Joe teased as he picked up their suitcases. Y/n let out a long groan as the two of them climbed up the stairs.

“I looked like a fucking idiot.” Y/n cringed as she opened the door to Travis’ guest room before promptly flinging herself down on the bed with a dramatic huff. Joe let out a low sigh as he deposited their suitcases in the closet before joining y/n on the bed. He stretched out, his long legs dangling off the end as he draped an arm around y/n’s waist, turning her to face him.

“You didn’t look like an idiot,” Joe whispered gently, “you looked like a person who wasn’t expecting to meet someone they’ve admired for a very long time.”

Y/n sighed, chewing on her bottom lip. Joe could sense she was still nervous as he brushed a piece of her hair back before smoothing his thumb along her lip, stopping her anxious habit.

“I just… this is so crazy.” Y/n murmured. Joe nodded along as he let out a low chuckle.

“Y’mean your brother dating Taylor fucking Swift is crazy? Whaaat???” Joe joked, pulling y/n’s hip closer to him.

“Exactly,” y/n giggled as Joe brushed his cold fingertips against the skin of y/n’s lower back, “like what does she see in him?”

“Aww, leave your brother alone.” Joe grinned, causing y/n to furrow her brow and let out a sputtering laugh.

“You’re standing up for my brother, Travis Kelce, of all people?!” Y/n gasped, holding a hand against Joe’s forehead. “Are you sick, Joseph Burrow?!”

“He’s not entirely bad.” Joe chuckled. Y/n rolled her eyes playfully.

“Does this mean you’re gonna go easy on KC next time you play?” Y/n teased. 

“Fuck no.” Joe scoffed, almost offended by the question. Y/n laughed, falling back from Joe as she did so. Joe followed her, the two of them rolling over so Joe was hovering just above her as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to y/n’s lips. He moved, pressing a barrage of quick kisses along her jaw, which only made her giggling grow louder until—

“Uh, sorry to interrupt, but dinner is ready.” A voice immediately caused both of their heads to whip around to see Kylie standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips and a smirk on her face. Joe immediately climbed off of y/n, brushing off the front of his pants before turning to y/n, who had an equally mortified expression on her face.

“Sorry, uh, we’ll be down in second.” Y/n stammered, her cheeks burning hot as Kylie let out a cheeky giggle.

“Alrighty,” Kylie grinned before making her way out back into the hallway, “take your time, but Taylor is already asking to see pictures of your cats.”

Y/n’s eyes widened as she looked over at Joe, whose cheeks were still flushed bright red as he simultaneously turned to look at her.

“Is this our life now?” Y/n asked. “Showing Taylor Swift pictures of my cats?”

“I guess so.” Joe chuckled, offering a hand out to y/n.

“This is so crazy.” Y/n said as she took Joe’s hand. He helped her to her feet before the two of them made their way out of the guest bedroom and back towards the stairs.

“Hey, I’ll take a crazy life with you any day.” Joe grinned, giving y/n one last kiss to the temple as they descended the stairs.

Joe licked his lips, nodding, bouncing his knee. “Does that mean what I want it to mean? Boot’s gone? Practice…? Maybe?”

Dr. Dawson smirked, tossing him a roll of tape. “Boot’s done. Easy rehab-only drills this week, non-weight-bearing cardio. But…” He pointed at Joe’s foot, voice dropping to that stern, paternal tone he had perfected over years with the team. “Don’t get greedy. This can be a stubborn injury if you push too soon. Take everyday for what it is. You know how to rehab, kid. You’ll be back when it’s time.”

The sterile clinic smell of alcohol wipes and antibacterial soap suddenly felt lighter, like the air had been holding its breath with him, exhaling when he finally got the news he sought. He glanced down at his bare foot, the faintest discoloration still lingering near the joint. A month ago, he couldn’t flex without wincing. Now, the movement was more fluid. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better; which he knew he should embrace.

Dawson clapped him on the shoulder, before slipping out into the hall, leaving Joe alone with his thoughts and a text message already half-typed to his girlfriend in his mind.

Officially boot free.

Joe typed out eagerly.

Her response came a few minutes later, a heart reaction sent alongside a congratulatory message, something brief about how they would celebrate properly later. He pocketed his phone, slid off the exam table, and tested his weight on the foot one more time before pulling his socks and sneakers back on, quietly savoring the small victory.

Getting out of the boot wasn’t just a step along his path to making a comeback during the season, something he hadn’t had the chance to accomplish before, but also an important checked box on his mental proposal plan. He had already crafted his official plan, assembling all the pieces he needed to make the proposal a reality. Now, with the boot off and his mobility returning, Joe couldn’t help the instinctual reach for the ring box in the inner pocket of his duffle bag, just to make sure it was still there. He knew it would be, but it never hurt to check.

The next step in his plan brought him out of the facility, into his car, and making the near 4-hour drive to Cleveland under the guise that he wanted a peaceful first workout at a different gym. The drive felt longer than usual, probably because his fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel the entire way, mentally rehearsing conversations he prepared over the course of the last few days. Valeria, Leah, and Ayanna had agreed to meet him at a the private gym he regularly used when in Cleveland.

He arrived at the gym, nerves twisting in his stomach as he walked inside. The receptionist greeted him warmly, sliding him his usual guest pass before directing him toward the private training room where the girls were already waiting. Leah was messing with the leg press machine, Ayanna scrolling through her phone at the circular table in the corner of the room, Valeria to her right. The moment Joe walked in, three pairs of eyes locked onto him with wide smiles.

“You got here quick,” Leah remarked, abandoning the machine to stride toward the table.

Joe shrugged, dragging out a chair to take his seat. “No traffic.”

“No traffic?” Valeria echoed with a skeptical brow raised. “On a Thursday afternoon at lunch time?”

“Fine. I might’ve been speeding,” he conceded, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The stubble scratched against his palm.

The girls exchanged knowing glances before Ayanna leaned forward, elbows on the table, requesting to see the ring as she was the only one who had yet to see the finished product in person.

“How do you know I have the ring?” Joe deadpanned, even as his fingers twitched toward his duffel bag.

The women all scoffed with an array of rolled eyes and overlapping dissents. “Uh-huh. Show me the ring, Burrow,” Ayanna demanded, holding her open palm toward him just above the tabletop. Joe relented quietly, handing the velvet box over.

While Ayanna admired the ring up close, Joe launched into a description of the existing details of his plan. “So, I was thinking, we have date night every Tuesday. She’s pretty good on routine those days. She usually gets home around 6:30, showers, picks an outfit, does her makeup. We usually leave around 8. I think that’s our window to set things up. Someone can call her around 7, keep her talking, stall her from getting ready as quickly as she usually would. I need someone else to help me set up the candles. I bought, like, 80 of them.”

Leah hummed, putting up no fight against the smile creeping onto her face. “Which Tuesday are you thinking? Like, soon?”

Joe sucked in a shallow breath. “Next Tuesday,” he admitted, watching their eyes widen. “I know it’s fast. But I’ve been sitting on this for months. And now that I’m out of the boot, I don’t wanna wait for things to get crazy again if I’m playing at some point this season.”

Ayanna finally closed the ring box, sliding it back across the table. “We need to make sure she gets a fresh nail set before Tuesday, then.”

“Already handled,” Joe interrupted. “She has an appointment on Saturday morning. I called in to ask them to add some extra protection so it looks fresh by Tuesday.”

“You’re terrifyingly competent.” Leah muttered. “Alright, logistics: I can be the distraction call.”

Valeria checked her watch. “I can handle coordinating the dinner guests, just text me the names once you confirm RSVPs.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And you’re absolutely certain they can accommodate a private room on a weeknight?”

Joe scratched the back of his neck, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “I told my assistant to reserve it under my name, so… no issues with that.” The implication hung in the air: Lisse wasn’t about to say no to any reservation under Joe Burrow’s name.

Ayanna snorted, typing notes into her phone. “Right, right.” She tilted her head, studying Joe’s fidgeting under the table. “You’re vibrating out of your skin, dude. Breathe.”

Joe pulled his bottom lip in his mouth, taking a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back. “Alright,” he said slowly, exhaling through pursed lips, “so when she gets home Tuesday, Leah calls. Ayanna, I think you can park at Ja’Marr’s and I’ll come get you through the back. She won’t see you from the bedroom.”

Ayanna nodded, tapping her phone screen. “Got it. I’ll bring my good camera too.”

“We’ll set up the living room, get everything ready, find somewhere for you to hide. Then I’ll come up, get Leah to hang up, and…” Joe trailed off.

“And then you do the thing,” Leah finished, nudging his foot under the table.

Joe huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Then I do the thing.” He rubbed his palms against his thighs, glancing at the clock on the wall. They had maybe five minutes before Valeria had to leave, ten before Ayanna and Leah were out the door. “I know my parents will be there, hers too, so, Val, you can put them down. The three of you, obviously. Ja’Marr, Tee, my friends. Um, but other than that, I’ll text you the full list with numbers.”

The girls nodded, Ayanna finishing another note before abruptly snapping her fingers. “Wait. You need to make sure you dress nicely.”

Joe’s eyebrows furrowed, his eyes glancing around the group at Leah and Valeria both hummed in agreement. “I dress nice,” he protested weakly, though his gaze dropped momentarily to his current outfit: a white t-shirt, pink gym shorts, and Asics that had seen better days.

“Joe,” Leah sighed, “please don’t wear any of that stupid Alo stuff. A nice shirt, some slacks, Jordans. Make her drool a little bit.”

Ayanna opened up their friend’s Instagram, swiping through her posts for inspiration. “Actually, if he wears one of those knit shirts he wore in Paris last year she’ll love it.” She grinned at Joe’s bewildered expression. “I remember her texting me about wanting to peel it off you with her teeth. So, find one and wear it.”

Joe blinked. His ears burned, half flustered, half smug, before clearing his throat. “Khakis and a knit shirt, then.” He shifted, suddenly hyperaware of the way his knee bounced under the table. “Does that feel like everything?”

Ayanna hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering her voice. “You need to practice the actual knee part. Like, actually. Just so you don’t look stupid when you do it for the first time.”

Joe scoffed, but Valeria nodded gravely. “She’s right. Especially with your toe,” the serious dip in her tone drew his attention. The side of her that her orthopedic patients were more familiar with slid briefly into the conversation. “That’s an awkward angle for the ligaments right now. The absolute worst thing you can do is aggravate your toe in the middle of proposing.”

His lips pursed together, visibly displeased by the thought. “Fine. I’ll… rehearse. Put my right knee down instead of my left. Keep weight off the bad side.” The words tasted bitter. He hated being cautious, hated limitations even more. But Valeria wasn’t wrong and neither was Ayanna.

Ayanna grinned, leaning back. “Thank you.” She tapped her phone screen again. “Also, you need a codeword. Something normal-sounding but obvious to Leah when you say it. So she knows to wrap it up.”

Joe blinked. “Uh.” His gaze flicked to the ceiling, searching for a word that wouldn’t tip her off. “How about ‘wavelength’?”

Leah nodded, shrugging to signal the lack of protest on her end. “Wavelength works. Just drop it casually and I’ll know to wrap it up.”

Joe exhaled, rubbing his fingertips against his temple as the weight of the plan settled deeper into his bones. Valeria checked her watch again and stood abruptly, chair scraping against the rubber flooring. “Alright, I’m out. Don’t fuck this up,” she deadpanned, though the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile.

“Encouraging,” Joe muttered, standing to accept the crushing hug she yanked him into. Leah and Ayanna piled on, their laughter muffled against his shoulder.

Valeria pulled back first. “Text me updates on the guest list.”

Joe nodded, watching as she scooped up her bag and headed toward the exit. The gym hummed softly, weights clinking, distant treadmills whirring, but their corner felt oddly insulated. They all departed soon after, Ayanna with a final, pointed reminder for Joe to actually rehearse the kneeling, and suddenly he was back in his car, heading home with every nerve in his body buzzing.

[ . . . ]

She figured the cleaning fumes were getting to her brain a little bit. That, or maybe she needed more coffee. She squinted at her phone screen again, still no locations for Leah, Ayanna, or Valeria, and frowned. Odd. Not alarming, just odd. Like when one of your socks vanishes into the dryer void.

She wouldn’t have noticed if she didn’t open up their groupchat to respond to an earlier thread only to find the the little “Location Not Available” tags under their names glared back at her. She tapped out a quick text jokingly asking if they all collectively lost their phones. Before she could dwell on it, Colby streaked past her ankles, stricken with zoomies, a stolen scrunchie clamped between his teeth.

“Colby…” she muttered, abandoning her phone to chase him into the laundry room.

[ . . . ]

Date night was sacred, one of the non-negotiables established around the time that she first moved to Cincinnati. Tuesday nights belonged to them, no exceptions. There may be a night-in one week, a spontaneous drive to the lakefront the next, but Tuesdays were woven into the fabric of their relationship, stitched tight enough that she spent the latter half of her afternoons allowing herself to daydream about what awaited her later. Maybe it was Joe’s knee pressed against hers under a table somewhere, his thumb tracing idle circles over the back of her hand while she talked, his lips searching for her pulse along her throat as he eased her sweater off mid-kiss. Regardless, Tuesdays were a religion and she worshipped accordingly.

“She has her date nights on Tuesdays so she’s trying to get the hell out of here,” Dr. Mendoza spoke loud enough for her to hear as she practically sprint-walked past his office door, her heels clicking against the polished tile floor. She paused, turning back to flash him a grin, spotting one of the newer office managers sitting with the senior practitioner, still a bit wide-eyed at the glimpse of her personal life.

Marcus, the 24-year-old Cincinnati graduate, had only connected the dots that she was dating the starting quarterback for the hometown team last week. The office found it hilarious how long it had taken him, given the framed photo of the two of them proudly displayed on her desk and the scattered appearances she made at Joe’s side both out and about in the city and the small fuss the media made whenever they were able to catch her seated in the stands during an away game. It didn’t help that fans were desperate for any crumb of content with their franchise QB being so private; Marcus at least had the decency to let his jaw drop when the wheels turned in his head as opposed to following the social media trail that would have led him right to her.

“I am, indeed, getting the hell outta here,” she confirmed, adjusting her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Tell Farah I’ll approve those patient charts for uploading remotely if they come through before nine.”

Marcus blinked, clearly still processing the casual reveal of her Tuesday night priorities when the office phone rang just out of his reach. “Uh… have a good rest of your night, Doctor,” he stammered, reaching for the receiver as she disappeared down the hall.

[ . . . ]

Her car keys jingled in her hands as she pushed through the clinic’s glass doors. Mid-October in Cincinnati meant the air had just begun to bite at her skin, a crispness clinging to her cheeks as she fished her phone from her pocket. She tapped through her phone, bringing up her recent call list, and selecting Joe’s name just as her engine hummed to life.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Joe answered, his voice warm enough to make her heart thump against her ribs. She could hear the rustle of what sounded like fabric as he shifted positions. “You outta work yet?”

“I am,” she replied with a melodic lilt to her voice, pulling out of the parking spot with one hand. “You sound like you’re moving around.”

Joe chuckled softly, that low, open, private sound that that was just for her ears. “Yeah, just… puttin’ away the stuff that got delivered. Your expensive coffee beans came in.” She could hear his grin through the phone, knew exactly how his lips curled at the corners when he was lightly making fun of her.

She rolled her eyes as she merged onto the highway. “This is why I like it better when you aren’t home when my packages get delivered. You always has some shit to say.”

“I don’t always,” Joe countered, his voice dipping into that faux-offended tone she loved to poke at.

“You do, always,” she retorted.

She could hear Colby meow in the background, presumably rubbing against Joe’s legs as he moved around the kitchen. The time displayed on her dashboard reminded her that it was about the time his automatic feeder dispensed a meal, Joe liked to hover nearby to make sure Colby was able to eat comfortably and had enough water in his bowl.

Joe continued speaking, his voice suddenly a lot softer than it was just a few seconds ago, “So, uh, I got us that reservation at Lisse I was telling you about. 8:35.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Have we been there before? Sounds familiar.” The tires thrummed against the pavement as she adjusted her grip on the wheel, catching what sounded like a cardboard box being folded in Joe’s background.

“Twice, I think. It’s the steakhouse in Covington. We went alone last year. And… the team dinner… after the divisional two years ago.” Joe paused, attempting to remember any detail that might jog her memory. “You liked the bone-in ribeye and the lemon blueberry dessert thing.” His voice held that particular tenderness reserved for cataloging her preferences, the way he unconsciously noted everything she enjoyed, filing it away for future reference to recall with startling precision.

“Oh…” she murmured, recalling the way Joe had cut her first bite for her that night last year when they were celebrating a small milestone she couldn’t remember a year removed from the fact. “They gave us a dessert sampler and we took that almond cake home, ate it in the car.”

Joe exhaled a soft laugh. “Because we couldn’t wait.”

“Because we couldn’t wait,” she echoed, smiling as she remembered the way Joe had licked vanilla whipped cream off her thumb in the parking lot while rain pattered against the windshield. “It’s a little late for you, though. Are you rehabbing late tomorrow?”

She heard a faint clink before he replied, “Yeah, lucked out with the schedule. Won’t be going in until the afternoon.” There was a beat of hesitation, so slight she almost missed it, before he added, “Besides, figured you deserved something special after… the whole post-surgery process. I know I never make it particularly easy for you.”

“Baby,” she murmured, “I know what I signed up for.” She spotted her exit, the city lights glinting like scattered stars against the darkening sky. A semi-truck rumbled past her left, cutting in front of her to avoid missing its own ramp, and she instinctively tightened her grip on the wheel. “I love you exactly as you are, even in the boot, insane rehab schedules, grumpy morning silences, I love all of it.”

Joe let out a breathy noise on the other end. She could picture him perfectly: leaning against their marble countertop, one socked foot hooked around the ankle of the other, his free hand absently scratching at the scruff along his jawline. The mental image was so vivid she nearly missed his reply. “That’s… dangerous information to give me.”

She chuckled, turning onto their street. “Why? You gonna start acting worse?”

“No,” Joe drawled out, unconvincingly. “Just means I don’t have to be on my best behavior anymore.” There was another rustling noise before he added, “You should probably park in the garage. It’s supposed to rain later.”

“Very cute of you to check the weather.” She eased into the garage, cutting her engine just as she hung up. Inside, she scooped Colby up, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as Joe traveled downstairs, his steps heavy with that ease of familiarity, socked feet padding against hardwood. He stopped short when he saw her at the base of the stairs, arms full of kitten, her navy blue scrubs stark against the white long-sleeved compression shirt she wore underneath.

“Didn’t even give me time to open your door,” he murmured, reaching out to tug her closer by her waist, delivering a kiss to her temple before duplicating the action against her lips, drawing a light exhale from her. Colby squirmed between them, protesting the squeeze, and she reluctantly loosened her grip, letting the kitten leap onto the floor.

“You cut your hair?” She ran her fingers through the freshly trimmed layers at the nape of Joe’s neck, her thumb catching on the newly exposed skin just above his collar. The scent of his aftershave floated up into her nose, taking her by surprise.

“Darnell just happened to be in the area,” Joe shrugged. “It was annoying me, so.” He trailed off, watching her fingers trace the sharp line where his fade tapered into the thicker crown of his hair. The way her touch lingered made his pulse spike. “Thought it’d be nice for tonight.”

“Mmm.” She hummed, her nail catching on his earlobe, her eyes flickering between his eyes, lips, and his freshly trimmed hairline. “A fresh cut is always nice.” She exhaled against the hollow of his throat, leaning into him, her fingers now trailing down the front of his shirt, smoothing over the fabric with deliberate slowness.

Joe swallowed, his fingers twitching against her hips. “We have some time,” he provided, his voice dipping with a edge of hoarseness. Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile, pressing herself against him, her breath warm against his collarbone. He guided her toward the couch until he sank down onto it, pulling her into his lap, her knees bracketing his thighs.

She gasped in reaction to the descent against his lips before kissing him properly, her fingers curling into his hair. Joe exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head back to deepen the angle, one hand gripping her waist while the other trailed up her spine to cradle the back of her head. The scent of her body lotion and hand sanitizer filled his senses as her tongue slid against his, slow and exploratory. His body reacted instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach, but he forced himself to keep the kiss languid, savoring the way her breath hitched when he nipped at her bottom lip.

She pulled back just enough to murmur against his mouth, “You smell nice. Is that the—”

“Yeah,” Joe cut in, breathless, already chasing her lips again. His fingers flexed against the dip of her waist, thumb brushing the sliver of skin exposed where her scrubs had ridden up. “The one that was out of stock for a couple months. Bought two this time. You like it?”

Her giggle vibrated against his mouth, her hips shifting instinctively against his lap, a movement that made Joe’s grip tighten. “What do you think?” she teased, scraping her nails lightly down the column of his throat as he eased his head back to expose his Adam’s apple for her access.

The rain picked up its intensity just as she licked a slow stripe up Joe’s pulse point, tasting the earlier spritzes of cologne. He groaned when she sank her teeth into the tendon there, his fingers knotting in her hair. “Shit,” he muttered, voice rough.

She smirked into his skin. “We really don’t have time for this.”

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as she pulled back, her lips swollen and glistening. As much as he wanted to say hell to the reservations, the expensive ring hidden in his sock drawer upstairs and Ayanna’s impending arrival kept him grounded. “Just…” he whispered quietly, keeping her from completely lifting herself off his lap, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip to clean up the gloss she’d smudged across her chin.

He didn’t finish his thought. Instead, his brain wanted to take a snapshot of this moment, of the last hour or so before everything changed. He wanted a permanent memory of this: his future sitting in his lap, her thighs warm against his, her fingers playing with the trimmed strands of golden brown hair while her eyes fixated on hers. The way her ponytail had loosened throughout the day, little curls escaping at her temples where she didn’t bother applying too much heat before leaving this morning. The exact shade of her lip gloss, something more on the clearer side though he recalls seeing a chocolate brown lip pencil sitting on her dresser upstairs and he knew that’d be the next thing she’d apply in an attempt to pull her look together for dinner.

Joe wanted to memorize how she looked at him right now, before she became his fiancée.

“You’re staring,” she murmured affectionately, though her fingers never lifted from his scalp, nails scratching softly—exactly the way he liked—as if she couldn’t bear to disconnect either.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Just thinking about how fucking lucky I am.” His thumb traced the edge of her jawline, rough calluses catching on the softness of her skin. She leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm. She always met his affection halfway, never left him hanging.

The ping of Joe’s phone broke the moment, no doubt Ayanna’s ETA notification. He swallowed hard, fingers twitching against her hip. He leaned in to steal three short kisses, each one softer than the last—a practiced rhythm she recognized as his ‘we need to stop now’ signal. She sighed dramatically but shifted off his lap.

Joe let his hands slide down to squeeze her waist as she stood, lingering just long enough to admire how her scrubs clung to her thighs before she smoothed them out. “Go shower,” he murmured, nudging her toward the stairs. “Take your time. I’ll be up in a bit to change.”

She nodded, making her way over and up the stairs, pulling her hair out of its ponytail as she went. He scrambled for his phone, pulling up Ayanna’s text confirming she’d parked at Ja’Marr’s and was on her way over. Then he headed upstairs. When he entered the bedroom, she was already half-undressed, humming under her breath as she turned the shower knobs to a temperature he knew would steam up the bathroom mirror within minutes. He beelined for the sock drawer, fingers closing around the velvet box, shoving it deep into his pocket just as she glanced over her shoulder.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked, pointing to the clothes laid out on the bed: a pair of tailored khaki pants and a white wool knit short sleeve. Joe could feel his pulse thudding in his throat as he nodded, watching her tilt her head with a small, pleased smile. “I think I have something that might match.”

Joe’s fingers flexed against the lump in his pocket as she disappeared into the bathroom, the frosted glass door clicking shut behind her once she was in the shower. Steam brought warmth to the room after another minute or so. He exhaled, checking Ayanna’s location, then moved mechanically toward his dresser, changing his socks and clothes, taming his hair with a bit of hair pomade, then stood in front of the mirror adjusting his collar. He double-checked to make sure the ring was still tucked securely in his pocket before heading downstairs to meet Ayanna at the side door.

Ayanna was already waiting when he got there, her camera bag slung over one shoulder, her dark brown eyes bright with excitement. “You good?” she asked, slipping inside. Joe nodded, nervously licking his lips before leading Ayanna into his office on the first floor where he’d stashed boxes of candles earlier that morning.

The air smelled faintly of vanilla and beeswax as they worked in dead silent efficiency, Ayanna arranging tapered candles in staggered lines along the hardwood floor while Joe followed behind, flicking a lighter to life with steady fingers. The flames trembled as he touched them to wicks, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Outside, the sky was still clear enough not to bring worry despite the impending forecast.

“This is gonna look insane,” Ayanna mused aloud, laying the last of the candles along the wooden swing in the backyard. She stepped back to survey their handiwork, the glow of flames trailing from the living room out into the night, illuminating the path Joe would soon lead her down. He swallowed hard, rubbing his palms against his thighs to wipe away the sweat gathering there.

“You got the ring?” Ayanna asked, snapping a test photo of the setup. Joe patted his pocket instinctively, the velvet box pressing reassuringly against his thigh. “Cool. Then do your thing upstairs. I’ll hide behind the lounges over there.” She jerked her chin toward the patio furniture, already adjusting her camera lens with practiced ease.

Joe was silent, his gaze steady though his heart was beating out of his chest. He nodded, swallowing hard, then turned on his heel and climbed the stairs two at a time. His hands shook as he paused outside the door, pressing his forehead against the cool wood for just a second, grounding himself. Then he straightened, smoothing his expression into something more neutral before heading back toward the bedroom where she stood in the bathroom mirror. Her laughter floated through the room as she leaned forward, applying blush to her cheekbones.

According to the plan, Leah was on the other end of the phone propped up against the mirror. “Is that the robe that guy Ayanna dated gave to her that was left behind by his ex?” Leah questioned, squinting at her screen. When she nodded, laughing again, Leah joined in on the amusement adding, “You’re sick for keeping that.”

Joe cleared his throat, leaning against the bathroom doorway. She glanced sideways at him, her lips twitching for a kiss, and he obliged, pressing his lips softly to hers. “Almost ready?” he murmured, watching her reflection in the mirror. She nodded, fingers deftly curling her lashes with the mascara wand. He glanced down her body, noticing she was still wrapped up in her towel, her bare feet resting in her sandals.

“I have some outfit choices laid out on the bed. I was gonna ask Leah to help me pick. But since you’re here, do you mind taking a look?” She requested, pausing halfway through applying her lip combo to tilt her head toward the bed.

He took in the three options displayed in front of him, taking another opportunity to settle his nerves. “I like this off-the-shoulder one,” he said, holding the cream colored sweater up by his hanger. His fingers traced along the neckline, visualizing where her collarbones would peek through, how the fabric would drape against her shoulders when she leaned forward during dinner. “And these.” He picked out a pair of her vintage-wash jeans, the denim soft from years of wear.

She turned to meet his eye as he approached to hang his choice up on the hooks over the bathroom door. “You picked the closest thing to your outfit.” Joe shrugged. “Are we going matchy-matchy tonight?” she joked, blotting her lips with a tissue.

He pretended to consider it while brushing his fingers along the sweater’s sleeve, feeling the soft fabric between his fingers, just as soft as his shirt. “Why not?” he countered, voice steady despite the way his pulse was pounding in his throat.

“Did you see the shoes I put out? I might do the kitten heels.” She began, twisting toward where her clothes hung near her head. She worked herself into the jeans first, shedding the towel to step into the denim with one foot then the other.

Behind her back, Joe caught a glimpse of Leah shaking her head violently, mouthing “no” to the kitten heel suggestion. He quickly intercepted the moment, his eyes falling on a pair of pointed, closed-toed black stilettoes. “What about these?” he wondered aloud, his eyes darting back to her phone where Leah flashed two thumbs-up. “They’d be pretty comfortable. You wore them to the WAG party last month. And you can add the slip-ins… I remember you saying they helped.”

She hummed softly, twisting her lips as she considered his suggestion. “You’re right,” she conceded, reaching for the shoes. “Can you grab the slip-ins for me? They’re in the bottom drawer in closet.”

Joe turned on his heel, checking the clock on the wall as he moved, still plenty of time before the reservation, but his nerves had transformed the minutes into something viscous and slow. The closet smelled of their fabric softener which he inhaled deeply as he rifled through the drawer, fingers brushing past silk scarves and forgotten hair ties before finding the gel inserts. When he turned back, she had already buttoned her jeans, the denim hugging her hips in a way that made his throat dry. She was twisting her hair into a slicked bun, pins clamped between her teeth.

“Here,” he murmured, offering the inserts. She took them with a grateful hum, bending to slide them into the shoes. The movement made her sweater ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above her waistband that Joe had to physically restrain himself from acting on. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets, reminding himself that there was still plenty of time to get things moving before their reservation time arrived.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight as she straightened up. The dim bedroom lighting caught the gold in her hoop earrings as she stepped into her heels. “We make a good team… on the same wavelength,” Joe murmured, loud enough for Leah to hear their prearranged signal through the phone.

Leah made her excuse, one that Joe was only half listening to and his girlfriend grumbled, blowing Leah an exaggerated kiss before the call disconnected.

“What do you think?” She asked, twisting to check her reflection in the full-length mirror. The sweater draped perfectly off one shoulder, exposing the slope of her collarbone where Joe’s mouth had lingered just an hour earlier.

He swallowed hard.

“You look perfect,” Joe managed, his voice rough. She arched an eyebrow, opening her mouth to tease him, but he crossed the room before she could speak, pressing a kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder. “Seriously,” he muttered against her lips, pressing a chaste kiss there too.

When he pulled back, the look on her face made him realize the makeup on her face must have transferred onto his lips. He swiped a thumb over his own mouth with a large grin. “Crime scene,” he murmured, and she rolled her eyes, grabbing a makeup wipe from her vanity.

“Do you have that setting spray you used before the car show?” he tried to slip in casually, catching the way her fingers paused midair as she dabbed at his lips with the wipe. She narrowed her eyes, her lips parting. He watched the wheels turn in her head, jumping in before she could question him. “It might rain later.”

She stared at him for a few seconds longer than necessary before crinkling her nose with a smile. “Why do you remember that?” she asked, tossing the used wipe toward the trash can. Joe shrugged, fingers tracing the hem of her sweater where it met skin on her lower back. “Because I pay attention. That’s what professional boyfriends do, I heard. Didn’t know that was a crime.”

She laughed, low and throaty, as she reached for the setting spray on her vanity. “Mhm, well, this professional boyfriend is working overtime tonight,” she murmured, shaking the bottle. She closed her eyes, the fine mist catching in her lashes as she sprayed. Joe watched the mist settle on her face before she reached for a small handheld fan to dry it. “Like he wants a promotion,” she added casually, glancing at him through the mirror.

Joe stepped closer, his hands sliding around her waist as he pressed his lips to the side of her neck. “Let me worry about the promotion,” he murmured against her skin. “It’ll come when the time’s right.”

She turned in his arms, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she lifted her chin to kiss him under the guise of testing out her setting spray. When she pulled back, his lips glistened faintly, but the makeup stayed flawlessly in place.

“Not bad,” she teased, dragging her thumb along his bottom lip. Then softer, eyes flickering between his: “I can’t wait.”

The minute she parted from his side to assemble her belongings in the handbag she’d chosen for tonight, a brown leather clutch Joe had gifted her last Christmas, Joe remembered he needed to let Ayanna know that she was officially finished with her preparations. He slipped his phone from his pocket, typing the message with fingers that trembled slightly—he blamed it on adrenaline, not nerves, though the distinction was blurring—and pressed send. He checked his appearance in the mirror one last time before returning his attention to his girlfriend.

“Okay… I’m good to head out. We’ll probably get there early, but… y’know can’t hurt.” She adjusted her sweater one last time before her fingers drifted down to the back of Joe’s hand where it hung by his side. He caught her wrist, lacing his fingers through hers and lifted her knuckles to his lips. The small gesture made her exhale, nostrils flaring in amusement.

“Thank you?” She smirked, squeezing his fingers as he lowered her hand but didn’t let go. Joe cleared his throat, gaze darting toward the bedroom door then back to her. “What?” she asked, tilting her head. “You’re acting weird.”

“Am not,” he deflected, tugging her toward the hallway.

The staircase seemed to hold a glow ahead of them. It was dimly lit, a deliberate choice, he realized belatedly, because Ayanna had already dimmed the downstairs lights for the candle setup. Her stilettos clicked against the hardwood as she followed, her free hand brushing over the banister for balance. Halfway down, she paused.

“Joe,” she said, voice hushed, as if sensing the shift in the air. His pulse hammered against his chest. “What am I looking at?”

The flicker of candlelight danced across the walls, casting long, delicate shadows from the dozens of candles of various sizes lining the hall. Their flames trembled when she exhaled sharply, her grip tightening around his fingers until her nails pressed crescents into his skin. Joe swallowed, stepping down first, guiding her slowly, letting her take it all in: the path leading toward the patio doors, the soft glow spilling onto the deck and into the backyard beyond.

“You…” her voice broke. Her footsteps slowed, heels catching on the edge of a rug as she hesitated, eyes darting. “Joe… this is gorgeous.” She didn’t move, too busy absorbing the flicker of golden light illuminating the bottom floor of their home. She took in how the golden light pooled in the grooves of the hardwood, dripped off the edges of furniture, caught in the fine wisps of hair framing her face, and brought warmth to her boyfriend’s face. Joe watched her chest rise and fall, watched the way she bit her lower lip to still its trembling.

She was a smart woman. She had a medical degree from the University of Pennsylvania hanging on her walls to prove it. The coordination of textures, the structured linen of Joe’s shirt against her sweater’s loose drape, the deliberate timing of Leah’s abrupt call ending, the faint floral scent of a very familiar perfume lingering in the hall, her friends’ locations disappearing simultaneously—it clicked.

Her breath stuttered. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. The near imperceptible sound of her sweater brushing against his forearms was the only sound as Joe turned her toward him, cradling her face between his palms. His thumbs traced the arcs of her cheekbones, slow and reverent.

“Hey, look at me,” he whispered, voice gone soft with nerves. “Breathe for me.”

She exhaled shakily, hands lifting to grip his wrists. Not to pull away, just to hold on tighter and try to anchor herself to what was right in front of her which was: “Joey,” she whispered, lips parted. His name was a plea, a prayer, a confession all at once. The way she said it, as if he’d pulled the goddamn stars from the sky and placed them in their home, nearly knocked him sideways.

And because he was Joe Burrow, because he knew her better than he knew the plays in his playbook, he just smiled. That quiet, private smile that no one else was ever able to see. “Remember,” he murmured, brushing his thumb beneath her left eye, catching the dampness before it could streak her mascara. “When I said I’d give myself that promotion when the time was right?” His voice was thicker now, low and rough where his fingers were feather-light against her skin. He watched as her breath hitched, as her grip tightened on his wrists, as tears welled but didn’t spill. “The time’s been right for months now.”

The confession spilled between them like honey, slowly, thick enough to keep them stuck in every heartbeat. She blinked rapidly, shaking her head like she was trying to clear fog from her thoughts.

“I’ve been having conversations,” Joe continued. She could feel the tremor in his fingers, it was slight but it was there. “With your parents. Your sister. Leah, Ayanna, Val.” He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. “Even my parents. My people. Everyone who loves you. Everyone who loves us.”

She exhaled something between a laugh and a sob as he dipped his head closer, eyes locked onto hers. His voice broke just once. “They all agreed that it was the right time too. So I just—” A rough chuckle escaped him. “You’re the last person I needed to ask.”

Every neuron in her brain seemed to short-circuit. Every single single of her consciousness strained to focus on every syllable leaving his lips. Every breath felt trapped somewhere between her lungs and throat. She had never experienced time dilating so completely, his words stretched long and syrupy, her pulse beating in her ears like a war drum.

The candles blurred at the edges of her vision when he murmured, “I am so in love with you,” his thumb swiping at her cheekbone again, slower this time, savoring the warmth. “Every version of you. Past, present, whatever the hell comes next. And I want to be able to do that forever, if you want me to. So…” His exhale was unsteady, uneven. “I need to ask you something first.”

She didn’t realize she was nodding until she felt the drag of his fingertips against her jawline, his touch grounding her. His lips curved against her temple, something between reassurance and reverence, before he stepped back just enough to lace their fingers together. “Come outside with me,” he murmured, squeezing her hand, and the way his voice cracked on the last syllable nearly wrecked her. “I wanna show you something.”

Her legs moved before her brain caught up, every step forward amplifying the tremors in her muscles. She focused on the press of Joe’s shoulder against hers as she wrapped her free hand around his bicep, leaning onto him to keep her walking. The candlelight painted their path in gold, wax melted along the way, smelling faintly of vanilla and caramel. Every inhale burned a little deeper, her chest tightening with the enormity of what was unfolding.

Just before the patio doors, she tugged Joe to a stop with a whispery “Wait,” her fingers digging into his arm. His pulse leaped beneath her touch as he turned, already halfway to panic.

“You don’t—we don’t have to—” he stammered, eyebrows knitting together, but she shook her head violently.

“No, I just—” She gestured vaguely at her face, the carefully applied bronzer and blush, her mascara and lashes. “My makeup… and my outfit… and—” she swallowed hard.

Joe chuckled gently, amusement softening the tension in his shoulders. He cupped her jaw, tilting her face up. “Baby, you look gorgeous,” he murmured, running a thumb along her lower lip. “And you told me your setting spray’s some really strong shit.” She choked on a laugh, pressing her forehead against his collarbone. He nosed at her hairline, inhaling deeply. “Trust me,” he added, voice dropping lower. “You’re perfect just like this.”

“Even in jeans?” She whispered against his throat, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

Joe exhaled through his nose, lips brushing her temple. “Especially in jeans.” His palm slid down to the small of her back, pressing her flush against him. “I love you in these jeans. That’s why I picked ‘em.”

She laughed wetly, and he felt the dampness of her tears against his skin when she blinked. The confession was stupid, too honest for the tender situation, but it worked. She relaxed, leaning into his hold, exhaling shakily. Joe kissed her forehead once, twice, lingering the third time as she murmured an “I love you” against his pulse.

They stepped outside into the crisp October air, garden lights twinkling overhead. The wooden swing sat bathed in soft golden light, surrounded by scattered candles that flickered against the slight breeze. His thumb traced circles against her palm as they approached slow and reverent, like they were walking toward something so sacred they wouldn’t dare rush it.

Joe stopped short of the swing, turning her toward him with hands that trembled against her waist. “Okay?” he murmured, searching her face. She nodded, lips parted, eyes wide and wet. His fingers flexed against her hips as he inhaled through his nose.

He guided them up onto the platform, the wood creaking faintly beneath their weight. His eyes found hers as he took her hands in his. He watched her take a deep breath, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before locking onto him again. When she finally nodded, he smiled softly, squeezing her fingers.

“When I met you that first time at this party that I only went to because I was promised a slice of cake,” Joe’s voice wavered as she laughed despite her tears, “I knew my entire life would be redefined if I got the chance to even know your middle name.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, grounding himself in the way her fingers tightened around his. “You argued with me about Eminem’s verse on ‘Forever’, and the entire time, I was thinking that when I look back on my life one day, I hope I look at it as pre- and post-you. Because before you, it feels like everything else was just… practice to make sure I could earn you.”

Joe swallowed hard, watching the way the candlelight brought gold flecks to her eyes when she blinked up at him. “I don’t wanna imagine a world where I don’t come home to you every night,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t wanna be anywhere that you aren’t. I don’t want to wake up without you snoring in my ear. I don’t want to breathe air that hasn’t been in your lungs first.”

She felt her tears fall over her lash line.

“I want to know every version of you. I want you to laugh at me when I say something stupid. I want to make sure there’s never a single night you fall asleep without knowing exactly how much I love every goddamn thing about you.” His voice cracked as he stepped back a bit. “When I’m around you, I just know that nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. Nothing else could ever matter the way that you matter to me.”

He reached into his pocket, the velvet box now clutched in his right hand as she lifted a hand to cover her gasp. A flutter of wind rushed past them, making the flames flicker wildly. “So…” Joe murmured, breathing out her full name, lowering himself onto one knee. He opened the box, revealing a stunning marquise diamond surrounded by smaller stones on a gold band. “Will you marry me?”

Her knees nearly buckled at the sound of the words leaving his mouth. She crashed down next to him, her fingers trembling as she grabbed his face. His startled laugh was swallowed by her kiss, messy and warm and tasting of salt from her tears. “Yes,” she whispered into his lips. “Oh my fucking… yes.”

His hands shook as he slid the ring onto her finger, a perfect fit to his relief. She stared at it, the diamonds catching the candlelight in prismatic bursts across Joe’s throat when she grabbed him again. He laughed into her mouth, his hands sliding down to her waist to steady them both as she swayed. “You’re supposed to let me stand up first,” he murmured, laughing when she huffed, taking a step back so he could rise to his feet.

The moment his height advantage returned, she dragged him down by his collar, pressing their foreheads together. The identically, absurdly wide smiles on their faces melted as their noses bumped. “Say it again,” he pushed, fingers kneading the dip of her waist.

She blinked slowly, still dazed, watching the candlelight warp in the wetness clinging to his eyelashes. “Yes, Joseph Burrow,” she whispered, pressing her thumbs into the divots beneath his cheekbones. “I will marry you. Yes.”

When her lips finally met his again, she felt Joe exhale against her mouth, an entire unspoken history of nervous energy dissolving between them in this pristine moment. Every inhale of his cologne was now saturated with the scent of melted wax and impending autumn. Behind them, Ayanna’s camera shutter continued to click silently, capturing her fingers tangled in Joe’s hair, the ring glinting as her grip tightened on his nape. His arms pulled her flush against him, so tightly she could feel his heartbeat through his sweater. She wondered distantly, just as she had maybe a thousand times before, how she’d ever walked through life without knowing the precise cadence of it beneath her fingertips.

Their foreheads rested together, Joe’s breath warm and uneven against her lips. Then came the laughter, breathy, disbelieving, as she pulled back just far enough to admire the ring again, twisting her hand so the diamonds fractured the candlelight into scattered constellations across Joe’s face. “Holy shit,” she breathed, and he laughed from his chest, pressing another kiss to her forehead, his hand sealed tight around her waist.

“Didn’t see that coming, huh?” he murmured, dry as dust despite the tremor still lingering in his fingertips, a tremor she caught when she laced their fingers together and squeezed to bring him into another kiss.

“Actually…” she hummed into him. “I really didn’t. You’re sneaky.” She traced the shell of his ear with her nose before biting the spot just below his jawline that always made his breath hitch. “Someone is hiding here, though. I can fucking feel it.”

Joe stiffened—a dead giveaway to her eyes—as Ayanna’s stifled laughter carried from the furniture. She rolled her eyes, smiling brightly, but didn’t pull away from him, too busy committing the weight of her ring to memory between kisses. “You are,” she whispered, “a schemer. I’m gonna tell people about this.”

“Tell ‘em,” he murmured back, nipping her lower lip. “The ring’ll shut ‘em up.”

Her laughter shook against him, her fingers flexing around the back of his neck as she kissed him once more.

Behind them, Ayanna abandoned stealth with a rustle of fabric. “Save some for the wedding night,” she teased, stepping into the glow of residual candles with her camera still poised. She turned just enough to flip her friend off without breaking contact with Joe’s lips, which only made Ayanna snort. “Classy. Real classy for an engagement. I got that on film.”

The dermatologist finally parted from Joe’s side to rush down the platform steps toward Ayanna. “You fucking snake,” she accused, her voice wobbling with leftover adrenaline as she crashed into her friend’s arms. Ayanna’s camera dug into her ribs, but she barely registered it, too busy burying her face in the floral scent she thought she picked up on earlier. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she mumbled into Ayanna’s shoulder, fingers tightening around the fabric of her top.

“I’m so happy for you, my love,” Ayanna grinned, rocking her side to side gently. “Your man planned this whole thing like a goddamn military operation. You should’ve seen the way he was running shit, telling us what’s what.” Ayanna pulled back just enough to lift her friend’s hand, letting the diamond catch the moonlight. “Oh… it’s so much more gorgeous on you. You’re getting married. What the fuck!”

She laughed, “I’m getting married! Like, officially. What?”

The words tasted surreal as they rolled off her tongue, like she was trying on a phrase she’d only ever imagined saying in daydreams. Behind her, Joe’s footsteps crunched softly against the grass as he approached, his hand sliding warm and possessive around her waist. Ayanna snapped another photo of the way her friend instinctively leaned into her new fiance, both of them admiring the ring between them. Joe’s thumb brushed absently over the diamond’s sharp edges while she twisted her hand just to watch the light catch in the center stone.

“Oh, dinner,” she gasped suddenly, untangling herself from Joe’s arms with a panicked glance at her watch. “We’re gonna be late.”

Joe caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her pulse point. “Yeah, we should go,” he murmured against her skin, though his fingers lingered like he was memorizing the feel of her engagement ring against his palm.

“You guys go. I’ll stay behind and clean things up here,” Ayanna said, shooing them toward the house with her camera still dangling from her hand. She hesitated, glancing back at the scattered candles flickering in the evening breeze, until Joe’s fingertips skimmed the dip of her waist, tugging her forward with a quiet, “C’mon. She’s got it.”

She let herself be steered through the house, through the garage, and helped into the passenger seat of his Porsche.

[ . . . ]

“Joe,” she murmured, still completely shellshocked by the ring. He hummed from the driver’s seat, his left hand steering as they traveled towards Covington, his right hand braced on her thigh. “Did you… how long have you been planning this?”

Joe chuckled, rubbing his thumb into the soft fabric of her jeans. He waited for a red light, lifting his hand to rub behind his ear, his nervous tick. She caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to each of his knuckles. He exhaled, shaking his head. “Seriously? Since August.”

She blinked. “August? That’s… oh, the day I stayed late to cover for Chioma. What were you doing then?”

Joe’s fingers turned the steering wheel to the right. “I was designing the ring. The girls were there too.”

“That’s insane. I had no clue.”

“Well,” Joe smirked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, “that was the plan. You’re observant as hell, babe. Had to make sure I covered my tracks.” The Porsche rolled to a stop outside Lisse Steakhuis, a man in all black already moving toward them.

“I have to FaceTime so many people,” she blurted as the valet opened her door, her fingers already tapping her phone screen before her heels hit the pavement. Joe caught her elbow, steadying her wobble as she teetered between urgency and disbelief.

“Later.” His thumb brushed the underside of her wrist where her pulse fluttered. “This part’s just for us.” The lie smelled like mint gum when he kissed her cheek, guiding her toward the restaurant’s frosted glass doors where their shadows melted together. “Me and my wife.”

“Still too early, Joseph.” Her scoff betrayed by how she bit her lower lip between teeth.

Inside, the hostess’s polished nails clicked against the sleek reservation book before gesturing toward the back hallway with a smile too practiced to be genuine. She squeezed Joe’s bicep. “Private room? Someone’s feeling fancy.”

His swallow was audible. “Thought we could…” The door swung open before he could finish, revealing an entire collection of faces grinning under Edison bulb lighting: a few people mid-bite of a bread roll, Leah already filming with her phone, her mother dabbing at tears with a linen napkin. The collective inhale prickled her skin before the cacophony hit: overlapping congratulations, champagne corks popping, Valeria’s voice carrying over the noise.

“Oh my god.” She turned to press her forehead against Joe’s shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “You scheming motherfucker.”

The rest dissolved into laughter as her friends reached her first, Leah squeezing her waist while Valeria brandished a Polaroid camera that flashed in her face. Ayanna snuck up behind her with a glass of champagne, murmuring, “You’re gonna need this,” and she gulped half of it before realizing Joe had vanished into the crowd, only to reappear holding his own glass, his free hand sliding around her hip like a magnet.

The newly engaged couple made their rounds through the dimly lit dining room, her ring catching the light every time she gestured—which was often—her hands animated as she recounted the proposal to clusters of their loved ones. Joe lingered half a step behind her, fingertips brushing the small of her back to keep her close, his quiet pride evident in the way his thumb traced absent circles against her sweater.

[ . . . ]

By the time the clock was ticking closer to midnight, she was pleasantly warm from champagne and affection, her posture loosening against Joe’s side as she rested her cheek against his shoulder. His arm tightened around her automatically, fingers squeezing her hip when she swayed slightly on her heels.

She sobered up enough in the car ride home to notice Joe kept glancing at her left hand as if his head was on a swivel, his fingers tracing idle patterns over her engagement ring whenever they slowed at a stoplight. She pretended not to notice as she stretched her other arm across the back of his seat, her fingers threading through the hair at his nape. The answering shudder that rolled through him made her bite back a grin.

They barely made it past the foyer before Joe had her pinned against the wall, his mouth hot against the hollow of her throat as his hands slid beneath her sweater. She gasped when his teeth grazed her collarbone, her fingers twisting into his belt loops to drag him closer. “Thought you were tired,” she murmured against his jaw, feeling the way his movements paused just long enough for him to exhale a shaky laugh against her skin just as he hoisted her up by the thighs.

“Turned out I was wrong,” he deadpanned, carrying her toward the stairs with her legs locked around his waist, her laughter muffled against his shoulder.

Halfway up, she traced his ear with her tongue just to feel him stumble. “Careful,” she teased, nipping at his jaw when he growled in response. “Wouldn’t want you dropping your fiancée before we even plan the wedding.”

“That would be tragic,” Joe muttered, gripping her tighter as he ascended the remaining steps, his breath uneven against her temple. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, her body thrumming with anticipation when he kicked open their bedroom door without breaking stride. The overhead light caught the glint of arousal in her eyes as he lowered her onto the mattress, his hands lingering at the hem of her sweater.

She arched into his palms and he dragged the sweater up her torso, trailing wet, open mouthed kisses over each inch of skin exposed. The ring glinted on her left hand where it tangled in his hair, an incongruous sparkle against the mess of dirty blonde strands, and Joe suddenly froze, lifting his head to stare at it with an almost reverent intensity. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word more prayer than profanity as he caught her wrist and pressed her palm flat against his sternum. She felt the hammering of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt and swallowed hard.

The contrast of her engagement ring against his chest seemed to unravel something in him. Joe’s usual methodical touch dissolved into frantic urgency, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuttoned her jeans. She made a soft sound of protest when he pulled back to strip off his own clothes, but it caught in her throat when he returned to her bare, his skin flushed under the bedroom lights. He kissed her like he was trying to memorize the taste of her tongue, one hand cradling her jaw while the other slid down to hitch her thigh over his hip.

"Look at me," he murmured against her mouth, and when she obeyed, his eyelashes fluttered at whatever he saw in her expression. His fingers nudged at her lips, whispering a command to open; she did, tonguing at his fingertips until his breath hitched. It was dizzying, this reversal of their usual rhythm, she arching beneath him while Joe let his control fracture piece by piece.

With his fingertips slick in her saliva, he dipped them beneath the waistband of her underwear, finding her already wet and arching into his touch. Joe exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze darkening as he pressed two fingers inside her, curling them just enough to make her gasp. “Oh,” she whimpered, her hips lifting off the mattress, the engagement ring catching the light as she fisted the sheets beside her head.

Joe watched the way her thighs trembled around his wrist with rapt fascination, his thumb circling her clit in slow, deliberate strokes. “Love how responsive you are,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Always so fucking perfect.” Her breath stuttered when he crooked his fingers just right, her muscles clenching around him as heat coiled low in her belly.

She reached for him blindly, her left hand drifting up into his hair, the cool metal of her ring brushing against his scalp as she twisted her fingers into the strands. Joe groaned low in his throat and pressed his forehead to hers, his breath uneven against her lips. “I fucking love you,” he rasped, withdrawing his fingers only to drag her underwear down her legs in one swift motion. She arched her back as he settled between her thighs, maneuvering her body, for his access, utterly careless to the orientation of their bodies to the bed; his focus singular.

Her thighs parted to accommodate him, falling over his after he wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her down the mattress. If she wasn’t already dizzy from the champagne and his fingers, the sight of Joe biting his lower lip as he gripped the base of his cock was enough to make her lightheaded. He pressed against her entrance, pausing just long enough to watch her eyelids flutter, his way of savoring the anticipation, before he pressed the pad of his thumb to her clit. She swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut tight, allowing a high-pitched, breathy moan to escape her lips as she adjusted to the pressure.

Her neck arched back against the mattress, her thighs quivering as Joe sank into her with deliberate slowness, his breath hot against her collarbone. She could feel every ridge of him, every twitch of restraint as he paused halfway, just to tease, just to watch her eyelashes flutter, just to hear the punched-out little gasp that escaped her when he rocked deeper.

“Eyes on me,” he murmured, voice thick. Her eyes flew open, and the raw intensity in his blue gaze made her entire body tingle. He dragged his thumb over her clit again, savoring the way her hips jerked. “That’s it. Just like that. Taking it so well.”

When he was finally sheathed fully inside her, Joe exhaled through his nose, his forehead pressed against hers. The weight of her engagement ring resting against his shoulder blade grounded him was unfamiliar but more than welcome. She traced the damp hair at his temples, marveling at how his eyelashes cast shadows across his cheekbones under the dim glow of their bedside lamp. Every shallow thrust drew a whimper from her lips, her toes curling against the backs of his thighs.

At first it was slow. His tongue traced the shell of her ear, his hips rolling lazily while his thumb worked circles around her clit. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly whenever he hit that perfect angle. Then Joe shifted, bracing his forearm beside her head, his breath ragged against her mouth as he sped up. The bedframe creaked in protest, but neither cared. Her moans became sharper, her thighs clamping around his waist as she arched up to meet each thrust.

She felt her body inching further toward the edge of the bed with every snap of his hips, the sheets bunching beneath her sweat-slicked skin. When Joe angled her thigh higher over his elbow, the shift made her gasp, his groan reverberated against her sternum as he dragged his teeth over her collarbone. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, her engagement ring catching the lamplight with each desperate grip.

“Get to have this for the rest of my fucking life? Christ,” Joe rasped against her throat, his hips stuttering when she clenched around him, her ring hand pressed flat against his shoulder blade, gold band digging into sweaty skin. She laughed, breathless and giddy, until he hooked her knee over the crook of his arm and thrust deeper, stealing the sound straight from her lungs.

Every pass of his skin over hers glided perfectly, aided by the slick heat between them and the champagne still humming through their veins. “Every single day,” she managed to gasp, her voice breaking as Joe dragged his hips back just enough to make her arch off the sheets. His chuckle vibrated against her throat darkly before he caught her lower lip between his teeth, swallowing her moan whole.

The ring caught the light again as she gripped his hair just enough to make his breath hitch against her mouth. “Show-off,” Joe murmured against her lips, but she could feel the way his chest swelled with pride beneath her palm.

“You did this,” she breathed against Joe’s jaw, her hands moving to cup his face in both of her hands, the engagement ring catching the lamplight as she dragged her thumbs along his face. The gold band pressed briefly against his cheekbone, as a whisper of permanence, before she curled her fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a groan from him as he slowed his thrusts, burying his face into her shoulder with a shuddering curse.

“It’s yours, forever,” she whispered into his ear, her nails raking over the tense muscles of his back.

Joe lifted his head, his blue eyes glassy with exertion and something like an awed disbelief that she’d said yes, that she was here, that she was his. His breath hitched when she shifted her hips, adjusting the angle just enough to drag a broken sound from his throat.

“Say it again,” Joe demanded roughly, his fingers digging into her hips as he pulled her flush against him, his thrusts turning erratic. The ring flashed between them, gold against sweat-slick skin, as he hit the spot that made her vision blur at the edges.

“I’m yours,” she gasped, her thighs trembling. “Forever yours…” The words dissolved into a moan when Joe’s thumb found her clit again, circling it in time with his thrusts. He watched her, mesmerized by the way her eyelashes fluttered, how her lips parted on every ragged inhale, how the ring, this ring he designed for her, caught the lamplight with every desperate clutch of her fingers for any ounce of control she could find against his skin.

Joe slowed just long enough to press her palm flat against his chest, his own fingers interlacing with hers. Her engagement ring dug into his skin, a sharp bite of reality in the haze of heat between them. He paused the undulation of his hips but kept the pressure on her clit relentless, watching her thighs twitch with every circling pass of his fingers.

“Don’t fucking look away from it”—she didn’t have to guess what the ‘it’ in question was—“I want you to cum for me looking at it.” Her gaze flickered between the ring and Joe’s blown pupils, his ragged breaths curling warm against her face. The ring, its glittering and unfamiliar weight, was a physical reminder of the fact that she said yes. Yes to loving him forever. Yes to belonging to him in the most intimate and binding way possible. And right now, she was unraveling beneath him, just the way he wanted her to: slowly, completely, and entirely brought about by his hand.

“What do you think about it?” he prompted, his breath hot against her skin, his fingers relentless.

She moaned helplessly as her hips jerked. “It’s—fuck—it’s perfect, Joe. It’s everything. You’re…” Her words dissolved into a gasp, her eyes rolling back in her head.

She could hear him encouraging her, his voice rough and throaty against her ear. “Keep looking at it,” he murmured. “I want you to remember. Want you to think about this night every day for the rest of our lives.”

She whimpered, her fingers scrambling from purchase on his hot skin as she stared at the ring. Then she tumbled, her spine arching violently as she cried out when Joe gave a triumphant growl and increased the pressure. Her climax tore through her harshly, leaving her head dangling over the edge of the mattress, breathless and so wrecked she barely registered when Joe finally resumed the deep snap of his hips into her. Every thrust sent electricity sparking through her nerves. His body pinned her securely, preventing any escape—as if she'd ever want to—his muscles quivering under her fingertips that she truly had no control over anymore.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” she repeated over and over, finally spilling over again into incoherent whimpers when Joe finally slowed his thrusts to deep, rolling presses that made her see stars. His lips traced the hammering pulse at her throat before he whimpered into her ear, following her into the mind-melting orgasm, his hips stuttering against hers. She felt his release spill inside her, the wet heat mingling with her slickness while they chased the last waves of pleasure as he groaned against her collarbone.

The silence that followed was punctuated only by their ragged breaths. Eventually, Joe shuddered dramatically, then rolled to his side, pulling her limp body over his. He regain control over his limbs before she did, kissing along her temple while she tried to recover, her fingertips twitching against his ribs. After a long moment, her finally lifted her head, blinking slowly as she met his gaze. His pupils were still blown wide, his lips swollen and red. She dragged a fingertip over his lower lip, watching it bounce back into place with lazy fascination.

When he kissed her, she lost track of any sense of time and place, up and down, the real world seeming to fade away as she melted into his arms, forgetting her exhaustion as she leaned into him. The taste of him, like clean sweat and spearmint gum, grounded her back into her body as she traced the underside of his jaw with her nose, letting the erupting stubble catch against her skin in the way that always made him just a bit softer. He hummed against her lips, fingers flexing against the small of her back before sliding up to cradle her skull, his thumb brushing just behind her ear, turning her mind to static.

She didn’t realize she’d drifted off until his fingertips smoothed over her brow, coaxing her eyes open again. Her eyes caught the ring first, still so new on her finger. Joe’s chuckle was rough against her temple as she blinked sluggishly, her limbs refusing to cooperate when she tried shifting closer. “Damn,” she muttered into his collarbone, her voice slurred with exhaustion. “I think you broke me. Like, permanently.”

Joe’s fingers traced idle patterns down her spine, slow circles that made her toes curl against his calf. “Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. His breath ruffled the strands of her hair when he added, “Means I did my job right.” The smugness in his tone was almost unbearable, but she was too sated to retaliate beyond a half-hearted pinch to his side, which only made him laugh louder.

“You’re obsessed with the ring,” Joe murmured, watching her tilt her hand toward the moonlight filtering through the blinds.

She scoffed lovingly. “Can you blame me?” she glanced over at him before returning her gaze to the diamond catching light in delicate fractals. “Look at this rock.” The silence grew heavier as she traced the prongs.

“I’m gonna be your wife.” The realization punched through her chest, breath hitching in equal parts awe and terror until Joe’s thumb brushed her lower back in slow reassurance.

He smirked. “Sounded better than when I said it in the car.”

She snorted, pressing her cheek to his sternum. The cool metal of her ring tapped against his ribs when she slid her palm up his chest, fingers flexing against his skin. “Hmmm. You like when I say it? Thinkin’ about adding your last name to all my official documents?”

Joe’s chuckle vibrated beneath her ear as he dragged his fingertips along the dip of her spine. “Whatever you want to do, however you want to do it. As long as I get to say I’m your husband.” His voice was somehow both gravel and warmth, entirely in awe of the fact that they were here at all.

Then, there was silence. It was trust and love wrapped in quiet breaths. Her fingers fluttered through his hair, her legs tangled with Joe’s beneath the covers. Their room smelled like sex and lavender and vanilla and cinnamon; an amalgamation of their morning routine, evening preparations, and post-coital drowsiness. It was late, probably nearing 2 in the morning. Joe took her hand in his, pulling in the scent of her lotion and pressed a kiss to her palm.

It felt like the world had paused for him, for this, the culmination of a childhood fantasy and a nearly impossible comeback folded together into one electric, sacred sliver of time.

He stood among it all, helmet off, curls flattened in places from the sweat that was still cooling along the nape of his neck. A black beanie concealed the mess that was his hair, meant to tame the strands but also shield him from the chilled Baltimore air. His cheeks were flushed, skin hot from adrenaline, exhaustion, and something far more fragile sitting just beneath the surface. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the tail-end of the game’s intensity still pulsing through him. His teammates drifted around him, shouts echoing through the open-air expanse, but Melissa’s voice cut through the chaos like a direct line. “Joe,” she called, angling the camera towards him for an interview, “Look around here. We were talking about how crazy this is. But what is this moment? You know, take in this moment on Thanksgiving night. What are you most grateful for?”.

Joe drew in a long, shaky inhale, the kind he took only when he was trying to gather himself and his thoughts, trying not to let the world see how heavy his heart felt. His voice had already gone rough from the game, from the shouting and the yelling he hadn’t done in nearly two and a half months, but now it carried something deeper, a rasp born of emotion sitting high in his throat. His eyes shimmered under the bright lights, not quite with tears, but not quite dry either, catching the golden stadium glow like they were reflecting the entire night back at him. He blinked slowly, lashes wet, and when he exhaled, it wasn’t a smile or a laugh or even disbelief; it was something softer, something that was cracked open within him. Something human. Something raw. Something that made the air around him feel suddenly quieter, more intimate, despite the adrenaline coursing through his system.

His gaze swept the stadium, taking in the stands still buzzing with orange and black, the sideline commotion, the sky splintered with the remnants of fireworks. He had dreamed of this exact night since he was a boy: Thanksgiving football. Prime time. The whole country watching. And now he was standing in it, after clawing his way back from ten weeks of pain and hell and uncertainty. Every muscle in him still hummed with that memory, the rehab, the fear of setbacks, the quiet nights studying film knowing he couldn’t play yet, and the relief of finally being back felt almost…overwhelming.

“I’ve always wanted to play on Thanksgiving night,” he said, voice warm but pulled tight, a little breathless, carrying the weight of every dream he’d ever held as a kid watching games on the couch, imagining himself in the stadium under those bright lights. Every syllable trembled slightly, the grind of his voice thickened by energy, but also fatigue that he hadn’t felt in what felt like years, and the mere relief of just being back on the field. “I’m just…most grateful to all the people in my life that helped me through these last ten weeks,”. His throat closed up mid-sentence, and he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple jumping as if each word cost him something. It wasn’t just gratitude; it was the culmination of fear, determination, and months of doubt, all coiled up inside him and spilling out now. “Certainly wasn’t easy for me,” he added, voice quieter. Every word he spoke carried memory: from the lonely nights of rehab, to the endless repetition of drills, or the frustration of seeing what he couldn’t do, and even the ache of wondering if he’d ever come back the same. It was a quiet nod to every sleepless night, every tiny victory, every hurdle, every person who had stayed patient and steadfast with him while he clawed his way forward.

He let out a small, half-laugh that sounded more like a release than amusement, a sound that was almost musical in its fragility. It was the laugh of someone who had been holding his chest together for too long, letting the tension go in one breath, one tiny exhalation. He knew how difficult this was for him,  how it had tested his patience, his body, his mind, which meant he understood, at a visceral level, how difficult it had been for those around him, the people who loved him, who had worried silently and worked tirelessly to lift him up. That laugh carried both humility and recognition. He wasn’t standing here alone. Every hand that had held him up, every voice that had encouraged him, every sacrifice they’d made had led to this.

His hand went instinctively to the back of his neck, rubbing the damp skin there, grounding himself the way he always did when he was on the brink of feeling too much. “You know, all the things that I’ve been through in my career so far…,” he shook his head, voice faltering as he pushed through it. “I’ve got people that just want the best for me and work really hard to put me in great position to go and play well, get back out on the field,”. Another breath. Raspy. Heavy. The kind that said more than the words ever could; that said “I didn’t know if I’d make it back in time,” that said “I fought like hell for this,”.

“Physical therapists, trainers, doctors. I’ve certainly had my fair share of these,” he added, almost under his breath, the humor in the line soft and worn around the edges. He blinked hard, once, twice, looking up at the lights like he was trying to keep the tears right where they were—not falling, not yet—not here, not now, not in front of the country. But the emotion sat stubbornly in the corners of his eyes. When he finally looked back at Melissa, the smile he offered was small, trembling at the edges, vulnerable in a way only people who truly loved him would recognize. “And…,” his voice dipped lower, gentler. “It’s fun. It’s just fun to be back out here with the guys and experiencing this,”. He said it like it was the simplest truth in the world, like beneath all the pressure, all the expectations, all the cameras and narratives and scrutiny,  he was still just a man who loved the game. A man who missed his team. A man whose heart finally felt steady again.

Melissa nodded, giving him space to breathe, space to sit in it—ten weeks of pain and pressure and doubt crashing into one night of glory spearheaded by him. Everyone around them could sense it too, the way his presence had bent the entire sport back into shape tonight, the way the field itself seemed to shift under the gravity of his return. What he did out there wasn’t just skill; it was the unmistakable signature of a rare, high-caliber player, the kind who alters narratives and restores hope simply by stepping onto the turf. And tonight, everyone witnessed that truth. He blinked again, more rapidly now, and you could see the red gathering at the rims of his eyes. His voice had grown hoarse, ragged at the edges, and when he spoke again….

He didn’t even notice the shift in himself.

He didn’t notice that he was about to cross a line he couldn’t uncross. 

He didn’t notice he was seconds away from changing both of their lives.

“And...I’m thankful for all my loved ones and friends. I have a really great support system,” his tone steadied for a brief second, but only barely, the slightest shake still threading through the words. His eyes flicked briefly toward the suite, toward the people who had cheered him on, who had sent messages that made him feel like he wasn’t alone in this, who had waited and hoped alongside him for every minute of those ten weeks. “I’ve been through a lot this season, a lot in my life, a lot just trying to get back out there,” he admitted, “And it’s because of them, because of all of them, that I can stand here tonight, feeling…alive, complete, ready to play the game I love. I can’t say enough about how much that means,”.

His eyes then shifted. Not from the suite, but just from who he was looking at. 

His eyes found her. 

Radiant and untouchable, the melody in the background of his chaos, the chorus that carried him home, the center of his world, his calm in every storm, the quiet fire that had always drawn him back, his love, his woman, his angel, a song he could never forget.

“But, you know, those people make a group effort for you,” he continued, eyes softening as a blush crept up his face. “Sometimes there’s one person, just one, whose influence eclipses everything else, whose presence shifts the entire axis of your life,”. 

“Which is why I’m most thankful for my fiancée.”

The words tumbled out of him, effortless and careless in a way that only true emotion could allow. There was no hesitation, no pause to consider the significance or the optics, no trace of rehearsed diction. It wasn’t a proclamation. It wasn’t a calculated reveal like they had planned to do. It was simply him. Heart-first, reckless, untamed. The way his voice carried it, light with a boyish awe and threaded with the relief of victory, made it feel like a private truth spilled into the public world by accident, but without a trace of regret. 

This was the way he always was when his emotions took the wheel. It had happened the first time he told her he loved her, that first night in his new house, snuggled in the comfort of their silly blanket fort, a quiet confession that slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, leaving both of them stunned and breathless. It had happened again, the first time he told her he wanted this—her, them, their life together—for real, a private truth that had been too heavy to hold in any longer, escaping in the only way he knew: carelessly, with sincerity, completely unguarded. 

And here it was again, spilling into the open air of the stadium, across cameras, across the eyes of the entire world, in a single, simple word that left no room for doubt. Happiness had loosened every guard he had, unraveling his usual apprehension in sharing anything too important about his private life because of his fear that it would be taken away by forces outside of his control, in favor of unbridled euphoria. He was so ridiculously, so completely content in that moment—back on the field, thriving, and looking directly at the person who had been his anchor through every hard day, every painful setback, every night he stayed awake because he couldn’t get his brain to turn off. 

It wasn’t meant to shock anyone. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit but his own, and maybe hers. The word floated in the air, shimmering as though it carried a light of its own, impossible to ignore, impossible to retract. It felt like the first real breath after weeks of holding back, like the first sight of a sunbeam cutting through an endless storm. The joy in his chest made him reckless in the most authentic, endearing way: heart-eyed, unabashed, and completely, completely in love with his person.

He lifted his hand, almost absent-mindedly, waving toward the suite with the kind of sincerity that couldn’t be faked. His eyes softened, corners crinkling with laughter, and because he was thinking of her. The movement was fluid, uncalculated, the natural motion of a man pointing to the epicenter of his universe without a single thought of anyone else watching.

“She’s sitting right up there with our family,”.

Our family.

It was just her, his parents, and some of their friends.

But he said our family.

His words came to him as if they were as casual as breathing, as inevitable as the truth of what he felt every day. They had been waiting quietly, patiently, nestled in the corners of his heart for months, ever since that sweltering July night in Portofino—the night he had proposed, the night the summer heat had made everything shimmer and pulse with a kind of magic that had stayed with him ever since. And now, finally, they emerged on their own terms, carried with such unassuming force that the stadium felt it, the cameras captured it, and millions of people at home heard it as plainly as if they were standing right there beside him.

The camera followed his gesture, panning slowly upward to the suite, capturing the moment in full clarity. The fans who were still in the stadium gasped, a ripple of surprise running like electricity through the remaining crowd. Murmurs bounced across the stands, a collective double-take from thousands of eyes, hearts skipping in unison. But it wasn’t just the stadium; the moment had already exploded beyond it. Millions of fans across the entire world, at home, in bars, on social media feeds, glued to their screens, paused mid-sentence, mid-scroll, mid-laugh, frozen in disbelief.

“Fiancée? Since when?” 

“Did he just say what I think he said?”

“I knew it! I called it all along!”

“Oh. My. God.”

“They're getting married!” 

It’s remarkable how a single word could ignite a wildfire. Spoken with effortless mitigation, it carried none of the hesitation, none of the caution he usually wore like armor. Not that he hadn’t whispered it countless times in private, not that it wasn’t already theirs, but now it spilled into the public sphere like a bolt of lightning—bright, impossible to ignore, charged with what felt like lifetimes of love and quiet devotion. 

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause, collectively suspended in the gravity of Joe’s words, caught in the brilliance of that simple, devastating declaration, existing only in that gesture, that smile, that simple wave pointing to the person who had always been on his mind, even in moments that were solely about him. It was effortless and explosive all at once, a casual reveal that no one, not the fans, not the announcers, not the millions watching remotely, could ignore. Even the commentators were momentarily dumbfounded, voices catching as they tried to process what had just happened. The stadium lights, the celebration, the lingering echoes of victory—everything faded to the background. All that remained was that word, that wave, that sheer, unfiltered, careless joy that was Joe in the purest, happiest form anyone had ever witnessed.

Joe’s teammates, still lingering nearby, couldn’t contain themselves. They leaned into one another, laughter spilling freely, shaking their heads in disbelief, nudging each other with knowing smirks and half-whistles. “Dude…did he just—?” Mike muttered under his breath, eyes wide, trying not to laugh too loudly. Chase chuckled, elbowing Mitchell, “Bro…he didn’t even think about it, did he? Just…said it,” a low whistle escaped from the corner of the group, and Ja’marr added, shaking his head with a grin, “Oh this boy’s crazy, she gon’ have words for him later,”.

He wasn’t aware of the things they were saying, the audience, the headlines, the chaos his words had just created. He was just trapped in the golden haze of happiness, the kind that came from winning, from being back, from loving someone who had been his constant. His eyes shone, rimmed with the faintest glimmer of tears he hadn’t bothered to brush away anymore, and his grin spread slowly, deliberately, unraveling every thread of stress, worry, and exhaustion that had wrapped around him for weeks. Nothing mattered but the truth in that word, the person he pointed to, and the excitement that had poured unchecked from his heart for the world to witness. All that mattered, all that had ever mattered, was her.

“She’s my best friend,” he continued, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched Ja'marr's face shrivel up in mock offense.

She truly was; even his oldest friends knew this fact. He laughed with her until his stomach hurt, made silly jokes that only she found funny, and got completely wrapped up in nerding out about everything from superluminal time travel to the most ridiculous pop culture obsessions, because she got him in a way no one else ever could. Around her, his smile went completely loopy, eyes lighting up in that easy, playful way that made him look impossibly happy and impossibly in love all at once. 

And it wasn’t just the big things, it was never just the big things. He glowed every single time her name lit up his phone screen, the kind of glow his teammates pretended not to notice because it was embarrassingly obvious, the kind that made him look sixteen again and hopelessly in love. His heart still did that ridiculous little kick every time he pushed open the door and found her there—curled up on the couch, humming in the kitchen, half-asleep in one of his hoodies—whatever version of her the universe handed him, he always paused for a beat like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. He’d just stand there and take her in, soft and stunned, wearing that small, private smile that only existed for her. And even after all this time, after everything they’d weathered and built and held onto together, he was still endlessly, stupidly, head-over-heels excited just to be near her, like loving her had never stopped feeling brand new.

“My favorite person in the world. My rock,” he spoke before he let out a sigh, the kind of sigh that came from being so infatuated with a person that just thinking about it made his heart hurt. And it wasn’t for the cameras, not for the millions watching, but again, simply because thinking of her always did that to him. His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his neck melting away, and the strain across his brow smoothed, as if her presence, even from afar, could hold him steady like a warm, invisible hand.

“I don’t think I would have made it through any of this without her constant support and patience. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around when things like this happen, but she pushed past all of that every single day with me. Made sure I didn't lose myself to the game too much,” he added, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he exhaled through the memory of all those days, the text messages checking in while he was rehabbing, the flowers she sent to the staidium every week for ten weeks straight, the quiet encouragement that had carried him when his own confidence was on the verge of dwindling. His breath wavered, hitching just once, almost imperceptible, and yet it was enough to reveal the depth of everything he felt, the tenderness that he usually kept buried behind his focus and intensity. “She’s really the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me,” he said next. There was no pretense here, no careful wording, no performative tone. It was him, completely exposed, as though he were letting the world look straight into the core of his heart. 

“And I don’t need a holiday to show that I’m thankful for her, but since the opportunity is there…” his lips curved into a gentle, earnest smile, fragile yet luminous, the kind that could soften an entire room without a single word beyond it.

 “This win’s just for her.”

Meanwhile…

She was perched casually in the suite, one arm draped lazily over the back of the plush plum colored couch, the other cradling a crystal-clear glass of sparkling water that caught the stadium lights and fractured them into tiny, dancing prisms across her fingers. She wore the vintage Bengals sweatshirt she’d grabbed from Abercrombie just days ago, the deep orange and black hugging her in all the right places, a perfect blend of comfort and understated pride. A black mini skirt and sheer black tights completed the look, sparkling subtly under the soft glow of the overhead lights, while her custom boots—sleek, polished leather engraved with Joe’s number and signature—completed the outfit in quiet, personal significance. Her hair tumbled in loose, carefree waves, catching stray flashes of light as she shifted slightly, brushing her shoulders in a lazy cascade of soft curls. She leaned back just enough to be comfortable, turning occasionally to chat with his parents and close friends, smiling warmly, laughter slipping easily between them as she took gentle sips of her drink. 

The suite hummed with a layered, living warmth. The kind that only followed a desperately needed win. Voices overlapped in soft waves: Robin was laughing into her phone, updating family members who couldn’t make it to the game, her excitement bursting through each breathless sentence; Jimmy stood at the glass with his arms folded, gaze fixed on the field below, wearing the proud, quiet smile only a father could. The Thanksgiving Turkey celebration replayed on the TV in the corner, the players' voices drifting through the room in cheerful ribbons of noise, each highlight bursting in flashes of orange and black.

But all of it blurred at the edges for her.

She felt suspended in this strange, tender pocket of stillness, present but invisible, part of the room but floating just outside of it, as though everything around her moved at a different pace than she did. The bright hum of postgame energy washed past her while her focus held steady, anchored entirely and unwaveringly on him. The world buzzed, celebrated, carried on around her, and yet her heart beat to the rhythm of just one presence, one gravitational pull. 

Joe.

Throughout the game, she had been a careful observer, eyes flicking between the field and the scoreboard, heart thudding with every snap, every throw, every breakaway run. The adrenaline of the crowd and the tension in the stadium were mirrored in her own pulse, an unrelenting drum that tightened and loosened with each play. She cheered, clapped, and laughed, but there was a constant undercurrent of worry threading through her excitement—for his health, for the injury that had sidelined him for weeks, for the intensity of the night and the pressure he carried on his shoulders. 

She’d been proud, but every completed pass, every scramble, every touchdown had sent a surge of relief and joy coursing through her, mixed with a careful, almost protective anxiety. By the fourth quarter, she realized she had been holding her breath nearly the entire time, and when the final whistle blew, a rush of elation and exhaustion collided inside her. Watching him win, back where he belonged, better than ever and absolutely unstoppable, she felt an overwhelming mix of pride, love, and a kind of breathless awe she could barely put into words.

And of course, the cameras had found her throughout the night. They panned to her a few times—naturally, inevitably—because her name carried importance that you couldn't just push under the rug for one night, because stardom had its own gravity in a place like this. Each time, she managed a small smile, poised and polite. But what steadied her most was the moment a familiar melody drifted through the stadium speakers during a break. One of her songs. She felt her breath loosen, her shoulders drop just a little. Because she knew him. She knew that somewhere down on that field, even in the haze of adrenaline and pressure, the sound of her voice, though just a recording, just a chorus, would help him breathe a little easier too.

Everything felt perfect for the first time in a long time. For a moment, she felt like she was just a girl. Just his girl—not an internationally renowned musician, the woman with a stadium-sized spotlight shadowing her every step—watching the man she loved living out his childhood dream, glowing under the stadium lights in a way that made her chest ache with adoration.

And then…she heard Joe’s voice fill the suite, drifting from the TV mounted on the wall.

A mischievous, eager smile lifted her lips, already anticipating the moment that was about to unfold. She knew in her bones that Joe would never touch a single bite of the spread without first scrutinizing its origin. He was impossibly particular, impossibly careful; nothing passed his lips without the assurance of who made it and where it came from, and she found the thought impossibly endearing.

But before any of that could settle, a single moment hit her like a lightning strike.

She heard it before she fully registered it. His breath when he said it. His smile. His drawl. His softness. The word.

Fiancée.

The sound of it slipped into her like a chill on a winter's night. Her hand froze mid-sip, suspended halfway to her lips. Her mouth went dry in an instant, the kind of dryness that felt like her soul had short-circuited. Her glass wobbled dangerously between her fingers—a tilt, a slip, the faintest tremble—threatening to spill straight onto the pristine white carpet. Her heart did this ridiculous, panicked stutter, skipping a beat and then racing to catch up, and for a split second, the entire world seemed to mute itself around her. “Oh my god,” she said out loud, stunned, breathless, barely aware of the sound leaving her own mouth. “Did he just…?”.

She turned numbly toward his parents, wondering if they knew about him doing this, but instead caught the exact moment their faces shifted into that perfect, chaotic mixture of glee and shock. Wide eyes, hands flying to mouths, eyebrows shooting up like someone had detonated a confetti cannon in the suite. The room, which had been buzzing with laughter just seconds ago, collapsed into stunned silence. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the glass, squeezing so hard she nearly dropped it. Her brain felt like it was losing connection, glitching, flipping through disbelief and awe and panic all at once.

This wasn’t the plan.

They had agreed, agreed, to soft-launch it next week. They had walked through every detail together, sitting cross-legged on their couch in the soft glow of a late-night lamp, mapping out a plan that felt gentle and private and theirs. Tonight was supposed to be only about him. That had been her wish from the beginning. He’d worked too hard, fought too long, bled for every inch of this comeback; she wanted the spotlight to be his and his alone. That’s why she had told him, insisted, really, in that playful but immovable way she used on him when she was protecting him, that she’d casually wear the ring during the next home game. She’d act like she didn’t notice the cameras, like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing, let the internet slowly catch fire in that controlled, graceful burn: whispers first, then theories, then the inevitable frenzy.

A perfect slow ignition.

Then, once everything was buzzing but still manageable, they would announce it officially days later. Clean. Calm. Strategic. Something they could shepherd together, hand in hand, without the chaos of surprise. But now, he’d done something nobody had seen coming. He’d blown it open with one careless, but love-soaked slip, tossing the word into the world like a match into a field of dry grass. 

He just, he had said it so casually. So casually. Like it was nothing. Like the word wasn’t a seismic, life-altering revelation to the entire world. Like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would detonate across every social media platform within seconds. And in that casualness was the dizzying, sickening beauty of it; the exact way he’d always been when he was really, truly happy. She’d realized this quality from the very first night they’d met, when joy loosened every guard in his body, made him reckless with emotion, made the truth of his heart spill out before he even realized he’d opened his mouth. He didn’t calculate this as he did with everything in his life; he didn’t make a single plan—he felt, and he spoke. 

That was who he was with her.

And God, seeing it happen like this, so pure, so vulnerable, made her knees go weak.

She felt a full-body swirl of disbelief and elation, a woozy, stomach-dropping rush that burned through her like champagne bubbles rising too fast. This was him. Her Joe. Her impossibly earnest, impossibly sincere man, who defaulted to honesty when he was overwhelmed with feeling. Her man, who was so in love, so proud, so cracked-wide-open with happiness that he’d let something like that slip without even realizing.

Awe unfurled in her chest, breath-stealing, luminous awe. “Wow. He’s really…he’s so?” she thought. 

So in love that he might stop breathing. So unfiltered. So undone by this high he was on that his heart spoke faster than his head.

And he didn’t even know.

“We’re as stunned as you are, sweetie,” Robin smiled after placing a comforting hand on her’s, assuring her that it was going to be just fine, though she honestly wasn’t worried about it; she was just…shocked. “Joey can be…loose-lipped when you’d least expect,”.

She let out a soft chuckle as she nodded, telling Robin she knew all about Joe’s tendency to drop a bomb at the most unpredictable moment, before she felt her phone start vibrating like it had a heartbeat of its own. One buzz. Two buzzes. Three. She fumbled to pull it out, but stopped mid-motion, a little overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude that this many people actually cared. There were texts from her assistant, her agent, her publicist, and friends and family. Alerts from her manager, from the NFL network, from news outlets, from her socials. Social media accounts she hadn’t even followed were blowing up. The internet was literally imploding, and the mere volume of messages and posts made it impossible to keep up. She couldn’t even look. She didn’t want to. 

All she could stare at was the headline on her screen: FROM PRIME TIME TO LIFETIME 🥂 SHE SAID YES! 

“That was fast,” she whispered to herself, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she stayed rooted to the spot. Drink in hand, her body leaning into the plush couch for support, she felt every carefully constructed shard of composure crumble in one careless, perfect, beautiful moment. Her eyes were wide, glistening with equal parts disbelief and joy, and she could feel a slow, thrilling flush creeping up her neck as her heart raced in wild, unrelenting beats. She wanted to scream, to laugh, to cry, to run to him…all at once, a chaotic symphony of emotion that left her stupefied with delight.

“I can’t believe he just said that,” she murmured, a slow, astonished smile spreading across her face.  “I can’t believe this is really happening,” she thought, letting the thought roll over her again and again, each time sweeter and more surreal than the last. She could speak about it openly now that people were sure to ask her about it, she could post pictures, she could share it with the world, because at last, finally, the quiet, private world they had built together had broken into full, dazzling life.

God, she wished she could just jump onto the field right then and there. But things are never that cinematic or storybook in life. So, she'd do what she'd always do. She would wait for him outside the locker room before their flight back, pacing just enough to feel the floor beneath her boots, yet unable to shake the fluttering in her stomach. Every step, every exhale, carried the anticipation of seeing him again, the him who had just carried an entire team, an entire stadium, an entire nation, through a night that felt impossible and turned it into success. She needed to see him, to hear him, to feel the ease of that familiar, loopy smile that always melted her, the one that made every impossible thing feel achievable, as though just being near him could rewrite the laws of gravity. And above all, she wanted to congratulate him—not just on this hard-fought win, not just on finally living out a lifelong dream, but on the quiet, relentless courage it had taken to fight through ten weeks of pain, of doubt, of clawing back to the very field that had felt, for a time, unreachable.

The words he had spoken still lingered, thick and warm, hanging in the air as if refusing to dissipate. They vibrated around her, echoing in the walls, threading through the carpet beneath her feet, coiling inside her chest, and tightening her heart in the best possible way. Fiancée. Just that one word, spoken with careless ease, carried the promises whispered in private and dreams built together. It swirled through her veins like electricity, dizzying and intoxicating, leaving her breathless, cheeks flushed, heart hammering, and a constant, unrelenting sense of amazement that this, all of this, was really real. 

That she finally had everything she had ever wanted. 

Thankful for my Fiancée.

In that one word, everything shifted. Suddenly, it wasn’t just his word, or hers, or anyone else’s. It was theirs. A quiet, blazing, irrevocable truth that existed only between them, and yet the whole world had somehow caught its reflection. The world outside could wait. For her, for him, this moment was infinite.

An hour had passed since the chaos of the stadium had begun to fade, easily replaced by the quiet hum of post-game energy lingering like a faint echo in the walls. His parents had gone back to the hotel to freshen up before their flight, leaving the hallway almost still, except for the occasional shuffle of staff or distant clatter of equipment. The air was warm in contrast to the cool air outside, tinged with the faint scent of turf, cologne, and the remnants of celebration.

She walked through it slowly, each step deliberate, the press of the tile under her boots grounding her even as her heart raced. Staff and assistants passed by, offering quiet congratulations with polite smiles, murmuring low, “Wishing the best for you two on your new Journey!” or “So happy for you!”. She returned small, measured smiles, nodded politely with words of gratitude, but beneath the surface, she was a storm of nerves and anticipation, her pulse a rapid drum that seemed to only get louder with every passing moment.

Little did anyone know, though, that this moment—this perfect, chaotic, joyous moment—was the culmination of a story that had already been quietly unfolding for months. They had been on this journey together for a long while, carefully navigating it in the quiet spaces between the public eye, in whispers and glances, in laughter and soft, stolen touches. And now, after months of planning, patience, and quiet devotion, the world was about to witness only the tip of what they had already promised each other in the private language of their love.

Her hand drifted up instinctively, brushing lightly over the glint of the ring she had slipped onto her finger on her way down—a breathtaking, constellation-forged circle that seemed to hold the night sky within it, a perfect, luminous token of a single word that had changed everything. 

Yes.

The cool metal against her skin steadied her for only a heartbeat before the reality of everything crashed back in, warm and overwhelming. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath the ring, that impossible diamond causing this woozy, effervescent swirl that always hit her when life shifted under her feet because of him. This was unique, though; this was the new future they’d just stepped into, the new tidal wave of attention she knew was about to hit them. And yet…what thrummed through her chest felt achingly familiar. The dizzy rise of butterflies, the breathless shift of the atmosphere, the way her knees went a little weak—it was the same feeling she’d had the second time she saw him, after that Fourth of July weekend in the Hamptons. Back when every cell in her body seemed to jolt awake the moment she opened the door and found him standing there, backlit by the Los Angeles dusk, looking at her like she was the only person he’d flown across the country for.

The same vertigo. The same warmth sweeping through her in one unstoppable rush. The same quiet knowing in her bones.

Back then, it was the shock of seeing him on her porch when she least expected it.

Now, it was the shock of realizing he had just called her fiancée on national television.

And somehow, impossibly, both moments felt like the universe gently placing a hand on her back and nudging her further into a life she’d already started falling for.

She remembered that weekend in Los Angeles like it was yesterday, because it had felt impossibly fated, too specific, too perfectly timed to be anything but the universe pressing them closer. She’d flown into LA, secretly, for studio sessions for her new album, exhausted and half-asleep on her couch, when a soft knock echoed through her quiet house. She opened the door expecting a delivery, maybe her assistant, maybe a friend, certainly not him—Joe Burrow, standing there on her porch in the late California evening, hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blue hoodie, duffle bag resting against his leg, looking equal parts nervous and determined. 

“Hi.”

That was all he had said to her before a minute of silence had nestled its way between them. But it wasn’t uncomfortable silence; it was silence born from disbelief, from excitement, from the impossible closeness of realizing he was actually standing on her doorstep right now.

And the shock of it hit her like a delayed current, because this wasn’t just any man. This was the man she’d met at a party she hadn’t even wanted to attend—the kind of gathering that made her skin itch, all champagne smiles and whispered commentary behind manicured hands. People had been gossiping about her the entire night, eyes tracking her like she was a spectacle instead of a human, like what she was going through was some kind of TV series and not her real life, and she’d spent most of the evening trying to disappear in plain sight.

But he hadn't been like them.

He’d been the only one in the room who didn’t look at her like she was a headline or a cautionary tale. The only one who didn’t judge her, didn’t gawk at her, didn’t treat her like she was either too much or not enough. He was the only one who had simply seen her—quietly, gently, without agenda.

And now, outside of that Hamptons haze, outside of the noise and the flash and the scrutiny…he was here. Standing in front of her, hoodie wrinkled from the flight, hair messy in a way that made her chest tighten, hands shoved in his pockets like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be standing on her porch but couldn’t stop himself from showing up anyway.

She never did ask how he’d gotten her address, remembering that it definitely hadn’t come up at all during that weekend they’d met, not even during the dinner they went to the next night, but he offered it up immediately, stumbling through an explanation before she could even open her mouth. One of their mutual friends from that party had given it to him after Joe spent nearly an hour trying to figure out how to ask her without seeming like a creep. He didn’t want to ask her because that'd ruin the surprise detail of the whole thing, and it also would come off a little too stalker-ish for his liking. And he definitely didn’t want to ask anyone who might gossip. So he went to the one person he trusted, who they both trusted, made them swear not to tell a soul, and even then he’d hesitated, second-guessing himself the entire ride to Beverly Hills.

He told her he'd flown out for work, meetings stacked back-to-back with Body Armor and Alo, but the second he realized she was in the same city, something in him refused to ignore it. He’d shown up without warning, eyes hopeful yet equally as unsure, mumbling, “I, uh…didn’t want to be in the same city as you and not see you,”. And just like that, just from the way he said her name in the soft glow of her porch light, with that nervous little smile and charm, her world had tipped again.

That entire time he was there with her felt like a fever dream—soft around the edges, warm in the middle, the kind of memory that glows even as it forms, like it already knows it’s going to become important. After she’d let him inside and watched him hover awkwardly by the entryway, unsure of where to stand or what to do with his hands, she’d nudged him gently toward the kitchen with a smile and told him to sit, relax, breathe while she made them a bite to eat, knowing he likely was too nervous to eat anything all day. She’d moved around her counters in that quiet, instinctive rhythm she had whenever she cooked for someone she cared about, pulling out peppers, slicing chicken, setting rice to simmer. She didn’t tell him she remembered—how he’d once mentioned during that party, offhand, that spicy chicken with rice and peppers was something he practically lived on during his LSU days. She just made it, like muscle memory, like a private offering wrapped in familiarity and care.

He sat there watching her, elbows on her counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, smile softening as every second passed. His gaze wandered around her house with curiosity, taking in the little details that made this space unmistakably hers—the soft glow of the magnets on the fridge she had collected from her travels, the stacks of notebooks and lyric sheets artfully scattered across the living room table, her grammy's placed neatly on a shelf by the TV, the subtle scent of vanilla and citrus that clung to the air. Then he took her in, really took her in, watching the way her hair caught the light, the tilt of her head as she moved around her kitchen, the way her fingers danced over the knife handle and the cutting board as she chopped onions for the rice. He listened intently, letting her words wash over him, the laughter in her voice when she told him how she’d been thinking about him all day, and the way she described the movie recommendation he’d sent last night—the X-Men film she hadn’t seen yet. “Maybe we could watch it later,” she said with a teasing lilt, “Since you’re already here,”. His smile softened at that, a little unsure, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be this close, yet every fiber of him wanted it.

And at some point between the sizzle of peppers hitting the pan and her glancing back to find him smiling at her like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, he’d admitted, almost sheepishly, that he didn’t want to intrude. Didn’t want her to feel obligated to let him stay over. Didn’t want her to think he assumed anything—because he hadn’t planned any of this. Showing up at her door. Being invited inside. The way he felt being near her. None of it.

But she’d insisted anyway, gentle but firm, voice quiet in the soft lamplight of her kitchen. The idea of him tucked away in some random West Hollywood hotel room—with paper-thin walls, no privacy, no safety—felt wrong in a way she couldn’t fully articulate. Something in her tightened at the thought of him alone, restless, orbiting the same city but not her. It tugged at a deeper place in her chest, a place she hadn’t examined yet but trusted instinctively. It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t rational decision-making. It was something more peaceful, controlled, whispering from somewhere behind her ribs: It’s safe. Let him in.

And he did. And she did.

Even then, they were both trying to be respectful of whatever thin, buzzing line they were toeing—pretending they didn’t feel it, pretending they weren’t already leaning toward each other in ways neither of them wanted to unpack yet. So that first night, after eating dinner and watching the movie, they didn’t sleep in the same bed. He took the guest room, leaving his duffel neatly by the chair like he didn’t want to accidentally take up too much space; she stayed in her own room, curled beneath familiar blankets that suddenly felt strangely too big, too cool, too empty. Through the quiet of the house, she could hear faint shifts, his footsteps soft on the hardwood, the quiet rustle of fabric, a low exhale like he was trying to steady himself.

And on opposite sides of her home, they lay awake with identical thoughts looping endlessly, “He’s here. He’s really here. What am I doing? What's wrong with me? I told myself I wouldn't do this again...but why does this feel so…different? Why does this feel so right?”. She stared at her ceiling as if it could give her answers, the glow from the city slipping through her curtains and painting the room in soft gold. He stared at his own, arms folded over, heartbeat irritatingly loud in his ears, the guest sheets warm from everything he wasn’t admitting. Neither of them slept more than a handful of minutes, their minds stretched tight with awareness of each other, of the unspoken thing blooming between them, of that soft, pulling ache that comes when something is beginning but neither of you has found the courage to name it yet.

But the second night? That line dissolved without either of them realizing it. No dramatic moment, no decision made out loud. It just…happened, quietly, like gravity doing what gravity does once you finally stop resisting it. She’d walked down the hallway to grab something from her office, passing the cracked door of the guest room, and found him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the laces of his sneakers, though he had nowhere to go. He looked up when he sensed her there, and the expression he wore—the soft, shy, almost nervous smile he only ever had in those earliest days—knocked the air out of her chest. It felt like the whole house went still around them.

She leaned against the doorframe, pretending she had some actual reason to be there. He cleared his throat, pretending he hadn’t been staring at the carpet, thinking about her. She made a passing comment about how the AC in the living room was rattling too loudly for her to sleep. “So,” she said lightly, “Um…the AC in the living room? It’s… rattling. Loud. I don’t think I’ll be able to take a nap with it like that,”. He nodded, trying to act normal and as if he wasn’t debating whether he should knock on her door for the past half hour. “Oh,” he murmured, trying for nonchalance and failing adorably, “Yeah, well… the mattress in here is kinda weird. Too firm. Too cold. Too…” his eyes lifted, met hers, softened. “…too unfamiliar,”.

None of that mattered, though, because none of it was the truth. The truth was that they were drawn together like two halves of a thought, finally completing themselves.

And without either of them being able to say who moved first, they drifted toward each other. Soft steps, nervous smiles, electric silence. One moment they were standing in the hallway, and the next they were in her bedroom, the hum of the city outside blending with the quiet rhythm of their breaths. Climbing into her bed happened as naturally as exhaling. He took his side, she took hers, the space between them thin and trembling.

It was awkward for maybe…three seconds? Then their bodies found each other like they’d done it a thousand times.

They fit. Perfectly. Effortlessly. Like puzzle pieces that had been carved apart long ago and finally pressed back into place.

Her head slipped beneath his chin as though his shoulder had been made for her alone. He wrapped an arm around her waist, slow and tentative at first, then with a certainty that made her chest ache. “Is this…is it okay?” he mumbled against her head, hands almost hesitant as they maintained their place on her back. She smiled into his chest, almost pushing herself into his warmth, this warmth she’d never felt before, “It’s fantastic,”. Their legs brushed, then tangled, then settled into a gentle knot of heat beneath the blankets. He breathed out, deep, steady, relieved, and she felt the sound vibrate through his chest, a quiet reassurance she didn’t know she’d been craving.

The room smelled of faint lavender from her sheets and the soft, earthy warmth of his hoodie, and the combination wrapped around them like a cocoon. She felt the steady beat of his heart against her cheek; he felt the slow rise and fall of her breath against his ribs. Close like this, they weren’t two people figuring out how to be around each other—they were something else entirely. Something new. Something inevitable. They fell asleep like that, all snuggled, wrapped up, tucked so tightly into the safety of each other that neither of them seemed to notice when the night softened into morning. And when the sun finally forced its way through her curtains, gold spilling across the bed, they were still tangled exactly the way they’d been hours before, holding on like neither of them had slept next to anyone in years.

Because in a way…they hadn’t. Not like this. Not where it mattered.

The days were just as intoxicating as those nights were. Slow and effortless, the kind of days that felt borrowed from some softer timeline where neither of them carried expectations or headlines or the weight of who they were supposed to be. In the mornings, they swam in her pool, sunlight flickering across the water in a mosaic of gold as they drifted toward one another without meaning to. She’d float on her back, smiling into the sky, and he’d watch her with that dazed, enthralled look he thought he was hiding, eyes tracing the curve of her shoulders, the way her hair fanned across the water, the subtle shift of her gaze as she noticed him watching and let herself linger a beat longer, just for him. 

He’d tease her about her terrible backstroke, she’d splash him in retaliation, he’d chase her across the shallow end, both of them laughing too loudly for two people who were technically still strangers, and through it all, she’d find herself staring at him—the way his muscles flexed as he pushed through the water, the way his lips curved when he grinned at her, the heat radiating from his sun-kissed skin. And he, in turn, couldn’t look away from her, the line of her jaw, the swell of her laughter, the way the sunlight caught her in ways that made him forget every other rule he’d ever lived by. Every glance, every flicker of eye contact, was a little daring, a little intimate, a silent acknowledgment of how impossible it was to look away.

But then he’d slip, just once, calling her “beautiful” under his breath when she beat him to the steps, and something would spark in her chest, something she hadn’t felt in years. 

They dried off on her patio, towels wrapped around their shoulders, the breeze cool against their damp skin as they talked about everything and nothing. He asked her about her music, about her childhood, about the things she hadn’t told anyone yet, and she found herself answering with a softness she usually guarded. She asked him about football, real, technical questions, and watched his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You…know a lot more than I thought you would,” he’d said, almost shy about it.

“I told you…I grew up watching. I’m not just pretending to care because a National Champion and Super Bowl contender is sitting in front of me and eating my watermelon,” she’d teased, bumping her knee against his. And she could tell he liked that. A little too much, maybe. It was in the way he leaned in when he explained something, in the way his hands gestured absentmindedly as he spoke, in the way he got that gentle, touched look on his face every time she understood a detail most people never bothered to learn.

In the afternoons, she led him through her studio, her sanctuary, the place no one else ever entered without her express say-so. Yet he moved through it with reverence, shoulders slightly hunched, as if afraid to disturb something delicate. He didn’t touch a single thing unless she handed it to him, but he looked at everything—her lyric scraps, her in-progress melodies, her notebooks with barely legible scribbles—as though each piece was precious.

“This is where you make magic,” he murmured once, running a finger along the edge of her mixing board without quite touching it.

She laughed softly, but something about the way he said it made her feel seen in a way she rarely was.

As the days in Los Angeles stretched on, the space between them began to shrink in ways that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with gravity. He would lean just a little too close when she handed him something in the kitchen, their hands brushing and lingering, and she felt a shiver trail down her spine every time it happened. Her laugh would catch in her throat when his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, and she caught herself leaning back just slightly to feel the brush of him against her, reveling in the tension that hummed between them.

They moved around each other with a new awareness, a slow carefulness—his shoulder brushing hers when he reached past her, her fingers tracing the edge of a countertop near his hand, neither of them daring to cross the line, but both acutely aware of how thin the space had grown. Every glance, every small, accidental touch carried a promise, a heat that neither of them had yet named but both already felt deep in their bones.

And at night, they slipped out just long enough for a private dinner, tucked away in a dim little corner of a restaurant where no one recognized them. The lighting was warm, the music quiet in the background, candles flickering between their plates. He sat close, closer than a man who was supposed to be casual, his knee brushing hers under the table every time he shifted. She kept pretending she didn’t notice. He kept pretending he wasn’t doing it on purpose. She nearly choked on her wine when he told a story from his Ohio State days, something stupid involving a prank and a fog machine, a confused strength coach, and a fire alarm that absolutely did not need to go off at seven in the morning. 

“It wasn’t my idea,” Joe insisted, holding up both hands as if pleading his case. His eyes were already sparkling, the exact shade of trouble she’d come to recognize as his “I’m lying through my teeth but in a cute way look,”. She snorted. “You’re literally the worst liar I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something, because I work with pop stars. Full-time delusional behavior is kind of their brand,”.

Joe leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets. “Okay…maybe it was a little my idea,”.

“A little?” she laughed, covering her face with her hands because she couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop giggling, couldn’t stop feeling like her ribs had been turned into champagne bubbles.

He nudged her knee under the table, soft and teasing. “Fine. Half my idea,”.

She peeked at him between her fingers, giving him the kind of look that said “I know exactly who you are,”. 

“Joey.”

He dropped his head, shoulders shaking as he laughed, “Okay, okay…it was all my idea. But in my defense, I didn’t think the fog would, like…migrate. And in my defense, Liam shouldn’t have agreed with Coach about how I throw like a girl,”. He shook his head, rolling his eyes at the thought, “It's misogynistic, and he's wrong. One bad day of throwing, I mean. Give me a break,”.

“Migrate?” she echoed, ignoring the rest of what he said to prevent him from going on a tangent about this misogynistic coach because 1, she knew he'd get heated, and 2, she wanted to be able to give unfiltered commentary when he told her stories like this, which was hard to do in a resteraunt despite them being in a private room. So, she dissolved into another round of giggles. “It’s smoke, not a flock of geese,”.

He grinned at her like she’d given him the sun on a platter, warmth glowing across his cheeks, dimples deepening as she continued to laugh. “You’re cute when you make fun of me,”.

That was the first time he had realized how obsessed he was with her laugh. 

“And you’re cute when you incriminate yourself,” she shot back, nudging his foot beneath the table.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t even pretend not to stare. “Yeah, well…I was trying to impress you. Had to make sure you knew that I used to be somewhat spontaneous and fun,”.

She felt her heart hiccup. Her chest squeeze. Her smile shift from amused to soft.

“You did,” she admitted quietly. “You have been this entire time,”. 

His chest felt like it had been punched and then set on fire all at once. Every time he looked at her, really looked at her—her laugh spilling over, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the subtle tilt of her head when she was caught in a joke—he felt simultaneously elated and vulnerable, as if his entire world had shrunk down to this one moment, this one person. 

The stories, the jokes, the stolen glances, the easy, teasing way she leaned into him…it all hit him like a wave he didn’t want to fight, leaving him light-headed, giddy, and feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wanted to tell her everything he was feeling, wanted to make her understand how completely she’d upended his carefully measured life, but all that came out instead was a breathless grin and the faintest, nervous chuckle before he leaned closer, whispering, “Good. Because just wait until I tell you about what we did to Coach O after that win against Ole Miss,”.

And somehow, miraculously, they made it through the entire weekend unseen. No paparazzi lurking outside the gate. No fans catching blurry photos. No blindsiding tabloid posts humming under the surface. It was just them, two people suspended in a world that didn’t know them yet, two people learning each other in the quiet spaces between sunlight and dusk.

A stolen pocket of time. A beginning disguised as something casual. A weekend that still felt, years later, like the first breath of the rest of their lives. Looking back, she wasn’t surprised that the world had tilted the way it did that weekend. The shift had started in her doorway in the warm Los Angeles dusk. But that entire time period, with him in her home, in her bed, in her orbit?

That’s when gravity changed. That’s when her heart chose him before her mind ever caught up.

Now, standing here, more than a year later, every heartbeat still felt impossibly vast, every inhale sharp with awe, and she felt it all again—pure, dizzying excitement surging through her chest, making her toes curl instinctively inside her boots, as if she needed every bit of grip just to stay tethered to the ground against the tidal wave of joy that threatened to lift her entirely off her feet.

Every movement felt heavier, slower, laced with a strange, almost compelling newness, as if time itself had stretched to hold her in this narrow hallway, suspended in that delicate, breathless space just before she would see him. The air around her sparkled with tension, thick with the almost tangible taste of anticipation, and in every quiet creak of the floor, every whisper of passing footsteps, she felt the universe contracting, folding in on itself, honing into the single point where she would finally be with him again. Each thump of her heart reverberated in her chest, a drum of expectancy, and the very world seemed to pause, waiting alongside her for the moment their eyes would meet.

And then she heard it, the loud CLANK, subtle shift of the locker room doors opening, the brush of movement from behind them, and her chest stuttered, her breath caught in her throat, and everything narrowed down to a single point of impossible focus.

Him.

Her breath hitched almost without warning, a sharp, uneven intake that lodged somewhere between her lungs and her throat, and her chest swelled with a fullness that was both thrilling and almost unbearable, like she was collapsing inward and floating outward all at once. There he stood, Joe, every bit the man she had watched from afar, revered quietly, and yet here he was—impossibly near, impossibly real, impossibly present. His gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in that way that had undone her countless times before, soft and knowing, and his eyes, glossy and bright with lingering emotion, found hers immediately, anchoring her in the moment. Every loose curl falling untamed, the faint flush of red across his nose and ears from the evening chill, the dried sheen of sweat across his forehead and temples, all of it combined into a disheveled, lived-in perfection, a raw, magnetic reality she adored with her whole heart.

She took him in fully, eyes roaming over him as if memorizing every detail: the way his shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw her, the small shift of his head, the quiet intensity in his gaze. Her hand drifted lightly to her ring, tracing the smooth, sparkling surface of it almost subconsciously, out of habit, a private reminder which he’d noticed, of the promise they had quietly shared for months. Her cheeks burned with heat that only he could bring out, the flush creeping across her skin, and she felt breathless in a way that wasn’t entirely from the stairs or the lingering post-game adrenaline. She felt small, and yet expansive, held together by the gravity of this moment, and she knew he could see it all. The flutter of nerves, the joy, the love that had become impossible to hide.

His body still hummed with the energy of the game, energy he needed to get out of his system, but the second his eyes found her, it all softened—the rush of the win, the chaos of the aftermath, even the ache of ten weeks rehabbing his toe—none of it mattered. She was there, leaning against the wall, every detail seared into him instantly: the way her hair caught the light, the subtle curve of her smile, the gentle glow of the ring on her finger. He felt his chest tighten in that familiar, beautiful way, the way it always did when he saw her and remembered that this was real, that she was his. For a moment, he almost couldn’t breathe, standing there taking her in, her flushed cheeks, her wide, astonished eyes, and knowing she was looking at him with the same wonder and love that had him reeling inside. Everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to feel, condensed into that single heartbeat as he met her gaze, utterly captivated.

For a long, suspended moment, they simply stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze. No words were needed; the silence spoke volumes. It was the same electric stillness as that night in Los Angeles, when he had appeared on her doorstep with nothing but a hope and a dream. And now, somehow, impossibly, that very dream had materialized before him, and she hadn’t needed him to summon her. She had found her way to him, on her own, and every part of him recognized it, every part of him had been waiting for it.

It took her a long, slow moment to notice it, the subtle quiver of his lips, the faintest tremor that betrayed the flood of emotion he was still carrying beneath his calm, measured exterior. She had known, because of course she had seen the way his eyes had glossed over twice after the win, how his breath had hitched ever so slightly when he was speaking in his Press Conference, how the edges of his smile had faltered just for a second before he caught himself. This small movement now was the continuation of all of that, the quiet aftershock of everything he had buried beneath adrenaline and duty and spotlight. It was a whisper of the vulnerability he’d carried through the chaos of the stadium, and it tugged at her chest with such aching tenderness that it felt like her ribs had to expand just to contain the swell of love inside her, like her whole heart was rising to meet him. 

He wanted to speak, he wanted to—but every time he tried, the moment swallowed his voice whole. His throat tightened, breath snagging, mouth parting only for air, not words. The enormity of the night sat on him like a second heartbeat, loud and hard to swallow, and whatever he thought he might say dissolved before it ever reached his lips.

Her fingers twitched almost involuntarily, yearning to close the distance, to hold him, to give him a landing place after a night that had demanded so much of him. Without a single word, she pushed off the wall, letting the tension in her legs become momentum. She crossed the space in a few decisive steps, her hand finding his with a firm, instinctive grip. The warmth of him beneath her palm, the slight tremor in his fingers, sent a ripple through her that was equal parts comfort and transcendence. They slipped past the last of the staff, through the lingering haze of victory, until she pulled him toward a narrow, out-of-the-way storage closet that most people never even noticed.

Inside, the world fell away. The space was unremarkable, dimly lit, quite dusty, smelling faintly of cardboard and old equipment, yet the moment the door clicked shut behind them, it transformed. It felt like a sanctuary she’d carved out with her gentle hands, a small, sacred pocket of stillness where the noise of the night couldn’t reach. She had created a world for just the two of them, sealed with the soft press of that closing door.

He looked at her then—really looked—and something in him seemed to still, the way a storm quiets just before the rain finally gives in. The confusion in his eyes mingled with the adrenaline still humming hot through his veins, with the unspent emotion he’d been trying and failing to outrun since the game ended. The last two months lived in his expression: the pressure that had coiled around his ribs, the pain he had swallowed like stone, the doubt that had clawed at the back of his mind, the victory he hadn’t yet processed. It was all there, etched faintly into the weary lines at the corners of his eyes, the tight, exhausted set of his jaw. And beneath it, flickering, fragile, painfully tender, was the bare truth of him: he was overwhelmed, undone by the enormity of what tonight meant, and he didn’t yet know how to stand steady under it.

And she was the only person in the world he trusted enough to see him like this.

She stepped closer, slow and sure, lifting her hands to cradle his face with a tenderness that almost broke him right there. Her thumbs traced gentle, careful circles at the corners of his glossy eyes, where tears trembled and threatened to spill. At her touch, he physically melted into her hands, his eyes fluttering closed as if the weight of the last few weeks was suddenly allowed to rest. He pressed his cheek against her palm, leaning into her in a way that spoke of complete trust and surrender. Her hands were steadying, soft but grounding, a quiet promise that everything outside this cramped little room could wait. Her touch seemed to whisper in a language only he could hear: It’s safe here. With me. Let it fall.

“I…” he tried, but the word snagged on a breath that stuttered out of him, thick and uneven. His voice rasped, hoarse at the edges, as though even speaking required a strength he didn’t have right now. The words caught in his throat, shattering against the tide of emotion he’d been tamping down since the field, through the postgame interview, through the grin he’d forced when his eyes had glossed over twice after the win. She could see it building again now—feel it, like pressure rising under his ribs—everything he had pushed through these past few months, all the moments he almost cried but didn’t, all of it pooling right here in front of her.

He needed to let go. God, he needed it badly.

So she tightened her hold just a little, guiding him closer until their foreheads nearly touched, giving him the smallest, gentlest permission.

“I am so proud of you, honey,” she whispered.

And that was it.

He broke.

The walls he always kept up, the armor he wore like a second skin, the composure he’d gripped with white-knuckled determination for weeks—everything gave out at once. It wasn’t dramatic or loud. It was the kind of collapse that only happens when someone has been holding themselves together for far too long. He fell into her like he’d been walking toward this moment since the clock hit zero, his body recognizing her long before his mind caught up. His forehead found her shoulder instantly, the move practiced but not rehearsed, familiar in a way that spoke of countless nights where she’d held him through quieter storms.

His breath hitched, not a sob and not steady either, something fragile living in the space between the two. She felt the tremor begin in his chest, then ripple outward, a slow unraveling that made him press closer, like he needed the warmth of her body to remember he wasn’t on the field anymore. She wrapped her arms around him on instinct, one hand sliding into his damp, mussed post-game hair, palm cupping the back of his head as if shielding him from a world that suddenly felt much too loud. The other hand moved in long lines down his back, stopping right beneath his shoulder blades—over that one quiet spot she always touched when he was overwhelmed, the one that could soften him faster than any whispered reassurance.

He breathed her name into the curve of her collarbone, barely voiced at all, more a warm exhale against her skin than a word. She heard everything he couldn’t articulate in that sound: exhaustion, adrenaline, disbelief, joy. His shoulders shook once, then twice, and he tried to laugh it off—she felt the tiny puff of air against her neck, the aborted attempt at humor—but he couldn’t pull himself together enough for it. Instead, a soft sniffle slipped out, then another, unhidden and unguarded.

When he realized he wasn’t being watched by anyone but her, that he could actually crumble here without consequence, a small, shaky smile curved against her shoulder. The kind of smile he only had when his emotions got ahead of him, relief mixed with happiness mixed with something so full it didn’t know how to stay inside him. It brushed her skin like a confession. 

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I get to fall apart in your arms.

It took a long time before he managed a single word.

“Yeah?” he croaked out, the syllable scraped bare from emotion, hardly more than breath.

“More than you could ever imagine,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair again, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in that slow, absent way she did when he lay on her chest after long days. Her other hand slid lower, tracing the curve of his spine, following the familiar path she’d touched a thousand times—slow, steady, without theatrics. Not to calm him. Not to fix anything. Just to remind him she was here.

He breathed a little deeper at that, a little steadier, like the rhythm of her hands reshaped the rhythm of his lungs. He tucked his arms around her waist, gathering the back of her sweatshirt in one hand the way he always did when he needed to feel her under his fingertips. His cheek stayed pressed against her shoulder, warm and damp, his breath fanning across the fabric rhythmically now, no longer stumbling. She held him there, stroking through his hair, tracing his back, smoothing her palm over his neck, then up again, then back down—as though drawing invisible lines of comfort across him. He leaned all of his weight into her, trusting her not just to hold him up but to hold this moment with him, to make it something sacred rather than embarrassing. And she did. Quietly. Patiently. Without even thinking about it.

“I love you a lot, and you’re amazing, you know that?” he mumbled into her neck, pressing a soft kiss to her sweet spot through his tears. 

“And you’re insane. Like genuinely insane, but I love you too much to even begin to explain to you what you just did,” she sniffled, a few of her own tears building up in the corners of her eyes as she pulled him closer.

Minutes passed, and she was still tucked under his chin, still wrapped in the warmth of him, when the laughter started to bubble up again—quiet, breathy, the kind that softened every tense line in his body. She felt it first, the shake of it beneath her palms, before she even heard the sound. And when she leaned back just enough to see his face, his eyes were still pink at the rims, lashes still clumped with tears he hadn’t bothered to wipe, but the smile pulling at his lips was unmistakably him—soft, boyish, a little sheepish in the way it curled upward like he was only just remembering how to feel joy again.

“You know our team is about to have our heads on a platter tomorrow morning…right?” she said, brushing her thumb under his eye in one gentle sweep, catching one last tear before it could fall. “I mean, you could’ve given them a heads up,”.

He huffed a laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest, leaning forward to press his forehead to hers, noses touching lightly, his breath warm against her lips. “Couldn’t help myself. Love my fiancée too much to not give her a shoutout during one of the most special moments of my career,”.

The word still felt unreal, suspended between them like a spark. Fiancée. Spoken out loud. Claimed. Announced to the world.

Her hands slid lower, fingers grazing the thick muscle of his arms, feeling the tiny spasms finally beginning to release. She brushed her thumbs over the inside of his forearms, the place where his skin was always softest, the place he only ever let her touch like that. This was the way they always found each other in the dark, the way they existed in the same breath without trying. The way she reminded herself that this man, this incredible man, chose her every single day, and how he reminded himself that this physical embodiment of heaven chose him.  “Well, your fiancée loves you very much for including her in this special moment with you.” Her voice dipped softer, gentler, because she meant every syllable. “But she also expects you to deal with some of this publicity we’re about to get now that you let the cat out of the bag…in the most nonchalant way possible,”.

He pulled back slightly, blinking at her with that dazed, lovesick look she’d always secretly cherished—the one he got when she said something that hit him just right, the one that made his lips part like he had something to say but got too full to say it. Then he dipped his head, smiling against the side of her jaw, kissing her cheek once, then again, slower the second time, lingering like he wanted to memorize the shape of her skin. “Absolutely.” His voice came out low and warm. “We can get on that tomorrow…after we spend the rest of the day together recovering from what’s about to happen when we’re home tonight. But only if that’s okay with my fiancée, of course,” he smiled smugly, proposing something that had already been on her mind since the clock hit zero. 

Her fingers slid up into his hair, curling through the strands as if she could somehow hold all of him in her hands at once. She pulled him closer, tilting her head just so until their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the small space between them. The warmth of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm, made her chest tighten with a mix of awe and relief. Then, softly, she leaned in, brushing her chilled lips against his in a slow kiss—light at first, testing, savoring the feel of him, before letting it deepen for a heartbeat longer, a quiet celebration of all the tension, the victories, and the love that had led them here.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads still resting together, her voice was quiet, breathless, threaded with tenderness and mirth. “Your fiancée would love that very much,”.

She said it with a smile she didn’t bother trying to hide, because why should she now? The world knew. Their people knew. The name was out there, tied to her, tied to him, finally spoken aloud with the kind of easy boldness he’d never dared before.

She watched his eyes flutter shut, watched the way his shoulders softened again with the truth of it, the relief of it, the dizzy, giddy holy shit of it. His hands found her hips, drawing her closer, fitting her against him as though they hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes holding each other like lifelines. He kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then finally her lips—slow, lingering, not desperate but deeply full, like he was savoring the moment, the privacy, her. When they finally broke apart, he kept her close, his fingers laced behind her back, chin resting atop her head. She felt the gentle sway of him, the soft, unconscious rocking he did when he was exhausted and overfull with emotion, like he was trying to comfort both of them at once. She let her arms circle his waist, hands slipping under his shirt to the softness of his skin, stroking lightly, feeling him breathe easier with every touch.

Outside the door, voices and footsteps echoed faintly through the hallway—teammates, reporters, staff—all looking for them. Life was still moving. The world was still buzzing. His name, their name, was ricocheting across the internet, flashing across people’s screens, already rewriting narratives.

But here? In this tiny, dim, closet-sized bubble of space?

It was just them. Her heartbeat against his. His breath on her hair. His hands holding her like she was the only thing keeping him upright and the only thing he ever wanted to hold onto.

“Tomorrow,” she murmured into his chest, lips brushing the warm skin above his collarbone. “We’ll deal with everything tomorrow,”.

He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Tomorrow,”.

Tonight wasn’t for the cameras. Or the headlines. Or the chaos of what his admission had unleashed.

Tonight was for him, leaning into her like he’d been waiting for his entire life to do it. Tonight was for her, whispering soft reassurances into his hair. Tonight was for them—exhausted, trembling, giddy, in love—finally letting themselves feel all of it.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow could come whenever it liked.

He had her.

She had him.

And for the first time, the whole world knew.

But everything changed when he met y/n. She introduced him to a world of likes and comments and views and reposts, things he didn’t even know existed until she excitedly showed him. Joe found himself slowly becoming more receptive and open to the idea, maybe even posting the occasional story in hopes that a certain someone would see it and swipe up (and y/n did, commenting ‘wow, i’m so proud of you grandpa!’). 

As their relationship began to progress, the question of when to make things public always lingered in the back of their minds. With the publicity of both of their lives, they knew it was inevitable, but their relationship was something they still wanted to hold close to the chest at least for a while… until they had no choice but to come out and talk about it.

They had been out one night in downtown Cincinnati, hanging out at a bar like couples do. Joe had his arm draped along the back of the booth they had crammed into and y/n had a hand rested on Joe’s thigh. The magnetic force between them drew them closer until they briefly brushed their lips against each other in a kiss. Maybe it was the alcohol in their systems, or maybe it was the way they were completely entranced with each other, that made them forget there were other people around… other people who had phones that could take photos and quickly spread across the internet, revealing what they had worked so hard to keep intimate. [more details here]

Which was why y/n found herself in the awkward position of going on her brother’s podcast while news made headlines throughout all of sports and social media: Cincinnati’s golden boy was dating the youngest Kelce girl. Claims of the two of them being “Football’s Second-Favorite Couple” (behind y/n’s brother Travis and his relationship with one Taylor Swift, of course) quickly spread like wildfire.

So, after a couple days of consideration, y/n and Joe decided it was finally time to speak out and discuss things on their own terms.

“Well, I think it’s finally time we address the elephant in the room, sis.” Jason said, leaning into his microphone with a quirked eyebrow. Y/n let out a sigh, her nose scrunching slightly as she chuckled.

“What elephant in the room?” Y/n joked, causing her brothers to let out boisterous laughs. “No, no, I know… we know.”

“So…?” Travis said, gesturing for y/n to continue. Sure her family already knew about her and Joe’s relationship, and had already met him multiple times, but talking about it on such a big stage was certainly different.

“I mean...” Y/n said, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a slight smile. “The pictures definitely speak for themselves, don’t you think, Joe?”

As y/n said his name, from the side of the frame, Joe’s head popped in. As he appeared, both Travis and Jason let out surprised cheers as y/n giggled. The usually pretty stoic Joe Burrow looked over at y/n with a flushed smile before scooting his chair to sit next to her, a pair of headphones already on his head.

“What?!” Jason said. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Yeah,” Joe said simply, “I usually sit in on her podcasts.”

“You’re a fan?” Travis asked with a teasing smirk.

“I’m a fan of whatever she puts out.” Joe said with a shrug, looking over at y/n as she rolled her eyes playfully. Y/n’s brothers swooned dramatically before collapsing into borderline childish giggles.

“You’re such a nerd.” Y/n said, looking back at Joe. Joe cocked his head to the side, smiling at her sweetly.

“Alright, alright, enough!” Travis finally said. “I know Jason and I know, but let the people know what’s up.”

Y/n let out a long breath, looking over at Joe. He gnawed on his bottom lip slightly before reaching underneath the desk to entwine his fingers with her own. He squeezed her hand gently, a silent sign of support for both of them. Joe wasn’t one for speaking, mostly allowing y/n to talk for both of them and Joe to listen happily, so y/n was surprised when Joe cleared his throat before turning towards the camera and leaning in to his microphone.

“Yes, uh, y/n and I are… together.” Joe said simply. “We’ve been together for about eight months and— well, I won’t say too much other than that it’s been great.”

Y/n felt her face warm at the sentiment.

“Yeah,” y/n nodded, “this wasn’t exactly how we had planned on making things public, but… it’s the situation we’re in, so we thought we’d make the best of it and address these things in a way that felt comfortable and natural for us both.”

“And a football podcast was the best of both our worlds.” Joe finished with a long exhale before giving y/n a quick nod, a silent signal that he’d said all he needed to say.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys but I feel like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.” Jason said with a chuckle. “I was half convinced I was gonna crack.”

“I was half convinced you were gonna crack.” Y/n teased. “But you didn’t, so thanks for the opportunity, Jase.”

“And thank you for the opportunity to get lots of views on this video, sis.” Travis joked, causing y/n to chuckle and a blushed smile to quirk on Joe’s face.

“But seriously,” Jason cleared his throat, “I’m happy for you guys.”

“Thank you, man.” Joe nodded, glancing over at y/n. “I’m… happy to be here and clear things up, even if I’m not a big… talking guy. I guess it’s a bit more manageable when I’m with someone who’s a professional.”

Y/n chuckled, shaking her head slightly before squeezing Joe’s hand.

“Ok, well, is there anything else you want to say to the people at home?” Travis asked.

“We’re happy and we’ll share more when we’re comfortable.” Y/n said with a nod. “I mean, who knows, maybe I’ll finally get Joe to make a Tik-Tok.”

“Yeah, no.” Joe scoffed, emphatically shaking his head as y/n giggled, grabbing onto his bicep as she leaned backwards.

“Well, thank you for coming on her, sis.” Travis grinned, a genuine happiness in his eyes from watching his sister practically glowing because of Joe’s presence. “We’ll see you both soon.”

“Thank you,” y/n said, waving to the lens. Joe leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to y/n’s temple just before the camera shut off.

Selfishly, August was Joe’s second favorite month. Time spent away from his girlfriend aside, he appreciated the brutal regimentation developed over six years in the NFL. Wake at 5:15 AM, protein-infused smoothies in the Bengals facility by 6:15, tape room by 6:45, then an assortment of practice, meetings, and press to shake it up later in the day into the orange and pink setting sun.

Four years spent with her had elevated his regimentation; made it a touch more human when it was so easy for him to become robotic. In those early mornings, she dusted his face in slow kisses, wrapping herself around his back when those early morning alarms dared to disrupt the sanctity of her sleep. While he packed his things for the day, she found little ways to mask the chalkiness of the protein powder blended into his smoothies. Between obligations and brief moments of peace, she fluttered in and out of his phone with the random thoughts blooming in her much-too-busy brain. Then, when his day finally drew to a close with the yellow sun no longer burning in the sky, she would be there—breathing his air, filling his senses with her voice, her scent, her smile, her touch, her—slowing the ticking of time until he was lulled into an effortless sleep, prepped to repeat the cycle all over again.

The rare days when he found himself with a stray afternoon off were when Joe indulged most in her orbit. Today, she had a relatively short day of appointments. Their shared Apple calendar reflected that fact with her red-coded Work category beginning at 8 AM and ending at 3:45 PM. Days like this were meant to taken slow once she returned home, but until she was tucked away in his arms, Joe needed to find ways to keep himself occupied.

Normally, that wasn’t a difficult task; there was always something that needed to be addressed, emails sitting unread, film that still needed reviewing, dirty dishes sitting in the sink, laundry waiting to be pulled out of the dryer. Normally, Joe would stay in constant communication with her, little anecdotes about his day sent every hour or so to keep her updated on his day the same way she did for him. Normally, Joe would never dream of trying to throw her off his scent—but today wasn’t normal.

Afterall, how often do you meet with your jeweler to design your girlfriend’s engagement ring?

Picking up two extra appointments this afternoon.

Her text read, followed by a voice note with further context. “So, Chioma’s kid has a fever and the school wants him to go home. They shouldn’t be crazy involved... just a Botox touch-up and an eczema consult, I think? Hopefully, I can get out of here before 5.” Her voice was light, revealing none of the exhaustion Joe knew would settle in later. “Oh, and I just got the flowers. So, thank you. They’re gorgeous. Um, and yeah, I’ll let you know when I’m wrapped up here.” 

Attached was a photo of the orchids he’d sent, arranged in a vase on the desk in her personal office.

The emphatic, “fuck, yeah” Joe whispered to himself as her text came through would’ve been embarrassing if anyone had been around to hear it. As it stood, he was standing in the kitchen, eating the last of his lunch before heading out, and the universe had just handed him a gift-wrapped extension on his secret errand.

He shot back a quick text letting her know he’d call her on her drive home—something he always did, something she had grown to expect on a subconscious level—then wiped his hands on a paper towel with a slow exhale. Joe checked his phone, calculating how long it’d take to drive to the jeweler’s studio in Hyde Park, reaching for the keys to his Porsche, and heading through the laundry room and into the garage.

In truth, the concept of marriage, specifically marrying her, had been one he’d thought about with increasing frequency from the moment things became official between them. Since May however, those whispers of “if” transformed into affirmations of “when” and the development of “how.” The “how” was proving more complicated than anticipated. Not because she was difficult to please but because no one knew him the way she did. He knew it wasn’t unrealistic to believe she’d see the proposal coming, but Joe was determined to at least try to catch her off guard.

He parked just outside the studio, a renovated townhouse tucked discreetly between a boutique and a brick-walled cafe. Joe glanced at his phone, realized he was 10 minutes early, and decided to linger in the car, pulling up the notes app where he’d scribbled rough ideas of her preferences. Obnoxiously large carats were out, gold was in, the marquise-cut was her top choice, though emerald would also be nice. He knew she wore gold almost exclusively, and he’d overheard her telling Leah last summer that she would indeed say “no” if he proposed with an ugly ring. Though he would like to think of that comment as a joke, he wasn’t exactly eager to tempt her.

A rapid fire knock against the driver’s side window startled Joe out of his thoughts. A matching pair of brown eyes peeked in at him with wide smiles. He rolled down the window, the late summer heat immediately pressing against his skin. “Get your ass outta the car, Burrow,” Leah said, tapping her wrist where a white gold watch gleamed. “I have to be at the hospital at 6:30, and your girlfriend likes to spy on my location when she’s bored.”

He killed the engine with a scoff, stepping out into the humid afternoon air. “She picked up some appointments, we’ve got tons of time,” Joe said, glancing down at Leah’s sandals, noting he recognized those sandals as belonging to his girlfriend at some point, before issuing side hugs to both women. “Where’s Val?”

“Parking,” Ayanna supplied, adjusting the strap of her purse where it dug into her shoulder. “She texted saying she’ll be here in. Oh, she’s here.”

A black Mercedes slid smoothly into the spot behind Joe’s Porsche, Valeria’s signature dark sunglasses hiding her eyes from the small group’s view. “Sorry,” she said by way of greeting, distributing hugs to each of the three before plucking her sunglasses off. “I lost track of time.”

The women followed behind Joe, already beginning their familiar banter once reunited. The group stepped up onto the sidewalk, each of the women thanking Joe as he held the studio door open. Inside, the cool air-conditioned space smelled faintly of the jasmine scents emitting from the diffusers arranged around the studio. Glass display cases lined the walls, showcasing intricate bands and glittering stones under warm spotlights. The jeweler, a 20-something brunette named Natalie, greeted them from behind a minimalist white desk, immediately ushering them into a private consultation room where sketches and loose gemstones were already arranged neatly on a velvet-lined tray.

“Welcome, welcome,” Natalie said with an easy smile, gesturing to the plush seating arranged in a loose semicircle. “Can I get you guys anything before we dive in? Water? Coffee?”

Joe declined with a shake of his head, already sinking into one of the chairs, too aware of the way his knee bounced with nerves. The others echoed his refusal, though Valeria swiped a mint from the dish on the table before settling into her seat.

Natalie pulled out a sleek tablet and a legal pad, her fingers flying across the screen before she flipped it around to show them a series of CAD designs. “So, based on what Joe and I have discussed the last few times we’ve met, we’ve narrowed it down to these four options. All marquise or emerald cuts, all gold bands, but each of them has a different carat size and personality.”

Leah leaned forward, squinting at the screen while Ayanna hummed in quiet approval. Valeria, pointed out the second design. “This one has the band like her sister’s ring, right? The twist detail?” Her fingertip hovered over the screen where delicate filigree curled around the stone’s setting.

Joe hummed, releasing a breath before speaking up. “I remembered her saying she liked Serena’s band, but I couldn’t say for sure if she liked it enough to want it for herself. My top pick is this one,” he admitted, gesturing to the third design. It was a marquise-cut diamond, surrounded by a halo of both baguette and round diamond stones.

Ayanna studied the screen with careful scrutiny, then grinned. “That’s so her. How big is the stone?”

“Just one and a half carats,” Natalie answered, tapping the screen to pull up an enlarged 3D rendering. “The halo makes it look more substantial without being obnoxious. Joe mentioned she doesn’t typically wear super flashy jewelry during her day-to-day. So the thought with this design was that it’s elaborate enough for it to stand out as an engagement ring, but not so much that she’d feel like she couldn’t wear it to work, or to the store, or wherever. And then when she does get all dressed up for events, it’ll pop even more and compliment her other pieces.”

Joe nodded along, nerves settling slightly under the familiar cadence of Natalie’s explanation. Leah twisted toward the other women with a conspiratorial smirk. “I love how we’re sitting here pretending Joe didn’t already make up his mind weeks ago.”

“Or that she wouldn’t marry his ass with a Ring Pop if he asked her in the Kroger parking lot,” Ayanna added, nudging Valeria’s knee with hers.

Joe’s cheeks flushed pink as he scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the faint rasp of stubble audible to his ears under his palm. “Yeah, well. I’d like to avoid disappointing the love of my life with subpar jewelry, thanks.” The dry humor in his tone earned him a chorus of affectionate noises from the friends.

Natalie tapped the tablet again, zooming in on the prong detailing. “I know you were worried about her being able to work with the ring both with and without gloves,” she said, angling the screen toward him. “This setting’s low-profile enough that she shouldn’t tear gloves so that gives some...”

“Security,” Joe finished, nodding. “The one thing I don’t know about is her ring size, which I probably should’ve figured out before—”

“Size six,” Valeria cut in, popping another mint into her mouth. All eyes swiveled to her. She shrugged. “She borrowed one of my rings for that event she went to with you last winter. Same size.”

Joe exhaled slowly, half relief, half amusement, as Natalie picked up her pen to scribble the sizing down on her notepad. Ayanna leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So... is this the one? Because Leah’s right. You look like you made up your mind before we even walked in here.”

The corner of Joe’s mouth twitched up with a smile, as he rubbed his thumb absently over the ridge of his knuckle, biting the inside of his cheek. “I kept coming back to this design,” he admitted, eyes flicking between the women. “But I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just me projecting what I liked onto her. You guys have known her longer than I have.”

Ayanna reached out, pressing her fingers gently against Joe’s shoulder. “Joe, stop.” The sudden warmth of her hand anchored him. “No one knows her better than you do. At the end of the day, you’re the one proposing. You get final say. If you think this is the one, then it’s the one.” Her reassurance was echoed by both Valeria and Leah nodding emphatically.

Joe swallowed, his throat tight, but he nodded back and took in the rendered design one last time. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “This is it. This is the one.”

Natalie grinned and tapped the screen again, pulling up the final order form. “Perfect. Are we sticking with the lab diamond? Or do you want to play around with something different?”

Joe hesitated, fingers drumming against his thigh. “I think the diamond is fine. But, uh.” He glanced at Leah, then Ayanna. “She mentioned liking emeralds. I think that was just casually. Like, ‘Oh, emeralds are nice,’ not ‘I want an emerald engagement ring.’”

Leah hummed. “Stick with the diamond. She’ll love it exactly like this.” Her tone brooked no argument, and Joe, frankly, didn’t want one. He exhaled, shoulders loosening as Natalie tapped through the final selections. The screen flashed with a projected timeline: eight to ten weeks for completion.

There were a few logistics to walk through including payment schedules, warranty details, engraving options, all of which Joe handled with quiet focus, nodding along as Natalie explained each point. The appointment lasted another twenty minutes before they stood to leave, Natalie promising to send him digital updates throughout the crafting process.

Outside in the parking lot, the afternoon sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. Valeria lingered by Joe’s car while Leah and Ayanna hugged their goodbyes and headed toward theirs.

“Scale of one to ten, how stressed are you?” Valeria asked, leaning against Joe’s Porsche with her arms crossed. The fading sunlight caught the silver hoops in her ears as she squinted up at him.

Joe exhaled through his nose, jingling his keys absently. “Solid seven. But it’s the good kind of stress.” He glanced at her with a tilt of his head. “I’m not worried about the proposal necessarily, just keeping it from her until then.”

Valeria released a small laugh, nodding along to the sentiment. “I can promise you that even if she does sniff it out, because she probably will, she’ll still act surprised for you.” She paused, shifting her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “But also, she has been insufferably distracted lately with those new laser treatments at the clinic, so... you might actually pull this off.”

Joe grinned, shaking his head as he unlocked his car. “Yeah, well, I’ll take any advantage I can get.” He hesitated before adding. “Hey, uh... thanks. For today. Means a lot that you guys drove down for this. I know I could’ve just sent pictures, but I needed you all here.”

Valeria waved him off. “Joe. Please. We’re all so excited for the two of you. We couldn’t have picked a better man for her if we tried.” She pulled him into a quick hug. From her pocket, her phone buzzed and she groaned when she checked the screen. “I gotta head back to the hospital.” She hesitated, then smiled warmly. “If you need anything else from us, literally anything at all, we’re down to be accomplices. Keep us updated.”

Joe chuckled. “Will do.” He slid into his driver’s seat, adjusting the vents as Valeria climbed into her own car. His phone buzzed too with a text from his girlfriend. His heart did an odd skip in his chest as he swiped open the notification.

[ . . . ]

The last game of the preseason was always intended to be a rest day for the starters which made it the perfect weekend for their parents to head into Cincinnati for a visit. She had been bouncing around the house all morning, humming under her breath between sips of coffee while working on responding to emails, calling patients back, and communicating with her office manager, Brenda, about her advance appointment availability.

Joe left early in the morning to get some treatment done on some soreness in his shoulder before returning home to shower, change clothes, and head to the stadium for the game two hours prior to kickoff. When he walked through the door, she had her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, scribbling notes on her laptop sitting on the counter, and greeted him with an absentminded kiss to his lips while holding up a finger to indicate she was wrapping up her call.

“Yeah, that sounds perfect,” she said, nodding along to whatever Brenda was saying on the other end. “I don’t mind leaving a later slot open, just nothing later than a 5:45 for follow-ups and, like, cosmetic consults.” She paused, pressing her lips together as Joe brushed past her to grab a glass of water, his palm grazing the small of her back as he moved. “Mmhm. Got it. Thanks, Brenda. See you Monday.”

She set her phone onto the counter, typing a few more words, then turned to Joe, who was leaning against the opposite countertop, watching her with that quiet intensity she’d grown to recognize as him committing something to memory. Maybe it was the way her hair had been pulled back from her face with a silk scarf, or the way her wide leg sweats flowed around her ankles as she shifted her weight, or the smudge of ink on her thumb from scribbling notes onto neon sticky notes. Whatever it was, Joe’s gaze lingered with the weight of it, and she felt warmth spread under her ribs.

“My parents are about 20 minutes out,” Joe said, setting his glass in the sink. He shuffled over and leaned over her, tucking his chin over her shoulder. “Any updates on yours?”

She leaned into his touch, turning her head to kiss the hinge of his jaw before pivoting to shut her laptop. “I’m following their location, they’ll probably get here before yours do.” Her fingers hooked into his belt loop, tugging him closer. “You look nice. Too nice for a preseason game you’re not even playing in.”

Joe laughed softly. “Gotta look presentable for the parents.” He couldn’t help but succumb to the urge to kiss her slow and deep, his fingers tangling in the silk scarf at the nape of her neck. She exhaled against his lips, one hand curling around the back of his head, until his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket.

“Check it,” she hummed against his lips through a giggle in response to a deep, disappointed groan. Joe pulled back just enough to fish his phone from his pocket. On one hand, he felt betrayed by her turn back to the work email she’d been drafting. On the other hand, he quietly thanked his luck when the name on his screen was her sister, Serena, calling right on schedule.

Serena, her husband, and their two children lived abroad in England, so she didn’t see them often. But with the proposal in the works, Joe had coordinated this visit carefully, wanting to surprise her with a reunion of her entire family.

He swiped to answer, pressing the phone to his ear as he stepped away from the kitchen counter. “Hey. You guys here?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. She, now focused on her laptop, didn’t even glance up.

“Just pulled onto your street,” Serena declared. “Where do you want us to pull in?”

Joe glanced out the kitchen window, watching her parents’ SUV crawl into the driveway. “Hold back a sec. Your parents just got here.” He ducked down the hall, lowering his voice further. “Give it five minutes, then come up the driveway.”

Serena laughed softly. “Okay, we’ll do that.”

Joe returned to her side just as she shut her laptop. “Your parents are here,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She grinned, already striding toward the front door, Joe trailing behind her. The moment she swung it open, her parents, Monica in a crisp linen shirt and Frederick, his typical polo and slacks combo, were halfway up the walkway. She embraced her mother first, inhaling the floral perfume clinging to her collar, before Frederick wrapped her in a bear hug.

“You look good, baby bug,” Monica whispered into her hair, squeezing her shoulders. Frederick’s eyes crinkled as he clapped Joe on the back, bringing him in for a quick hug before they all stepped inside.

“Where are...” she started, just as car tires crunched over gravel outside. She frowned toward the driveway. “Did your parents rent a car or...”

Joe kept his expression neutral, though his pulse kicked up when her face slackened as recognition dawned. Serena’s rental SUV rolled to a stop behind their parent’s rental. Ford stepped out to unbuckle Delanie and Caleb from their booster seats while Serena waved wildly through the windshield. Serena bolted, rushing down the driveway in a blur of honey-blonde braids and athleisure, colliding with her younger sister halfway up the walkway.

Her shriek met Joe’s ear, drawing a belly laugh from his chest. “What the fuck?” She clutched Serena’s shoulders, taking in her sister’s face before twisting toward Joe, eyes wide. “Did you?”

Joe shrugged, hands jammed in his pockets, grinning as she turned away from Serena to scoop Delanie into her arms, the little girl’s curls bouncing as she squealed, “Auntie!” Caleb clung to Ford’s leg, suddenly shy until she crouched, keeping an arm wrapped around Delanie, and tapped his nose.

“Hey, bug... hi...” she pouted dramatically when the four-year-old buried his face in her shoulder. Joe watched her press a kiss into his hair, murmuring, “I missed you,” with a slow rub of his back, before standing to hug her brother-in-law.

Ford embraced her warmly, squeezing tight enough to lift her onto the toes of her slippers. “Surprise,” he laughed fully. Behind them, Joe watched his own parents’ car roll up. The yard swelled with overlapping greetings, before the large group finally moved inside.

“Thank you for doing this for me,” she whispered to Joe. Her hand pressed against his chest, delivering a short kiss to his cheek as Caleb peeked around her legs at the unfamiliar faces filling the living room.

Joe caught her wrist before she could pull away, gently pulling her knuckles to his lips. “Serena really deserves most of the credit,” he murmured against her skin. Her eyes softened, as he added, “But I’d do this every damn day if it meant seeing this look on your face. I love seeing you happy. Especially like this.”

The words brought a tightness to her chest in response to that particular way Joe had of saying simple things like they were gospel, like he’d carve them into stone if he could just so they would exist forever. He was watching her with that quiet intensity again, like he was memorizing the way her eyes glistened under the entryway light, the way her bottom lip caught between her teeth when she was trying not to cry in front of her family.

She twisted her fingers into the front of his shirt and tugged him down until his forehead rested against hers. His exhale ghosted over her lips, warm and familiar. “Stop,” she whispered through a wobble in her voice. “Ford will clown me if he sees me crying.”

Joe’s thumb swiped under her eye before she could blink the moisture away. “Too late.” He kissed the damp trail his thumb left behind, then murmured against her temple, “I gotta leave in a few. Did you want to ride to the stadium with me?”

She nodded, recognizing the effort to distract her from her emotions. She smoothed her hands down his chest, partially to flatten his shirt, mostly to feel his heartbeat thudding under her palms. “Yeah, I’ll ride with you. Let me just...” She gestured vaguely toward the living room where their families had migrated, laughter already spilling out in overlapping waves. “I need to get everyone situated with drinks or something before we dip.”

Joe squeezed her hip. “I’ll grab waters for everyone. You go be the welcoming committee.” He headed into the kitchen, pulling chilled bottles from the fridge while she corralled Caleb onto her hip, the boy’s shyness evaporating as he pointed at her dangling gold earrings. Behind her, Delanie chattered excitedly to Robin about the flight while the other adults caught up.

Serena slipped into the kitchen, nearly startling Joe as he worked on filling a tray. “Hey,” she whispered. She snatched a bottle of water. “How are you?”

Joe glanced toward the living room. She was perched on the arm of the couch, balancing Caleb on her knee as Frederick crouched to show him something on his phone. “Good,” Joe murmured. “Kinda wish I were playing today. But, I can’t complain.” He adjusted the tray of waters. “You guys make it in okay?”

Serena took a sip of her water. “It was uneventful, which is the best you can hope for with two kids under six.” She glanced towards the living room, then dropped her voice into a softer whisper. “Did you pick the ring?”

Joe nodded, shifting his weight onto the counter’s edge. “Yeah. Wanna see it?”

Serena’s grin widened as he pulled out his phone and swiped to his emails, thumb selecting the jeweler’s latest attachment. The CAD rendering loaded, a slender gold band cradling a marquise diamond, its halo of smaller stones ready to catch the light even in the preview. Serena gasped lightly, pressing a hand to her chest. “Joe... wow... it’s gorgeous. This is her, down to her soul. She’s gonna lose her shit.”

He nodded, releasing a slow breath. “I was planning to tell Monica and Frederick today,” he admitted. “I’d love for you and Ford to be there too. I know you already know, and you’ve given me your approval, but I would appreciate if you could be part of that moment.”

Serena’s voice hitched slightly when she responded, squeezing his forearm. “Of course.” Serena hesitated, eyes flicking back to her younger sister, who was now laughing at something Caleb whispered in her ear. “How are you gonna pull them aside without her noticing? She’s already—you know how she gets.”

Joe chuckled, twisting the cap off another water bottle. “I was hoping you’d help with that. Keep her busy with the kids when we get back after the game. If she’s distracted, getting them ready for bed, or whatever, that’ll buy me enough time.”

Serena’s eyes drifted over to the tray next to Joe, then plucked a grape from the fruit bowl her sister had assembled earlier. “Do your parents know?” she asked quietly, popping the fruit into her mouth.

“Yeah. I told ‘em a couple... weeks ago? Maybe longer.” Joe rubbed the back of his neck, catching Frederick’s deep laugh rumbling from the living room. “They’re excited. All our friends know too. Leah, Ayanna, and Valeria helped with the final ring decision. Tee’s the only guy on the team that knows, though.”

Serena snorted, leaning against the counter. “Tee? How are you gonna break that info to Ja’Marr?”

“I figured I’d tell him once I get the ring. Tee can handle a secret like this. Ja’Marr?” Joe smiled, shaking his head. “He’d be sneaking in hints to her, then look at me to see if I could keep a poker face. He’s a godawful liar, anyway.”

Serena laughed, tossing another grape into her mouth before checking the time. “We should get moving,” she mused, nodding toward the living room where her sister stood from the couch and was now gently peeling Caleb from her hip. “Can I help you with anything in here?” she asked, changing the topic seamlessly as if they hadn’t just been conspiring underneath the white overhead lights.

Joe shook his head, hefting the tray filled with condensation-beaded glasses including two smaller plastic cups for the kids. “Nah, I got this.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Thanks, again.”

Serena patted his shoulder blade. “You keep thanking me like I didn’t book these flights the second you texted.” Her smile softened to add, “I’m so excited for the two of you.” He nodded, swallowing hard, and she gave his forearm one last squeeze before slipping back into the living room, where she was attempting to herd Caleb toward Ford without the boy realizing he was being tricked into letting go of her.

Joe balanced the tray in his hands as he maneuvered around the kitchen island and into the living room, catching her eye just as she successfully deposited Caleb into Ford’s arms. The boy whined in protest, but she pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, whispering something that made him giggle before she straightened up and adjusted her clothing.

Frederick intercepted Joe first, plucking two waters from the tray with a murmured thanks before passing one to Monica. Serena was already mid-conversation with Robin, recounting some childhood story that had her scrunching her nose on her way over to Joe.

“Please tell me she’s not exaggerating,” Joe hummed as she slid against his side, her fingers on one hand immediately finding the small of his back, while the other wrapped around one of the glasses to distribute.

She scoffed, passing water to Ford before shaking her head. “She absolutely is. Saying I tried to run away over that goldfish is insane. I was reasonably concerned. And I was 5 being terrorized by my 15-year-old sister.” She slid a glare at Serena, who merely raised her brows and took a sip from her glass.

Joe’s shoulders shook as he laughed, bringing his girlfriend into his side a little tighter. He pressed his lips into her hair. “So you did try to run away?”

“No,” She insisted, rolling her eyes before cracking into a grin herself. “I packed a backpack and made it to the end of the driveway, but—”

“But Mom found her sitting on the curb crying because the goldfish bowl was too heavy to carry,” Serena finished.

Monica shook her head, though her lips curled at the corners. “Poor baby,” she sighed. “You were so determined to save that fish from some imagined threat.”

She groaned, pressing her forehead into Joe’s bicep. “Cover your ears, babe,” she muttered, though her voice carried enough for her father to bark out a laugh. “This family never lets anything die.” She lifted her head just enough to shoot a half-hearted glare at Serena. “Do you terrorize your children like this, or am I special?”

Ford grinned, though he kept an eye on Caleb as he wandered around the living room, cup in hand. “Oh, she absolutely does. Last week, Delanie tried to sneak a cookie before dinner, and Serena spent twenty minutes lecturing her about how she knew someone who once stole an entire tray of brownies and hid in the treehouse with a stomach ache.”

Delanie gasped, twisting around from where she was perched on Robin’s lap. “Was that about you?” she demanded, pointing at her aunt with an accusatory finger.

She groaned, pressing her face fully into Joe’s shoulder now, both embarrassed and eager to hear the laughter bubbling up from his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before murmuring, “You’re telling me that story later.”

He wanted to hear that story, and every detail of her childhood, the way he always did, like each scrap of her past was something precious he could tuck away for safekeeping. He wanted the loud belly laughs with in-laws, nieces, and nephews. He wanted this feeling of his stomach hurting from joy and the warmth of her pressed against him, her embarrassed laughter vibrating through his ribs.

[ . . . ]

After this weekend was over, Joe needed to make sure he sent a Thank You card to Serena, preferably one with an expensive gift card tucked inside, because keeping his girlfriend distracted long enough for him to pull Monica and Frederick aside was, frankly, a logistical nightmare. By the time Caleb and Delanie were fed and ready for a bath, she detoured downstairs twice.

The first time was to ask her older sister if she should give Caleb’s hair a quick shampoo because of some dandruff she noticed. Serena reminded her that she was the dermatologist of the family, so it was up to her. She hesitated at the stairs for a second, clearly torn between trusting her instincts and worrying about potentially keeping the kids up longer than necessary. Joe watched from the couch, unnoticed, as Serena waved her hand toward the staircase, insisting her younger sister was capable of handling it.

The second time was when she reappeared to request help locating Delanie’s missing pajamas, only to freeze halfway down the stairs when she caught Serena mid-whisper with their father near the foyer. Joe saw the exact moment her suspicious instincts flared, her brows furrowing, before Serena smoothly pivoted into complaining about airline luggage fees, sensing her sister was within earshot. Ford jumped in and directed his sister-in-law to the right suitcase. Joe pressed his lips together to keep from laughing as she retreated upstairs, visibly suspicious but too preoccupied with getting her niece and nephew comfortable to investigate further.

“She knows their bedtime routine, so she shouldn’t come back down for another thirty minutes at least,” Serena murmured, glancing at the staircase before nudging Joe toward the porch. Frederick followed, slipping into the crisp evening air with Monica close behind. Robin and Jimmy had been instructed to linger inside as casual sentries, ready to redirect her if she emerged early.

Joe’s palms were damp where they rested against his thighs, rubbing absently against the fabric of his joggers when he settled into one of the patio chairs. Monica and Frederick took the loveseat opposite him, their expressions curious in the golden glow of the lights overhead, while Ford and Serena lingered near the railing, close enough to witness but leaving the moment firmly between Joe and his girlfriend’s parents.

He inhaled slowly. Ohio’s late summer humidity clung to the air, cicadas humming in the distance, the scent of the perfectly manicured lawn mixing with Monica’s perfume. He wanted to capture this moment for his memory: the glint of Frederick’s watch, the French manicure Monica wore, Serena biting her lip to suppress a smile, and Ford nursing a beer in his right hand. The weight of the moment settled heavily, and if her parents were genuinely unaware of what he was planning to ask them, their patience was saintly.

“Monica, Frederick,” Joe started, his voice steadier than he expected. He cleared his throat anyway to give him time to choose his words carefully. “First off... I wanted to thank both of you for welcoming me into your family from day one. You never made me feel like I had to change myself to fit into her life. You just trusted her, and by extension, gave me that trust too. And that's something I don’t take for granted.”

Frederick blinked rapidly, his fingers reaching for Monica’s knee, a reflexive motion Joe noticed had passed down to his girlfriend. Monica’s lips trembled into a smile, her hand covering her husband’s as she leaned forward slightly, as if bracing herself.

“We’ve loved watching you love her,” Monica said softly with an overwhelming touch of sincerity. “You see her in ways even we don’t. So whatever you’re about to ask,” her voice cracked slightly, her fingers lacing with Frederick’s. “You already have our answer.”

“I...” Joe swallowed, unprepared for the flood of emotion that was beginning to hit him. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to continue. “I love your daughter more than I can put into words. And I’d like—I want—” He cut himself short, shaking his head with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I planned this whole speech.”

Monica let out a light chuckle, squeezing Frederick’s hand harder. “You’re okay. Take your time.”

His shoulders relaxed as he sat up straight, exhaling through his nose before meeting their eyes head-on. “It’s been such a privilege to love her and become part of your family these last four years. She’s... the most important thing in my life. There hasn’t been a single moment where I haven’t felt lucky to be able to call myself hers.”

He paused to collect his thoughts just long enough for Frederick to swipe hastily at his eyes with his free hand.

“I know that I’m not perfect, but I hope—god, I hope—that I’ve shown you both enough to prove that I’ll always put her first. That I’ll always fight for her happiness. That I will do whatever it takes to give her the life that she deserves and has worked so hard to earn.” Joe cleared his throat again, suddenly hyperaware of Serena’s soft sniffle behind him. He took another breath, steadying himself. “I promise to both of you, and Serena, that I will never stop working to deserve her. And I want to do that every single day for the rest of my life.”

Monica pressed her free hand to her mouth, her eyes shining under the porch lights.

“She told me, multiple times, she didn’t want me asking anyone for ‘permission’ to marry her.” The five of them laughed softly at that, Frederick nodding through the last of his tears. “But I still wanted to let you guys know that... I will be asking her to marry me soon. And I’d—” His breath caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. “I’d love to know that you guys are happy about that. That you’d be okay with me officially being part of your family.”

Frederick stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden deck, and strode forward to pull Joe into an embrace. For a moment, it was silent on the porch. Then Frederick sniffed near Joe’s ear before pulling back, his large hands gripping Joe’s shoulders.

Monica was next, her arms wrapping tight around Joe as she whispered, “Oh, Joey. Oh, sweetheart.”

Ford discreetly wiped his eyes and turned away, pretending to inspect the flowers lining the porch while Serena managed to keep her voice steady as she said, “Show them the design.”

Joe fumbled slightly, retrieving his phone from his pocket. He pulled up the CAD renderings Monica leaned forward eagerly, gasping softly when the screen illuminated the delicate marquise halo. Frederick let out a gentle, pleased noise.

“She’ll love it if it won’t snag her gloves.” Monica trailed a fingertip over the screen, studying the tapered profile with clinical precision before nodding approvingly. “Fred, look—it’s the same cut as your mother’s ring.”

Frederick’s laugh rumbled against Joe’s shoulder where their arms still touched. “Damn. That attention to detail. Always watching, aren’t you?”

Joe replied with a curt, “Yes, sir. I try my best.”

Frederick squinted at the digital rendering, then let out a slow whistle. “Great minds, son. Great minds.”

“I told Fred you were the one the second she brought you home that first time,” Monica admitted, thumbing away a tear as she studied the ring design again. “I saw how you knew her, even then, early on. I wanted that for my girls and I’m so glad it’s you for her. I’m so glad, sweetheart.” She squeezed Joe’s arm, her voice breaking on the last word, and Joe blinked hard against the sudden burn in his own eyes.

Frederick clapped him on the back, clearing his throat gruffly. “Now. When can we expect news?”

Joe rubbed his jaw in thought. “Probably late October. I’m still working out how I want to ask her. It’ll be private, I know that. She would murder me if I did it in front of a bunch of people.” The porch vibrated with quiet laughter. His thumb traced the edge of his phone absently. “You’ll know when it’s happening, I can promise that.”

“We should probably head inside before she’s done with the kids,” Ford suggested, nodding toward the house. Joe nodded, recognizing that there was only so much time his girlfriend would be occupied before she noticed the extended absence.

As they filed back inside, Joe caught his mother’s eye. She lifted an eyebrow in silent question, and the quick nod of his chin was all the confirmation she needed. She slipped past Jimmy and followed Joe toward the kitchen, busying herself with topping off wine glasses as a distraction from the joy fluttering in her chest. The group settled back into the living room just as her footsteps echoed on the stairs.

“Nobody move,” she hissed. “They were fighting sleep for 25 minutes.” She tiptoed down the stairs, her socks silent on the hardwood.

Joe poked his head around the corner, opening his arms instinctively as she descended the last step. She melted into him with a quiet sigh, her forehead pressing against his sternum as his palms slid down her back. “Mmm.” The vibration of her hum traveled through his ribs. “You smell good.”

“I don’t know why you love the shitty body wash they give us at the stadium,” he murmured into her hair, catching the faintest whiff of her shampoo, tropical and coconutty in a way that always made him think of sunscreen and stolen kisses poolside. She snorted against his chest, attempting to pull away to aid Robin in refilling the glasses with everyone’s preferred choice in alcohol, but Joe tightened his arms around her waist, preventing her escape.

“Mm-mm. Give me this. Just for another minute.”

“So cute,” Robin cooed, brushing past to leave them alone in the kitchen while balancing three drinks between her hands.

She smiled into Joe’s chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she tipped her head back to look up at him. The overhead light caught the highlights in her eyes, and Joe felt his heart stutter at the sight. He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose before she squirmed away with a breathy laugh, leaving her lips parted just enough for a kiss she welcomed without hesitation.

“What was that for?” she asked, reaching up to brush the golden brown hair from his forehead.

Joe shrugged, his fingers tracing idle circles against the small of her back through her sweater. “Felt right.” The truth burned behind his teeth, how the CAD rendering glowed under Monica’s fingertips, Frederick’s approval, Serena’s whispered ‘she’s gonna lose her shit’, but he swallowed it down with an omission.

Her eyes narrowed playfully, that terrifyingly perceptive glint flashing before he diverted her attention. “Your mom asked about the sectional we replaced out on the porch. We didn’t want to make too much noise while you were trying to get the kids down so two birds, one stone.” His fingers trailed up her spine, lingering at the base of her back, a calculated distraction.

She hummed, willing to indulge him, her nails scraping lightly through the hair at his nape. “Mhmm. And that’s why Serena keeps looking at me like that?”

“Sweetheart...” he murmured, low and raspy, blue eyes darting between her lips and the curious tilt of her brow. His hand found the back of her head, easing her neck into a slow arch so his lips could chase the pulse point beneath her jaw. Her breath hitched, tugging a triumphant smirk against her skin. “I’m trying to steal you for a second. Do we have to talk about your sister?”

She couldn’t answer right away. Instead, she stumbled backwards, trusting Joe to guide her back safely to a hard surface. He pressed her against the pantry door with gentle insistence, his knee sliding between her thighs as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below her ear. She let out a ragged exhale, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Jesus—” the word was nearly silent, just breathing against the shell of his ear. “We have guests,” she whispered, though her hands still roamed beneath his shirt, tracing the ridges of his abdomen with familiarly greedy fingers.

“Just one more,” Joe murmured against her collarbone, his fingers hooking into the belt loops of her jeans to pull her closer. The smell of her made him dizzy. She granted his request, letting him taste her smile, then slid her palms up his chest to push him back with a laugh.

“You are so horribly trained,” she teased, straightening her clothing.

“By design,” Joe shot back, running a hand through his hair and praying his face wasn’t too obviously flushed. He snagged a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off, holding it out for her to take first, a habit so ingrained neither noticed anymore. She took it gratefully, her throat working as she swallowed, then handing it off to Joe to finish off.

“Are you implying there was an attempt to train you?” She arched an eyebrow, watching him place the bottle in their recycling bin.

Joe rounded the island counter, catching her waist with one arm. “There were numerous attempts.” His thumb brushed over the hem of her top where it met her jeans. “None particularly effective.”

She laughed gently. “I distinctly recall you folding when I threatened to withhold pumpkin pie from you last Thanksgiving.”

Joe’s fingers twitched against her hip. “That was a tactical retreat,” he muttered, pressing his lips to her temple. “I love you too much to let pumpkin pie come between us.”

She pretended to ponder his statement. “I think you love pumpkin pie more than me. It’s okay to be honest.”

Joe’s fingers dug into her sides, eliciting a sharp gasp as he tickled her mercilessly. “Take it back,” he murmured against her ear, grinning when she squirmed. She clamped her lips together, shaking her head. He dragged his fingertips up her ribs and she nearly folded in half laughing, pushing at his arms weakly.

“Okay... okay! I take it back,” she wheezed, collapsing against his chest. Joe caught her easily, pressing a kiss to her forehead before she could escape. She exhaled dramatically, smoothing her hair back into place. “I love you too. Even if you’re an untrained problem.”

[ . . . ]

SEPTEMBER.

For about a month, everything seemed to settle into a comfortable routine. The season started off with a shaky, but recorded, win against the Cleveland Browns. She and her girls traveled for the season opener, opting to sit in the stands, instead of buying a box, to absorb the full experience. Though she could see Joe beating himself up for the incompletions and the sacks he probably could’ve avoided, she also watched as he worked through it, adjusting himself mentally after each mistake, and keeping it together just enough for the defense to make one last stop to secure the win.

Adopting Colby in early September had been the perfect touch to offset the emptiness of the house when one of them was traveling. The kitten had been tiny, barely seven weeks old, with a timidness that endeared Joe enough to request she make an emergency stop to sign the paperwork needed to legally take him home. They watched his personality develop as he grew comfortable, leaping off any high surface he could climb, sleeping most of the day, and curling into her lap or Joe’s chest whenever he was seeking some warmth and affection.

Even Joe’s plans for the proposal were developing at a pace slow enough to keep her oblivious. He decided he wanted it to occur at home and that there would be a surprise element including their closest friends and family to celebrate afterward. The ring was in the final stages of production and Joe was scouring the internet for the elements of the proposal ideas typed into his Notes app. Though he was yet to make a final decision, he felt he was in a decent place in his season, his relationship, and this milestone.

The first home game of the season undid everything.

“Granted that the scans hold up with what we see when we go in to do the repair, best case, we’re looking at 12 weeks before he can even think about stepping foot on the field again. And that’s the very best case, assuming every single step of his recovery goes perfectly.”

She sat next to Joe on the bed, anxiously biting her bottom lip, keeping herself as still and quiet as possible out of respect for the conference call that she wasn’t technically supposed to be hearing. Joe held the phone up, the speaker button activated, his jaw clenched tight. She could see the muscle twitching beneath the darkening stubble along his chin. His fingers flexed uselessly against his thigh, the other hand gripping the phone so hard she thought there was a slim chance he could crush the device with the sheer force of frustration alone.

The others on the other end of the call—Zac, Mike, Duke, Katie, at least half of the Bengals medical staff, and Dr. Anderson—continued debating recovery protocols, but she could tell Joe had stopped absorbing details after hearing “12 weeks.”

She watched his thumb swipe absently across his phone screen, cycling between ESPN notifications and his home screen, a picture the two of them tangled together on the couch a few months ago. His exhale was harsh when the call finally ended, tossing his phone onto the comforter like it burned him.

She hesitated before leaning her head on his shoulder, fingertips ghosting over his stomach. “Are we talking about it?”

Joe’s exhale shuddered. “Turf toe. Sounds like a fucking joke.” He flexed his injured foot experimentally, grimacing at the stiffness.

She hummed. “I was texting Val when you went down. She told me to prepare for the worst when I told her that I was hearing turf toe.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder through his t-shirt. “She also said the same thing as Dr. Anderson, though. That we really won’t know what the timeline will truly look like until you have surgery and the swelling goes down. What looks like a Grade 3 might heal really nicely and be closer to a Grade 2.”

“Or it could be worse than they think and I’m out for the year.” His fingers curled against his thigh. “Which seems to be the theme of my fucking career at this point. Every time I—” His voice cracked unexpectedly, and she felt his weight shift as he turned his face away sharply.

She didn’t speak, just slid her palm over his knuckles, pressing until his fingers unclenched enough to lace with hers. The silence stretched, broken only by Colby’s tiny claws clicking across the hardwood outside their door before he padded in, chirping curiously as he leapt onto the bed; brave enough to enter the room now that the mysterious, loud voices were no longer echoing into the hallway. She watched Joe exhale through his nose, his free hand reaching automatically to scratch between the kitten’s ears. Colby butted against his wrist, purring contentedly.

“Well,” she murmured after a moment, thumb brushing the ridge of Joe’s knuckle, “if you need to go full hermit crab for the next three months and live in your film cave, I’ll still bring you water. And food. And maybe even open the windows so you can get some sunlight.”

Joe’s chest shook with a quiet, involuntary laugh. He lifted their joined hands to press a kiss to her fingers, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. “No sunlight,” he muttered against her skin. “Might ruin my dramatic brooding aesthetic.”

“You’re right. Being pale rounds out the tragedy.” She felt his sigh against her temple, warm and familiar.

After a few minutes of silence she spoke again. “Whatever the verdict is after surgery, we’ll handle it together. You know I hate seeing you hurt, but I can handle the obsessive recovery phase if you promise not to shut me out, please. Talk to me, even when you don’t want to.”

His fingers tightened around hers. Joe exhaled slowly and turned his face into her hair. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of her shampoo then pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “I can do that. Promise.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Don’t know how I got lucky enough for you to put up with me.”

She smiled, lifting her head to find him already looking at her. “I don’t know either. Must’ve been drunk.”

“Oh, you were.” He laughed, a genuine sound despite the exhaustion in his voice, and she felt the lump in her throat loosen. “Not crazy drunk. But drunk enough for me to think I had any shot talking to this really pretty... funny... way-out-of-my-league medical resident that my old teammate’s older sister just introduced me to.”

The late afternoon light peeked through the curtains, painting gold stripes across his shoulders, and bringing a glow to his summer-tanned skin. He was stunning in the most ordinary way. Unshaven, hair mussed from restless sleep, an ugly orthopedic boot strapped to his injured foot. Yet, she still thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. She kissed his shoulder again, letting her lips linger against the warmth there.

“Then, I’m glad you were feeling over-confident,” she murmured against his shoulder, her breath warming the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Joe’s thumb continued to trace slow circles on the back of her hand. “I wouldn’t be this happy otherwise.” He hummed in agreement, a low rumble in his chest that was familiar to her ears.

[ . . . ]

Miraculously, the surgical repair of Joe’s toe turned out to be less severe than initially feared. She sat in the recovery room responding to texts from his parents and friends when Joe finally blinked awake, groggy and disoriented. His fingers twitched toward her instinctively before his eyes even focused.

She stayed home with him for the next two days, monitoring his pain levels while he drifted in and out of sleep. Between her laptop propped on the couch and the kitten curled between them, she typed up patient notes as Joe mumbled incoherent complaints about the boot’s Velcro straps. She conducted virtual visits from her office upstairs, occasionally glancing at the baby monitor she bought after his wrist injury to spy on him napping.

She returned to work Monday morning, bracing herself for a long day of rescheduled, back-to-back appointments. Sure enough, her feet were aching by the time she found a lull in her day long enough to get some paperwork done.

A triple knock brought her out of her laser focused concentration, drawing a short, “Come in,” from her before she even looked up.

One of the physician assistants, Camille entered shortly after, carrying a steaming mug of coffee in her right hand. “Thought you could use this,” Camille said, sliding the mug onto a coaster beside her keyboard. “You’ve had, what, three cancellations today? And still no lunch break.”

She rolled her shoulders back with a grateful sigh, her fingers wrapping around the warmth of the mug. “Four cancellations, actually. Two no-shows and two last-minute reschedules.” She took a slow sip, the bitter heat of the coffee chasing away the fatigue. “But thank you. I needed this really badly.”

Camille perched on the edge of the younger woman’s desk, her brow furrowing slightly. “We haven’t talked in a minute. How’re you holding up with things?” The question was gentle, but the MD caught the careful way Camille’s gaze flicked to the framed photo on her desk.

It was a professional photo of she and Joe on the field following his AFC Championship, when their relationship officially went public. His arm slung around her waist while she grinned, mid-laugh, his thumb tucked absently into her back pocket like he couldn’t bear not to touch her somehow. The day after the game, that photo was plastered across social media, her private Instagram account receiving tens of thousands of follow requests she never accepted.

She set her mug down carefully, swallowing her first sip. “Honestly? It’s been... something,” she admitted. “I know logically he’ll recover fine. This isn’t even the worst injury he’s had. But, the first week post-surgery is always...” She trailed off, rubbing her temple. “It’s never fun watching someone you love struggle. Even if it’s just temporary.”

Camille nodded knowingly. “Are you worried about him slipping into tunnel vision?”

“Not yet. But, it’s coming. I know it is. He’ll start living at the facility, doing everything in his power to get back before that 12 week minimum they keep telling him.” She took another sip of her coffee. “And I don’t blame him. I’d be the same. But I also know what happens when he fixates like that. The way he stops enjoying things... food, hobbies, sleep... because he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve to enjoy those things until he’s ‘earned’ it again.”

Camille tilted her head. “You think he’ll shut you out?”

“Not intentionally. But if he does, it won’t be a surprise.” She tapped her pen against a patient chart absentmindedly, the rhythm syncopated with the hum of the clinic’s air conditioning. “We’ll see though. We’ve had conversations about this since his last major injury. He knows I want him to lean on me, not push me away.”

Camille studied her face, the darkness around her eyes, the way she nibbled absentmindedly at the inside of her cheek. “You sound like you’re preparing for war.”

She chuckled, rolling her neck until it cracked. “Yeah, well, they call them modern-day gladiators for a reason.” She gestured vaguely toward her phone where Joe had texted her three times in the past hour—first to ask if she wanted Thai for dinner, second to complain about Colby stealing his socks, and third with a blurry photo of the kitten curled up in his discarded hoodie. “Right now he’s still present. Chatty, even. But once he starts PT next week, he might start…” She mimed a slow vanishing act with her hands.

Camille snorted into her coffee. “You said you talked about it, though. He might need some reminders, but I know he doesn’t play about you. Even if he goes into caveman mode, he’ll snap out of it if you tell him he’s being an idiot. So... communicate, hon.”

She hummed. “I will try.” She flicked her gaze to the clock, groaning when she saw her next appointment was in ten minutes. “Speaking of, I gotta go. Tell Luca I’ll grab lunch after this one. He’s got chocolate-covered peanut butter pretzels in his drawer, and I’m shamelessly mooching when I get a chance.”

[ . . . ]

“I can’t feel my feet,” she groaned, toeing off her sneakers the moment she stepped through the front door. She halted her movements when the familiar smell of pasta and beef flooded her senses.

Joe was nowhere to be seen, though she could hear his crutches clicking against hardwood somewhere deeper in the house, growing louder as he drew closer. The remnants of his afternoon clung to the space: a pillow positioned oddly on the couch where he’d been icing his foot, the TV paused on a documentary about deep-sea bioluminescence, and Colby’s favorite toy abandoned near the staircase.

“Joe?” She called, dropping her work bag onto the floor, propping it up against the marble of the kitchen island, and wincing as her arches throbbed. The click-click of his crutches continued until he was before her, his blue eyes bright.

His grin was slow—soft. She mapped the familiar slopes of it like she could chart every variation: the way his lips twitched when he was holding back sarcasm, the tiny peek of his tongue between his teeth when he was genuinely pleased, the barely-there quirking when he pretended to hate something she’d said. This was his exhausted-but-content smile, reserved for evenings where he was eager to go to bed, but wanting to spend time with her.

“Welcome home,” Joe said, leaning one crutch against the counter so he could open one arm for a hug. She stepped into him immediately, her nose pressing into the warm space between his collarbone and throat, inhaling the faint traces of his aftershave mixed with the herbal scent of the tea he must have been drinking a few moments prior. His fingers traced idle circles against her lower back. “I know you had a long day, so I won’t ask how it was yet.”

She hummed against his skin, tightening her grip around his waist. “You made dinner?”

“Um. Not exactly.” Joe replied through a series of pecks to her pouted lips. “I ordered the Bolognese you love from Boca and Mrs. Rossi swung by to clean up since we really haven’t had the chance recently with everything going on. Also...” He gestured toward the stove where she could see a glass dish holding some chocolate-flavored baked good being kept warm under the lights. “I made brownies.”

She leaned back to look up at him, incredulous. She opened her mouth to speak but allowed herself to giggle when he clarified. “Box mix. Don’t get too excited.” His fingers brushed over her bottom lip. “Still warm, though. Figured you’d want some after dinner—which is in the oven to keep it warm.”

She pressed another kiss to the underside of his jaw, slow and deliberate, and felt his breath hitch against her forehead. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she murmured, her entire body softening against him, the exhaustion of her day dissipating with the warmth radiating between them.

“I know,” he admitted, his lips moving against her hairline. “But I wanted to. So I did.” His fingers trailed up her spine, lingering at the nape of her neck where tension coiled beneath his touch. “Go upstairs, I drew you a bath. I’ll bring you something to drink in a couple minutes.”

She raised her eyebrow. “A bath?”

“Yeah.” Joe nodded toward the staircase. “I drew you a bath. Epsom salt, lavender oil, the whole thing. Figured your body could use it.”

“Go,” he urged softly, nudging her toward the stairs. “I’ll wait ten minutes before I interrupt you with wine.”

She hesitated, thumb brushing the ridge of his hip bone through his sweatpants. “You sure you’re okay on the stairs with—”

“I’ll make it work,” Joe murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. “Go.”

The bathwater was still steaming when she slipped into it, lavender-scented steam curling around her shoulders as she sank deeper. Epsom salts prickled against her skin, working into the knots of her calves while she tilted her head back against the towel Joe had folded over the edge.

Downstairs, she heard the faint thump of his crutches navigating the kitchen, followed by the sound of a new bottle being uncorked. She smiled into the damp air, opening her eyes when she heard the sound of their kitten leaping up onto the lid of the closed toilet. Colby’s curious green eyes blinked at her from his perch as he curled into a tight loaf, tail twitching like he was debating whether bathwater was worth investigating.

Joe appeared in the doorway, as promised, ten minutes later, balancing a wine glass in one hand while gripping his crutch awkwardly with the other. His gaze flickered from her damp shoulders to Colby’s judgmental stare. “If you fall in, I can’t save you,” he warned the kitten before handing her the glass.

She took the glass, fingers brushing his, and watched him drag a stool beside the tub before dropping down onto it with a stifled groan, propping his crutches up against the side of the porcelain. “Wish I could get in with you,” he admitted quietly, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie, a gray color, faded from years of wear.

She smiled through a slow sip. She tasted the crisp pinot grigio, chilled exactly to her preference. “Wouldn’t stop you if you weren’t stuck in that boot,” she replied, swirling the wine before nodding at his leg. “We could’ve made it work.”

Joe huffed a laugh. “Right. Remember the last time we tried to share a bathtub?” His fingers trailed along the water’s edge, flicking droplets toward her knee. “We flooded the bathroom floor.”

She shrugged. “That’s why the drains are such a nice upgrade,” she said. “And it wasn’t like we were just sharing the tub. You were very touchy that day.” She took another sip, tilting her chin up to find him gazing down at her, eyelids hooded. “I would argue that’s the day we confirmed the bathroom remodel was necessary.”

“Yeah, well, you try not being touchy when your wife is naked and wet and—” Joe cut himself off with a quiet curse, shaking his head.

She grinned into her wineglass, watching his ears flush pink under the dim bathroom lighting. “Wife?” she echoed, keeping her eyes locked on his face as she lazily swirled her free fingertips through the water, creating ripples that sloshed against the porcelain.

“I—” Joe paused, fighting off a smile with the swipe of his tongue across his bottom lip. “Hypothetical wife,” he amended. His socked foot, still encased in the bulky orthopedic boot, knocked lightly against the stool leg as he shuffled in his seat. “Future tense.”

“No, no. Don’t let me interrupt your slip,” she teased, stretching her legs beneath the water until her toes brushed the opposite end of the tub. “That’s the second time this month, honey.”

Joe rubbed over his jaw. “You’re keeping count?”

She raised her eyebrows, that smile of hers still glued to her face. “I keep count of everything you say. Partly because I love you, and hearing your thoughts, your voice. But mostly because you don’t slip. You don’t just drop words like that unless...”

“Unless I’ve been thinking about it.” He finished. “And I have.”

The admission hovered between them, lingering in the air like all the scents rising from the bath water. Colby was beginning to drift to sleep, indifferent to the weight of the moment.

“Been thinking about it a lot. Longer than you’d guess.” Joe’s voice was low, rough at the edges like the words were heavy for him to admit.

Her throat tightened as she watched him drag a hand through his hair. She could tell he was holding back, not because he was unsure, but because confessions like these altered the gravity in a room, and Joe never rushed momentum. She lifted her wineglass to her lips, buying herself a second to steady her breath before murmuring, “I have too. You’re the only person I’ve ever pictured a future with that didn’t feel like settling.”

Joe nodded but didn’t say anything right away. He reached for her hand, thumb skimming the wet ridges of her knuckles. “And you won’t have to. I promise.”

The unspoken element of the conversation was the acknowledgement that it wasn’t quite time yet. Joe’s injury still pinned him to a recovery schedule, and she had seen the way his jaw tightened whenever his teammates’ abysmal PFF grades flashed across the TV screen. There was a season to return to, or at least watch finish, before either of them could fall into something as permanent as rings and vows, no matter how many accidental slips of the tongue occurred in steamy bathrooms or in sleepy midnight whispers.

She wanted it, though. Badly. The confession tickled at the base of her throat, desperate to escape as she watched Joe’s eyes trace the slopes and curves of her face for perhaps the millionth time. Instead, she swallowed it down with another sip of wine, letting the crisp acidity give her something else to focus on.

“Wanna tell me about your day? Or should I just let you float here until you’re ready to get out?” Joe asked, nodding at the now empty wineglass balanced on the wooden tub caddy.

She let her fingers trail through the water before answering, the scent of lavender curling lazily around them. “It wasn’t too bad. No difficult patients. Just a ton of appointments back-to-back. Nothing I wasn’t prepared for.” She lifted her leg slightly, watching droplets slide down her calf. “I ate most of the salad I packed this morning, though. Which was nice.”

“Do you wanna define ‘most,’ for me? Because last time you said that, you brought back a half-eaten container of sad lettuce from the back of your fridge three days later,” Joe said, tilting his head with the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

She flicked water at him. “Okay, first of all, that was one time. And second, I ate all the cherry tomatoes and the avocado. That’s the expensive part.” She let her leg sink back beneath the water, sighing as the warmth curled around her skin again. “Camille brought me coffee, though. And I ate, like, an entire container of chocolate-covered peanut butter pretzels, plus two apples.”

Joe’s brows lifted. “Two apples? Are you trying to keep yourself away, or something? Because that’s one more apple than necessary, baby.”

She narrowed her eyes as she took in the wide smirk adorning his features, visibly pleased in his joke. “I should kick you out for that one,” she mused, though the effect was ruined by her own laughter bubbling up. “But then I’d lose my wine-fetcher, and we can’t have that.”

“I’ll risk it,” he shrugged, leaning forward to kiss her sweetly. “I got more where that came from.”

She laughed, catching his face between her hands before he could pull away completely, lingering long enough to taste the faint sourness of his afternoon kombucha and the mint gum he’d chewed afterward. The kiss deepened for a second, just long enough for Joe to make a low noise in the back of his throat, before she released him with a playful nip at his bottom lip.

“I know you do,” she whispered against his mouth. The words were warm, curling between them and closing them off from the rest of the world for just that moment.

[ . . . ]

OCTOBER.

When the fall started to settle in, changing the colors of the leaves, and blowing chilly wind that brought a crunch to the colored remnants on the ground, Joe always found himself waking earlier and earlier. 5:15 AM wake-up times shifted to 5 AM, then 4:55 AM, until he was consistently waking at 4:45 AM, long before her alarm went off around 7 AM. He liked to get some work in, a round of stretches to soothe the aches and pains scattered throughout his body, and to get his thoughts in order for the day ahead.

With the injury, however, Joe needed just a bit more time to get himself loosened up and moving, which meant waking at 4:30 AM. The first few mornings, she barely noticed, still cocooned in sleep, her arm sprawled across his empty side of the bed. She would wake right when he was collecting his things into his backpack, double-checking to make sure all the lights in the house were off before heading out. She would murmur something incoherent, blinking at him through the dim glow of the bedside lamp, and he would lean down to press a kiss to her forehead, whispering a request for her to shoot him a text when she woke up.

After about a week of this, she began waking up with him, bleary-eyed and yawning as she sat on a bench in their home gym, observing his stretches. She would follow him through his routine, both of them okay with the quiet comfort of mutual presence, broken only occasionally by a brief series or two of kisses before Joe would have to remind himself of the time.

That became their routine over the first month of Joe’s rehab process. Waking together, stealing whatever moments they could before he was out the door with a diet compliant breakfast in hand that would still be warm enough to eat once he got to Paycor. She would go back to bed, grab another hour and a half of sleep, and wake up with just enough time to feed Colby and pull herself together for work.

At a certain point, she stopped trying to go back to sleep after Joe left. Instead, she'd curl up on the couch with Colby purring in her lap, nursing a cup of tea while dawn crept through the windows. Not only did it help to make sure their sleep schedules aligned better, but she liked the peacefulness of those mornings. She liked the way the house smelled like freshly brewed tea and the faintest hint of Joe’s aftershave floating from the bathroom and lingering in the bedroom, dispersing into the hallway through the air vents. She liked the way that she could watch Joe’s little location circle drift closer and closer to the stadium, knowing exactly where he was on his way up to the city.

She’d started waiting until he arrived, with a simple text confirmation, before she’d go about her morning routine. Some mornings, he’d text her extra updates as she applied her light touches of makeup. Other mornings, he was a bit quieter, texting only when he had a milestone to update her on or a funny moment to share.

He was handling this injury better than she had anticipated, though she knew better than to say it out loud and potentially jinx it. Still, she noted the way he let his fingers linger on her hip when she passed him in the kitchen each morning now, the way he’d started humming under his breath while making his protein shakes again. Small signs of equilibrium returning much earlier than it did with his wrist injury. He wasn’t necessarily at his most joyful, there were still days that he brooded, but he wasn’t wallowing like she feared. Somedays, that was enough.

Though Joe was using his boot less, beginning to attend home games, and sit in on meetings, traveling with the team wasn’t an option for another few weeks of successful weight-bearing activity. She had expected him to bristle at the limitation, god knows he’d chafed under lesser restrictions before, but instead, he’d brought up the idea of holding a watch party. It was an opportunity for them to reconnect with friends they hadn’t seen properly since the preseason. She quickly agreed.

“Okay, where are we at?” Leo muttered, taking a step back from the fridge to cast his eyes over the spread of foods laid out across the marble countertop. She watched as Joe’s private chef, one of the few non-family members granted full access to their home, adjusted the sleeves of his black chef’s jacket before reaching for a small paring knife.

“Pulled pork is working in the slow cooker,” she said, tapping the lid of the appliance with her index finger. “Spinach dip’s chilling, charcuterie board’s half-assembled unless you veto my placement. The chips are in the pantry, just need to get them out, and the wings...” She paused, glancing at the oven timer. “Twelve more minutes.”

Leo nodded, popping a cube of aged cheddar into his mouth before pointing his knife at the untouched bag of slider buns. “You wanna toast these on the stove or leave them alone?”

“Oh, toast,” she said immediately, reaching for the bag. “Joe likes when the edges get crispy.” She ripped it open with her hands, ignoring Leo’s grimace, and dumped the buns onto a lined baking sheet. “I’ll spread some butter on these and pop them in with the wings for the last few minutes.”

Leo snorted, meticulously arranging prosciutto folds on the charcuterie board. “Are we toasting them on the stove or putting them in the oven? There’s a lot of contradictions happening today.”

“Can you focus on your fancy plating instead of what I have going on?” She laughed, grabbing the butter dish and a knife. The butter was room temperature, and hence, just soft enough for her to spread the yellow across the split buns, then arranging them into rows on the sheet tray.

Joe’s voice floated in from the living room, a muted conversation with Trae about where to park once everyone arrived. She glanced at the clock, still an hour before kickoff, but early arrivals were inevitable with the varying distances their friends were traveling to make it to their get-together.

He entered the kitchen, rapidly typing something into his phone before slipping it into his pocket. Before she could properly acknowledge his presence, Joe reached over her shoulder to steal a rogue slice of prosciutto from the board. Leo pointed to a small bowl on the opposite end of the counter. “We saved some of your favorites from the board.”

“Oh... hell yeah,” He popped another thinly sliced meat in his mouth, then returned to his spot behind his girlfriend who was buttering the last slider. “You good in here?”

“Yep,” she scraped the last of the butter on the final bun. “Just gonna slide these into the oven to finish toasting with the wings. I have buffalo, lemon pepper, and honey barbecue sauces lined up. Do you have a preference?”

Joe leaned his hip against the counter, fingers rubbing over her lower back. “If I toss ‘em, can we do a split of all the flavors?”

She cast him a glance, gently nudging him aside to slide the tray into the oven. “I can toss them,” she said, cleaning the butter off her hands. “Is the living room set up?”

“Yeah,” Joe waved a hand toward the doorway. “Leah said she’s running a little behind. Woke up late or something, but everyone else is on their way, if not already off the highway.”

Her brows furrowed with a small pout—Leah was almost hyper-punctual—but Joe just shrugged, nibbling on a cubed piece of cheese, hoping she would believe his nonchalance. “She said she was fine. Just didn’t hear her alarm.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, glancing at her phone, only to realize it was time to pull the refrigerated elements out to prep. She reached for the spinach dip, the cold glass bowl sending a shiver up her bare arms. “Let me know if she says anything else? I can save some food for her.”

Joe nodded, watching her fingers lift the cling wrap covering the dip. The dip itself was a carefully layered concoction: cream cheese at the base, sautéed spinach and garlic folded in, then topped with parmesan and mozzarella.

Just how late Leah arrived went completely unnoticed by his girlfriend who was kept busy catching up with their friends, watching the game, and replacing drinks when the liters of soda, juice, and beer ran low. Joe managed to sneak away, pressing a kiss to her temple, making up an excuse about Leah needing help carrying in something from her car that would take several trips without an extra set of hands.

Outside, Leah reached into her glove compartment, pulling out a small gift bag stuffed with tissue paper, and handed it to Joe with a barely contained grin.

“Is she suspicious, yet? I heard you keep slipping up and calling her your ‘wife’,” Leah whispered. Joe reached into the small bag, retrieving an elegant black velvet ring box. He hesitated before popping it open, exhaling sharply at the sight of the finished ring for the first time: a stunning 1.5 carat marquise diamond, flanked by smaller baguettes, nestled against a 14 karat gold band. It was exactly as he’d envisioned it so many times, strikingly elegant, refined, yet practical.

“She thinks you’re running late because you overslept,” Joe replied, snapping the box shut and slipping it into his jacket pocket. “I don’t know what you’re talking about with the ‘wife’ thing, though.”

Leah rolled her eyes so hard Joe felt his lips quirk into a smile. “Right. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Burrow.”

The late October air carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant Game Day barbecue smoke as Joe adjusted the ring box in his pocket, thinking it was heavier than he expected it to be. “Thank you for picking it up,” he said, offering a side hug to Leah before glancing toward the house. “Got a few ideas floating around for how I want to do it. The ring helps with the vision.”

Leah accepted the hug, adding, “Text me when you decide. The three of us are on standby for anything you might need to make this happen for her.” Joe nodded before following her back inside.

The living room buzzed with laughter and the sharp commentary of pre-game analysis. She was mid-sentence with Valeria, fingers curled around a beer bottle, her head tilted back in amusement when she heard Leah and Joe enter.

[ . . . ]

Joe had gotten in the habit of keeping the ring on him at all times for a couple of reasons.

One, because she had the unique ability to find things she wasn’t looking for. He had seen it on display a few times over the years. She’d uncovered headphones, old wallets, and missing chargers buried deep in places they shouldn’t have been, all while reaching for completely unrelated items.

Two, every single hiding spot he tried proved inadequate the moment she brought up reorganizing or cleaning that area. She had those moments every so often despite the fact that they retained a housekeeper who performed a deep clean once a week, sometimes twice if they were hosting friends or family.

Three, he liked the feeling of the ring box in his pockets. It was the weight of it and the routine of opening it to catch a peek whenever he peeled his pants off in the evenings before bed. He liked the responsibility that came with making sure it was tucked away, cycling between his sock drawer, the empty pocket in the bag he took with him to the facility, and his pant pockets—never staying in the same place for too long.

Things got a little tricky when they were heading out somewhere, requiring them to get dressed in the same vicinity, like today.

“What color are you wearing?” She called from their walk-in closet, dark-wash jeans sitting unbuttoned on her hips as she rummaged through her side for an appropriate top.

Ja’Marr and Tee were hosting a car show with the sales from tickets and signings from some of the Bengals players they tapped to attend going to a local coffeeshop that had been struggling since COVID. The event was intended to be casual, the crowd hoping to enjoy the last few days of clear, warm skies before the inevitable Cincinnati autumn chill set in.

“Monochrome gray,” Joe called out in response. He paused his movements, keeping an ear out to sense if she would be satisfied with that answer. When she didn’t respond, he quickly tucked the ring box into he front pocket of his jeans, thankful for the deep pockets that would keep it concealed against his thigh.

Seconds later, she emerged almost fully dressed. Her jeans were still unbuttoned though she was now wearing a scoop neck white tank top that revealed just a sliver of her midriff above the waistband of her jeans. One hand held both a pair of stilettoes and wedged sandals, the other, a simple gold necklace with a tiny, dangling gold charm in the letter ‘J’, and three different pairs of sunglasses.

Joe immediately reached for the accessories she was balancing in her hand, laying them out on the counter, freeing up her hands to show him the two shoe options she had picked out.

“Okay, heels or flats?” She asked, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other.

“Um…” Joe hummed, pressing his lips into a line. “We’re probably gonna be there a while. As much as I like you in heels…” He trailed off, watching her smirk widen as he let his gaze drag down her legs. “I think the smarter choice is the sandals.”

“I didn’t hear anything after ‘I like you in heels,’” she teased, setting both pairs onto the floor, and stepping into the heels.

Joe laughed, leaning against the bathroom counter as she straightened up, adjusting the hem of her tank top against her jeans. “You’ll regret that in about three hours when you make me go grab your flats.”

“I want to look cute,” she countered, fastening the ‘J’ necklace around her neck with practiced fingers before selecting the tortoiseshell sunglasses. She tilted her chin up, deciding if she was satisfied with the look in the mirror. “People will have cameras out, taking pictures and videos from a million different angles.”

He reached for her waist, pulling her against him as she smoothed her hair into place. “You look stunning,” he murmured against her temple, his thumb brushing the exposed sliver of skin above her jeans. He hummed contentedly against her mouth when she finally turned her head and kissed him properly, slow and sweet, before pulling back to assess him with narrowed eyes.

“You have my lip combo on your face,” she remarked, swiping her thumb along the corner of Joe’s mouth where the color from her lips had transferred.

When she was done wiping his face, he tugged her closer again, inhaling the vanilla and bourbon scent of the various lotions, butters, oils, and fragrances lathered onto her skin. “We should stop for a snack on the way,” Joe murmured, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her hip bone where it peeked above her waistband.

She closed her eyes as he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, pulling away only to grab the wedges on the counter and stuff them into her faux leather tote bag. “Do we have time? I thought the event starts at noon.”

Joe checked his phone, then pursed his lips. “We can get something on the way back. They’ll have food there, but it’s probably gonna be appetizer-type stuff.”

She didn’t hear what he was saying, she really couldn’t. Not when the hair that was overdue for a haircut fell so perfectly over his forehead. The golden brown strands really and truly seemed golden with the shine of natural light coming from the windows bouncing off the healthy strands fortified by the hair mask she convinced him to try a few days ago. It was often times like this that she wished she could freeze time. She wished she could live here, right here in this moment, for hours on end because although she saw this man every single day, there was always something so new in the way she saw him every day.

She reached out and cupped his face. He watched her pupils visibly dilate in real-time—something that still made him swallow hard—as her thumb traced the arch of his cheekbone.

“Did you hear me?” Joe murmured, wanting to smile and tease her for the clear distraction, but rendered unable to; completely caught up in the way she looked at him.

She blinked twice before shaking her head. “Do we have time to...”

She didn’t have to finish the thought, he knew where her mind had gone. Joe grinned before smoothing a hand over her waist and guiding her backward until her thighs bumped the edge of their bed. “We have ten minutes, maybe,” he murmured, catching the way her breath hitched as he slowly unbuttoned her jeans. His knuckles brushed the warm skin beneath, eliciting a shiver.

He knelt to his knees, pushing the hem of her white top up her torso, his lips trailing wet kisses down the center line of her abdomen while his fingers worked zipper of her jeans down. She moaned sharply when his teeth scraped the sensitive skin just below her navel, fingers tangling in his hair and tugged gently before catching herself and pulling away.

“Why’d you stop?” he hummed in the midst of pulling her pants down past her hips, taking her underwear down with it.

She exhaled through her nose and laughed breathlessly, pressing her palms flat over his warm, broad shoulders. “Because... ah—we said ten minutes,” she managed before his thumbs parted her folds to leave her swelling clit on display. She sighed, the muscles in her thighs contracting when he pressed a kiss to her sensitive nerves. “And you will absolutely lose track of time—Joe...” her breath seized before she could finish the thought as he flattened his tongue against her folds, circling slowly before easing two fingers inside her.

Joe groaned against her, the vibration making her knees buckle. “I know what I’m doing,” he murmured, pressing kisses up her inner thigh before returning his mouth to her center, sliding his fingers deeper, curling them just right. She arched off the bed with a gasp, gripping the sheets beside her hips—too aware of how quickly she was unraveling beneath him.

“I know you do,” she gasped, hips jerking against his mouth as his fingers curled perfectly inside her again. Joe licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her folds before sucking her clit into his mouth, and her thighs clamped around his head involuntarily. “Just don’t you want… shit… to show up with sex hair.”

Joe pulled back just enough to chuckle against her damp skin, his stubble grazing her inner thigh. “You can fix my hair in the car. Tug on it,” he kissed the soft mound covering her clit, “go ahead, baby.”

She whimpered, twisting her fingers into his hair again, harder this time, as his tongue circled relentlessly. She could feel his smug grin when her thighs trembled, her orgasm cresting faster than she’d expected. Her free hand fumbled blindly for purchase on the rumpled duvet, her moans dissolving into breathless, fragmented curses as he shook his head from side to side. The very tip of his nose nudged against her clit while his fingers worked deeper, the pads of his fingers bumping the most sensitive part inside of her with each thrust forward.

Joe groaned a rough, satisfied sound when her hips jerked off the bed, her thighs clamping around his ears as she came. He didn’t let up, dragging out every last shudder with slow, open-mouthed kisses along her inner thighs while she gasped for air. By the time he finally pulled away, licking his lips and swiping his thumb across his nose to check the magnitude of her arousal, she was a wreck, sprawled bonelessly against the now unmade bed, her nipples pebbling beneath the thin silk bra under her top.

“How long was that? Has to be a new record,” Joe spoke, still wiping her slick from his face, dragging the pad of his thumb teasingly over his bottom lip before chuckling when she kicked weakly at his shoulder. He caught her ankle and pressed a kiss to the inside of her heel before rising off his knees, retrieving a damp washcloth from their en suite bathroom to clean her up.

“Four minutes, by the way.” Joe smirked, tossing the used washcloth into the hamper before adjusting himself in his jeans, watching her struggle to sit up on jelly-like arms. “I did less than three in Aspen, so not a record. But close.”

She shook her head in mock disapproval but didn’t mask the smile on her lips while she watched him ease her underwear and jeans back over her hips. “I probably have to do something about my makeup. And your hair is fucked.”

Joe smoothed his fingers through his strands, deliberately mussing them further before leaning down to kiss her. She tasted her own sweetness on his tongue, warm and familiar, and sighed into his mouth when his thumb traced the hinge of her jaw. “Worth it,” he murmured against her lips, pulling away just far enough to bump his nose against hers before helping her stand.

She wobbled slightly, gripping his forearm for balance as she stepped into her discarded heels. “Did you want something, too?” she asked. Her hands smoothed over his forearms as they wrapped around her, the two of them hobbling together toward the bathroom mirror.

“If you’re referring to my dick being hard right now,” his voice was muffled against her skin from the kisses he was intent on distributing across her shoulder, “it’s fine. We’ll deal with it later.” His hands splayed low on her hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there once they arrived in front of the mirror. “You’re not walking straight, though.”

She pushed at his hands with a choked laugh, muttering he needed to worry about his hair. Her mascara had smudged faintly at the corners, her lips were kiss-swollen, and her bra straps had twisted during their brief tangle with the sheets. Worse still, Joe stood behind her with barely-tamed hair and an unmistakable tent in his jeans, his smug expression reflected in the glass.

They worked in soft silence, both aware of the ticking time. She reapplied her lip combo and mascara, dusted concealer and setting powder over a small new layer of blush, while Joe wet his fingers beneath the faucet and attempted to tame his hair. She reached for a tall cylindrical can of the setting spray she didn’t use very often, but given the circumstances, she figured it couldn’t hurt.

Joe turned his head just in time to see the can and the straight, yet odd, expression of her face as she sprayed the mist over her face. His eyebrows pinched together. “What is that?”

“Setting spray.”

Joe watched her fan herself with a dubious expression. “Never seen you use that before.”

“Usually, this powder,” she pointed to the small pot on the counter, “is pretty good on it’s own. But, I don’t want to look insane when we get there,” she huffed, tapping the wand of her mascara against the sink edge before reapplying one final coat. “And I figured, given…” She gestured vaguely toward the bed, where the duvet was still crumpled at the footboard. Joe grinned, unrepentant. “I should make sure it really stays in place.”

He leaned over her shoulder to inspect the canister, squinting at the label, muttering the brand name to himself. He needed to file this information for later. But for now, he reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. “Ready?”

She hummed, twisting in his arms to adjust his collar, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders while he watched her with quiet admiration. His lips twitched when she hesitated, her fingers lingering just a beat too long, before stepping back, satisfied with her work. “Where’s Colby? Haven’t seen him in a minute.”

Joe reached to turn off the bathroom light, shrugging, “His feeder is supposed to go off in a couple minutes. He’ll come out from wherever he is for that.”

[ . . . ]

The event itself was bigger than she was under the impression it would be. When Tee explained to her over text what he was in the process of planning, the word “chill” had been used very liberally. Five times, in fact. She hadn’t anticipated the sea of bodies, fans stretching across the parking lot, pressed up against velvet ropes where Bengals players stood behind signing helmets and jerseys and posters handed to them by security. She hadn’t anticipated the drone overhead, nor the makeshift stage with a decorative balloon arch in orange and black with an equally decorative backdrop with sponsors listed in neat fonts.

“There’s a lot of fuckin’ people here,” Joe muttered under his breath. One hand steered the car, following the directions of volunteers waving orange glow sticks, while the other settled high on her thigh, fingers flexing absently against the seam of her jeans. She laced her fingers through his, playing with the digits.

“Tee said ‘chill,’ a lot,” she laughed, leaning into him as they crawled forward. “Maybe we should’ve asked for numbers.

Joe scoffed.

Her eyes shifted over, sensing the energy in that scoff was not one of flippant disbelief but of anxious distraction. His thumb traced slow circles along the back of her hand, his jaw tight.

The ring box pressed against his thigh from inside his pocket. Somewhere in the hangar ahead there was a line of cars where players were exiting in front of fans and being ushered to the green room or to sign autographs. There was a lot happening and he could feel her studying the side of his face as he swallowed.

She squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing the edge of his knuckles where tension coiled tight. “Hey,” she called out softly. “What was that? Talk to me.”

Joe bit the inside of his cheek. “Just—crowds,” he admitted, though not entirely. “Feels like everybody’s got cameras out.” He sucked in a breath. “They haven’t seen the boot up close.”

She hummed, understanding the weight of his words, not just the physical discomfort of his injury, but the vulnerability of being scrutinized while recovering. “Joe,” she murmured, lifting their entwined hands to press her lips against his knuckles. “All of these people are gonna be too busy drooling over your car—or you—to notice the boot.”

“You’re the only one I want to be drooling over me,” he countered weakly, glancing at her.

“Well, join the club, Joseph. I gave up on that wish four years ago,” she huffed lightly, reaching for a makeup wipe in her tote to clean the smudge from her lips left on the back of his hand.

A volunteer tapped Joe’s window, signaling him to roll it down. Greetings were exchanged before the tall, mustached man gave them a quick rundown of the event’s itinerary—signings with fans first followed by the charity auction. Joe nodded along, fingers tightening around her hand as she absentmindedly rubbed circles into his wrist. The moment the volunteer stepped away, and they rolled forward again, leaving them behind a car she vaguely recognized to be Amarius Mims’.

“What are we doing when we get out?” he asked, flipping his eyes towards her. “Holding hands? Arm around your waist?”

“Whatever you want.” she responded, adding, “Can I expect making out in public next, or will it just be casual handholding for the next few weeks?”

Joe smiled, genuinely. “Depends on how much you distract me.” His voice dipped lower, rough with something private. “If you keep wearing that new perfume, we might have a problem on our hands.”

She laughed, clicking her seatbelt when they finally came to a stop. Joe exited first while she gave her makeup one last check in the visor mirror, collected her belongings, and watched him round the front of the car—boot and all—with the careful swagger she knew he really couldn’t help but exude. He opened her door, offering his hand. She took it, squeezing tight as she stepped into the October chill, his other hand instinctively finding her waist to steady her.

He shut the door behind her, then his hand dropped from her waist to tangle his fingers with hers. She glanced down at their entwined hands, noting the way his grip tightened, like he was anchoring himself to her before facing the crowd. Cameras filmed their approach, voices called out his name as volunteers ushered them toward the green room. Joe’s limp was nonexistent at this point in his rehab process—he had an appointment to evaluate if he was okay to shed the boot—but he still measured his steps to stay in stride with her, considering her sore hips and thighs, and the heels she was wearing.

Both of them flipped their sunglasses down their noses simultaneously as they walked toward the entrance. She leaned into Joe’s side while making a comment about the DJ’s questionable song choice. The scent of charcoal-grilled burgers and car polish mingled oddly in the air as they slipped past the velvet ropes into the dimmer, cooler interior of the hangar.

Inside the green room, they were greeted by other members of the Bengals: Ja’Marr, Tee, and Mims stood over the meatball platter while Trey, Orlando, and Ted clustered around the mini fridge. A few partners lingered on couches, the only one she knew much of anything about was Deja who flagged her over to where she sat alone.

Joe squeezed her hand once before tipping his head toward where Tee stood. “I’ll be over there until they pull us for signings.”

She nodded, releasing his fingers as she glided toward Deja’s couch.

Joe shuffled across the room, dapping each member of his team before he finally reached Tee. A firm backslap, then Tee immediately leaned in, his chin tucked low, as Joe feigned coughing into his fist. “It’s in my pocket,” Joe muttered under his breath, eyes darting toward his girlfriend who was now laughing at something Deja said while they chose from a selection of non-alcoholic drinks.

Tee grinned, nodding subtly. “You really carrying that thing around like some loose change?” he teased, grabbing a meatball skewer. “Wait—let me see.” Joe hesitated, glancing around before slipping his hand into his pocket. He turned so his back hid what he was doing to the rest of the room and angled the ring box just enough for Tee to glimpse the velvet edge.

“Damn,” Tee breathed, shaking his head. “Oh, I ain’t seen it yet, you got a picture?” Joe nodded, pulling out his phone, swiping to a photo Leah had sent. The ring glittered against black velvet, the diamond catching the light above the clean golden edge of the band supporting the halo of smaller gems.

Tee whooped under his breath, shaking his head again, pressing a fist to his mouth to stifle the sound. “Goddamn,” he repeated, eyes flicking toward his girlfriend now assembling a plate of snacks. “You killed that shit, boy. That’s a nice ass ring.”

Joe laughed, reciprocating the dap Tee offered. “Don’t blow my cover up,” he warned, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

Tee smirked, popping another meatball into his mouth. “You think she suspects anything?”

“If she does, I haven’t noticed,” Joe muttered, watching her balance a plate in one hand while gesturing animatedly with the other, mid-story. “She’s been distracted with work, my rehab. Plus…” He hesitated, lowering his voice further. “…she probably thinks I’d wait till after the season.”

Tee agreed. “Fuck that. You got her sister pulling international espionage shit flying in from London. This ain’t no ‘wait till summer’ proposal.”

Through the glass doors, he could see event staff assembling autograph tables, shuffling Sharpies into neat rows while photographers tested lighting rigs. Joe exhaled through his nose before turning his attention back to Tee. "Gotta get out of this fucking boot first.”

Tee rolled his eyes. “Man, she don’t care about a boot.” He gestured toward her with his skewer. “It’s not like she’s gonna say ‘no’.”

Joe’s thumb traced the edge of the ring box still tucked in his pocket. “Yeah, I know. Still.” He shrugged. “Just wanna do it right.”

Before the conversation could switch topics, an attendant ducked into the green room, announcing signings were due to begin. Joe caught her eye across the space, and broke off from the group, brushing past her with a hand across her lower back, leaning in to murmur, “I’ll be back the minute they set me free,” before vanishing through the doorway.

Deja grinned knowingly beside her, nudging the woman’s knee with hers. “I don’t know what you did to him, but he has separation anxiety, bad.”

You hit send on the text even though you knew Joe wouldn't be able to check his phone for awhile.

On TV, the Bengals players gathered around a Thanksgiving dinner display. You giggled and kicked your feet watching the hilariously awkward interview. Of course Joe would refuse to eat the turkey, pick up a crab, sniff it, then not want to eat it. Ja'Marr and Joseph were more interested in the food than any question they were expected to answer. The poor sportscaster was doing the best she could to get some semblance of an interview.

Then, Joe was asked what the win meant to him. You saw the emotion softening in his eyes as he talked about the people in his life he's most thankful for. His voice hitched, his lip had a slight tremble. It was a side of Joe you didn't see often.

When he ran off towards the locker room, you wiped away a tear, sharing in Joe's emotion. You desperately wished you could be in Baltimore right now, run into his arms, and tell him how incredible he is.

The next best thing was your phone. So you poured your heart out in texts.

"You were amazing. Even at the start, you got completions and moved so good for someone who had surgery a month ago. You really aren't human! Your super healing powers wowed everyone. I think you inspired the defense to play like that. Nobody else leads like you."

You couldn't stop typing as you thought of all the praise you wanted to shower him with.

"And 2 touchdown passes!!!!!!! 0 interceptions!!!!!! Nobody does it like you!!!!!" I love you so much and I'm thankful to have you in my life!"

You were happy to keep smiling at the replays on TV, when a vibration on your phone surprised you. Joe was calling.

"Hi baby!"

You could hear the smile in his tone, "Hey Darling"

"That was crazy! That was so good! Amazing! unbelievable!" You rambled.

"Unbelievable? Were you doubting us?" He teased.

"Never." You assured him. "Where are you now?"

"Locker room"

"Don't you have to do a press conference?"

"Yeah," Joe sighed "But I'd rather be talking to you."

You couldn't hold back the goofy smile he put on your face.

"I can't wait for you to get home."

"Plane should land at CVG around 3 AM."

"How am I supposed to go another 4 hours without you?" You pouted.

"Be strong."

In the background, you heard a voice calling for Joe, "Burrow, you coming? Everyone's waiting."

"One sec."

"I know you have to go, but I just want you to know how proud I am." It was just a few words, but you meant them so deeply you hoped he'd understand. A happy tear ran down your cheek.

"Thanks, my love."

There it was. The little hitch.

You hoped you weren't making him too emotional before the press conference.

"You are the comeback king!" You added lightheartedly.

Joe chuckled, "Yeah. Not the title I wanted but I guess it's not bad."

"I'll see you soon." The excitement in your voice couldn't be mistaken.

"Soon." He repeated. "I love you."

"I love you!"

You watched the Bengals livestream of Joe's press conference, beaming the entire time. Just a moment after Joe walked away from the podium, you got a text.

"Out of here"

You were too hyped from the victory to even think about laying down. Sleep was for losers. You danced around the halls, singing (out of key) and celebrating. When you passed your desk, you saw the envelop of pictures you'd recently gotten developed. You meant to hang them up, but they'd been collecting dust for weeks.

The photo on top was you and Joe, hair blowing in the breeze, as you each bit into a end of giant soft pretzel. You could remember the exact moment: A summer day by the lake during the off season. You went through the stack, each photo capturing sweet memories.

Impulsively, you decided it was time to display them. 1 AM was as good a time as any. In the back of your closet, you found the frames you'd ordered. You chose each one with care, reliving the many moments of happiness forever preserved in pictures.

Your phone light up in the dimly lit room, "Plane just landed"

"I'm waiting for you and I have a little surprise!"

𓂃

When Joe opened the door, you flung yourself on him. All the adrenaline of watching the win unfold came rushing back. Joe dropped his bag and lifted you off your feet. He spun you around, his lips kissing your neck.

"Hey," He laughed. "Miss me?"

"I'm so proud of you. You're so amazing."

He'd already heard it, but you couldn't help but say it again. The satisfied grin let you know he appreciated hearing it again.

"We still got a lot of work to do."

You could see the tension he held in his body. Your hands cupped his face, "Not tonight."

He nodded, then leaned in to give your forehead a soft kiss. When you pulled away, you saw a glint in his eye.

"What's my surprise?"

You took his hand, pulling him into your bedroom where all the newly framed photos reflected your happiness back at him.

"I found the picture I developed weeks ago. I thought tonight I'd finally frame them."

Joe walked closer to the pictures. As he scanned your memories, his smile got brighter, "I love it."

"I hope you know how thankful I am for you."

Joe wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close. His thumb slide up and down your side.

"I do. And I'm thankful for you, babe. I don't know how I would've gotten through this recovery without you."

"I'll always be here for you." You promised.

Your arms found his board shoulders. A feather light kiss soon deepened. Joe walked you backwards till you were sat on your bed.

YOU KNEW IT WAS GOING TO BE ONE OF those nights the second you walked into the restaurant — the soft lighting, the too-many conversations layered over each other, the way every couple seemed effortlessly paired off and linked together.

Hand holding. Leaning shoulders. Fingers tracing knuckles. Casual touches shared like oxygen.

And Joe? Joe walked a step ahead of you. Not rudely. Just… like he forgot for a second that you were there with him, not behind him.

He held the door open without actually looking at you and let a couple of his teammates clap him on the back as you both stepped inside. You offered small smiles, polite hellos. You didn’t expect Joe to grab your hand or press a kiss to your temple — you never did — but you thought maybe he’d stand close enough that your arms brushed.

Instead he slid into a seat at the long table and left just enough space between you that a stranger could’ve squeezed between your chairs.

You sit down, smooth your dress, tell yourself it’s fine. It’s always been like this. He’s kind and attentive when it’s just the two of you, but out here, in the open, distance seems to form around him like a shield.

Conversation erupts around the table. Forks clink. Laughter rolls like a wave you keep trying to swim into, but you never quite reach the shore. The girls are sweet, chatting with you about work and weekend plans, and you do your best to stay present. To not glance at Joe too often. To not notice how he hasn’t touched you at all.

Not a hand on your knee. Not a lean-in whisper. Not even one of those quiet looks you two share when something funny happens.  And the worst part? Every other couple feels like a reminder.

Sam has his hand on his girlfriend’s thigh, tracing circles without even noticing he’s doing it. Logan is whispering something into his wife’s ear that makes her laugh and swat his chest. Even the rookies keep their girlfriends tucked close, shoulders brushing, bodies angled toward each other like second nature.

You feel like an extra at your own table.

Then dessert comes. Everyone reaches across plates, passing spoons, sharing bites. Joe leans forward to grab a small dish of crème brûlée — and for a fleeting second, his arm grazes yours. Not intentional, just proximity. You shouldn’t feel that small spark in your chest at something so accidental. You shouldn’t crave something as tiny as that. But you do. You always do.

When the check comes, Joe stands first, tossing a couple bills down to cover the tip. He rakes a hand through his hair, says something to the guys, and barely looks back to see if you’re following.

You walk behind him again. Like a shadow trying to keep up with someone who shines everywhere but next to you.

The night air is cool when you step outside, but your chest is hot with the kind of heaviness that comes from swallowing disappointment for too long. You don’t say anything on the walk to the car. Neither does he.

Joe unlocks the doors with a short chirp of the fob, and you slide into the passenger seat while he circles to the driver’s side. The interior smells faintly like leather and that cologne he only wears on nights he knows there’ll be cameras. He starts the engine, adjusts the rearview mirror, and pulls out of the parking lot without turning on the radio.

You rest your head against the cool window, watching the restaurant get smaller in the mirror. The laughter from inside still feels lodged somewhere under your sternum — all those easy touches and warm gestures shared by people who didn’t seem to have to think about it. You don’t know whether you’re annoyed or hurt or just tired. Maybe all of it. Maybe more.

Joe taps his fingers against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern. He does that when he’s thinking. But you can’t tell whether he’s thinking about you, about football, or about absolutely nothing at all.

Streetlights pass in streaks across your face. You feel them more than you see them.

“Did you have enough to eat?” he asks after a few minutes. His voice is mild, casual, like this is any normal drive home after any normal night.

“Yeah,” you answer, barely louder than the hum of the engine.

He nods, eyes on the road. He doesn’t ask anything else.

You trace circles on your knee with your thumb, the same way he used to do without realizing it. You wonder if he notices he stopped. You wonder if he ever noticed he did it in the first place.

Cars drift past in the opposite lane, their headlights flashing briefly through the cabin. Joe’s profile is lit up in quick, clean slices — jaw, cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looks calm. Comfortable, even. Like tonight didn’t scratch at anything inside him.

You, on the other hand, feel scraped raw.

A red light slows the car to a stop. He drums his fingers again, then glances at the dashboard clock. “You okay?” he asks, not turning his head all the way, just shifting his eyes toward you.

You force a small nod. “Just tired.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Long day.”

The light turns green. The car rolls forward. The conversation ends there — as if it was ever really a conversation.

You catch your reflection in the dark window. You don’t look angry. You don’t even look sad. You just look… muted. Like someone turned the saturation down on everything you usually feel.

By the time the hotel appears, glowing faintly off the highway, your throat feels tight from all the words you didn’t say. Joe pulls into the lot, parks, unbuckles. You follow his lead.

The walk inside is another stretch of quiet hallways and soft carpet. He checks in with a quick nod to the receptionist, collects the keycards, and hands one to you without meeting your eyes for longer than a second.

The elevator doors slide open, and you both step inside. That’s where the night swells. Where the silence finally feels like pressure instead of air. And when he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that careless, unbothered way…it hits you that he really, truly doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see you. Or maybe he does, but he’s hoping you’ll be too tired to say anything.

You stare straight ahead at the glowing numbers above the doors, counting each floor, willing your heartbeat to slow down.

You feel stupid for how disappointed you are. Stupid for noticing every inch he put between you tonight. Stupid for letting it sting.

When the doors open, Joe steps out first, swiping the keycard, pushing the door open with his foot.

“You coming?” he asks casually, already tugging off his jacket. You nod even though he doesn’t turn around to see it.

Inside, the room is dim and warm, but nothing about it feels comfortable. You kick off your heels, placing them neatly beside your suitcase, trying to ground yourself.

You hear Joe rummaging around in his overnight bag. A zipper. A sigh. The soft thud of him sitting on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes.

And then he says it — the thing that tips everything over.

“Tonight was fun,” he says lightly. “Good to get out.”

You freeze. Fun? He barely looked at you all night, and he thought that was fun? You swallow hard. “Was it?”

Joe glances up, confused. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?”

You take a breath. Not the kind that steadies you — the kind you pull in before you break something open. “I just…” Your voice comes out thinner than you want. “You barely even talked to me.”

He blinks like you’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand. “What? I talked to you.”

“No, Joe.” Your throat tightens. “You talked near me.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. You can tell he doesn’t like the way that sounds. “Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.”

That does it. The spark in your chest catches. “I’m not being dramatic,” you say, stepping toward him. “You ignored me the entire night.”

“I didn’t ignore you,” he argues, his voice sharper now. “I was talking with the guys. It was a team dinner. What do you want me to do, hang all over you?”

“No,” you say quietly but firmly. “I want you to act like you like me.”

He stares at you, confused, almost offended. “I do like you.”

“Then why does it never look like it?”

Your words hang between you. Joe tosses his hands up, frustrated. “You know how I feel about showing affection in public. I told you that when we started dating.”

“I know,” you say, your voice softening but your hurt still there. “I don’t need you to make out with me in public or post me everywhere. I’m not asking for that. But Joe… sometimes you act like we’re just—” Your voice catches. “—like we’re friends. Or cousins. Or something I’m not.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I’m private. I don’t like giving people something to talk about.”

“And what do you think they’re talking about now?” you ask quietly. “Because to everyone else, it looks like you can’t even stand next to me.”

His nostrils flare slightly — the kind of small, involuntary reaction he gets when he feels cornered. “I’m not going to change who I am just because you’re feeling insecure.”

The word hits you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. “Insecure?” you echo.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, but he did, even if he didn’t intend for it to land like a punch.

You look down at your hands, trying to keep your voice steady. “Joe, do you have any idea what it feels like to date someone who treats you like a secret every time you’re in public?”

“I don’t treat you like a secret.”

“You kind of do,” you whisper. “Maybe not on purpose. But that’s how it feels.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t know what you want from me.”

You let out a long, tired breath — the kind that drains out weeks of swallowing feelings. “I want you to love me out loud,” you say softly. “Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… visibly. A little touch. A look that says we’re together. Something. Anything. Just so I don’t feel like I imagined the way you treat me behind closed doors.”

Joe’s expression shifts — defensiveness mixing with discomfort, confusion, guilt, irritation. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it. “Can we not do this tonight?” he mutters. “I’m exhausted.” He says it so casually — like your hurt is just another task on his to-do list. A thing he can postpone. A thing that can wait.

Something in you snaps. Not violently. Not dramatically. But in the quiet, heartbreaking way a rubber band finally gives after being stretched too far. Your voice comes out tighter, sharper than before. “So that’s it? You get to shut down the conversation because you’re tired?”

Joe’s head lifts a little, eyes narrowing. “I’m not shutting it down. I’m saying now isn’t the time to have a whole meltdown about one dinner.”

One dinner. You actually laugh — a stunned, breathless sound that feels more like disbelief than humor. “Are you serious right now?”

He throws his hands out. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be. You know how I am in public. You know that hasn’t changed. And now suddenly you want something different and that’s not fair to me.”

Your chest burns.

He’s not yelling, but his voice is rising. He’s frustrated. Defensive. Talking at you, not to you. “You agreed to this. You said you were okay with keeping things low-key. And now you’re blowing up because I didn’t… what? Feed you cake at the table? Put my arm around you so the whole team could stare?”

“Joe,” you say, your voice trembling, “it’s not about cake. It’s not about PDA. It’s about being treated like I exist when other people are around.”

He scoffs under his breath. “That’s dramatic.”

There it is again.

“Stop calling me dramatic,” you snap, louder than you mean to, louder than you’ve ever used with him. Your throat feels raw, your eyes hot. “God, Joe, do you even hear yourself? I’ve been feeling like this for months. Tonight was just the point where I couldn’t pretend anymore.”

He shakes his head, muttering something like, “Here we go,” and it makes your chest twist.

“You think this is nothing,” you fire back. “You think this is me being needy or insecure or changing the rules on you. But I’m telling you — I feel alone when I’m with you. I feel invisible next to you. And I shouldn’t.”

He crosses his arms — relaxed, detached, like he’s weathering a storm he finds mildly inconvenient. “Are you done?” Those three words hit harder than anything else tonight.

You look at him — really look at him — and realize he’s not fighting for you, not trying to understand you, not even meeting you halfway. He’s waiting for you to stop talking so things can go back to normal for him.

The sting that floods your chest is cold and sharp and immediate. You swallow hard, shaking your head slowly. “Unbelievable.” 

You don’t trust your voice after that. You don’t trust yourself not to break open completely. So you turn away — slow at first, then quicker — and head for the bathroom.

“Seriously?” Joe calls after you, but you don’t respond. You shut the door behind you with a soft click, not a slam. A slam would mean anger. This is something worse — disappointment so deep it quiets you.

The bathroom light is too bright. You grip the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache, trying to steady your breathing, trying to figure out where your voice went.

On the other side of the door, you hear nothing. Not footsteps. Not movement. Not him coming after you. The silence slices right through you.

You breath in through your nose, out through your mouth, fighting the heaviness swelling in your chest. You don’t want to cry — not over this, not over him brushing you off like you’re a passing inconvenience. But your body doesn’t always listen. Your eyes burn anyway.

You turn on the tap, letting the water run, trying to muffle the shaky quiet of your breath. The mirror reflects the version of you you didn’t want to become — the one who tries so hard to appear unfazed, even when your splintering inside.

A knock never comes. He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t say he’s sorry. Doesn’t try at all and that hurts in a way the dinner never could.

You finally shut the water off and press your fingertips to your eyelids, grounding yourself before stepping back. 

With a quiet sigh, you peel off the nice dress you’d worn to the dinner, the fabric falling in a soft heap on the floor. You pull on an oversized T-shirt, the familiar cotton comforting against your skin, loose and forgiving. In the mirror, you wipe away your makeup with slow, deliberate motions, the streaks of mascara and foundation tracing faint lines down your cheeks like a map of the evening’s weight. You brush your hair out of your face, tug your pajama shorts into place, and take a moment to just breathe, letting the mundane routine of preparing for bed feel like something steady in a night that’s been anything but.

You stay in the bathroom a few minutes longer, waiting — stupidly — for something. A sign that he cares enough to check on you. That he realizes he said the wrong thing. That he realizes he didn’t say nearly enough.

Nothing.

Eventually, a muted rustle from the bedroom breaks the silence — the faint creak of the mattress as he sits. You can picture him: leaning back, scrolling on his phone or rubbing his hand over his face, convincing himself you’re the one who blew things out of proportion. You take a deep breath and open the bathroom door.

The room is dim now, one lamp turned off. Joe sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking up only when the door clicks shut behind you. His eyes skim over you the way someone glances at a scoreboard — brief, calculating, not emotional.

“You done?” he asks again, this time quieter, but the phrasing is the same. The lack of softness is the same.

It hits you harder than the first time.

“I wasn’t having a tantrum,” you say, voice soft but steady. “I was trying to tell you something important.”

He runs a hand down his face, exhaling in frustration. “And I heard you. I did. You feel ignored. You want more from me in public. I get it. But blowing up over one night doesn’t exactly help your case.”

The way he says “your case” makes it sound like you’re presenting evidence in a trial he has already decided to dismiss.

You blink, slow and disbelieving. “Is that really all you took from what I said?”

Joe shrugs — shrugs — and it makes something cold settle deep inside you. “Look,” he mutters, “I’m not trying to fight anymore. I’m tired. You’re upset. Let’s just… drop it for tonight.”

You stare at him, feeling a mix of anger, hurt, and something that feels dangerously close to clarity. “Drop it,” you echo. “So we can pretend everything’s fine tomorrow?” 

He doesn’t answer — which is an answer.

The quiet stretches again, heavy and deliberate. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, weighing down the words you’ve fought to get out. You want to scream, to throw something, to make him see—but you don’t. Not yet. You take a step toward the door, then another, pacing the small space of the room. Every movement sharp with frustration, every breath a reminder that tonight, you’re alone in feeling everything.

“You really think ignoring this fixes it?” you finally snap, your voice breaking through the thick, stale air. It’s not a shout, but it’s sharper than the quiet he seems so comfortable in.

You stand there, chest tight, fists unclenching slowly as the adrenaline drains out of your arms. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t respond. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, maybe out the window, maybe to the corner of the room, but it isn’t on you. The fire that had flared in your chest slowly fizzles, leaving behind only a hollow ache. You let out a long, shuddering sigh, shoulders sagging, and finally step toward the bed.

Sliding under the covers, you tuck yourself in, the cool sheets doing little to calm the warmth still lingering from your frustration. You reach over and click the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into soft darkness. You turn your back to him, pulling the covers a little higher, trying to shut out not just the room, but him entirely.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters after a few long, tense seconds. Not angry, not frustrated—just a flat statement, meant to puncture the tension. You don’t respond. You shut your eyes stubbornly, wishing sleep could pull you away from the ache in your chest, from the echo of everything you tried to say and everything he didn’t hear.

Minutes pass. You hear the faint scrape of him shifting on the bed, the rustle of clothing, a zipper. Then, soft footsteps across the carpet. He’s getting ready, you realize. The sounds are methodical, almost clinical—his routine—and they irritate you even in the darkness.

Eventually, the soft patter of his steps returns. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment. You keep your eyes shut, pretending not to notice him. There’s a pause, a shuffle, then the warmth of him sliding in beside you.

His shoulder presses lightly against yours, tentative but deliberate. You stiffen for a second, resisting the instinct to move closer, resisting the pull you know you’ll feel anyway.

The mattress dips slightly as he adjusts, the sheets rustle, and finally, the subtle weight of him settles in. You remain silent, stubbornly still, turning your face slightly toward the pillow, keeping your eyes shut. You can feel his presence, the steady warmth, the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

Eventually, your own breathing begins to slow, tension easing fractionally, the edges of anger softened by exhaustion. The room is quiet, except for the soft cadence of two hearts trying, in their own stubborn ways, to exist beside each other.

THE DAYS AFTER THAT NIGHT SLIPPED BY like a slow tide, each one carrying the same quiet weight. By the time you and Joe returned to Cincinnati, leaving behind the hotel room and the city lights of New York where the dinner had been, the residual tension felt heavier somehow—closer to home, harder to ignore.

You both moved through your routines, careful not to stir up the unsettled waters that had formed between you. The fight—or argument, or whatever you wanted to call it—was never mentioned again, though its remnants lingered in every glance, every pause in conversation.

Joe left the house earlier than usual, pulling on his practice gear and tossing a quick, distracted nod in your direction before disappearing into the crisp morning air. You watched him go, a small twinge tightening in your chest, and turned back to the quiet house, feeling the emptiness more acutely than ever. By the time he returned, long after the sun had dipped behind the skyline, you were already out the door, caught up in errands, and longer shifts at work that left your feet sore and your mind buzzing, but at least distracted.

The house smelled of stale coffee and his lingering cologne. You kept your interactions to the minimum—“hello” in the morning, a shared nod in the evening, meals eaten in separate corners of the room. Even the bed felt different now, stretched wide with an absence that made you conscious of every inch between you.

And yet, in the quiet, you noticed him. You noticed the way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was looking, the subtle sighs that carried a weight you didn’t dare ask about.

You knew he wanted to fix it—could see it in the half-hearted attempts at conversation, the lingering looks that he quickly averted—but he didn’t know how to start. How do you approach someone who won’t meet you halfway, who has built walls from habits and privacy and stubborn pride?

You, on the other hand, didn’t want to bring it up. Didn’t want to be the one to reopen the wound, to appear needy, desperate, or too much. So you kept busy, pouring energy into work, laughter with friends, errands that made the hours pass faster. But even in the most crowded rooms, in the brightest laughter, there was a hollow spot where his presence belonged.

Some nights, you’d lie awake, listening to the faint hum of the city outside, imagining him next to you, so close yet so far. Did he toss and turn, thinking of you? Did he feel the distance as sharply as you did? Most likely. But neither of you would close it. Neither of you would be the first to admit it.

You were curled up on the living room couch, a half-eaten sandwich resting on your lap, the TV muted as your eyes followed the captions of a show you barely paid attention to. You hadn’t wanted to sit at the dining room table where Joe was spread out with his laptop and notes doing some film study, dissecting every angle like it mattered more than you sitting two feet away.

The sound of the enclosed living room door opening was subtle but familiar, a soft creak in the house. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him. He appeared in the doorway, hesitation written into the set of his shoulders.

Something about his posture—head slightly lowered, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie—made it look like he had swallowed his pride to even ask for whatever he was about to ask. You weren’t sure if that made you feel better, seeing that vulnerability, or worse, because it reminded you how long it had taken to get him to show up in a way that mattered.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. Not quiet enough to be soft, just… careful.

You lifted one eyebrow. “Hey,” you replied, keeping your attention on the screen even though your heart rate had jumped a little.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “So… there’s this thing,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous gesture you recognized instantly. “A joint bachelorette/bachelor party, one of the front office people is throwing it… a few of the guys are going, and, uh… I wanted to know if you’d go too.”

“Oh. Sounds… thrilling,” you said, voice dripping enough snark to make the point without having to look at him.

He sighed, a long, low sound that filled the quiet room. “Never mind,” he muttered, starting toward the door, like he had already given up before you even spoke.

“Wait,” you groaned before your brain could stop you. Your chest was still tight from the argument you’d had days ago, the silence that followed, the way he’d sat on the edge of the bed as if nothing had happened—but there was something in the way he lingered near the doorway now like he was trying to offer some tiny olive branch that made your irritation falter. 

You exhaled slowly, half frustrated, half begrudgingly amused at yourself. “I—I’m going,” you said, voice low but steady.

He froze, hand on the doorknob, and glanced back at you, eyes narrowing in cautious hope.

“I’m not going to cancel last minute. It’s been on the calendar for weeks now, Joe. I wasn’t going to just… not go.” Your tone was softer now, but firm. You could feel your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion.

He scratched at the back of his neck again, looking almost sheepish. “I… I didn’t think, after… everything… that you would still want to go.”

You shook your head, laughing without humour. “I’m not doing this for you,” you said, the words clear and precise. “I’m doing it because I already said I would. Because I already planned to."

He hesitated, leaning against the doorframe for a second, taking a measured breath. Then he gave a small nod and muttered, “Right. Okay.” His voice was quiet, subdued—not the usual confident tone that filled rooms, but softer, uncertain.

You turned back toward the muted screen, letting your fingers hover over the remote for a moment before pressing the button to raise the volume. The show’s dialogue filled the room, but it barely registered; your sandwich sat forgotten, dry and tasteless, like the last few days had been.

Joe stayed in the doorway for a moment longer, arms crossed loosely, like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or wait. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to — your silence said enough. Finally, with a resigned exhale, he stepped back, letting the door click softly behind him as he left.

And that’s how you find yourself standing in front of the mirror a few hours later, spinning slowly in the short cheetah-print dress you’d chosen for the “Y2K” theme the soon-to-be newlyweds had insisted on. It’s bold, it’s fun, it’s unapologetically you — the kind of outfit that makes you feel like you can own the night.

You smooth the fabric over your hips, tug lightly at the hem, and tilt your head, checking your reflection from every angle. Your hair falls in loose waves, a little wild, a little careless, perfect for a night where glitter and loud music matter more than the quiet tension at home. Your makeup is fierce without being overdone — a golden shimmer on your eyelids, a sweep of bronzer along your cheekbones, and lips that demand attention without saying a word.

This is good, you tell yourself. This is your chance to reclaim the night, to shake off the residue of cold silences and unspoken frustration. Joe can sulk in his corner, live in his private bubble of avoidance, but you won’t let that ruin the vibe. Tonight isn’t about him. Tonight is about letting loose, laughing until your ribs ache, and reminding yourself that you can still enjoy yourself.

You slip into heels, feeling the familiar pinch at first, then the rise in confidence that always comes with them. A quick glance at the clock tells you you have just enough time to grab your bag, slide on your jacket, and head out without feeling rushed.

Your phone buzzes — texts from the WAG groupchat with many already at the club, a mix of emojis and impatience. You smile, a genuine curve of lips that Joe hasn’t seen in days, and grab your bag.

You pad down the stairs quietly, hoping to slip past him unnoticed, to make it to the car without any unnecessary exchange. Optimism, as it turns out, is not your ally tonight.

There he is at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the banister with his phone in hand, looking impossibly composed. When he looks up and sees you, something shifts — an imperceptible tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

He looks… good. Too good. Every detail, from the sharp line of his jaw to the way his shirt fits across broad shoulders, makes your chest tighten with a mix of irritation and something more complicated that you don’t have the patience to name right now. Everything about him seems to bother you, from the confidence he carries to the way he tilts his head like he’s assessing, judging, savouring.

He doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he lets his gaze travel slowly over you, taking in the dress, the heels, the hair, the way you’ve made an effort that apparently, tonight, he notices. You stiffen under it, thinking he’s going to comment — compliment, tease, anything — but he doesn’t.

Eventually, he clenches his jaw like he’s forcing himself to let words stay locked away, and with a deliberate calm, he asks, “You ready to go?” He avoids your eyes fully, letting his flick briefly toward the stairs before settling back on the floor, like he’s testing your patience or his own resolve.

You take a breath, straighten your shoulders, and nod, letting your fingers brush lightly against the strap of your bag. “Yeah,” you answer, voice quiet but firm.

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and gestures toward the door with a tilt of his head. The movement is casual, but there’s a tautness beneath it, a restrained energy that hints at all the words neither of you have said over the past days.

Outside, the cool night air greets you. You both slide into the car, him in the driver’s seat, you in the passenger, the engine humming to life as if it’s its own quiet witness to the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Streetlights flicker across his face as he pulls out of the driveway, carving shadows along his jaw, highlighting the faint crease between his brows. You can tell he’s thinking — overthinking, maybe — but not saying a word, and that restraint grates at you more than any argument ever could.

He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping a slow rhythm you can’t decipher. You don’t look directly at him, instead turning your gaze to the window, watching the city shift from quiet residential streets into the neon-soaked buzz of nightlife.

At one red light, you feel his eyes on you. Not a quick glance — a look. You keep facing forward, but you can feel it, the weight of his attention, the unspoken words pushing at the space between you. When the light turns green, he’s the first to look away.

As you get closer, he slows the car, merging into the lane leading toward the private entrance the team uses for events. There’s already a small crowd outside — players, spouses, girlfriends, coworkers — dressed in a chaotic collage of Y2K nostalgia. Low-rise everything. Sparkles. Denim. Butterfly clips. Neon mesh tops. It should make you laugh, but the knot in your stomach is still too tight.

Joe pulls into the valet line, exhaling once through his nose, like he’s bracing himself. He puts the car in park but doesn’t immediately open the door. For a second, you think he’s going to speak — maybe offer some kind words — but he doesn’t. His fingers flex once on the steering wheel, knuckles going pale.

“You… good?” he asks finally, eyes fixed on the windshield. The question is simple, nearly emotionless, but you hear the quiet strain beneath it.

You force a small, controlled smile. “Yeah. I'm good,” you say, and even you can hear the lie tucked under it.

He nods like he believes you, or like he’s pretending to. Hard to tell which. Then he steps out, walks around the car, and opens your door. He doesn’t offer a hand — he hasn’t in days — but he waits, the slightest courtesy lingering in his posture.

You step out into the night, the thumping bass from inside vibrating through the pavement. Lights flash from the entrance in bursts of pink and blue. A group of your friends spot you from across the sidewalk, waving dramatically, already cheering your arrival.

You finally smile — a real one — and wave back.

Joe watches the interaction quietly, something in his expression softening for just a moment before he quickly schools it back into neutrality. “Have fun,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the music.

You glance at him, unsure whether he means it or if it’s just something to say. But you nod anyway. “You too,” you offer, even though you’re not sure he will.

Inside, the club feels like stepping into another universe — one made of bass, glitter, and bodies moving under hazy pink lights. The air thrums with nostalgia; every corner is drenched in some version of early-2000s chaos. Your friends latch onto you immediately, pulling you into their circle with excited shrieks and compliments shouted over the music. Someone hands you a drink, someone else fixes a butterfly clip in your hair, and for a moment you let their warmth pull you out of your own head.

Across the room, you catch a glimpse of Joe with the guys — all of them in their own version of the theme, some ironically, some embarrassingly committed. He’s got a backwards cap on and a white tee stretched across his shoulders, the kind that shouldn’t look as good as it does. He stands slightly behind the group, nursing a drink, nodding along to whatever conversation they’re having. He laughs once at something Ja’Marr says, but it’s short, controlled, like he’s too aware of where you are to fully relax.

He doesn’t come over. Not once.

But every few minutes, when you shift or laugh or tuck your hair behind your ear, you feel him looking. You turn your head — just enough to catch the tail end of a glance he pretends he wasn’t giving, eyes sliding away as if he’d been focused on anything else.

You stay close to your girls — smiling, laughing, sipping slowly. You’re polite when someone compliments your outfit. You dance a little when your favorite old-school song comes on. You’re doing everything you can to seem light, easy, unbothered.

And you’re almost convincing yourself… until you head to the bar.

When your group makes its way toward the bar, you slide onto an open spot, elbows against the counter, letting the cool surface kiss your skin. You ask for another drink — something fruity, something sweet — and while you wait, someone steps up beside you.

He’s got that slick confidence some men wear like cologne: too strong, too obvious, impossible to ignore.

“Didn’t think anyone else could pull off a dress like that,” he says, tone smooth and practiced.

You blink, brows lifting. His gaze drags down the length of your legs like he thinks he has the right. You shift your weight subtly, turning your body a little toward your friends.

“Thanks,” you answer politely, offering a small, tight smile — the kind that clearly means that’s enough.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“So… you here alone?” he asks, leaning in. He positions his elbow on the bar like he wants to trap you between it and his shoulder.

“No,” you say gently, keeping your tone friendly but final. “I’m with friends.”

He nods once but doesn’t look away — instead he scans the room lazily, then returns his eyes to you with a grin that’s just a little too confident. “But no guy with you?” he presses. When you don’t answer immediately, his grin widens as if he’s just solved a puzzle. “That’s good news for me.”

Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek. “I’m actually—”

“Taken,” a voice cuts in — low, steady, and unmistakably sure of itself. “She’s taken.”

You freeze because you know that voice. You know it in the way your pulse jumps, in the way the air around you shifts, in the way your body recognises him before your mind catches up.

You straighten instinctively, rising from your seat before you can even think about it — not out of fear, but because your whole body reacts to that voice like it’s been waiting for it, like gravity itself just shifted and pulled you upright.

And then you feel it fully — the weight of his presence closing in around you, familiar and grounding. An arm slides around your waist — slow at first, deliberate, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to. His palm spreads across your hip, fingers settling with a kind of certainty that sends heat rushing up your spine. He steps in behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his chest at your back, the familiar scent of him curling around you even through the noise and sweat and neon lights.

Joe.

You don’t turn. You can’t yet. You’re too aware — of his body bracketing yours, of the protective tension in his grip, of the way his presence sinks into your skin like a memory your heart has been starving for.

The guy beside you flicks his eyes between the two of you, unimpressed. “Didn’t look like it,” he says, smug and dismissive, like he thinks this is a game he’s still winning.

You feel Joe go perfectly, dangerously still. Not rigid. Not angry. Just controlled in that razor-sharp way he gets when something digs right under his skin and hits bone. His hand tightens slightly on your waist — not enough to hurt, just enough that you feel the message in the pressure: stay with me.

The guy’s smirk barely has time to settle before something shifts — in Joe, in the air, in the space around you. You feel it like a warning, like the moment right before lightning hits: charged and inevitable.

In one smooth, decisive motion, he turns your body toward him, guiding you with the hand still warm and firm at your waist. His other hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, then cupping your jaw with a care that contradicts the tension coiled through the rest of him.

You look up — and his eyes are already on you, intense, darkened, full of something he hasn’t let himself say out loud these past few days. Something he’s been swallowing, avoiding, burying under schedules and silence.

He doesn’t give himself another second to reconsider. His thumb strokes your cheek once, and then he kisses you. Not tentative. Not a whisper of a kiss meant to prove a point.

It’s deep and immediate and hungry — a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with heat. His hand holds your jaw firmly, angling your mouth toward his as he presses into you like he’s been craving this, craving you, for far too long.

Your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you closer, slotting your body fully against his. The noise of the club dims, blurs, disappears under the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

It’s a kiss that burns, and brands, and warns.

But he doesn’t stop. Even when your lungs start to burn. Even when your fingers tremble against his chest. Even when the reason — the guy, the stupid smug stranger — is long gone, swallowed by the crowd. Joe keeps kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s trying to make up for days of silence in a single breath. Like he’s terrified that if he lets you go now, he won’t get another chance.

And for one wild second, you let him. You forget the bar. The club. The people around you. You forget why he stepped in at all. But then reality snaps back like a rubber band against your skin.

Your palms push flat against his chest, shoving him back just enough to break the kiss. He stumbles half a step, brows knotting in confusion, breaths ragged. You swipe the back of your hand across your mouth, grounding yourself, anchoring yourself.

“What the hell?” you spit, breathless and furious.

His eyes widen a fraction — not offended, just startled — like he hadn’t even considered that you might be angry. Like the possibility never crossed his mind. “What?” he says, chest rising and falling. “I—”

“You don’t get to do this to me, Joe.” Your voice fractures in the middle — anger, sadness, confusion, all tangled.

His brows tug together, helpless, almost pained. “Do what?”

A scoff tears out of you as you shake your head, something hot and bitter burning in your chest. Of course. Of course he doesn’t get it. Of course he swoops in, touches you like he owns you, kisses you like he’s been thinking about it nonstop — then acts surprised when it hurts.

You turn sharply and walk away, needing space, air, anything that isn’t him. The crowd swallows you immediately, bodies brushing past, lights flickering across your vision.

“Hey—” You hear him behind you, voice strained. “Hey, wait—”

You don’t. You keep moving, pushing through bodies, weaving between dancing strangers.

“Y/N.” This time it’s firmer. Closer. Footsteps follow. Faster. He’s right behind you now, matching your pace like he refuses to let the distance grow.

“Would you just—” You feel his fingers curl gently but insistently around your arm, tugging you back toward him. “Stop.”

You whirl around, fury crackling through you. “Don’t—” you hiss, breath shaking. But he’s already stepping closer, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that makes your heartbeat stutter painfully in your chest.

“Look at me,” he says, low, steady, the command threaded with something raw. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t give him that. But your eyes lift anyway. 

His eyes lock onto yours, searching, tense, unblinking — and then his voice drops, softer but no less intense. “Talk to me,” he says. “Please. Just… tell me what’s wrong.”

You yank your arm out of his grip, breath shaking as it escapes your lungs in something closer to a laugh — a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Oh, I’ll tell you what’s wrong.”

His jaw flexes. He braces for it.

“You had no right to do that,” you snap, voice rising before you can stop it. “In front of everyone, Joe. In front of my friends. In a club full of people. Like you suddenly get to claim me when we haven’t even—” You cut yourself off, chest heaving.

“We never revisited that conversation,” you say, quieter but more lethal. “Not once. You shut down. You avoided me. I tried to give you space, tried to understand the way you are — how you freeze up when things get too public, how you hate eyes on you, how you get weird when anything feels too exposed. I respected it. I followed your lead.”

His brows pinch, because he knows that’s true. Because he felt it too.

“And then you go and pull this stunt?” you demand, voice cracking. “You can barely speak to me for days and then kiss me like that in the middle of a room full of people. You don’t get to go cold and then suddenly act like—” Your throat tightens, burning. “Like you want me,” you whisper. “Like you want all of me. Because you can’t just switch it on and off. You can’t keep doing this to me.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

You shake your head, breath trembling. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me? The way you look at me some days, like I’m the only person in the room? And then the next day you act like you barely know me? I’m trying to make sense of it, Joe. I really am.”

Your voice breaks completely. “Because behind closed doors? When it’s just us?” You swallow hard, blinking back heat from your eyes. “That’s the version of you I… I love.”

He goes absolutely still, like the air has been sucked out of the space between you.

“I love that man,” you say, anger and heartbreak tangling in every syllable. “The one who lets me in. The one who touches me like I matter. The one who doesn’t run. The one who—” Your voice drops. “The one who kisses me like that.”

Your hands lift helplessly, falling again. “But I don’t know which you I’m getting anymore. I don’t know what you want from me. And it’s driving me insane.”

He stands there, breathing like he just ran a mile, chest rising and falling as your confession echoes between you — raw, trembling, disbelieving even to your own ears.

And then, finally, he moves.

Not toward you at first. Just a step back, like your words punched the air out of him and he needs space to take it in. His hand drags through his hair, slow and rough, like he’s trying to physically pull his thoughts together. When he looks at you again, his eyes are different — wide, unguarded, stripped of every wall he usually hides behind.

“Jesus,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “You think I don’t want you?”

You flinch, because the hurt is still hot, still burning through your ribs. “Of course you do,” you mutter, voice cracked, bitter. “In private. When no one’s looking. When it’s easy.”

He shakes his head immediately — sharp, almost desperate — like the thought alone guts him. “No. That’s not—” He stops, jaw tight, breath unsteady. “I’m bad at this. I know I am. I know I pulled away. I know I didn’t say enough. I know I didn’t say anything. And I should’ve. I should’ve talked to you instead of shutting down.”

He swallows hard, shoulders rising with a breath that sounds like it hurts. “The truth is you… you scare the hell out of me.”

You blink, taken off guard. “What?”

“You do.” His voice is rough, thick with honesty he’s clearly terrified to give. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone. And I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to—” His throat works. “I didn’t want to screw this up so I told myself to slow down,” he continues, eyes never leaving you. “To back off. To take a breath before I did something stupid. But then I saw that guy leaning into you, and I—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if the memory alone ignites something hot in his chest. “I lost it. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan it. I just—"

He takes another step toward you, close enough that the bass of the club vibrates between your bodies. "I needed him to know you weren’t available. And I needed you to know that I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens again, this time for a different reason. He sees the tears gathering at your lashes — anger, confusion, affection, all of it — and his voice softens. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm.

“I’m so damn sorry for making you doubt any of this. I never meant to hurt you. I’ve just… I’ve been trying to play it safe. And every time I’m around you, I get so far past ‘safe’ I can’t see straight.”

You look away for a second, swallowing down the remaining hurt. “You still kissed me in front of everyone,” you say, the last edges of your anger clinging to your words. “You put me in a position you know you’d hate. You blindsided me.”

He nods — not defensive, not dismissive — but with the weight of someone who knows he deserves that. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I can’t take that moment back. But I swear to you, I didn’t kiss you to make a scene. I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to for days and I was too scared to do it when it mattered. And tonight, I… I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

You hold his gaze, searching, still wary.

He steps just a little closer — close enough for his voice to fall softer, steadier, honest in a way that makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to confuse you,” he says. “I don’t want to be hot one day and cold the next. I don’t want you wondering where you stand with me. I don’t want you thinking I don’t want you the way you want me.”

Your breath shakes, because the moment feels too big, too raw, too close.

“I want this,” he says, finally, clearly, like he’s saying something he should’ve said days ago.

"When things get real for me — really real — I get in my head. I overthink. I freeze.” A humourless laugh slips out of him. “You said that earlier. And you’re right. I do. I hate eyes on me. I hate people knowing too much. I hate the idea of anyone watching something I haven’t figured out how to protect yet.”

His eyes flick briefly down, then back up. “And you’re the one thing I want to protect the most. Which makes me… an idiot.”

You huff out a shaky breath. “Joe—”

“I’m not making excuses,” he cuts in gently. “I’m telling you why I screwed this up so badly. Why I panicked. Why I pulled away even though it killed me.” He pauses, searching your face like the next words matter more than anything he’s said tonight. “I’ve never loved someone the way I love you. Not even close.”

The words settle between you, warm and trembling and undeniably real. You’re still hurt. You’re still unsure. But you’re also listening and he sees that — sees your breathing slow, the anger easing but not gone, your eyes softening even as your walls stay up.

He takes one final half-step closer, barely brushing your space. “You’re allowed to still be mad,” he says, voice low. “Just… don’t walk away from me yet. Not tonight.”

You drag a hand through your hair and look away because it’s too much — the heat of his body against yours, the sincerity in his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your hurt. It hits you harder than the alcohol ever could. Too intense. Too real.

And suddenly the anger you’ve been clinging to like a shield doesn’t feel sharp anymore. It softens at the edges, cooling into something molten and heavy in your chest — heartbreak and hope twisted together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Your throat tightens. You swallow. Once. Twice.

“I’m still mad,” you say eventually, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the music.

“I know.”

“But I’m not walking away.”

He exhales shakily — relief, disbelief, something softer beneath it — like he hadn’t let himself hope for that answer until this second.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay,” you echo.

Neither of you move, and for a long moment, the tension hangs — taut, fragile, a wire stretched between two people who know the stakes and are terrified of snapping it. 

You feel the weight of your own indecision. Every instinct tells you to retreat, to step back and reclaim the space that’s suddenly been invaded by something more than words, more than anger, more than anything you thought you were prepared to handle tonight. But another part — a part that hasn’t stopped hoping, that hasn’t stopped wanting him despite everything — keeps you rooted, trembling in place.

Finally, he does something small. Simple. Almost imperceptible if you weren’t watching for it. He extends his hand toward you, palm up, fingers slightly curled as though asking permission rather than demanding.

It’s not a surrender. It’s not a promise. It’s an olive branch — a fragile, trembling offer of something neither of you knows how to define yet.

Your hand hovers in the air, unsure if it wants to meet his or withdraw entirely. Your chest rises and falls, and you glance down at the space between your fingertips, the world shrinking to the narrow stretch of air separating you both.

It’s tempting. Dangerous. It’s hope wrapped in apology and a little fear, and it makes your pulse jump in a way that’s entirely unfair. You’re not sure if you trust it. You’re not sure you trust him. But you also know that something inside you — something stubborn, something that refuses to let go — wants to reach out.

You lift your hand slowly, almost involuntarily, letting your fingers brush against his. It’s tentative, a test, a quiet truce. And when his hand closes gently over yours, warm and firm, it’s not perfect, it’s not complete, but it’s a start.

Your fingers barely settle into his before he’s already moving — slow, steady, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might spook you, but certain enough that you feel the quiet resolve threaded into the gesture. His hand wraps fully around yours, warm and grounding, as he guides you through the crowd.

The people around you blur into shadows and color as he leads you, weaving between dancers and bodies and the pulse of the bass. He stays close — closer than he needs to. His arm brushes yours with every step, his thumb tracing absent-minded, almost nervous circles against the back of your hand.

It’s a contradiction in motion: soft, hesitant touches paired with a grip that refuses to let you drift even an inch farther than he wants you. You feel it with each step — that shift in him. That decision. That choice.

When you reach the booth where your friends are still gathered, laughing and talking over music, Joe slows but doesn’t let go. If anything, his hand tightens on yours, like instinct takes over before thought can catch up.

Your friends look up — first at you, then at him — and confusion flickers across a few faces because Joe Burrow doesn’t do this. He doesn’t wear his feelings where anyone can see them.

Tonight though, he stays.

He slides in behind you, hand drifting from your fingers to your waist, settling there with a familiarity that is very much not subtle. His thumb presses into your hip bone, slow and possessive. You swear you feel heat bloom under your skin. Then, as the conversation around you picks up again, he leans down — like it’s nothing, natural — and rests his cheek briefly against your temple.

You go still because that? That’s not a Joe move. Not the Joe everyone else knows, at least.

His hand doesn’t stay still long. It slips lower, fingers brushing along your hip, then the curve of your thigh when you shift. When you move closer to your friends, his hand returns to your lower back, guiding you without pushing. When you lean forward to grab your drink, his palm finds your waist again, sliding under the hem of your top just enough that you feel the heat of his skin against yours. It’s not once, not twice, but constant.

He’s glued to you — physically, emotionally, magnetically — like his body refuses to accept even an inch of distance. And every time he touches you, it feels a little less like a claim and a little more like a confession he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

Your friends notice. How could they not?

His arm around your waist as you talk. His fingers brushing your knuckles when you take a sip. The way he leans down to say something only to you, his breath warm against your ear. The absent slide of his hand along your hip when someone else steps close to you in the crowded booth and he instinctively pulls you nearer.

It’s jealous, possessive, needy. It’s devotion edged with fear — the kind that says don’t go far, I’m still figuring out how to deserve you.

He doesn’t even pretend to go back to his boys. They glance over once or twice, eyebrows raised, but Joe? He doesn’t move. Doesn’t waver. He sits with you — stays with you — like this is where he was supposed to be all along.

For the first time… he lets himself be yours in public. And God, you can feel it. Every brush of his fingers. Every protective shift of his body. Every subtle press of affection he gives without even realizing who’s watching. 

It sends warmth sweeping through you — slow, dizzying, undeniable. It builds slowly like heat rising beneath your skin, like something thick and honey-sweet settling low in your stomach. Because the longer he stays pressed against you, the more undeniable it becomes: Joe isn’t hiding you — not tonight, not anymore.

He doesn’t let go of you when the night winds down. Not when your friends begin gathering their things, not when you slide out of the booth, not when he guides you toward the exit with a hand on your lower back like he’s afraid the crowd might swallow you again.

Outside, the air is cooler, quieter, but his touch stays warm on your skin.

His car is parked a block away, and even then — even with fewer people, fewer eyes — Joe sticks close. His fingers find yours again, not tentative this time, not searching. Certain. Firm. Like he’s made a decision and the only thing left is to follow it.

He opens the passenger door for you and you settle into the seat as he rounds the car and slides into his own. For a moment, the only sound is the engine turning over and the muted rush of traffic in the distance.

Then his hand falls onto your knee.

His palm rests there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb makes a slow pass over your skin, a subtle stroke that sends a pulse straight up your spine. He doesn’t look at you when he does it, doesn’t announce it, doesn’t wait for your reaction. He just… keeps it there. As if he’s been waiting all night to touch you in a way that isn’t frantic or apologetic or desperate — just real.

The city lights flash across his face as he drives — sharp lines softened by the dark, jaw tight with concentration, eyes fixed on the road. But every few seconds, that thumb moves again, a slow, rhythmic sweep side to side that feels more like reassurance than anything he could say out loud.

You feel your muscles unwind, inch by inch. The anger’s gone. The ache is still there — a bruise beneath the ribs — but what’s rising in its place is quieter, warmer. Something that feels dangerously close to peace.

By the time he pulls into your driveway, the tension between you has softened into something fragile but steady — a truce held together by touch and the promise of trying again. He squeezes your knee once before letting go. And as the engine cuts off and the silence settles, you realise you’re no longer bracing for the next hurt, just waiting to see what comes next. 

The night isn’t healed, not by a long shot, but it’s no longer breaking. It’s beginning.

YOU DON’T BREAK OPEN ALL AT ONCE. You settle back into each other slowly — in the quiet, in the in-between moments, in the subtle ways your walls start lowering without either of you calling attention to it.

You start noticing the little things first: the way he reaches for your hand when you leave restaurants, fingers lacing through yours like muscle memory finally allowed to be muscle memory again. The way his palm settles on the small of your back at events, guiding you through crowds like you’re something he refuses to lose track of. And sometimes — when he thinks no one is watching, or maybe when he’s finally stopped caring if they are — he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Nothing big. Nothing loud.

Just steps. 

Steps you don’t rush him through, steps he takes on his own, steady and sincere. You’re proud of him for that — not for being perfect, not for performing, but for trying. For choosing closeness even when he still gets nervous about being seen.

And tonight, that quiet confidence he’s been building, the small gestures that have made your days feel warmer, they trail behind him all the way to the stadium.

The anticipation, the way your chest tightens at the thought of seeing him in action, it all laces itself into the nerves that curl low in your stomach. It’s game day, and even though you’ve gotten used to his routines, even though you’ve learned how to exist alongside his world without breaking it, you still can’t help the familiar, fluttering worry that comes every time he’s out there, fighting, giving everything he has.

The hum of the stadium seeps through the glass, low and steady, vibrating faintly under your fingertips as you sit perched on the window sill, knees pulled up to your chest. Your phone rests in your lap, screen glowing softly, fingers unconsciously tugging at your nails.

You hadn’t seen him yet this morning. You’d sent him a quick good luck message earlier that morning; he’d liked it, a tiny acknowledgment that warmed you despite the distance.

You were familiar with the rhythm he needed: solitary mornings, quiet preparation, the sort of headspace that let him focus on what he does best. The night before had been just as you liked it — him at the kitchen table, eyes on film study, coffee cup warm between his hands, and you on the living room couch, book in hand, quietly near but co-existing seperately.

Your gaze drifts out the glass, scanning the field, and there he is — Joe, phone in hand, and definitely not doing warmups. Your brow furrows. That’s strange, you think. He’s always out early, getting his stretches in, warming up his body and mind. 

And then your phone dings, vibrating softly against your thigh. You glance down, picking it up, and the notification makes your chest flutter:

Joey 💞 Come to the sideline today? Joey 💞 I want to see you before the game.

You look back up, catching him glancing up at your suite, scanning the window like he knows exactly where you are. You shake your head, smiling despite the nerves curling in your stomach, even though you’re sure he can’t see you from here.

Excusing yourself from the cluster of familiar faces in the suite — Robin, Jimmy, his cousins, childhood friends, old teammates — you make your way toward the elevator, heart hammering in that anxious-but-excited rhythm you only get with him.

You don’t come down to the sidelines often. The suite is your safe space — private, quiet, free from cameras, free from people watching your every gesture. And, admittedly, you worry about what your nerves might do to him if you’re too close on game day — about how your anxiety might project onto him, about how easily it could distract the calm, controlled focus he fights to maintain.

You push the caution aside, letting your feet carry you forward, toward him, toward the pre-game moment you both somehow need.

The elevator doors open, spilling you out into the pulse of the stadium. The noise hits you in waves — cheers from early-arriving fans, the sharp whistles of staff moving across the field, the clatter of equipment being readied. Lights glare, people bustle, cameras flash somewhere in the distance, and the smell of turf and sweat hangs heavy in the air.

You navigate through the flurry, careful not to collide with staff or players warming up, until you reach the barrier that separates spectators from the field. You lean against it lightly, knees brushing the metal, scanning the chaos for him. Your chest hammers as your eyes dart across the sideline, catching movement, a familiar silhouette.

There he is — Joe, standing a few yards away, talking to a couple of guys in his pre-game huddle, phone tucked under his arm. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you, and your chest tightens just slightly with nerves, your hands fidgeting at the barrier. Then your eyes meet, and something in the world stills. You give him a half-wave, a small, tentative gesture, and his lips twitch upward in recognition. That little smile, that familiar spark, makes your pulse jump.

He excuses himself from the group, weaving through the sideline with casual confidence, and you brace yourself for what you think will come next: maybe a quick hello, a soft touch on the shoulder, a brief hug. The type of acknowledgment that keeps the balance between public and private, the kind of gentle connection that doesn’t draw attention.

But then — everything changes.

He locks eyes with you, moves with determination that cuts through the cameras, the flashing lights, the shouting crowd. He doesn’t hesitate. By the time he reaches you, he’s closing the space entirely, both arms wrapping around you, and your knees go weak from the sheer force of it. Before you can even process it, before your brain can tell your heart to slow down, he kisses you.

Not a quick peck. Not a polite gesture. A full, certain kiss, the kind that’s been building between you for weeks, months even, now unleashed without restraint, without apology. The noise of the crowd, the cameras, the world around you — it all disappears. The cheers ripple across the field, cameras flash, teammates glance your way, and the broadcast catches the moment for everyone watching at home, but none of it touches the quiet intensity of the moment you’re trapped in.

You freeze for a heartbeat, stunned. Your arms wrap around him instinctively, melting into the warmth of him, into the certainty of his presence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely untethered in the best way possible.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper against your ear, voice low and raw, “I don’t care who sees anymore.”

And just like that, he’s jogging back toward the field, slipping into warmups, but not before planting another quick, sharp kiss on your lips — enough to make the crowd react, enough to set your heart racing in a way that will linger for hours. Your cheeks burn, warmth spreading from your chest outward, and even as the adrenaline races through you, a calm settles behind it. 

The flashes, the cameras, the world watching — it doesn’t matter. Because tonight, in front of everyone, he chose you. Chose you without hesitation, without reservation, without the usual carefulness that keeps him guarded.

And as you pull yourself upright, gripping the barrier with one hand, your phone forgotten at your side, you realise something crystal clear: you finally have him out loud. No more holding back, no more careful distance, no more private gestures kept behind closed doors.

Your Joe, in front of everyone, just chose you and you know with an unshakable certainty that he’ll never hold you at arm’s length again.

This year was no different. Joe had booked out the VIP section of an exclusive bar and restaurant in downtown Cincinnati for the two of you and a group of your family and closest friends. He had stopped by the bar the night before to make sure that everything was perfect, the decorations were to your liking and the food was taken care of. He left feeling excited to see your reaction; you thought you were just having a meal, and had no idea that people were coming from across the country to celebrate your special day.  

As Joe stood at the oven, preparing a birthday breakfast in bed, you awoke in bed and stretched. It took you a few seconds to remember that it was your birthday, but when you rolled over to look at the clock on your bedside table, a wide smile spread across your face. A card leant against an enormous vase of flowers, alongside a box of your favourite chocolates.

You sat up against the pillows and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a beautiful white card, with pink sparkly writing spelling out To A Beautiful Girlfriend in cursive.  

When you opened up the card, your heart fizzed with fireworks. On the left side, Joe had stuck various pictures together in a small collage; photos of the two of you from various game days, different selfies from your travels together, and his favourite photos of you that he’d sneakily taken when you weren’t looking. It was a montage of your relationship so far, an homage to the beautiful life you were building together. On the right side of the card was Joe’s familiar scrawl:

To my wonderful girl,  

Wishing you the most special birthday! My life is so much richer with you in it, forever lucky to call you mine. Can’t wait to celebrate with you. 

I love you! 

Joe x  

You set the card back on your bedside table with a delirious smile, admiring the bouquet of flowers, and picked up your phone from the bedside table where it was on charge.

It was already pinging every few seconds with well wishes from various sources; your work group chat, Instagram story mentions and messages from friends, and text messages from your parents and wider family.

At the top of your contact list, in the favourites tab, sat a message from Joe that had come in a few minutes before you woke up:

From: JoeyB❤️🏈

Stay in bed, sweetheart. Breakfast is on its way 😘

More fireworks crackled and popped inside you. How lucky were you to call this man yours? You typed out a reply: 

To: JoeyB❤️🏈

You spoil me. Thank you, baby ❤️

All the same, you hopped out of bed and shuffled into the en-suite to brush your teeth and freshen up. The toothbrush whirred against your teeth, and in the moment of peace, you looked at yourself in the mirror. 

The woman who stared back at you, although certainly tired and freshly awakened, looked mature and collected. You weren't usually the one to go big on your birthday, but the last year had been a challenging one, with work drama, a few health problems and family issues, and you were grateful to have been blessed with another year.

27. Officially in your late-twenties. 

The year ahead promised to be even more of an adventure, and the best part? You had Joe by your side to experience it all.  

You curled back up in the covers, your hair brushed and teeth fresh. Moments later, the door to your bedroom opened. 

‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Y/N, happy birthday to you!’ Joe sang, a tray of breakfast in his hands. He set it down carefully onto the bed and leant down to kiss the top of your head before settling in beside you. ‘Happy birthday, baby,’ he murmured into your hair.  

‘Thank you Joey, and look at this feast!’

Your boyfriend had gone all out; pancakes and French toast drizzled in maple syrup and topped with icing sugar, a bowl of your favourite fruit cut into small pieces so you could share, a side plate stacked with bacon, sausages and hash browns, and a glass of pineapple juice, your favourite.

‘This is amazing, Joey. Thank you.’ The two of you shared a sweet kiss, smiling into each other’s lips. 

‘Only the best for my amazing girl.’  

You tucked in, taking bites from each plate to enjoy every bit of it. 

Everything was cooked to perfection; crispy bacon, French toast perfectly soft in the middle, pancakes fluffy and sweet. 

Joe ‘helped’ you by taking little bites every now and then, saying it was quality control and making sure it was all up to standard. You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head, too wrapped up in your blissful little bubble to care.  

Once breakfast was finished and washed down with the last of the pineapple juice, Joe leant under the bed and brought out three enormous shopping bags. One bag had the Coach logo emblazoned on the side, another read Burberry in classic brown script, and the last was plain white.  

‘Joey… I thought I said minimal presents this year,’ you teased. It was your instruction every single year, yet every single year, Joe refused to comply.

‘I realise that. Unfortunately, I was put on this earth to treat you, so I made the executive decision to disregard that instruction,’ he grinned cheekily. His words made your heart bounce around your chest like a ping pong ball, and you quickly forgot about it after you opened the Coach bag. Inside was the most beautiful red wine-coloured leather carry-all, exactly the one you had mentioned to him in a comment a few months ago.  

‘Oh wow, Joe, this is gorgeous!’ The bag was sturdy, the leather soft under your fingers as you brushed them over the material. When you opened up the bag, you found a black cross-body tucked inside. ‘This is incredible, thank you.’ You leant down to press an appreciative kiss to his lips.  

‘Open the Burberry bag!’ He encouraged as he pushed the bag in question closer to you. His enthusiasm made you giggle again.  

‘Okay, okay, here I go.’ Inside the bag were several smaller packages; one big rectangular box, clearly carrying shoes or boots, accompanied by a selection of gift packages. Immediately, you went for the larger box, and when you opened it, your jaw dropped. ‘Joseph! Oh my god!’ You all but squeaked when you saw the most beautiful black leather boots you had ever seen, knee-high with an eye-watering heel. Your mind was cast back to the Burberry runway show you had watched together just a few weeks prior, and how you had gasped at the sight of the boots when the model wore them, how you had instantly nudged Joe’s arm and whispered to him about how gorgeous they were. They weren't meant to be released for another couple of weeks, but you had them in your hand; they were yours. 

‘Made a few calls, pulled a few strings, managed to get a pair early,’ Joe said softly. Tears pricked your eyes as you tackled him into a cuddle, a soft grunt coming from him at the impact before he chuckled.  

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ You squealed into his chest. He gave you a tight squeeze. 

‘Anything for my girl.’  

The rest of the morning was spent opening the rest of your presents - a Burberry scarf that matched your boots, the softest dark grey Prada sweater, a voucher for Barnes & Noble that had enough money loaded up on it to last you several months, a Nintendo Switch 2 that was already loaded up with all the games you had on your wishlist, a pale blue sweat set from Alo, a new pair of running shoes from ON, a framed photo of the two of you from the Bengals charity gala a few weeks prior… Every gift was thoughtful. Each one you knew you would use or wear. The photo was set proudly on your bedside table so you could see it each morning when you woke up and each night before bed.  

It was the most perfect morning. Joe always made you feel cherished, but there was something about your birthday that made it extra special. You loved the fact that you had your own job and had made your way on your own, and Joe’s love for treating you was something you had had to get used to, but now, you loved it just as much as he did.  

At around midday, after you and Joe had enjoyed a slow morning, the two of you decided to head out and get some lunch together. You just had to wear your new outfit, complete with a black skirt. The boots were some of the comfiest you had ever worn despite being brand new, the heels bringing you almost to Joe's height. The sight of you wearing your new outfit made Joe’s heart thump wildly, his eyes darting up and down your body when you swanned downstairs.  

On the drive into town, he clasped your hand over the centre console, not letting go once, using his driving hand to operate his blinkers when needed.  

Joe parked the car outside your favourite Italian deli that served the most amazing sandwiches, pasta and desserts, smiling when you clapped your hands delightedly.  

It was perfect, all of it. The food was divine, and the atmosphere was quiet and peaceful, giving you and Joe the opportunity to really catch up with one another and reminisce about the years you’d spent together so far. To top it off, the chef brought out a delicious chocolate cake, your favourite, with Happy 27th Birthday! elegantly inscribed in frosting on the top. Joe got his phone out and took a million photos of you smiling down at your cake, posting one to his Instagram story in a rare but sweet display of affection with the caption: 

My beautiful birthday girl ❤️ I love you, baby!  

You and Joe each had a slice, and the server boxed up the rest for you to take home. Joe’s hand clasped yours again as you left the deli.  

‘Happy birthday, Y/N!’ a small voice called from a few feet away. You turned around to see a couple of young kids, both in Bengals shirts, smiling and waving shyly at you. You glanced up, smiling, to Joe, who returned your happy face. 

‘Want to say hello?’ Joe asked. His hand squeezed yours, telling you silently that it was up to you.

‘Let’s go!’ You all but tugged Joe over to the two teens, who couldn’t have been older than about seventeen, maybe eighteen. ‘Hi guys, great to meet you! What are your names?’  

The two kids looked completely awestruck at the sight of the two of you, but told you their names, Jake and Kiera. 

You and Joe chatted with them for a few minutes, Joe more observant than anything else, looking down proudly at you as you conversed and took pictures with the fans. You were very surprised that they wanted you in the photos, but posed with them all the same.  

‘Thank you so much for stopping and chatting!’ Jake said breathlessly. 

‘Yeah, thank you, I hope you have a great day!’ Kiera agreed.  

‘Of course! You guys have an awesome rest of your day!’ 

The sun was shining and the air still had a slight chill to it as you and Joe walked down the street, back to his car. Nothing could wipe the smile from your face, though. You had the love of your life with you, it was your birthday and you had a gorgeous day planned out. You were the absolute luckiest girl in the world.

On the drive home, you sat happily in your seat with happy butterflies dancing around your stomach. It had been the most perfect day already, and you hadn’t even had your meal yet.

When Joe turned the car into your driveway and put it into park, you leant across the centre console and held the back of his head as you pressed a firm kiss to his lips. He kissed you back immediately, his large body leaning forward to deepen the kiss. His hand reached up to skim your cheek. 

‘What was that for?’ he asked softly when you leant back for air.  You bumped your nose gently against his, something that you had done since the early days, causing him to scrunch his nose. The action made your heart almost melt with love. Rubbing your noses together was your own affectionate little way of saying I love you without saying it out loud.

‘What, am I not allowed to kiss my gorgeous boyfriend without a reason?’ His chest rumbled with a chuckle at your response. ‘Thank you for today… the gifts, the lunch, just… thank you for everything, Joey. I feel like I don’t say it enough, so thank you. You’re the best, and I love you so much.’ You tried to capture the gratitude you felt in your body, but the truth was you would never be able to truly express it in words. The fact that this man loved you, chose you, never failed to take your breath away. 

His eyes held yours in an intense but loving gaze across the centre console, your faces still just mere inches from each other. 

‘I love you too, birthday girl.’ 

He leaned forward to capture your lips with his again. This kiss was different to the one you had a few moments ago. It was charged. It had something... primal about it. Something bubbled in your lower abdomen as he moved a hand to hold the back of your head, bringing you closer to him.

Need. Want. Desire.

Your heart rate picked up. A breathy moan escaped your lips. Both of you were already breathless. The car was filled with tension, windows fogging slightly with the chilly air on the outside compared to the rising temperature inside.

You hadn't missed how his eyes had dilated when he saw you appear downstairs in that Prada sweater and black skirt that showed just enough leg before you left for lunch, and when you’d put those knee-high boots on, strutting around the house to break them in before leaving and acting like you had no idea what you were doing to him… oh God, he’d been a goner. Not to say that he wasn’t already wrapped around your little finger, because Lord knows this man would move mountains for you if you asked, but seeing you walk around in the gifts he bought you? Letting him spoil you absolutely rotten? It did something to him that he’d never be able to explain. 

His teeth nibbled on your bottom lip and you immediately allowed him access, tongues dancing together. Another moan from you, this one whiny and gasping, was swallowed by his lips, making him groan against you. You had absolutely zero doubt in your mind that he was hard as a rock under his cargo jeans - the thought alone made you nearly salivate in excitement.

You needed him. Desperately. You needed to come undone beneath him, needed to feel his touch burning on you, needed to have your skin touching each other...

The text tone of his phone blaring into the silence of the car broke the spell. Joe cursed under his breath as he whipped it out from his pocket to check who had been responsible for interrupting your moment. 

It was the event manager for the party that evening, asking if lemonade was a good substitute for those who didn’t drink. Joe quickly tapped out a response, muttering to himself about people who couldn’t think for themselves, but by the time he’d finished, you were already out of the car and slowly ambling towards the front door. You wanted to make him work for it.

Joe grumbled that he should be the one opening your car door, but then he caught sight of the look in your eyes as you turned and waited for him by the door… Dark. Lustful.

Follow me. Get me inside. You had your own keys, of course, but you wanted to wait for him. See him flustered. 

Joe didn’t need any further encouragement. His tall legs unfolded out of the car and followed you towards the front door. His house keys jangled in his hands as he fumbled to get the door open.  

‘Smooth,’ you said simply, prompting a dark look from him. The door opened not a second too soon, Joe letting you in first as always. Your heels clicked on the hardwood in the entryway. His keys made a soft thunk as he placed them into the pot that stood on the accent table in the hallway.

You made your way over to the stairs to sit down and take off your boots, but in a flash, Joe was in front of you. The only sound in the room was the soft unzipping noise as he undid the fastenings, allowing him to slide the boots gently off your feed and casting them aside carefully but with purpose.

Your eyes followed his every move, stomach twisting with need.  

‘How much time do we have until we leave for dinner?’ You asked as you stretched your feet out,  still sat on the stairs. Your tone was innocent, but Joe saw right through your little act. You knew exactly what time you were supposed to leave - seven o’clock sharp - and he knew that you knew. You were baiting him… and he was more than happy to bite.

A small but devilish smirk found its way onto Joe’s face. He leaned down to come eye-level with you. When he spoke, his voice was husky and gravelly. Needy.

‘Enough time for me to have my way with you.’ 

The hint of filth in his words sent a wave of heat rushing through you, and a raw sound - something between a whine and a whimper - left your lips before you could stop it. That did it.

Joe’s hands found your waist and hoisted you up off the stairs in one effortless motion, making you squeal in surprise. His large hands started roaming your body as his lips crashed onto yours. ‘Jump,’ he growled into the kiss. You obeyed and let your legs wind around his waist. You could feel his hardness at your core, where you needed him most, eliciting a filthy moan from your mouth. The kiss was frantic, your breaths hot against each other’s faces.  

‘Bedroom?’ You breathed against his lips.  

‘Need you now. Couch.’  

He carried you effortlessly through the hallway and into the living room, moans pouring from your mouth. Teeth nipped at the sensitive spot on your neck, the one he knew drove you crazy. Your head tilted back to allow him better access, and you felt him press wet kisses up and down your neck. You felt him suck the skin in some places and you knew there would be marks left. You didn't care. You wanted everyone to see who you belonged to.

Finally, you felt him lay you gently down onto the couch. Clothes were immediately shed, forgotten about on the living room floor - ‘don’t think we need those anymore’ - leaving you bare to each other, while your lips moved together in harmony.  

‘J-Joey, please… need you…’ The words came out in a whine fuelled by your desperation. 

‘Don’t worry, baby,’ he muttered in response, voice slurring with need. ‘Whatever my birthday girl wants, she gets.’ The possession in his voice, how you were completely and utterly his, made desire crawl through your veins even faster.  

He pressed kisses to your jaw, your collar-bone, your shoulder, all the way down your body to the dampness of your pussy that had been throbbing with need since the second you stepped through the front door. You felt him lick a stripe up your folds, exactly where he knew you loved it, and another moan erupted from you. His hands splayed across your bare abdomen as your back arched up in pleasure, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.  

One of your hands gripped onto his arm for stability, the couch not offering as much space as you were used to having in his Super King, nails gripping him like a vice and causing red little semi-circles to erupt on his skin from the pressure. There would definitely be marks left - not that either of you particularly cared. The other hand found its way to his thick blonde curls, gently pulling his head towards you, keeping his mouth where you needed him so desperately.  

That familiar coil in your stomach was tying tighter and tighter as Joe worked his magic, and then, suddenly, with a cry of his name, your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks. 

Yet still, your body craved more.  

Joe slowly made his way back up to kiss you, the taste of your release fresh on his lips.  

‘There’s my beautiful birthday girl,’ he murmured as his lips pressed reverent kisses to your cheeks, forehead before catching your lips again. ‘Gonna make this your best year yet, baby, promise.’ Your hands worked to shimmy his boxers down his legs, his hard length springing free and glistening already. The sight alone made your mouth water.  

‘Need you, inside me, right now,’ you grumbled, almost overcome with need. He smoothed your hair gently.  

‘Patience, darlin’, it’s comin’,’ he teased.

‘I want to be the one coming, Joseph,’ you retorted, earning a huffed laugh from Joe. You got like this when you were around your ovulating phase: impatient, bossy and a little bit bratty. If there was something you wanted, you got it. Joe made sure of that.  

‘Look at you, practically drippin’ f’me, baby girl,’ he drawled, voice husky. He didn’t give you a chance to respond, cock filling you to the hilt as he slid inside you. Even now, three years in, his size took you by surprise. Your walls clenched around him, needing a second to adjust. ‘Fu-fuck,  baby, so tight, catches me out every time. Feel so fuckin’ perfect f’me, sweetheart…’ 

His hips picked up a steady rhythm, snapping up and hitting you in the spot you needed the most. 

‘Sh-shit Joe, harder, please… Yes…’

One of your legs hooked around his waist to grant him better access, and the effect was immediate. His dick inside you hit that perfect spot that had you gasping for air, his name tumbling from your lips repeatedly. Your body arched back into the couch behind you, craving more, more, more.

Joe bit his lip in concentration as he thrusted into to you, then he moved his body down to lay almost on top of you. His hips kept snapping in that magical rhythm that had you writhing underneath him in pleasure. He kissed you again, deep and ferocious with love.

‘Remember... fuck... remember what I said about my birthday girl getting what she wants? G’nna give you everything you want, princess, g’nna make you my wife one of these days, put a baby in you,’ his words throbbed in your ear, hot breath branding your neck as he breathed heavily into your ear. 'God, I fuckin' love you. Love this pussy, love what you do to me, love seeing you under me. You don't even realise it, baby girl, 'm obsessed with you.' You reached a hand up to hold the back of his head, keeping him close to you, exactly where you loved him best.  

'I love you, Joey,' you mumbled back to him, almost overcome with stimulation. You kissed his sweaty cheek, a moment that seemed almost too sweet, too wholesome, for the otherwise filthy activities that were going on around you.

The room filled with the most utterly obscene sounds of sweaty skin on skin and breathy moans, Joe whispering sweet nothings and praises into your ear as you took every inch of him over and over again. He whispered about how much he loved you, how beautiful you were underneath him, how you were the only woman he ever wanted to love. He’d known you were it for him right from the very beginning. You still loved hearing it, though, loved how he said it during these intimate pockets of life that only the two of you were privy to.  

He reached down a hand and circled your clit, finding it expertly as he always had, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm underneath him. ‘Ohh, you like that, don't you, baby? You like my fingers making you squirm under me?'

Your entire body was on fire. Every synapse was firing on high.

'Joey...' It came out as more of a whine, your entire body pulsing with an insatiable need for more, need for him.

'C'mon, baby, use your words.'

'Yes, J-Joe, I l-love it, just like that... fuck...'

'Good girl,' he purred into your ear. 'Gonna cum for me, birthday girl? Gonna let me give you another birthday present?’  

Your body arched once more, almost concaving on itself, as he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

‘Yes - fuck, Joe, ‘m close…’

That feeling in your core built again, that coil being wound up and up and up…  

‘Me too, baby,’ he panted, ‘Fuck, ’m gonna…’ 

No sooner than the words left his mouth had you felt his release fill you up, warm and seemingly endless. Seconds later, you followed him, orgasm crashing into you, wave after wave like an ocean whipped up by a storm.  

In the immediate aftermath, the room was still, quiet, save for your gasping breaths as your body recovered, legs spasming as the shockwaves of your orgasm tore through you. Joe’s large shoulders loomed above you as he caught his breath. His arms, which were resting on either side of you as he pinned you down, shook with tremors of their own. Sweat stuck his curls down against his forehead, while his broad chest boasted a thin film of it. Beads of exhaustion ran down your own heaving chest, trickling down and making you ticklish. 

Joe flopped down to lay next to you, his length slipping out of you with a quiet pop. His lips pressed a gentle, grounding kiss to your temple. Both of your bodies were slick with sweat, limbs stickign together as you attempted to untangle yourselves from each other.

‘You okay, baby?’ he asked quietly. A finger caressed your cheek, gently helping you to reground yourself after the exertion. You could barely form words, energy spent but body satiated, so you just nodded and smiled sleepily up at him. The response made him chuckle, chest reverberating with the sound. ‘Tired?’  

‘Need a pre-dinner nap, me thinks,’ you whispered. Your form curled up against his. For a brief moment, there was a rush of cool air against your body as he leant up to grab a blanket, making you grumble sleepily in protest. Your grumbles were quickly silenced when he threw a big fluffy blanket over the two of you, arm curling around your waist to bring you into his chest for a much needed post-birthday-sex cuddle.  

‘You rest, angel. I’ll be here when you wake up. Got a late night ahead of us, you’re gonna need your energy.’ You wiggled your eyebrows suggestively at his words.

‘Oh, is that so, Mr. Burrow?’ The two of you shared a hearty laugh, both of you appreciating the innuendo.  

‘You know I’m always down for round two,’ he replied cheekily. He leaned down to press a brief kiss to your lips. One of his large hands reached up to gently stroke some stray strands of hair out of your face. He looked at you reverently, eyes soft in adoration as you held his face just a few millimetres from yours. ‘My beautiful girl.’ You held his eye contact and felt your cheeks flush at the sincerity of his words.

For a rare moment, you cowered under his gaze, something that had only happened at the very beginning of your relationship. Joe was one of those people who was quiet but intense, his eyes possessing the innate ability to read you like an open book. Something he’d said during your recent escapade on the couch came to your mind: ‘Gonna give you everything you want.’ 

‘What is it, my love?’ He asked, voice soft but probing. Nothing ever got past Joe when it came to you. Your emotions could change within a split-second, and most people wouldn’t even notice. But him? He knew. He always knew. He could feel when your energy shifted, could always tell when something weighed on your mind. 

Every now and then, you were one of those people who wanted to say something but didn’t know how. You didn’t know how to put it into words. He had made it his mission to understand the language of your emotions, the little accents and flicks of your body language that meant that something was up. This was one of those times. 

You opened your mouth to start, but faltered. He reached down to hold your hand under the blanket. The contact was soothing to you, as it always was; you were a hand-holder. Your hand was never far from his, no matter where you were. It would always automatically reach for his when you were out somewhere; at the store, out for a walk or in the airport.

'You can talk to me, baby.' The touch of his skin on yours and the feeling of his fingers, calloused and hardened with years on the NFL field, playing with yours, soft and carefully manicured, brought you back to the moment.

Those words, along with the soft kiss he pressed onto your temple, spurred you into talking.

‘Just now… during… you said, you said you’re gonna give me… everything I want…’ 

Joe nodded to silently encourage you to elaborate. It took a second for the words to formulate in your head, but then they all came spilling out. 

‘Joey, you’ve already given me everything I want. There’s nothing in this world that you haven’t given me yet. And it’s not just the presents, or the flowers, or even the sex - although the sex is fantastic as we both know.’ The two of you shared another quiet giggle. ‘And believe me, I am so beyond thankful for how you’ve completely spoiled me rotten today.’  

A lump in your throat appeared suddenly as you spoke. The gratitude you were feeling had caught you by surprise, and you wanted to make sure that your boyfriend knew how grateful you were.

‘So many people out there in the world spend their entire lives searching for the kind of love that you give me, Joe Burrow. So many people out there have to question whether or not their partner loves them, so many people feel like they have to prove themselves worthy of love. But you’ve never, not once, made me feel like I have to do any of that. You love me like it’s as simple as breathing to you. You show up, day in and day out, even with your crazy job and intense schedule, and love me for who I am, no matter what. All I’ve ever wanted is to be loved for who I am, and you do exactly that, every single day without fail. So, in reality, you’ve spent the last three years giving me everything I want already, and I don’t know where I’m going with this or where this is coming from, maybe it’s the post sex hormones,’ you giggled through your tears, which, at this point, were cascading down your cheeks. Joe’s eyes were also glassy, and a few tears of his own had escaped. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m the luckiest woman in the world to love you, and I’m the luckiest woman in the world to be loved by you, Joey.’  

Joe had to take a couple of seconds to collect himself after your little monologue. He was a man of few words, he always had been, you knew that as well as everyone else. Sometimes he worried that he didn’t show his love for you the best way he could. The way that you had spoken, however, raw and honest, made all doubts and worries evaporate from his mind.  

‘Loving you is the easiest thing in my life, baby. It really is as easy as breathing,’ he said quietly. He’d propped his head up on one hand to look down at you, while the other traced random patterns against your bare abdomen beneath the blanket. The motion wasn’t suggestive, it wasn’t leading anywhere, he was just craving physical contact with you. ‘My job is crazy but you’ve been there through everything. You’re the quiet in my life, and I feel like I don’t thank you enough for that, and I promise I’ll make a conscious effort to thank you more. Coming home to you, whether it’s from a bad day or a good one, is the greatest gift this life could give me. I mean, you and me, we're a package deal, this is a forever kind of thing.’ 

The rawness of the moment, just the two of you being vulnerable, naked and under the blanket with the air heavy with the faint aroma of sex, made tears prick your eyes all over again. 

‘I love you, Joey,’ you breathed. ‘I hope you always come home to me.’  

He leant down and whispered a kiss against your lips, gentle and poignant, night and day from the kisses you had shared less than an hour ago on the way to the couch.  

‘I love you too, darlin’. Wouldn’t want to come home to anyone else, sweetheart.’  

Your eyes were already half-closed, the post-sex euphoria pulling you into a much-needed nap. You felt his arm wrap tighter around you and tugged you closer towards him. Your protector and guardian, always.

Joe’s breathing was soft and even next to you; his head had flopped down to rest next to yours. As always, he waited until he was sure that you were asleep before he even closed his eyes. The two of you drifted off to sleep, arm in arm with each other, without a care in the world.  

A couple of hours later, Joe awoke before you. The time was just coming up to five in the afternoon. He took a few minutes just to look at you, soft snores occasionally creeping out of your mouth. The soft evening light from outside cast shadows over your peaceful face. He felt a rush of love and gratitude towards you as he watched you sleep. But, as much as he loved watching you sleep next to him, he also knew you needed a while to get ready, so he gently shook you awake and murmured your name. 

‘Baby? Time to get up, sweetheart, need to get ready for dinner.’  

Your eyes slowly cracked open and you stretched, grumbling slightly as you did so.  

‘What time is it?’ You yawned.  

‘Just about five in the afternoon. You wanna get showered and ready?’ That got your attention.  

After you sprung upright, he threw another blanket onto you to allow you to run upstairs in decency and hop into the shower. Not long after, he heard you singing away in the shower to hits from the 2000s, making him chuckle to himself, and he busied himself with contacting the event organiser. Everything had to be perfect for his girl. No detail would be untouched.  

Upstairs, your shower now over, you turned off the faucet and slipped out to apply your skincare. Globs of moisturiser rubbed in, followed by a layer of SPF and a spritz of your hydration spray, and you were good to go. 

Next came your least favourite part - drying and styling your hair. 

Joe came upstairs to find you sat in front of the floor-length mirror in just a towel, curling tongs in one hand. Your hair was sectioned off for the curling process. The room smelled of heat protectant, remnants of body wash from your shower and the flowery lotion that you’d applied to your entire body.  

He padded over to you. A hand breezed over your shoulder. The feather-light touch made goosebumps flare.

‘Let me help,’ he murmured. Without a word, you passed him the hairdryer. It had taken him a while to perfect the art of curling your hair, but he was a pro now, expertly twisting strands of hair around the barrel, letting it hold for a few seconds before letting it go, twisting it around in his fingers for full effect.  

He worked in silence. The only noise was the soft whirring of the curling tongs. You felt his hands raking gently through your hair with every piece he curled, making you shiver at the light touch.  

You couldn’t resist snapping a picture with your phone; he stood close behind you, brow furrowed in concentration as if he were about to walk out onto the field for the Super Bowl, hands trained on your hair while you sat cross-legged in a towel. The photo would never go anywhere, it was far too intimate. Simply a memento of the day, for your eyes only. 

‘There,’ he said as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. You had to hand it to him; he’d done a great job. 

‘Well, Burrow, once the NFL career is over, you could be a hairdresser,’ you quipped with a cheeky smile. He squeezed your shoulder and bent down to kiss the top of your head, then your shoulder, then your neck. Goosebumps appeared once again where his breath fanned over your skin, hot and intense. 

A husky voice whispered three words into your ear, low and gravelly, making you squirm.  

‘Only for you.’  

You turned to look at him, his blue eyes piercing into yours, pupils blown with need. You squeezed your thighs together, heat pooling at your core all over again.  

‘Would be a bit of a shit business opportunity, then.’ You wished your voice had come out braver than you felt, but it wavered with need. 

He chuckled softly, hands dancing around your bare shoulders, teasing you with a feather-light touch.  

‘I dunno, lots of ladies would love having a live-in hairdresser.’ He definitely had a point.

‘A hot, live-in hairdresser who’s both my boyfriend and best friend, that I can have sex with and has a multi-million dollar fortune that he's promised to me? What more could a girl want?’  

Nothing was the answer. There was nothing else you wanted apart from Joe Burrow. You could have all the birthday, Christmas and Black Friday gifts in the world, but nothing would top him. His love was the single greatest gift you could ever ask for.  

Joe paused before speaking.

‘It’s probably more of a multi-billion dollar fortune, by now.’ He said it with a nonchalant shrug, which made you giggle.

His remark, alongside another kiss to your neck just below your ear, made your cheeks flush scarlet.  

An hour and a half later, you were nearly ready. Joe was in the shower while you put the finishing touches on your outfit. Tonight you had selected a bright red strappy minidress with a skater skirt (you had pulled on a pair of short biker shorts to prevent any mishaps), paired with a pair of black heels and the black Coach clutch bag you had opened that morning. Your makeup was a smokey-eye look, complete with a bold red lip to match your dress and chiselled contoured cheeks.  

You had to hand it to yourself; you were hot.  

The shower door opened in the en-suite and Joe could be heard getting ready.  

Shortly after, he stepped out in a smart black dress shirt accompanied by dark slacks, black loafers and a simple gold chain. Upon closer inspection, your heart gave a jolt when you saw that the chain had your initial attached to it, matching the necklace that you wore with his. They had been your gift to each other for your previous anniversary.  

He looked up as he walked through the door, locked eyes with you, and his jaw immediately went slack. His eyes trained on your body, from the top of your head all the way down to the tips of your toes. 

The air was thick with tension as you both looked at each other from across the room. Joe then crossed the room in three large strides and wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you in close to him, while the other stroked your cheek, eyes raking over you in wonderment, as though he couldn’t quite believe that you were real.  

‘What the fuck did I do in a past life to get so lucky?’ He murmured to nobody in particular. You giggled, blushing through your makeup. 

‘Past Joe Burrow must have done something really good,’ you whispered back. The two of you looked adoringly at each other for a couple of seconds, just drinking each other in as if you hadn’t had enough of each other over the last three and a bit years. In truth, you hadn’t. You would never be able to get enough of Joe, and Joe would never be able to get enough of you.  

‘You are beautiful. Perfect. My gorgeous birthday girl,’ he murmured. A faint kiss was pressed to your cheek. You knew he didn’t want to mess up your perfectly-applied makeup, but you wanted to seal the deal.  

‘Come here, Joseph, give your birthday girl a proper kiss.’ Your fingers lazily wound their way around his neck.  

He laughed and moved his hands so they were holding your face, only too happy to oblige. They brought your face up so your lips could meet his in a fierce but loving kiss. Even in your heels, you had to stand on your tiptoes to reach him, hands finding his waist to balance on.  

A horn sounding from far away in the distance broke your spell. Joe broke apart and sighed in frustration. 

‘Come on, quarterback,’ you cackled, though you couldn’t help but share his frustration. With how badly you needed him, this was destined to be a long night. ‘Let’s get going. We can always escape for a quickie in the bathroom.’  

His head fell onto your shoulder as he laughed. Your fingers carded through his thick, still-damp curls, eliciting a groan from him in happiness.  

‘You make it sound so not romantic, baby.’  

‘Well then, honey, you need to wait until we get home. Come on,’ you pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head to try and stir him into action.  

When his head lifted off your shoulder and you caught a glimpse of his face, you erupted with laughter again.  

His lips were bright red from your lipstick, product smeared around his mouth, making him look like a weird sort of clown. If he looked like that, you had no doubt yours was just as bad. 

‘Wait, wait, wait, before we go,’ you dashed into the bathroom to dab a bit of micellar water onto a cotton pad. ‘C’mere, handsome boy.’  

But when you reached up to try and wipe it off, he moved away from you.  

‘Joseph. You look like the Joker.’  

‘Keep it on,’ he murmured. An arm snaked around your waist to pull you back into his chest. ‘I want everyone to know who I belong to. God forbid a man wants to kiss his beautiful birthday girl.’  

His words made your entire body thrum with need. There was no way you’d last more than a couple of hours at your own birthday party at this rate.  

‘Alrighty. I bet Ja’Marr will have something to say, though.’ 

He shrugged. 

‘So be it. Him and Deja aren’t much better.’  

You couldn’t resist reaching up to kiss him again, giggling.  

‘Come on, you big softie, let’s get going.’ 

The two of you walked hand-in-hand out of the house, Joe grabbing a jacket from the coat rack as you left.  

Sure enough, the first thing Ja’Marr said when you and Joe crouched into the waiting party limousine was, ‘I don’t wanna know what you guys have been up to today’, causing a bright red flush to bloom on your cheeks under your makeup. Joe wasn’t bothered, though. 

‘It’s my girl’s birthday, man. She gets what she wants.’  

Joe had his hands on you the entire journey into town.

You were laughing with Deja and the other girls? He had a hand on your thigh, just high enough to be suggestive, possessive. A hand that said 'this one's mine.'

You reached forward to get a drink from the mini fridge? His hand moved to your lower back.

He was talking to Ja’Marr and Tee? His arm was lazily slung around your shoulders to keep you close to him.

He wasn’t usually the handsy type out in public (when it was just the two of you, he rarely had his hands off you), but on this day, whether it was the excitement of the day or just how in love with you he was, he didn’t care. He wanted to have his hands on you all the time.  

The music from the bar could be heard from the limo when it pulled up a few doors down. Pulsing, floor-shaking, the faint chorus of Like A G6 flooded your veins with excitement.  

‘Here we are,’ said the driver who opened your door. Joe got out first, holding out a hand for you to hold as you exited the car. He stood in front of you to stop you getting pictured by waiting photographers. Their flashes and yells seemed to triple in intensity when they realised who had pulled up, screaming at you and Joe to pose for a picture. 

Without a word, Joe grabbed your hand and tugged you in close behind him. You were once again grateful to have a boyfriend who stood at six-four, as his entire form hid you from the cameras,  tottering in behind him on your heels. 

The hostess, dressed in a smart black dress, greeted the two of you by your first names, wishing you a happy birthday, to which you replied with a smile in thanks. 

‘Your booth is just this way, the event manager will be out shortly to see you and give you your drinks.’  

She led you through the venue and into a private booth, set well away from the main dancefloor area and a short walk from the bar. The booth was partially covered by a dark screen that allowed you complete privacy.  

Before you could even think about what you were having to drink or eat, however, a huge chorus behind you of ‘SURPRISE!’ made you scream in shock. 

You turned around, screamed when you saw the people who had yelled at you, and almost collapsed onto the floor, making Joe laugh heartily at your reaction. It was the exact reaction he had hoped for.

In front of you were your parents and closest friends, coming from all over the country to see you; your college friends AJ, Rosie and Jay had flown in from New Jersey, more friends, Bunni, Ree and Daisy from Connecticut, your other friends Alex and Cici from Dallas… They all swarmed you with hugs and kisses on the cheek, overwhelming you with love.  

‘Guys, oh my god, you’re all here!’  

‘Of course we’re here, sweetheart!’ Your mom laughed. She and your father each kissed your  cheek and pushed a gift into your hands. 

‘I love you, momma, thank you for being here,’ you cried into her shoulder.  

‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world, babe! Happy birthday!’ Cici yelled over the music when she hugged you after you broke away from your mom.  

‘How, how are you here?!’ 

‘Joe paid for all our flights, hotels, everything. You’ve got a really good one, Y/N!’ 

You were rendered completely speechless. Not only had Joe booked out an exclusive bar in Cincinnati - reservations for which usually went fully booked months in advance - he had flown all those important to you out just for you. He’d made sure that they could come without worrying about the cost.  

The two of you made eye contact and he shrugged with a shy smile. You took hold of his hand and squeezed it, a silent but genuine thank you. He squeezed it back. Anything for you.

As you went around and hugged everyone, Joe followed closely behind you and said his hellos to everyone who was there. One thing about Joe is that he would never intrude on your moment. He just enjoyed seeing you being showered with the love you deserved, and was relishing in the fact that his plan had been successful. This had been in the works for months and had taken so much logistical planning. Now, he could enjoy the night and celebrate you, the love of his life.  

The night had officially started. You downed a few shots to get the blood flowing, and every drink after that was brought to you by a friend, by a family member, by someone or other that you couldn’t quite make out in the darkness of the bar.  

A couple of hours into the celebrations, you were successfully drunk. Not wasted, but definitely buzzed.  

Joe stood with Ja’Marr and Tee at the side of the dance floor, a beer in each of their hands while they chatted and enjoyed watching their girls dance together. You tottered over to him for a break from the dance floor and wound your arms around his middle. A kiss was pressed to the top of your head.  

‘You having fun, baby?’ He had to lean down to shout it in your ear over the music, currently: Pon De Replay by Rihanna.  

‘So much fun, Joey!’ you slurred. He chuckled and tightened his grip on you to hold you steady. 

‘Have you had any water recently?’  

‘Yes! But then I had two vodkas, a Jaegerbomb and a Jack.’  

Joe’s chest reverberated with a laugh again.

‘Maybe it’s time for another one, baby.' His lips met yours and you could taste the alcohol on him. It made you even more flustered than you already were. In the background, you saw a camera flashing towards you and somewhere in the back of your mind you knew that one of your friends had taken a picture of the two of you.  

Before you could respond, the familiar opening drums of I’m A Slave 4 U by Britney made the crowd on the dance floor scream in happiness, and you joined when you saw Cici, Daisy, Rosie and AJ gesturing for you to join them back on the floor. This had been the song that you had all danced to during your college years.  

‘More drinks for the birthday girl!’ Cici pushed more shots into your hand, and you tossed them all back one after the other to the cheers of all your friends. The liquor added to your already-hazy vision. If you were drunk before, you were completely gone now. Joe could only watch with a beady eye and a smile on his face, knowing full well he was going to have his hands full trying to get you home.  

It was a mess of sweaty bodies moving both together and separately on the dance floor. Nobody cared about what they looked like, everyone screaming the lyrics at nobody in particular and bumping into each other like bumper cars at a fairground. Your ears were ringing and your feet were starting to hurt but you couldn’t care less, swinging your hips in time to the music.  

The music changed, transitioning into Sports Car by Tate McRae. More shots were pushed into your hands. 

From the edge of the dance floor, Joe kept his eyes on you the whole time. Silently checking in. Making sure you were okay and not being harassed by anyone. He wasn’t one for the dance floor, instead preferring to be your unofficial bodyguard. Not once did he miss the way you looked over at him as you continued to move in time with the music, strobe lights bouncing off your hair and catching on the flyaways from the humidity in the room. You had never looked more beautiful, letting yourself go and enjoying the night.  

Sports Car finished and the DJ morphed it into Candy Shop by 50 Cent, cueing more excited cheers from the dancers on the floor.  

Joe suddenly saw you approaching him through the crowd, a wicked smile appearing on his lips when he saw you were mouthing the lyrics and pointing at him as you stumbled over to him. 

I’ll take you to the candy shop  

I’ll let you lick the lollipop  

Go ‘head, girl, don’t you stop  

Keep goin’ ’til you hit the spot  

Finally, you reached him and swung your arms around his shoulders, letting your body hang off of him. He had to quickly catch you in his arms and bring you closer to stop you from falling flat on your face.  

‘Hi, Joey,’ you simpered into his ear above the bass. He knew that tone of voice; you had reached the horny-drunk stage. ‘You look so fucking good, baby, I w’na take you right here and now.’ Your pupils were almost fully blown when he turned head to look at you.

Joe immediately felt his cock harden in his pants, and he had to fight the urge to adjust himself.  

Despite that, he knew you were drunk. Beyond drunk, actually. 

‘Baby, you’re drunk,’ he muttered in your ear. 'And we're in public. Can't let these nice people know what we get up to in our spare time, can we?'

‘But Joey.’ It came out in a whine, the last consonant elongated. ‘Do you not love me?’ He looked down at you with a small, knowing smile on his face.  

‘I love you more than anything else in this world, Y/N,' he leaned down to murmur into your ear. 'But I want to wait until we get home, so I can have you all to myself and not worry about who hears us.' Your body shivered with his words. If anything, they turned you on even more, the risk of being heard sounding utterly delectable to you.  

Your lips pursed in a pout in protest. He grinned and pressed a quick kiss to the pout to get rid of it. When he moved apart, you reconnected your lips to his again in a firmer, longer kiss. He could taste the alcohol on your mouth. His aftershave clouded your vision, making your body thrum with need all over again.  

‘But I want you to take me to the candy shop!’ His head fell onto your shoulder, partly because of how much he was laughing but also because he needed you so badly at that point that he was starting to lose cognitive function. You looked the hottest you ever had as you danced the night away in your little red dress, your eyes looking for him and only him. ‘Joey, I’ve been wanting you all night, I thought you said your birthday girl gets what she wants?’  

He looked at you with an amused expression on his face, hoping it disguised at least some of the desire he was feeling. His cock was so hard in his pants that it was starting to hurt, but he had to ignore it for as long as possible. That was proving to be easier said than done, however, with how your bodies were pressed impossibly close to each other, every inch of your skin burning through the fabric of his clothes.

'I know you want me, Joey, don't think I can't feel it,' you purred into his ear. Goosebumps appeared on his neck where your breath had fanned across it, making you smirk with satisfaction at the effect you were having on him.

Before he could respond, S&M by Rihanna began playing, making you scream with delight.

'You snooze, you lose, Burrow!' You shouted over your shoulder as you strutted away from him, hips swinging as you joined the girls on the dance floor again. Joe continued to watch you, shaking his head in disbelief but the filthy smirk remained painted on his lips.  

As you danced, your eyes never left his. Even as countless faceless bodies moved past you, your eyes stayed connected. Joe knew exactly what you were doing and he was loving every second of it. The strobe lights bounced off your hair and the smoke from the machines around the dancefloor made the air hazy. His brain was already dazed, however. He needed you so badly, it hurt. It wouldn't be long until the tension snapped.

Finally, when he saw you gyrate your hips in just the right motion that had his head spinning, he decided he'd had enough. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

His long legs crossed the dance floor in just a few strides.

You were dancing wildly with the girls when their eyes locked on something - or someone - behind you. Whirling around, you saw your boyfriend making a beeline for you. His eyes were dark with lust. You felt your stomach somersault in excitement.

‘Hi, baby!’ You teased when he came up to you.

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards the bathrooms.

'This way.' His voice was curt as he hurried with you through the club.

When you reached the door, he deftly picked you up with one arm and opened the door with the other, locking it when you were inside and setting you down.

'What's up, Joey?' Your voice dripped with innocence, as if you had no idea what was going on. You knew full well, though. You knew the effect the dress had on him, you saw it in his eyes the second he saw you in the bedroom earlier that night. If he'd had it his way, he'd have made the limo wait as long as he could, but he was cockblocked by you - his own girlfriend. Not this time.

'My birthday girl gets what she wants,' was all he said, voice merely more than a growl, before pulling you close to him and smashing his lips against yours. The kiss was fervent, teeth clashing together as he backed you into the wall, a hand coming behind your head so you didn't bash it against the hard tile.  

‘What did you say earlier about a bathroom quickie not being romantic?’ you quipped with a shit-eating grin.  

‘Be quiet, jump up and get your panties down, we’ve got maybe a few minutes before someone starts knockin’.’ You jumped up to hook your legs around his waist, while his hands supported your ass to allow you to you shimmy your panties and biker shorts down your legs.

Your pussy was already dripping, making his pupils blow so wide that his blue eyes momentarily appeared almost black. ‘Look at you, baby, how wet you are f’me,’ he muttered. 

Your body was propped up against the wall, leaving not much room in the rest of the cubicle. It was warm and humid. You smirked, knowing it would be much warmer by the time the two of you were finished.  

‘Hurry up, Burrow, I’ve thought about this for the last two hours,’ you grumbled, making him chuckle darkly.  

‘Trust me, baby, I’ve thought about this for much longer.’ His pants and boxers were shoved halfway down his thighs, his thick, hard cock springing free and slapping against his stomach. The tip was already coated in a layer of pre-cum, a result of your little dance show from earlier. The sight alone made your mouth water.  

Joe wasted no time in gently moving you down onto his length, gasps and moans springing from both of you at the sensation as he bottomed out inside you. 

‘Fuck, baby, gets me every time,’ he repeated the words from earlier in the day with a growl. He left you no time to adjust as his hips immediately started thrusting into you, hitting the spot where you needed him the most. The sensation made you cry out. ‘Shh, baby, quiet.’ One of his large hands moved to cover your mouth. 

‘Joey,’ you mumbled against his hand. It was sweaty, smelling faintly of the beers he had been drinking for the night.  

‘Shh, baby,’ he repeated, softer this time, right in your ear.  

One particularly strong thrust had you seeing stars, your eyes rolling back into your head. Your arms had rested on his shoulders to support you, every now and then gripping onto his curls for support. His hair would be a mess, everyone would know what the two of you had done, but neither of you cared, not in the moment. Every so often, his lips would press soft kisses to your forearms, moving up to your neck to suck on that spot that forever had you weak at the knees. 

‘Gettin’ close, baby, huh?’ he muttered into your ear. His hair flopped down off his forehead, tickling your neck and making you giggle in your drunken stupor. ‘G’nna make you come again, beautiful girl.’ Your whole body spasmed when his hand disappeared under your dress, immediately finding your clit and started to rub gentle circles.  

‘J-Joe, oh m-my god…’ The combination of the stimulation by his hands and his cock driving in and out of you was starting to be too much.

The feeling of that coil being wound and wound in your stomach was making you feel light-headed. Stars appeared in your vision.

'J-Joey, 'm g'nna...' You gasped as your walls clenched around him.

‘Come with me, sweetheart,’ Joe murmured. You felt him press one particular flick to your clit and that was all you needed to come undone onto him. As if on cue, the coil snapped. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over you, making you groan his name into his sweaty neck. With a grunt, hips moving languidly beneath you, Joe’s cock spasmed and filled you up to the hilt.  

The small room was silent, the only sound being your breaths gasping in unison. Your head leant back to rest against the cool tile wall behind you. Joe looked up at you, smiling slightly. Your chest was heaving, hair messy, mascara smudged and running from the sweat of dancing and sex. It turned him on all over again, seeing you like this, fucked out and happy, all because of him.  

‘You okay, baby?’ The check-in was caring, a far cry from the tone used just a few moments before. He pressed a comforting kiss to your wrist, your arms still balanced around his shoulders for support.

You gave him a shaky nod.  

‘Yeah, Joey, ’m good. Perfect.’  The way your voice was slurred, partly due to the alcohol still thrumming around your system and partly due to the state of pleasure you were in, made him laugh softly.

There was a pause as your legs detached themselves from his waist. His pants were pulled back up, and a loving hand smoothed out your hair that had become stuck to your forehead. He set you carefully back on your feet, but kept his arms around you, knowing you would be unsteady from the recent physical exertions and from how you were still slightly tipsy.  

He stood close to you, just wanting to be near you. His eyes roved over your body to take stock. You pulled him in to give him another kiss, mouths moving together in a well-practiced dance only the two of you knew. 

‘Can you stand by yourself, baby?’ He asked. All it took was one look at your exhausted, smiley face for him to know that the answer to that question was an emphatic no. 'C'mere.' He said it with a breathy chuckle.

His strong arms lifted you up once again, planting you gently on the sink. ‘Don’t move,’ he muttered into your hair. He disappeared briefly into the toilet cubicle to fetch some toilet paper, aiming to clean you up. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was enough.

‘Can’t. Legs are too jelly.’ You heard a faint laugh before he came back, and once again, you were bowled over by how handsome he was. Even with his hair messed up, even with his shirt crumpled, he was unfairly beautiful. Broad shoulders loomed over you as he reached down to clean the sticky mess between your thighs, gentle as always. Your nose filled with his heady scent, a mixture of sweat, sex and the expensive aftershave he'd sprayed before leaving. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

‘Take a picture, baby, it’ll last longer,’ he murmured without looking at your face.

You giggled and twirled one of his curls around your fingers absent-mindedly.

‘Don’t need to. Not when I get to look at your face for the rest of my life.’ 

That made him pause the clean up operation and look up at you. Your eyes gazed back at him, adoration seeping from them. Something about the certainty in your voice when you uttered those words made him feel like his whole life had done a somersault around him. 

Because, you see, Joe Burrow could split his life into two parts. There was before he met you, then there was after he met you. 

Before? He felt lost. Lonely. He wasn’t alone, sure, but lonely. He had football, he had his teammates, his mom, dad and wider family. But having that special someone he could come home to and provide him with the love that he craved… 

And then there came you. You had come bowling into his life at a party not too dissimilar to this one, you'd walked right up to him and introduced yourself. He had been hesitant to pursue something, but you both found that you fitted into each other's lives as if you had belonged there since birth. And maybe you had. Suddenly, the quarterback wasn’t alone anymore. He laughed more. He joked more. He shared more of his life, little by little. 

He couldn't imagine a life without you, now. You were the thing he lived for, the centre of his universe. Coming home to you made everything worth it - the contract talks, the punishing training sessions, the slip ups. You were the wind in his sails and the lighthouse that guided him home.

Joe had had a good feeling about you from the very first date. He had known you were the one for him by the third date. He was besotted with you from date five.

You were it for him. You only proved that the more time you spent together. It was how you finished each other’s sentences, it was in the way you looked at each other, it was the way that his eyes found yours no matter where you were sat in Paycor Stadium, whether you were in the suite with his mom and dad or down on the field. 

He hadn’t given you a ring, not yet. He had one, though; it was hidden away in his study so you wouldn’t find it before it was time. The two of you both knew that this was it. The proposal was in its final planning stages. Everything had to be perfect. It was a bigger undertaking than the birthday party the two of you were currently hiding away from, too lost in each other to care.

But at that moment, in that dark and somewhat dingy bathroom with the mirrors fogged and walls pulsing with the music from outside, your lipstick smudged over his mouth all over again and your eyes hooded with tiredness, there was absolutely zero doubt in Joe's mind that he was stood in front of his future wife. He couldn't wait to be able to call you his fiancée.

Two large hands came to rest on your bare thighs. His warm touch, as it always did, ignited your body in ways that nothing else ever could.

‘I love you, birthday girl.’ His voice was little more than a whisper. Emotion had hit him hard and out of nowhere, and he had to resist the urge to let tears leak from his eyes. He didn't know it was possible to love someone this much, but there you were, sat on a bathroom sink in a nightclub, fresh off of an orgasm off his dick.

Your hands reached out to hold his face again, bringing him in for another kiss. Soft, gentle. Anyone who knew the two of you knew how much you loved each other. But that kiss? The way your lips lingered on his, the way you tried to break apart but he swooped back in to kiss you again? Oh, it would have melted even the coldest of hearts. 

‘I love you so much, Joey. Thank you for the best birthday ever.’ You nuzzled your face into his neck and he wrapped you in his arms. 

‘You deserve it, baby. You deserve the world, and I intend on giving it to you,’ his chest reverberated as he spoke. He gave your leg a gentle double tap with his fingers. ‘C’mon, honey, I think it’s time we said our goodbyes.’ 

He turned to open the door for you but not before you reached up to steal yet another kiss, drunk on a mixture of alcohol, sex and love. 

The friends and family who were still in the bar had knowing smiles on their faces when they saw the two of you approaching. It wasn’t hard to imagine what you had been up to, but nobody said anything. They all knew they would have Joe to answer to if they did. 

So, instead, they gave you all the farewell kisses and hugs, helped Joe carry your presents into the waiting Uber, wrapped you in final hugs before Joe helped you into the car. 

The city fell away as the car sped back to your home. Your head rested on Joe’s shoulder. His fingers traced patterns into your shoulder. Every so often, you felt a kiss being pressed to the top of your head or to your temple. Happiness simply poured out of the two of you. There was something about getting to party with the love of your life that just hit different.

Once at home, the Uber driver helped Joe get all the gifts out of the car and into the house, Joe not for a second allowing you to lift a finger. 

‘Thanks, man, appreciate it,’ Joe muttered to the driver, stuffing a wad of cash into the driver’s hand as a tip. He turned back to you as the car peeled away. ‘Let’s get you to bed, gorgeous girl.’ 

‘Tired,’ was all you could manage, your voice coming out in a whine. Joe laughed and instantly swooped in to pick you up bridal-style. Your laughs echoed around the house as he carried you up the stairs.

The cold marble of the double sink made you hiss as he gently set you down. The first order of business was removing the cursed heels from your feet. Joe’s fingers worked carefully to undo the fiddly clasp and buckles. Goosebumps arose from where his hands brushed against your skin. 

‘Arms up, baby, let’s get you out of this dress.’ The dress was whipped off, replaced seconds later by your favourite Athens sweatshirt of his and a pair of pyjama shorts. ‘Hold still, gotta get the rest of this makeup off you.’ Joe worked in silence as he swiped away your makeup, the cool liquid soothing your skin. He'd done this many times before, but it still made you feel like the most special girl in the world when he did it. That was the thing with everything Joe did for you, though. He made you feel like nothing else mattered to him.

All the while, you gazed at Joe through heavily-lidded eyes, love pouring out of every pore in your body. You were the luckiest girl in the world. He proved that every single day. 

Finally, you were ready for bed. He carefully manoeuvred your body off the counter. Your arms sleepily wound around his waist. More kisses were pressed to the top of your head. ‘Go jump into bed, baby, I’ll shower and join you.’ 

‘Okay, Joey,’ you yawned. Your head fit under his chin the way it always did, the way it always would, as you wound your arms around his middle. His found their way around your shoulders. Joe couldn’t resist snapping a cheeky picture with his phone - him facing the camera with your face buried against his chest, almost falling asleep standing up on him, with a loving smile on his lips.

He gave your ass a gentle tap to encourage you to head to bed, with the promise of a night of cuddles lying ahead of you. 

The comforter was a welcome escape from the rest of the world. You snuggled down and gulped a few slurps of water from your water bottle on the bedside table, internally thanking past you for thinking of this moment. Your head would be sore tomorrow. 

When Joe exited the shower a few minutes later, you were already half-asleep. There was the flick of a light switch and the room was plunged into darkness. The bed dipped beside you. 

‘C’mere, my love.’ Your body moved towards Joe in the darkness. Instinct would always pull you closer to him. His arms wound around your waist. ‘Happy birthday, angel. I love you.’

‘Thank you for the best day, Joey, I love you too.’ 

The words were a quiet affirmation of the love you had for each other. No matter where the world took the two of you, you would always have each other. Every birthday, every Christmas, every Thanksgiving was a reminder of the life that you were creating together. 

Somewhere, in the near future, he would give you a ring and you would give him forever. But at that moment, you had each other, and that was enough.

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tagged: joeyb_9

The most special day - 27! Ready for the adventures to come. Thank you for all the messages, and to my love for organising the most incredible party. I love you Joey ❤️

view all 395 comments...

cicixoxo: So special celebrating with you! Love you so much, my girlllll 🫶

rosieg_: Happy birthday, our girl! We love you and can't wait to see where the year takes you ❤️

joeyb_9: My perfect girl. You deserve the world and more. I love you, happy birthday ❤️

user1: the coach bags are INSANE oh my fuck

user2: he's obsessed with her and i am so here for it

user3: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIVA WE LOVE YOUUUUU

user4: god if you can hear me

THE END

Joe’s texts were always interesting. They matched energy with hers perfectly. If it took him a few hours to get back to her, he always made sure to apologise, and if he knew that it would be a couple hours before he was able to get back to her, he would message something like, I’ll be away from my phone for a few hours. I’ll respond when I come back :). It eliminated all the worry that she sometimes had with texting without her even having to ask him to do it.

Right now, though, she was worried. Overwhelmed. Excited. 

She was also stood in a towel and had less than an hour to get herself fully ready. 

Stress was building.

There was a knock at the bedroom door, Mandy’s voice filtering through.

‘Girl, you okay? How are you getting along?’ 

Y/N paused. If there was any time she needed help, it was now. 

‘Help!’ 

Seconds later, the door opened and in walked Mandy, bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. 

‘I’m here! Don’t panic!’ 

Mandy quickly took stock of the situation. 

‘Okay. First of all, let’s first down a glass of wine. That helps, it’s scientifically proven.’ 

Whether it was pseudoscience or not, she had to admit, it did help. 

Mandy then cast an eye over everything that Y/N had rejected. 

‘Do you have your graduation dress?’ Y/N stared at her. Of course. The black body-con dress with panels in it that hugged her body and accentuated her curves in all the right places. She mentally kicked herself for not thinking of it earlier, if not first. ‘Get that on, I’ll do your hair.’ 

At last, after forty five minutes and several glasses of wine later, Y/N was ready. As she smoothed her dress out and looked at her reflection in the mirror, the doorbell rang. 

A quick check of her watch made her heart flip; Joe was five minutes early. Mandy left her by the mirror to let him in.

She could hear the muffled small talk between her roommate and Joe. The mere sound of his voice sent shivers up her spine. An influx of nerves suddenly overtook her body, forcing her to sit down on the bed to collect herself.

It had been so long since she had done this, this whole dating thing. She was so used to being strung along, always the one being lusted over instead of actually wanted… Love had been the one thing missing from her life for so long. Genuine, swoon-worthy love that seemed to only happen in the movies. For too long, she felt like it would never happen to her. For too long, it felt as though love just wasn’t in her cards, not in her lifetime. 

But then, Joe had walked into that garden that night. He had talked with her, laughed with her, been gentle and kind. He had shown intention. 

Her phone vibrated in her clutch.

From: Mandy🫶🩷

Miss girl your man is waiting and he looks a snack

From: Mandy🫶🩷

He is so hot dude oh my god go girl!!!

She smiled at the texts, before realising that she couldn’t stay in the bedroom forever. 

It’s showtime, whispered her heart. You’ve got this. 

Finally, before Joe could worry that she wasn’t emerging, the door to the bedroom opened, prompting him to turn around. His jaw instantly went slack. 

If she had looked beautiful on Friday, it was nothing compared to how she looked now. Her dress looked as though it had been crafted just for her. 

She stood shyly in the doorway. Joe couldn’t take his eyes off of her. 

Mandy looked between the two of them with a smile on her face, giddy for her best friend. This could finally be it, she thought delightedly.

‘I’ll see you when you get back, Y/N,’ she said quietly. ‘It was great to meet you, Joe.’ Nobody spoke, so Mandy hurried off to her room to give them some privacy.

Joe crossed the room and ended up in front of her.

‘Hi.’ Her voice was delicate. She felt as though if she spoke too loudly, she would wake up from whatever dream this was. 

He chuckled and leant down to press a gentle kiss to her cheek. The area where his lips landed raised with goosebumps, his breath hot on her skin. 

‘Hi. You’re breathtaking.’ 

Not you look. You are. A subtle change in language that meant everything to her. Her ex had rarely complimented her past the early days. 

‘I, um, I got these, they’re, uh, they’re for you.’ He brandished a large bouquet of roses from behind his back. Bright red petals and dark green stems. The smell brought her back to the garden in which they had first met. 

‘Wow, thank you Joe, they’re gorgeous.’ 

They stood there for a few seconds, enraptured by each other. Something in their brain chemistry had altered when they laid eyes on each other that Tuesday night at her house. It was as if they had spent their entire lives looking for something, but when she opened the door and saw him stood in a smart dress shirt and jacket with slacks, and he saw her in that dress that made his throat run dry, something in each of their souls said, ‘Oh, hello there. So you’re the one I’ve been looking for my entire life.’ 

A door closing elsewhere in the building brought them back to earth. 

‘I, um, better put these in water. So they don’t die.’ She moved past him, his aftershave along with his scent of vanilla and pine wafting past her, to quickly place the flowers into a vase. He only watched her, her movement in the dress spellbinding it him. 

The flowers safely in a vase, she picked up her bag and jacket and walked over to him. 

In a moment of boldness, Joe reached down towards her hand and held it there, a silent ask for permission. Her hand met his, breaking the first barrier of physical contact. Their hands fit together as though they had been made just for each other; his large one enveloping her smaller one, her softness soothing his callouses. 

‘Shall we?’ 

She giggled at his formalness. 

‘We shall, Mr Burrow.’ 

He opened the front door and gestured for her to walk through first, forever the gentleman. Their hands came together again after he closed it and he led her to the elevator. 

The elevator ride was spent exchanging small talk (‘how was work?’ ‘how was practice?’), both attempting to save the real talk for the restaurant. 

Cincinnati’s cool night air greeted them as they walked out of the door of her complex. This time, she had brought a jacket with her, which she was grateful for as they walked a few hundred yards down the sidewalk towards his car.

‘Tried to get a space close to the building, didn’t quite manage it,’ he said apologetically.

‘It’s alright, don’t worry,’ she laughed. ‘The fact you’re picking me up at all is getting you major bonus points.’ She said it so simply, as if she was used to poor treatment, it made him look over at her as they walked. Her face was lit by the street-lamps above them, casting a golden glow over her. It made her look ethereal, almost as though she wasn’t real. 

She is real, Joe reminded himself. And you need to be gentle with her. Take it at her pace.

He didn’t respond. He just… banked it away for future reference. 

They reached his car, a Porsche Taycan. She let out a low whistle when he clicked the keys to unlock it, hazard lights blinking orange in response. 

He opened the door for her. It shut with a smooth clunk behind her when he was sure she was safely inside. She spent the few seconds alone before he got in admiring the car’s interior; slick entertainment system, soft ambient lighting, cream leather seats, shiny chestnut wooden accents on the dashboard… 

This car probably cost more than she earned in five years at the restaurant. The thought made her shiver. Was it fear? Anxiousness? Was she enough for him? Would her job be enough for him? She hadn’t told him where she worked, not yet. He could have anyone, a model, singer, actress, someone on his wavelength in pay… What would she have to contribute to a relationship from her…

‘You okay?’ Joe’s voice sliced through her spiralling thoughts. 

She hadn’t realised he had got in the car. How long he’d been there, she had no idea. She turned to look across the centre console at him and gave him a small smile.

‘Yeah, yeah I’m good.’ 

His gaze lingered on her for a second more than it should have. It moved down to her hands on her thighs, fingers drumming nervously on the fabric of her dress. Then he took her hand again, more cautious this time. 

‘I know… you told me how you feel about the NFL. I know I don’t know the full story, not yet anyway, but you only tell me what you’re comfortable with. Any time you don’t feel comfortable tonight, you tell me. Okay?’ 

Her gaze dropped to their adjoined hands.

That was the first time she got a real sense of his emotional intelligence. She had spent the last four days fretting that she had made an enormous mistake, had twice drafted a text message to him to cancel, and almost sent it once. 

But something pulled her back. Her brain kept taking her back to the way they had exchanged easy banter looking for her Uber. She kept thinking about how he had been quietly confident but shy. 

There’s something about him that’s different, her heart whispered. I know you’re scared. But please don’t give up. 

She looked at him again. His hand gave hers a squeeze. A reminder of I’m here. We’re good. 

‘Okay. Thank you, Joseph.’ He chuckled softly at the use of his full name. The car purred smoothly away and into the night.

Small talk continued throughout the drive, the hum of the car’s engine mixing with the radio that was playing quiet 80s classics. 

The two fell into comfortable conversation about her friends and his hometown. Every now and then, she stole glances over at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Once or twice, he was already looking over at her. The two smiled shyly.

Before long, Joe parked up at the back of a fancy Italian restaurant in uptown Cincinnati, where reservations were usually booked out for months in advance. 

He got out and ran around to her side to open her door again, the small gesture making her heard thud all over again. She could vaguely feel a hand hovering above the small of her back as they walked towards the restaurant. When she tried to walk towards the front entrance, the hand moved to make contact with her jacket, steering her gently towards the back entrance.

‘We can avoid any cameras going this way,’ he murmured to her. ‘We’ve got a private room at the back, away from prying eyes.’ Another gesture of care, showing how he had thought things through. Joe had put more effort into one date than her ex had put into the whole relationship. The thought was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking.

‘Mr Burrow, welcome,’ a man said as they walked over the threshold of the rear entrance. Y/N would later find out that this was the owner of the restaurant and was a close friend of Joe’s. ‘Your room is just this way.’ 

It was a medium-sized room with a dark mahogany table that would normally seat up to about ten people, but for this evening, it was set for just the two of them. The lights were low to create an intimate atmosphere. On the table stood a jug of iced water, two glasses and a vase of flowers - roses, again. 

She shrugged off her jacket, Joe gently grabbing it and hanging it on the coatrack by the door. 

‘This is wonderful, Joe, really. Thank you.’

He pulled her chair at the head of the table out and, when she sat down, gently pushed her in. The urge to kiss the top of her head was almost overwhelming, so he had to settle for resting a hand on her shoulder as he asked if she was comfortable. She could only nod, almost too flustered to speak. Joe sat down next to her.

As they settled into catching up on what happened over the last few days since they last saw each other, she had to process in her mind everything that had happened that evening so far. No man had ever treated her like this. She had never been picked up for a first date before, she had very rarely received flowers from any of her exes, many of them thinking themselves above it, and the way that Joe had opened her car door and held her chair out for her? It was something that she thought only happened in the movies. For so long, she had convinced herself that it wouldn’t happen for her. Her past was so scarred that she no longer deserved love. She was starting to get the feeling, though, that maybe her luck was turning. 

The server came to take their order, Joe ordering the lasagna while she ordered the fettuccine alfredo. 

‘So,’ Joe started. ‘Good weekend?’ He poured her a glass of water while they waited for their drinks to arrive.

‘It was, I was working most of it but it was fun.’ 

‘What do you do for work?’ 

There it was. The big question. Of course, it wasn’t that big, but her ex had made comments multiple times over her being ‘just a waitress’. She was studying for a psychology masters and the job at the restaurant was paying the bills, which was all she needed at that moment. 

Nerves bubbled in her stomach and she hesitated, which he caught onto. Her eyes flicked down to the table in front of them. 

‘I work at a restaurant downtown, just as a waitress, it’s paying for my masters and keeps money coming in. It does what I need it to, for now.’ 

His ears had pricked not just at the mention of her masters, but also how she referred to her job as being ‘just as a waitress’. There was something in the way she said it, is if it was unimportant, insignificant, almost as though she wasn’t proud of it. 

‘You say “just as a waitress”, why?’ 

She paused. Shrugged.

‘I dunno. I mean, compared to you, famous quarterback and earning the big bucks in the NFL, I am just a waitress.’ The second she said it, she heard how lame it sounded. Nobody liked a Debbie Downer, of course she knew that. But when you hear something about you enough times, it becomes true. In your head, at least. 

‘When you think of it like that, I’m just a football player. I just throw footballs at guys on a football field.’

‘But you’re the morale booster for the city. Everyone looks to your team to bring their spirits up.’ 

Joe leaned forward in his chair. He wasn’t backing down. 

‘In that case, you’re also a morale booster, the way you keep people fed. People look to you when they need a coffee, nice food, even just someone to talk to or smile with. A friendly face goes a long way.’ He paused. Eyes locked with hers. ‘Especially when it’s a face as pretty as yours.’ 

That made a stupid smile blossom onto her lips. He chuckled when he saw a light flush rise on her cheeks. 

There it was again, that charm he’d so effortlessly shown her at the party. It wasn’t cocky. Not arrogant. Just quietly confident. 

There was another question that he wanted the answer to. 

‘Why do you see yourself as “just a waitress”?’ 

The shift in her body language was immediate. Squirming in her seat, hands clasping nervously in her lap, eyes darting away from his… Joe’s heart quickened under his chest. Had he stepped too far? 

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’ 

She shook her head.

‘No, it’s not your fault. It’s, um… it’s just a very long story. It also explains why I don’t like the Browns, or the NFL for that matter, but it’s also really depressing and I don’t want to bring the mood down, I…’ Her anxiety was rising, he could feel it from across the table, so he did the first thing that came to mind. One of his hands reached across the space between their chairs. His body leant forward so he could take hold of her hand to stop her from twiddling her fingers. 

The physical contact had the effect he had hoped for. Her rambling stopped and her breathing evened out.

He let her breathe before speaking again. 

‘You won’t be bringing the mood down. Promise. You share as much or as little as you want, but don’t bottle it up. I can take it. Whatever you need, you give it to me. Don’t carry the weight of whatever it is around with you.’ 

No man had ever said anything like that to her. Ever. 

I told you he was different, muttered her heart. 

The look in her eyes when she looked at him again was a mixture of nervousness and gratitude. Once again, his hand squeezed hers. 

‘I don’t want to scare you off,’ she whispered quietly, the honesty clear in the way her eyes became glassy. 

‘Physically impossible to do that. Any man who’s scared off by someone’s past, however dark, is no man at all.’ 

The urge to kiss him right then and there was overwhelming. 

‘Promise?’ She asked. 

He held out his pinky finger on the other hand that wasn’t holding hers. 

‘Solemnly and wholeheartedly.’ 

The two shared a sweet laugh as they interlocked their fingers. 

She took a gulp of water to ease her nerves, but also to give herself some time to collect herself. 

You’ve got this, whispered her heart. You can trust him. I can feel it. He won’t judge you. 

But what if it does scare him off? her brain screamed. 

Then he isn’t worth the energy.

Before she could think about it any longer, she took a deep, steadying breath. 

‘My previous relationship,’ she began. Trying to find the words to convey her point without revealing more than necessary wasn’t easy. ‘Wasn’t a happy one. It started happy, but after a few months, the toxicity started. It started with the manipulation, he would say that he acted the way he did because of me or because of what I was wearing, then came the controlling behaviour, checking my phone, tracking me, isolating me from my friends and family, using my good qualities against me to get what he wanted.’ 

Joe’s heart started to sink as he realised where this was going. 

She continued with a sigh.

‘Then he started to abuse alcohol. He came to depend on it to have a good time. That was… that’s when the assaults started. Black eyes, bruised everything from arms to ribs, split lips…’ Her voice wavered. Joe closed his eyes in disbelief. 

She looked up at the ceiling, willing the tears to go away. Crying on a first date with an NFL quarterback was not on her bingo card for this year, but here she was. Still, she clasped Joe’s hand in hers. It served as a reminder that she was there, safe in the restaurant, with him. 

‘You’re okay,’ he murmured soothingly. That was enough to bolster her. That quiet comfort, the way it came so easy to him… 

Her breath steadied. 

Then she continued.

‘It was always worse when he watched football. He would drink excessively, shout at the TV, throw things at it… at me… And then when they lost…’ Her voice lowered to a whisper to get the words out. Memories flashed before her eyes; screaming, yelling, glass bottles smashing against the walls… ‘It would be me getting the brunt of it all. He would push me against the wall, so black-out drunk he couldn’t see straight, scream in my ear about how his team were losers and how I had to have sex with him to make it up to him, and if I said no, he would kick me to the floor and… have his way with me… To this day, shouting and the sound of whistles brings me back to those nights. I’ve been in therapy ever since, but some memories are harder to let go of.’

Joe could simply sit there in silence.

‘I filed police report after police report,’ she continued in a dull, monotonous voice. A result of the trauma, Joe realised. ‘We were living just outside Cleveland at the time, Cleveland Police did nothing. They were useless. It started to feel like they would only do something if I wasn’t here to see it happen. So, one night after he assaulted me again, I decided that was the last time, packed an overnight bag and drove here. I turned up at Mandy’s door at three in the morning with a busted lip and a black eye. She’s been my best friend since high school and went to the University of Cincy, so I knew I would be safe here. She took me straight to the ER, then when we got back to her place, she sat me down and told me that I couldn’t go back. If I did, I would end up in a body bag in the morgue. She drove me back to Cleveland, helped me pack up all my stuff while he was at work and drove me back here. I blocked him on everything, got a restraining order and… that was it. That all happened about eight months ago. I got the job at the restaurant, Mandy offered me her place to stay until I found a place of my own and got back on my feet.’ 

There was a stunned silence as Joe processed her words. 

‘God, I’m so sorry for crying, for bringing the mood down, I…’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Don’t ever apologise for your emotions, Y/N, please. You went through hell and back. Thank you for sharing your story with me. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.’ 

‘Thank you for listening and for letting me share,’ she smiled through her tears. Joe passed her one of the napkins on the table which she accepted with another thank you, using it to dab carefully at her eyes. ‘I promise I don’t always cry on first dates.’ The tension was broken by the two of them sharing a laugh. 

‘How, um, how are you feeling now?’

She sighed, thinking about how to answer his question. 

‘When you go through a relationship like that,’ she began carefully. ‘When your entire sense of self has been quite literally obliterated, the healing process will never be linear. You’ll have good days, where you feel like you can take on the world, and then the very next day you’ll feel like you’re the most worthless piece of shit to ever walk the planet. But you have to remember that your brain has been scarred and manipulated by someone. Having to teach it to think differently is hard and is going to take time. I’ve been doing the work, my therapist is amazing, but there will be bad days.’ Their eyes met once again. Her gaze was intense, but he didn’t look away. ‘I’ve had more good days recently, though. I really enjoy talking to you, Joe.’ 

She wanted to say, ‘you feel like someone I can trust’, but thought that would be a bit much to say on a first date. 

‘I really enjoy talking to you, too, Y/N.’

And he did. He really did. She was funny, intelligent and so interesting. They could talk about anything; the masters’ in psychology she was studying meant she had a keen interest in how the brain works, and he promised to pick her brains about everything mental health as the night steadily progressed. 

Even as they ate their meal, they didn’t run out of topics to talk about. Conversation flowed, wine was poured and laughs were shared. 

Joe flirted with her completely shamelessly. Winks were thrown liberally across the table. He was loving seeing her blush, and winking seemed to be a surefire way to get her cheeks flushed. He wanted to make her feel wanted. He wanted her to be sure that she was what he wanted.

She was surprised at how easy it all was. 

Was it always meant to be this easy?, her brain asked in confusion as Joe spoke about something or other, a planet of some kind that he had learned about in a documentary. 

She hadn’t meant to zone out. He was just so pretty.

I think so, responded her heart. I think this is exactly how it’s meant to feel. 

She only realised she was staring at him when he turned to face her. His lips moved but she didn’t hear him.

‘So-sorry?’ 

He smiled ever so slightly but didn’t dwell on it.

‘What’s your niche interest? Something that you like going down rabbit holes in.’ 

The question made her laugh. 

‘Okay, this one is random, a bit left field. Are you ready?’ 

He leaned forward. He was always ready when it came to her. 

‘Ships.’ One of his eyebrows quirked in interest. ‘I really enjoy learning about ships. Ships that float, ships that sink. The Titanic will always be my Roman Empire.’

‘Tell me everything.’ 

And she was off, enthusiastically telling him all about the Olympic class liners from the 1900s, how the Cunard liner Carpathia had reached her career top speed going to the rescue of the survivors of Titanic that fateful night in April 1912, only for the plucky little ship to be torpedoed and sunk in 1918, just months before the war finished. She told him about another Cunard liner, the Lusitania, how she had been a household name for both her speed and her luxury before she, too, was torpedoed in the Great War. She told him about the Britannic, the somewhat forgotten sister of the White Star Line’s Titanic and Olympic, and how Violet Jessop had survived the sinking of both the Titanic and the Britannic, and had also been on the Olympic when she collided with HMS Hawke in 1911. 

He gazed at her in quiet wonder with a soft smile on his face. There was nothing sexier to him than an intelligent woman, and she had intelligence in spades, about subjects that he had no idea about. He wanted to learn everything, but specifically from her perspective, her hands gesturing wildly as she babbled away about her passion. In that moment, he made it his life’s mission to find out everything about her, her interests, her dreams, her ambitions... 

A glance at her phone as they picked at their desserts told her the time. 11:00pm. They had been talking for hours and yet, it felt like no time at all had passed.

‘Thank you for letting me yap your ear off about ships,’ she smiled shyly into her gelato. ‘I don’t really have anyone else to talk to about it, other than people in the comments of YouTube videos.’ 

Joe grinned back.

‘My pleasure, I enjoyed learning about it. You know I’m now going to ask for a random ship fact every day, right?’ 

The two laughed together. Her stomach warmed, and she wanted to laugh with him every day. 

‘You promise you won’t get bored? I have endless ship facts, after all.’ 

‘Blow up my phone if you have to. Send me the videos you watch. I could never be bored, not of you.’ 

His eyes held hers. She could see how honest he was. He was real. He wanted her. She wanted him. Finally, after far too long, she realised that this was what it should be like to date. This was how a man should treat a woman. 

They finished their desserts, but when she asked for the check, the server told her with a small smile on his face that it was already paid. 

She looked at Joe, eyebrow quirked.

‘They closed over an hour ago. I tipped extra so they would stay open while you talked about ships.’ He shrugged as he said it, as if he were telling her that he picked up bread from the grocery store. 

‘Joseph Lee. I wanted to at least offer…’

‘Nope. Not happening, babe. I wasn’t raised like that, as much as I appreciate the thought.’ 

He was so quiet about it. He hadn’t made a huge scene out of paying. 

‘Well, your mama raised a good one.’ They raised their glasses and toasted Robin Burrow. 

The two decided to call it a night once they downed the last of their wine. He led her out through the rear entrance and back to the car, hand reaching the small of her back once again to guide her. This time, though, it didn’t hover. It slipped under her jacket to rest gently on the fabric of her dress. It wasn’t suggestive. It was just a reminder, an ‘I’ve got you’. 

On the drive home, the conversation turned giggly and silly, both of them pealing into schoolkid giggles at the slightest joke, even if it wasn’t remotely funny. 

All too soon, he parked outside her building. 

‘Here we are,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you for tonight, Joe. I had fun. A lot of fun, actually. And again, I promise I don’t always cry on first dates.’ 

His body reverberated with a chuckle. 

‘You’re all good. Thank you for trusting me with your story.’ 

A prolonged silence fell between them, during which they looked at each other. She could have sworn that his eyes darted down to her lips a few times, but couldn’t be sure. She wanted to kiss him so badly, but she wasn’t the type to kiss on first dates. Was it still not the done thing? Did people do that? She was so out of practice, she didn’t want to overstep, but she also wanted him to know just how badly she wanted…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of lips on hers. Her body seemed to land back into the seat with a jolt. 

‘Sorry, I’m sorry, I should have asked, that was forward of me, I apologise…’ Joe rambled. 

She reached across to put a hand on his arm. The anxiety he was feeling was palpable, but eased with her touch.

‘Joseph.’ 

He looked back over at her.

‘Come back here and kiss me properly.’ 

So he did. They both leant in over the centre console, and she felt her face being cradled with two large hands. His lips breathed over hers, allowing her to make the first contact. It was awkward to begin with, mouths moving hesitantly against each other, exploring and discovering, but then they found their rhythm. Her fingers reached around the back of his head to fiddle with the short hair at the nape of his neck. 

They broke apart, chests heaving and foreheads resting against each other. 

Neither spoke. Two brains worked silently, processing what just happened.

The air in the car was thick with tension. 

Finally, she spoke.

‘I’ve wanted to do that all night.’ It came out in a breathy whisper. She was still fighting to catch her breath.

‘Then why didn’t you?’ Joe teased. His eyes sparkled as he looked at her. 

‘Didn’t want to overstep. Not sure what the current rules are around kissing on the first date.’ 

He chuckled and pulled her body closer to him, as close as possible over the centre console. 

‘That’s the great thing about dates with me. There are no rules. Just do what you want.’ He reached up and use a finger to move a stray strand of her hair that had fallen in front of her face during the intensity of the kiss. ‘Y/N, I know you’ve been through a lot. I know trust is something that’s earned. But I would really like to see you again.’ 

She tilted her head with a coy smile. The ends of her hair twisted as he twirled it absent-mindedly around his finger. 

‘Hmm, I don’t know, I might have to think about that,’ she giggled. His jaw dropped in mock hurt, making her laugh harder. Joe couldn’t help but join in. He wished everyone’s laugh was as contagious as hers. 

‘Would another kiss help?’ 

‘I think so, let’s try it to see.’ 

When he swooped in to kiss her again, this time, there was no hesitation. Their mouths moved together as if they had been made for each other, as if they had been waiting their whole lives for this exact moment. 

‘I’d also like to see you again, Joseph Lee Burrow. I’m still getting used to this, the whole being wanted thing, and I won’t lie, I may need some patience from your side, but I… I really like you. And I want to see where this goes.’ She said the last part in little more than a whisper. 

‘I’ll do whatever it takes. Because I really like you, too.’ 

With the promise of texting her plans for their second date, Joe hurried around to open her door. He walked with her to her complex, back up the elevator and up to her apartment front door. 

‘Thank you, again, for tonight. I really had fun,’ she murmured when they reached their front door. Her bag jingled in her search for her front keys, anxiety bubbling as she searched for them. 

‘Thank you for coming, I had a lot of fun too.’ He chuckled as she continued to fumble for her keys. 

‘There we are.’ With shaking hands, she found her front door key. ‘I’ll see you soon, Joseph Lee.’ 

Instead of responding, he used his index finger to tilt her chin up to him. Their lips met once again for a gentle goodnight kiss. Her stomach fizzed, crackled and popped with fireworks as they moved in perfect sync. She moved her hands to rest at his sides, his warmth radiating onto her from their proximity. 

This is everything you deserve, her brain whispered to her when he moved apart from her. 

‘Night, Y/N. Wait, what’s your middle and last name, now that we’re here? You know mine but I only know your first name.’ 

She smiled as she told him her full name. He repeated it to himself.

The only thing she could focus on was the way his hands held her by her sides. It was making her brain short circuit. Suddenly she needed his hands all over her body, all at once. 

Slow down, Y/N, her brain soothed.

‘Well, Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, I won’t keep you any longer. Mandy’s probably waiting for the update anyway.’ 

His statement made the two of them share another laugh. 

‘Maybe you really do know about girl code!’ 

She felt herself being wound in his arms for a last hug, the physical contact firing all her synapses. She hadn’t realised how badly she’d needed a hug from a guy; sure, she had hugs all the time from her friends, but there was something special about being hugged by a guy. It was intimate, protective, special. Especially when it was a 6’4 quarterback who smelled of vanilla, pine and whatever expensive aftershave he was wearing. It filled her nostrils from where her face was nuzzled into his neck. 

He held her at arms’ length.

‘Good night, Y/N.’ 

‘Night, Joseph.’ 

They exchanged one last kiss, one last look, before she tore herself away and opened the door. 

As expected, Mandy was waiting with another bottle of wine, ready for the debrief. Y/N leant against the door, not realising that Joe was doing the same on the other side, catching his breath with the stupidest, widest smile on his face.

The two women squealed in happiness, dancing around the kitchen to celebrate. The debrief that followed was intense, a blow-by-blow account of everything that happened. Mandy gasped and cooed at all the right moments, and full-out screamed when her best friend told her about the kisses.

There was an air of anxiety about Y/N as she awoke the next morning, worried that after a night of rest, Joe would change his mind, but all fears dissipated when he sent her a text at nine in the morning, telling her that he had booked a private booth at a cocktail bar next Wednesday.

From: Joe Burrow

I have a game this weekend, otherwise I would have loved to see you sooner. Once off-season starts, I’ll have more time. 

Everything about him was intentional. Purposeful. 

As their relationship progressed, it spanned everything he did; flowers delivered to her door, phone calls if he was away on the road, postcards sent from the cities he played in (even Minnesota for Vikings games).

Two dates turned into three, then six, then they lost count. 

Joe was patient. He never made her feel guilty for having worries. What was most important was the way he showed her that he cared with actions, he didn’t just say it. He made an effort. 

She once spotted him researching the psychological effects of an abusive relationship. She didn’t say anything. Just had that warm flutter in her heart that became the normal with him.

He listened to creators on social media who spoke about their experiences of domestic violence. He quietly started to regularly donate to local women’s shelters and charities that supported victims of domestic violence. He started wearing a purple ribbon, the symbol for domestic violence awareness, on his jersey for press conferences, a silent but meaningful way of raising awareness. 

He never mentioned anything to anyone about her ex or her history. If anyone asked about the sudden interest, he attributed it to a conversation with a friend he had had, and left it at that.

They made it official after five months. To anyone else, that was a long time for the dating stage, but he didn’t care. He knew the importance of being patient. There were ups and downs, there were frank and scary conversations between the two of them, she struggled with anxiety, but they got through it all. Together. As a team.

‘I wanted you to be sure that you were ready,’ he said one night, while they were making dinner together at his place, when she asked him how he knew to wait that long. ‘Good things come to those who wait, baby. I'd have waited however long you needed.’ A kiss was pressed to her forehead.

Then she asked how he knew she was ready. 

He paused in thought, eyes looking up at ceiling as he remembered the situation.

‘It was when you came into the study while I was doing film. You just knocked, popped your head in and asked if I needed a drink. I said no, and I thought you were going to head back out, but then you just… stayed. I could tell you were nervous, but you stayed. You asked questions. Even when the whistles blew, you stayed. I could see you, you know, tensing, but you did it. I was so proud of you.’ 

The fact he not only remembered but had such a clear, vivid memory of how it happened… She had leant up to kiss him at that. 

They first said those three all-important words four months after becoming official. Both of them had known it for weeks, but Joe waited for her to say it first. He never crowded her, never pushed her, always waited for her to make the first move. 

It had been a busy week for both of them. It was a Friday. She had submitted her final assignment for her masters’ earlier that week, and he had come back from a win at the Bills. To celebrate, they were going out for a meal. Nothing truly special, just a quiet dinner, the two of them, to spend some time together. 

Joe was sat on the edge of the bed, slipping on his shoes and adjusting his cufflinks. He was wearing a navy dress shirt with black slacks, accompanied by a black dinner jacket. Simple but very effective. The slacks made his already-long legs look seemingly endless. 

She exited the en-suite in a navy body-con dress. Joe’s eyes darkened at the sight of her, letting out a low whistle. She threw him a cheeky grin and squealed when he lightly smacked her ass playfully. 

Her hair fell down her back and past her shoulders in waves that had been carefully styled and liberally sprayed with hairspray. She just needed a spritz of her perfume to complete the look, but it wasn’t where she had left it on the top of the chest of drawers the day before.

‘Joe, have you seen my perfume?’ She asked her boyfriend quietly.

‘Uh, it might be just in the drawers, Anna sometimes puts it away,’ he replied, referring to the housekeeper who worked diligently to make sure that the house was tidy. 

Sure enough, when she pulled open the top drawer, she found the little green bottle she was looking for.

‘Got it, thanks babe.’

There followed a few spritzes that seeped around the room, floral scent wafting over Joe. 

‘That’s my favourite of yours,’ he murmured. She giggled and moved over to hold her wrist up to his nose so he could get a better whiff of it. ‘That’s the one I bought you, right?’ 

She nodded in response. 

‘It’s my favourite, too.’ His hands held her sides to move her closer, standing her in between his legs. In that moment, gazing at each other, they were taken back to that first night they met in that garden. Joe would forever thank the stars for leading him to her that evening. One of her fingers gently stroked the side of his face. He leant into her touch and kissed her palm.

Her heart caught in her throat at the look in his eyes - adoration, fixation… was that love, too? The word had bounced around in her head for the last few weeks. On the tip of her tongue. She’d nearly uttered it twice, but chickened out at the last minute. 

Just say it. That look in his eyes wouldn’t be there if he didn’t feel it too, her heart encouraged.

Are you sure? asked her brain.

You never know if you don’t try, came the response.

Finally, she gave a determined, resolute sigh. It was almost as if she were exhaling the last of the remnants of her past out of her body.

‘I love you,’ she announced. She held his eye contact. She wanted him to believe it, because she did. She loved him.

It came out slightly breathless in the sigh, as if the words had fallen out of her mouth behind it. The magnitude of her words hit her like a ton of bricks. She couldn’t go back now. Not that she wanted to, anyway. She didn’t want to say it to anyone else, she realised then. 

Joe's chest had constricted when he heard her say those words. For a second, he thought he had imagined it, but then he processed it. He gently pulled her face in to kiss her. The meeting of their lips was soft, as if he was trying to kiss away her worries. 

‘I love you, too,' he murmured against her lips. He hugged her then, bone-crushing and never-ending. Both of them were laughing delightedly.

They loved each other. Wholly and committed.

The feeling of hearing him say it back and knowing that he meant it whole-heartedly, the way that he hadn’t made her doubt his feelings for her, the effort he put in every single day to quell all of her worries… It was right there. Spelled out in the stars. Written in the cosmos itself. 

I love you.

Three little words that were the backbone of any relationship. 

Eight letters that had been used against her in the past, but now would mean nothing but what they said. 

I love you. 

The two of them repeated the words back to each other, testing them out. 

They would never get tired of saying it. They would say it every night before bed, every morning before work, after every argument, during catch up FaceTime calls when he was away, randomly throughout the day in a text when they felt the need to say it or hear it… 

I love you.

It was simple, really. 

He loved her. He had since he’d come home to her dancing to One Direction in the kitchen. A classic case of ‘he fell first’, as there was a tiny part of him that still felt she was scared. But then she’d sang the lyrics to ‘Everything About You’ into a rolling pin as a microphone at him, and that was it. He’d been caught hook, line and sinker. 

She loved him. She had since he’d coaxed her through the first proper, full NFL game they watched together a few weeks into making it official. He’d held her hand through it all. Whispered sweet nothings to her when she tensed. Held her hand and rubbed it when she got really anxious. Murmured to her about how proud he was of her. And when it finished, they cheered more for each other than for the winning team, knowing that this was the real beginning.

She had been through so much. She had seen the worst that life could throw at her. But then she had met Joe at that party that night under the stars in that rose garden. He had given her a reason to believe in love again. He loved her unconditionally, no strings attached, completely and wholeheartedly. His love had allowed her to love again. It had given her the opportunity to start fresh. 

To begin again. 

At least the hospital she was at was nice. It was more than obvious it wasn’t a standard one. The doctors weren’t in a rush and the room was big, with large windows overlooking a green courtyard. Her husband had moved her there, her doctor had told her. Because as if a hospital visit wasn’t enough of a shock, she’d apparently been there a week already, in a coma caused by a car accident. It was a thought that took a while for her to wrap her head around.

Almost as long as it took for her to come to terms with the fact that she had a husband she didn’t know the name of. She couldn’t even recall his face, but if he was as sweet as her nurse had told her he was – as she gushed over how gorgeous and kind the man she’d apparently married had been every time he visited – he would probably be there soon by her side.

There was a thin gold band on her nightstand, the diamonds adorning it calling out to her. It felt familiar in a way that had her aching to reach out and put it on her ring finger, where a thin tan line lay, but it didn’t feel right. So she didn’t. She let it sit there, glinting in the sunlight, until she reached out to hold it in her palm. 

Her hands had grown clammy around the ring by the time a man barged in, a nurse following close after, chastising him for running in a hospital. He mumbled some half hearted apology, barely even making eye contact as he stepped closer before coming to a full stop a few feet from the bed. 

His eyes welled up all of a sudden and his lip wobbled. She felt bad for him, she really did, but she couldn’t focus on much other than the fact that she didn’t know the man. Well, she did. She married him, he was wearing the wedding ring to prove it, looking at her with such love in his eyes that she couldn’t pretend to think otherwise. But this version of her didn’t even know her own last name. 

“Hi,” he whispered, breathless, taking a tentative step forward. She fiddled with the ring in her hands, trying to direct her anxiety somewhere. The movement caught his eye and his face fell, the hopeful smile that had graced his handsome features now a pout. “You…” he trailed off. Before he could continue what she’s sure would’ve been a heartbreaking sentence, her doctor walked in. 

The man listened attentively to every word the doctor said, eyes flitting to her every few seconds like he couldn’t bear the thought of looking anywhere else for too long. He swallowed harshly at the words, his heart cracking a little at every mention of her injuries, like they’d happened to him, too. But it’s at the end of the doctor’s short monologue, that Joe’s heart stopped.

“–unfortunately, she has retrograde amnesia. We don’t know the full extent of it yet, but she doesn’t seem to recall getting married,” the doctor regretfully informed him. 

Joe nodded, eyebrows furrowed as he fought to keep the tears at bay. He was a smart man, she decided, because he seemed to put the pieces together far quicker than she had. He lowered his voice and turned away from her to ask the doctor, “She doesn’t even remember me?”

She heard it, but she wished she hadn’t. He sounded so broken at the thought alone, and the reply he received only worsened it. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, “Okay,” he forced out. “That’s okay, we’ll… we’ll fix it, right? She’ll get her memory back?”

“Maybe we should have this conversation out in the hall,” the doctor tried, shooting his patient a worried glance at the potentially distressing topic of conversation.

She cut in, then. She shook her head vehemently, “No. No this is about me, I should get to hear it.”

The man – her husband – was shocked still by the sound of her voice, face softening as he took her in. It was the first time he’d heard her voice in a week. While it wasn’t what he hoped she’d say, and certainly not the circumstances, it was still her voice. The same voice that had made his life feel so quiet and empty the second it disappeared. 

The doctor nodded in agreement and turned toward her. “Amnesia is an interesting phenomenon and it’s different for everyone. It may be permanent, but you’re just as likely to regain your memory. There’s really no way to know, I’m afraid.”

“Well, is there anything we can do to get it back? Any treatment? Money’s no object,” the man tried, visibly distressed. He looked ready to bite his nails down to the quick, his leg already bouncing, fingers trembling. 

“There’s no direct treatment for it,” the doctor told them apologetically. She couldn’t imagine it was fun to always be the bearer of bad news. “In my experience, familiarity and time help, but that’s about all there is to do. This is a slow process, Mr. Burrow.”

Well, at the very least she knew her last name now. A very small silver lining, but it felt nicer to think of that than of all the things she had forgotten. 

“That’s okay,” he swallowed down the lump in his throat, a determined look crossing his face. “We have the rest of our lives to work through this.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait,” she cut in, then. Both of them looked at her, surprised at her objection. “Don’t I get a say here? I mean… I’m sure we were really happy and you seem like a nice person, but I don’t even know your name,” she told her husband. “How am I supposed to commit the rest of my life to someone I don’t know?”

“It’s Joe,” he told her with a pained expression, and she couldn’t help but regret her words. Not standing up for herself, but for the way she’d so clearly hurt him, even if it wasn’t on purpose. He had a very expressive face, she was quickly realizing. With a shaky breath, he continued, eyes downcast. “And it doesn’t have to be forever. Let’s just do ‘for now’, okay?”

He cared about her, he loved her, she could see it clear as day. She could see he was itching to reach out, to touch her, to kiss her, but he didn’t. Besides she had to go somewhere, she couldn’t stay in her hospital room forever. So, albeit reluctantly, she agreed.

She could do ‘for now’. 

────────────

Walking into the house that was supposed to be her home felt surreal. It was so oddly familiar, but still completely unknown. By mere muscle memory, she knew to pick up her feet just slightly more when stepping out of the hall to avoid tripping, but she had no idea where the kitchen or the bathroom was. 

She was quiet, most of the time. Slowly absorbing all the new information, trying to listen when Joe told her where everything was, gently trying to steer her to the couch to rest, careful not to touch her – a boundary she’d made abundantly clear the second they got a moment alone. But Joe still hovered, always a step just behind, beside her or in front of her. Always near enough to touch, but unnaturally far away. 

Joe had promised her he wouldn’t push. That he wouldn’t try to pry her memory back with force. That he’d give her the time she needed, at least for now. She was virtually living with a stranger now, something he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around, but she was painfully aware of. 

The first few days, he kept doing small things for her. He thought he was being smooth, but it was obvious what he was trying to do. He was ordering her favorite food, surrounding her with all her favorite things. He’d suggest movies and shows she liked, and whenever he got the chance, the same playlist played in the background, no matter what they were doing.

They were all love songs, soft and slow, seeping with love. She suspected it was the playlist they’d played at their wedding, if not for the obvious context clues, then for the sad smile Joe wore every time he heard them play. 

“These are our wedding pictures,” he told her one day on the couch as he handed her a frame, a few more waiting next to him – pictures of them, their friends, their family, their lives. He looked down at the picture fondly. “You looked so beautiful that day, you were so happy.”

He gave her the next frame; a similar picture, another from their wedding. 

“You’d been so stressed leading up to it, I was scared you wouldn’t enjoy it. But then the day came and I was the nervous wreck while you were calmer than I’d ever seen you before. You didn’t doubt us for a second. I think that was the moment I knew I’d… I’d never be able to live without you.”

He cleared his throat and handed her the next picture, one of the two of them kissing. It was odd, seeing herself, recognizing herself, but recalling none of it. It was an odd mix of longing and confusion that never failed to give her a headache, but she couldn’t tell him. He’d just fuss endlessly and shut down again. He was convinced his presence hurt her sometimes, she was sure. There was no other reason for him to run off so suddenly every time his attempts to revive her memory turned even slightly uncomfortable for her.

She just wanted to get to know him, figure out the man she was supposed to love, but he wouldn’t let her. Not really. He was too focused on her and her memories to realize how big of a part he played in her life. 

“This one was your favorite. I think you made at least a dozen copies of it. It used to make you so happy to look at, that’s what you’d tell me, at least.”

She knew he didn’t mean to, but sometimes he talked about her like she was dead. Like he was reliving a life he’d never get back, full of sadness and lost love. Tears welled in his eyes and despite the melancholy, she craved the emotion. She wanted to see the ugly parts of their life and relationship, too. The crying, the arguments, the aches. But once again, he just wouldn’t let her.

Instead, he stood up, made some flimsy excuse about needing to check the thermostat, and left her alone on the couch, surrounded by pictures of the two of them.

Technically, he was giving her the space she’d initially asked for. But it was becoming too much. It had gotten to the point that when two weeks had passed – without any real progress on her memory – she still didn’t know anything about the man. He was still a stranger. And Joe, he’d only grown more lovesick.

She’d caught him lingering in the doorway to her – their – bedroom more than once when he thought she was asleep before leaving to go sleep in the guest bedroom across the hall. He always had this tortured look in his baby blue eyes, one that made her think he was seconds away from breaking down at any given moment. He probably was, and probably did break down, but she never saw it. 

It was a weird thought, him knowing everything about her while all she knew was his name. She didn’t know his birthday, where he grew up or even what his favorite color was. It hurt a little, but she didn’t feel like she was in any position to complain when he treated her so well for practically nothing in return.

He was a great partner, but she could tell it was getting to him. “I’ll keep trying for as long as you let me,” he’d tell her whenever they talked about her lack of progress, and she could tell he meant it. But she still felt guilty, like she was wasting his life, some days. But others, there was nowhere else she’d rather be, even next to this man who was practically a stranger. 

She hadn’t really asked him to talk about himself, it felt like such an awkward question to ask, so she avoided it. But she still wanted to know more, felt like she owed it to him to at least try. So she did the only mature thing she could think of and snooped around her own house, trying to figure Joe out.

She wore a small smile on her face rummaging through his closet, quietly padding down quiet hallways and into rooms she couldn’t remember even having been in before. His office was a nice surprise. The books on astrophysics and the solved Rubik’s cube made her grin. There were a few paintings on the walls, expressionist bursts of color that woke her up just looking at them. 

On his desk, there were multiple post-it notes with reminders on them. ‘Call mom’ and ‘Buy flowers on Saturday’ in particular made her smile. Almost as much as the rambling notes to himself on loose papers about chess moves he wanted to try out, ideas he had while watching tape, movies he wanted to see, date ideas. They were furthest down in the pile and probably old, but she couldn’t help but take a peek anyway.

Planetarium. Aquarium. Lego Land. Picnic in the backyard. Movie night (no scary movies). Lunch at IKEA. Ice cream in the park. Cooking class. Pottery class. Dance class. Natural history museum. 

The list just went on and on, some scratched over – like the dance class; he really didn’t want to do that one, it seemed – and others underlined or highlighted. It was sweet. 

Her cheeks were heating up and she let a giggle slip out before she even realized what she was doing. After spending five minutes in his office, she already knew more about him than she had in two weeks. And she could easily see how she’d fallen in love with him once before. 

Too wrapped up nosing around his things, she didn’t notice Joe follow after her, nor the way he’d stood watching her the entire time, leant against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You find something funny?” he asked, teasing. 

She jumped, hand flying to her chest as she turned to the man. “Don’t sneak up on people like that! Jeez.”

“Sorry,” he sheepishly apologized, pushing off of the doorframe. “I didn’t mean to. You just looked… I don’t know. Cute. I didn’t wanna bother you.”

Averting her eyes, she put the papers down on his desk and stepped away. “I wasn’t snooping,” she denied before he had the chance to ask or accuse. 

“Sure you weren’t,” he chuckled. His eyes were so adoring, shoulders relaxed, an easy smile on his stubble-covered face. He looked more at ease than he had since her accident. It made her feel calmer, too. Besides, this felt like a glimpse into what everyday life with him had been before, something she was desperately trying to figure out. 

“I just wanted to know a little more about you, that’s all,” she shrugged, nervously looking around the room to avoid meeting his eyes. 

“You could’ve just asked,” he offered with a smirk, shaking his head a little. 

She pursed her lips then, looking at him almost regretfully. “Yeah, but… that would’ve been a little awkward, don’t you think? I’ve learned more about you in the past five minutes than I have the last few weeks combined.”

The smile fell off his face quickly and she felt an all too familiar pit return to her stomach at his grimace and frown. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. 

“No, it’s okay. Things need to be awkward sometimes,” she said, and very aptly, let a quiet beat pass as the two just stood together in the moment. But she felt a little sorry for him, seeing the guilt wash over his features. “Can we go for a drive?”

Joe’s eyebrows furrowed on instinct, concern and worry taking over, every other feeling pushed aside. “Are you sure? Since your accident…”

“It’s fine, Joe,” she shrugged, waving him off. “It’s not like I remember it,” she quipped, chuckling to herself, quieting down when Joe’s expression remained steely. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he grumbled, eyebrows still furrowed close together, lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. Yeah we can.”

He helped her settle into the front seat, opening the door for her and holding a hand on the frame above her head to make sure she wouldn’t get hurt on the way in. His hand rested on the middle console as he drove, fingers itching to reach out. But, like always, he refrained. She wished he’d show some initiative sometimes, but she could understand why he didn’t. 

But he didn’t understand what it felt like to have a husband that she couldn’t remember ever kissing, hugging or even holding hands with. He had all those memories, and as much as she wanted them too, she didn’t. 

Still, she didn’t reach out, and instead focused on the lights rushing past them on the busy road, the sky darkening slowly but surely around them. They didn’t speak much, they rarely ever did, just let the radio fill up the space around them. 

After a while of aimlessly driving, with Joe driving under the speed limit and triple checking every angle before making a move, he asked her; “Is there anywhere you wanna go?”

She thought for a minute, looking back at him; his side profile backlit by flashing breaklights. “No,” she shook her head. “I just like driving around.”

“How… How do you know that?” he carefully asked, genuinely curious but also slightly disbelieving. “I just– it’s not like you can remember it…” he trailed off again, not knowing where to take the sentence. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her and he’d already backed himself into a corner, so saying nothing felt like the right option.

“I just know it. The same way I know what songs I like, my favorite color, what restaurant has the best dumplings,” she told him, eyebrows furrowed like she was trying to make sense of it herself. “I know I’m safe around you, too, even if I can’t remember why,” she quietly added, turning away from him.

Joe glanced back at her in surprise. He wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn’t really find the words. His eyes welled up and his throat constricted; he couldn’t trust his voice anymore. So he stayed silent and looked ahead at the road, waiting for the light to turn green.

Soon enough, they got back home. And as usual, Joe disappeared somewhere into the large house without much more than a mumbled excuse, and she was left alone to exist in the mold of what used to be her life. 

Looking at the pictures adorning the walls, those of their wedding and ordinary ones, with nothing ‘special’ about them, hurt. They were so visibly happy and in love. All she wanted was to remember it.

────────────

The next day was quiet. As was dinner; eating in silence had become the norm in the Burrow household. It wasn’t that they didn’t have anything to say or that they didn’t want to talk to each other, they just had no idea how. The times they did speak, she was the one initiating it. After those first couple of weeks when she was healing from her injuries and Joe had doted on her, he kind of just faded away.

He didn’t have a specific job to do anymore and didn’t know how to act around her, so he just stayed away. Always lingering, stealing longing glances and admiring her from afar. But never up close.

Joe knew it hadn’t always been that way. He could remember when their house was lively and full of joy and life, but she couldn’t. Which was what led her to asking the dreaded question; “Were you a good husband?”

He nearly choked on his food, coughing a little as he looked up at her with wide eyes. He just stared and didn’t answer, so she repeated herself, assuming he thought he’d heard her wrong. 

“Why would you ever ask that?”

“I just mean… was it always like this at dinner? Did we not cuddle and watch movies ever? Were you always this aloof with me?” she gingerly asked, chewing on her bottom lip. She hadn’t so much as touched her dinner. How could she, when the thought had been plaguing her mind all day? She refused to believe she’d lived like this before her accident. 

“No, it wasn’t like this,” he replied, quietly. He looked uncomfortable and she felt like it too, but she still had to know more. “We used to talk all the time.”

“Why don’t you talk to me anymore, then?” she asked.

“I thought you wanted space,” he shrugged, trying to direct his attention to eating. But all the food tasted bland with her piercing, curious gaze on him. He couldn’t focus on anything other than her.

“I mean, I did at first. But now…” she pouted. “I’ve been trying to figure things out on my own. I don’t even know where you’ve been.”

“I’ve been at the facility and the gym,” he told her simply with a shrug. 

She furrowed her eyebrows, head tilting in a way he couldn’t deny was adorable. His heart melted a little, more painful than it used to be, but he tried to only focus on the sweetness of it for once. “The facility?”

“Yeah… My job’s football, I told you that, right? We have a facility, it’s basically my office.”

“Ohhh, right,” she nodded slowly, cheeks heating up as embarrassment washed over her. “That makes sense. Sorry.”

“No it’s– I should’ve told you where I’ve been going. I’ve just been coming and going without notice. That was shitty of me,” she sighed, jaw clenching as he looked down in shame. “What kind of husband does that?”

She let the silence between them sit for a moment, then said quietly but all too quickly to take back or really realize what she was saying before it was too late; “You don’t really feel like my husband so I can’t blame you.”

The face Joe made when he found out she’d lost her memory, the most pained she could remember seeing him, had nothing on the way his face twisted up now. He recoiled like she’d punched him, a small sound, almost a whimper, unwillingly escaping him. “You don’t–” he cut himself off, taking a ragged breath as he did his best to blink away the tears. She looked down, unable to look him in the eye after hurting him so badly. Even if it was the truth, and had to be said at some point, she still hated it. He exhaled slowly, “I should’ve guessed. You haven’t worn your ring once.”

She looked down at her bare ring finger, one that was now even, devoid of indentation or tan lines. Every morning she looked at it, the diamond practically taunting her from her jewelry tray, but she couldn’t wear it. She didn’t feel worthy of it. 

He still wore his every day. She’d never seen him without it.

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded, cheeks red and blotchy, jaw shaky with emotion. She could see he was trying to form a sentence in his mind, trying to figure out the best way to say what he was thinking. So she gave him a moment, until he finally said; “If you don’t get your memory back, do you think you could fall in love with me again?”

It was a heavy question, one with many implications. He was practically asking her if she wanted to stay married to him, asking if she wanted to separate without mentioning the scary ‘D’ word. 

She wished she had an easy answer for him, one that would solve all of their problems. Because what if she left him and then one day woke up and remembered everything, remembered that she loved him, only to find out he’d moved on? It would crush her. But so would being in a loveless marriage. She couldn’t do that to either of them, especially not him, when he’d been so sweet – the times he didn’t avoid her, at least.

“I think…” she started, slowly, shakily meeting his eyes. “I think I can. I fell in love with you once before, didn’t I?” she let out a humorless laugh, a sad smile on her face as she looked down to her lap, where she was pulling painfully at her cuticles. “But not like this, you know?”

“What do you mean?” he leaned forward, closer to her. She could see the hope in his eyes, the recognition of a chance, but also crippling fear.

“I want to get to know you and I want you to get to know me again. You’ve been avoiding that – which I do understand, believe me. But how can I fall for you if I don’t know you? You won’t let me.”

Joe stood up then, all of a sudden, and rounded the table. He came to a stop beside her chair, only to pull her up and right into his arms. Into a real hug, her first one. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her hair as his arms tightened around her. He curled into her, trying to take in every sensation of having her so close. It was almost overwhelming, and he hated that he was crying while trying to apologize to her, but he couldn’t help it. Having the love of his life in his arms again after so long was a lot to process emotionally. 

And for her, it was everything. She felt loved by him, could feel his tears wet her shirt and hear his heart beat. It was an awful conversation to have, but it was needed. And definitely worth it, just for this one moment where she was held. She couldn’t explain how much she’d missed it, without even knowing what she was craving. 

“I didn’t wanna come off too strong and scare you away,” he admitted, sniffling. “And then I didn’t even know how to be anymore so I didn’t do anything at all. The last thing I wanted was to push you away.”

He pulled away from her just enough to see her face, his large palm coming up to cup her cheek. He wiped away a tear she didn’t even notice had fallen and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. 

“I promise, if there’s even a chance I could get you back, to have you love me again, I’ll do anything.”

That night, for the first time in weeks, they stayed up talking to each other like they used to into the early hours of the morning. And they woke up in the same bed, tangled in each other and comforters far later than Joe would usually wake up. But he couldn’t complain, and didn’t wake her up either. Not when things for the first time felt okay again. He wouldn’t trade the feeling for any achievement or prize in the world.

────────────

Joe wasn’t a great cook. He was more than well aware of the fact and therefore relied on a personal chef for most of his meals. But it was their anniversary, and what kind of husband would he be if he didn’t bring his lovely wife breakfast in bed?

He’d cut up fruits and veggies, put frozen croissants and cinnamon buns in the oven and put the kettle on. Now there were only pancakes left to make, which was far easier said than done.

He burned the first one, which was expected. The first ones always turned out bad. But then the second one was somehow raw and when he tried to fix it, he ended up burning it too. After an embarrassing amount of failed pancakes, he managed to get into some semblance of a groove, ending up with a few wonky and uneven but edible pancakes.

He was proud and ready to keep going, smiling to himself, when he felt arms snake around his waist from behind. He jumped a little, instinctively, but smiled when he saw the gold band adorning the hand pressed over his abdomen. He turned around in his wife’s arms to press a good morning kiss to her lips. “What are you doing up? You should still be in bed, sleeping,” he all but whined. 

“It smelled good so I woke up,” she shrugged with a smile hugging him tightly. 

He sighed but leaned into her embrace. “I wanted to wake you up.”

“Technically you did,” she grinned, pressing a kiss to his t-shirt clad chest before pulling away. “Do you smell–”

She was cut off by the sound of the smoke detector beeping so loudly she thought she’d hear it days from now. Joe scrambled to pull the frying pan off the stove, a black smoking pancake stuck to the bottom of it. She couldn’t help but giggle a little at her husband’s culinary ineptitude as she opened a window to let the smoke clear out as he turned off the alarm. 

“Damn it,” he groaned, hiding his head in his hands. “Not how I wanted our anniversary to go.”

She smiled and grabbed his hand, smoothing over the back of it with her thumb soothingly. “Hey, this is still better than our first one! You completely forgot and got me a cake from Dairy Queen to apologize. This is definitely better.”

She was still laughing, both at his clumsiness and her memory, so hard that she didn’t even realize she’d remembered something. But Joe noticed. 

His grip on her hand loosened for just a moment before he swept her off her feet in a bear hug, twirling her around the kitchen. When her feet finally touched the marble floor, his lips were back on hers; deep and passionate, pouring all of his love into it.

“Whoa, Joey, didn’t think burned pancakes made you that happy,” she giggled once she managed to pull away from him for breath, slightly dizzy but happy all the same.

“No, no, no, do you not realize what you just said?” he asked, face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “You remember our first anniversary?”

She stilled, lips pursing as she tried to recall what she’d said. Her eyes widened when she realized, “Oh!” before breaking out into loud laughter, all teeth and crinkles around her eyes. “That’s so funny, the first thing I remember is something you forgot.”

It wasn’t really that funny, at least Joe didn’t think so, but she was full on cackling. And he couldn’t have been happier. Because she remembered something. It might’ve only been eight in the morning, with smoke from burnt pancakes in the air and frozen pastries in the oven, but it was already easily the best anniversary they’d ever had. 

The morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, golden and warm, catching the faint swirl of flour in the air from the cupcakes you’d been decorating since dawn. Music played low from the speaker on the counter — an upbeat playlist that was supposed to keep your nerves steady but had turned into background noise to your buzzing thoughts. 

Today was the day. The gender reveal.

You glanced at the stack of pastel balloons crowding one corner of the living room, the dessert table half-finished, the string lights Joe had promised to hang still sitting in their box. It was chaos, but the good kind — the kind that made your heart feel full.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, checking your list again. “Cake? Ordered. Balloons? Confirmed. Dress—”

“Handled!”

You turned, catching sight of Joe padding into the kitchen in joggers and a white tee, a mug of coffee in hand, hair still messy from sleep. He looked smug — and too calm for someone whose house was about to host fifty people in three hours.

“Handled?” you repeated, arching a brow.

He leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee like this wasn’t the most important day of your pregnancy so far. “Yeah, I told Tee to pick it up. He said he’s already on the way. Don’t stress, babe.”

You stared at him for a moment, one hand resting on your bump. “You sure? Because this is not a ‘don’t worry about it’ kind of day, Joe.”

He grinned. “Babe, I’ve played in the Superbowl. I think I can handle a dry-cleaning pickup.”

That earned him a look — the kind of half-glare, half-smile that said you’re lucky you’re cute. “Okay, Mr. Quarterback. Just… please make sure Tee doesn’t forget. It’s the dress.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but that dress meant more to you than just fabric and stitching. It was the only thing in your closet that didn’t make you feel like an inflated balloon — soft, clingy in all the right places, the colour bringing out the faint glow pregnancy had left on your skin. You’d picked it out weeks ago, gotten it dry-cleaned just for today, hoping it would help you feel like yourself again — confident, put-together, beautiful.

“I know.” He leaned down to kiss your forehead, murmuring against your skin. “Trust me, everything’s gonna be perfect.”

You watched him disappear down the hall, phone already in hand, and exhaled a slow, shaky breath. Perfect. You wanted that — not extravagant or over-the-top, just… right. A day that felt like the two of you.

You turned back to your cupcakes, smiling faintly. In a few hours, you’d know whether you were having a boy or a girl. The thought made your heart race. 

The baby kicked, just once, like it knew something you didn’t. You laughed softly, rubbing your belly. “Guess we’ll find out soon, huh?" You tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in your chest.

The backyard looked… almost ready. Chairs neatly arranged, and the decorations — pastel pinks and blues, just subtle enough to hint at what was coming without giving anything away — swaying lightly in the breeze.

You had rearranged a few things this morning, making sure the setup was perfect. Still, your mind ran through a checklist of worries: would everything go smoothly? Would everyone show up on time? Would the weather hold?

The sound of the front door opening made you pause. “That must be them,” you murmured to yourself, and a few minutes later, Joe’s parents stepped into the kitchen, smiles warm and bright. Robin hugged you first, pulling you in gently. “You look radiant,” she said softly, her eyes scanning your face like she could see all the excitement and worry swirling inside. Jimmy followed, clapping Joe on the shoulder with a grin.

You stepped back, smiling, letting the introductions roll naturally as Robin and Jimmy made their way outside to start helping set up the backyard. You could hear the cheerful banter of Joe’s two younger brothers as they unpacked decorations, balloons, and gifts.

Your own family was due to arrive later in the evening — flying in from out of town.

Outside, laughter and conversation filled the air as the Burrows got to work. You caught snippets of chatter through the open back door — the thump of boxes being set down, the hiss of tape, Robin’s voice calling out for someone to hand her the ribbon. The backyard was coming to life, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe. Everything was falling into place.

You turned back to the counter, double-checking the cupcake trays and fussing with a few stray crumbs when you heard Joe’s voice in the hallway — low, slightly tense. He was on the phone.

You tried not to listen, but his tone made it hard not to notice. “Wait, what do you mean you left it in the Uber?” he said, voice sharp, then softer after a pause. “Tee… man, you had one job.” Another pause. You couldn’t make out Tee’s words, but you heard Joe sigh, the heavy kind that carried both disbelief and frustration. “No, you can’t come without it,” he muttered, quieter now. “She’ll freak out.”

You frowned, glancing toward the doorway, wiping your hands on a towel. The silence stretched for a few moments before you heard Joe’s footsteps approaching. He appeared in the doorway a beat later, phone in hand, wearing the same look he got when a play went wrong on the field — a mix of guilt and helplessness.

“Hey,” he said cautiously, leaning against the doorframe.

You arched a brow. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “So… Tee kind of… left the dress in the Uber.”

You blinked. “Tee… left my dress in the Uber?”

He nodded his head slowly. “Yeah. He’s trying to get in touch with the driver, but… no luck so far.” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing anywhere but at you.

For a second, your brain just stalled. The dress — the one you’d picked out weeks ago, had steamed, ready for tonight. You could practically feel your pulse in your temples.

Joe must’ve seen the flicker of panic on your face, because he stepped closer, hands raised slightly like he was talking someone off a ledge. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out, I promise. I just— I didn’t wanna hide it from you.”

You wanted to be upset, yes, but you could also see the guilt on his face, and the way he was holding himself as if he were trying to shield you from disappointment. You forced a shaky exhale and nodded, pressing your lips together. “Okay. It’s… it’s fine,” you managed, though the tightness in your chest betrayed you. “It’s just a dress. Not the end of the world.”

Joe tilted his head, clearly not convinced, but grateful you weren’t spiraling. “You sure?”

You nodded again, eyes flicking toward the window where Robin was laughing with Jimmy over something. “Yeah. We’ll make it work. I’ll just wear something else. No big deal.”

Joe still looked a little wary, like he didn’t quite believe you but knew better than to push. His thumb brushed over the counter, a tell you’d learned meant he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

You exhaled softly, forcing a small smile. “Go make sure your mom’s not trying to plug fifty extension cords into one outlet again."

He huffed a soft laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Yes, ma’am.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before jogging toward the back door, calling something to his brothers on the way out.

You stood there for a moment after he left, hands braced on the counter, breathing through the dull ache of disappointment. It was silly — it was just a dress — but it had meant something to you. Still, you weren’t about to let it ruin the day. Not when everyone had worked so hard to make it special.

Upstairs, sunlight streamed through the curtains, soft and golden. You stood in front of your closet, staring blankly at the row of clothes before pulling out a simple sundress. White with tiny yellow flowers — nothing fancy, but comfortable. You slipped it on and turned toward the mirror.

It was… fine. Pretty enough. You smoothed your hands over the fabric and sighed, trying to convince yourself it didn’t matter. The day wasn’t about you. It was about the tiny life growing inside you — about the moment you’d find out whether you’d be painting the nursery blue or pink.

“Good enough,” you murmured to your reflection, managing a small smile before heading downstairs.

As soon as you reached the bottom step, you spotted movement in the kitchen — Ja’Marr, standing by the counter with a large white cake box in front of him. Joe and Robin were leaned over it, curiosity and delight written all over their faces.

Your pulse quickened, a rush of excitement breaking through the earlier haze. You skipped the last few steps, grinning. “Is that it? The cake?”

“Yeah,” Joe said, glancing up at you with a smile. “Ja’Marr just picked it up from the bakery.”

You crossed the kitchen quickly, the disappointment from earlier fading as you took in the box. You’d spent weeks designing this cake, picturing the moment the knife sliced through, the pastel Smarties spilling out in a burst of colour.

You untied the ribbon carefully, still smiling as you lifted the lid—only for your smile to vanish instantly.

The cake inside was bright purple, covered in silver glittery icing, and smack in the middle, written in loopy cursive, were the words: “Happy 50th, Carol!”

For a second, your brain refused to process it. You blinked, tilted your head, as if reading it from another angle would make it say “Boy or Girl?” instead. But no—there it was, right under a fondant wine glass and edible pearls.

A strangled sound escaped your throat. “What—what is this?”

Joe bit his lip hard, his shoulders shaking a little. You shot him a look so sharp he straightened immediately, hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

Ja’Marr leaned over your shoulder, brow furrowed. “Yeah, uh… that’s not right,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.

You turned to Ja’Marr, your eye twitching just slightly. “That’s not... right?” you repeated slowly, your voice so calm it was almost terrifying. He froze mid-step, hands lifting like he was facing down an angry coach.

Robin was by your side in an instant, her hand finding your shoulder in gentle comfort. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, rubbing soothing circles into your arm. “It’s just a mix-up. We’ll sort it out.”

You stared at the cake like sheer willpower could change the lettering. You nodded weakly, though your eyes were still glued to the cake. It wasn’t just a mix-up — it was another thing. Another small disaster in a day that was supposed to be perfect.

Joe stepped closer, voice soft and calm. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’ll fix it. Ja’Marr, can you swing by the bakery again? See if our cake’s still there?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Ja’Marr said, already heading for the door, still looking guilty. “My bad, man. I’ll be quick.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms to the counter. “It’s fine,” you said softly, mostly to yourself. “Everything's fine." But the universe must have decided you were being a little too optimistic.

A sharp, echoing POP! rang through the air. You froze. For a second, you couldn’t even process what the sound was. But then came the horrified yelps, and the unmistakable sound of glitter raining down like confetti from hell.

You turned slowly toward the open patio doors. “No,” you whispered. “No, no, no, no…”

Stepping closer, you caught sight of Joe’s brothers trudging in from the backyard, looking like they had just been mauled by a glitter factory. They were covered head to toe in shimmering sparkles—hair, clothes, shoes, everything.

One of them shook his arms, sending another cloud of glitter into the air. “So, uh,” he said, grimacing, “funny story—balloon popped.”

You blinked at him, your brain struggling to keep up. “Which balloon?”

“The big one,” the other brother chimed in, gesturing vaguely toward the yard. “The one that was supposed to… y’know…” He made a helpless little explosion motion with his hands.

Your stomach dropped. “The reveal balloon?”

“Yeah.”

You stared, wide-eyed. “But… but the glitter’s red and green!”

Joe stepped out behind them, trying and failing to suppress a wince. His hair sparkled in the afternoon light, and there was a smear of red glitter across his cheek. “I think the company must’ve mixed up the colors. It's a little too early for Christmas though, don't you think?”

You blinked again. Once. Twice. You could feel your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re telling me,” you said slowly, voice trembling, “that the balloon popped early, got all over your brothers and that the glitter wasn’t even pink or blue, but Christmas coloured?”

Joe opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but you were already shaking your head, your hands gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

You let out a shaky laugh—except it wasn’t really a laugh. It was the kind of sound that sat somewhere between disbelief and despair. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Robin appeared in the doorway just then, wiping red glitter from her son's head. “Sweetheart, it’s not as bad as it looks—”

But it was. It was. The dress was gone, the cake was wrong, and now the reveal balloon—the one thing that was supposed to be magical—had exploded in a cloud of festive chaos. And the worst part? No one even knew the baby’s gender. The envelope—the one thing that held the answer—was still with the balloon company.

Something inside you finally gave way. The hormones, the stress, the expectations—it all crashed over you like a wave you couldn’t fight anymore. Your chest tightened, your throat ached, and before you knew it, your eyes blurred with tears. You turned away quickly, mumbling something about needing a minute, and headed for the stairs.

The house felt too loud, too bright, too much. By the time you reached the bedroom, your breathing had gone shallow, uneven.

You pushed the bathroom door open and sank onto the cool tile floor, wrapping your arms around yourself as the first tear slipped down your cheek.

For the first time all day, you let yourself cry.

The tears came slow at first, quiet and hot, rolling down your cheeks as you pressed your palms to your eyes. The bathroom was dim, the only light coming from the window above the sink, casting pale streaks across the floor. You drew in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but your throat ached with the effort. The day had started with so much promise and now everything you’d hoped for seemed to be unraveling piece by piece.

You hated that it was happening now. That you were sitting on the tile floor in your own house, wearing a sundress you didn’t even like, sobbing over a balloon and a cake. But it wasn’t just that — it was everything. The months of hormones, the exhaustion, the weight of wanting everything to be perfect for once. You pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint kick beneath your palm. “I’m sorry,” you whispered softly. “Mommy’s just… having a day.”

You didn’t know how long you sat there, lost in the sound of your own uneven breathing. Minutes, maybe longer. The noise from downstairs had quieted — no more laughter, no more rustling. Just the faint hum of voices somewhere far away.

Then came a soft knock on the door.

You froze, swiping at your face quickly. “I’m fine,” you called out, but your voice cracked halfway through. It didn’t sound convincing, even to you.

There was silence for a few moments, then the knock came again — slower this time, followed by a familiar voice. “Babe, it’s me.”

You didn’t answer, just sniffled quietly, hoping maybe he’d go back downstairs and let you get yourself together. But after another pause, the doorknob turned gently, and a sliver of light spilled across the floor as he pushed it open.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and lowered himself onto the floor beside you with a quiet grunt. You felt the warmth of his presence before you even looked up.

When you finally did, he was watching you — not with pity, but with that soft, steady expression he always wore when he was trying to keep you from falling apart. His hair still had flecks of glitter in it, catching the light.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You laughed through your tears, shaking your head. “Do I look okay?”

He gave a small smile, his voice warm but teasing. “Well… I’ve seen worse. Once you cried because we ran out of sriracha.”

You let out a small, choked laugh, burying your face in your hands. “I just wanted everything to be perfect, Joe. I wanted it to feel special.” Your voice wavered on the last word, breaking just enough to make his chest tighten.

Joe let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his hair before leaning back against the wall beside you. For a moment, the only sound between you was your uneven breathing and the faint ticking of the clock on the counter. He glanced over at you — red-eyed, tear-streaked, shoulders trembling — and his heart just… ached.

You looked at him, eyes glassy. “Maybe it’s a sign, Joe.”

He frowned. “A sign of what?”

“That I’m going to be terrible at this,” you whispered, voice cracking again. “I can’t even handle one party going wrong without completely losing it. What’s gonna happen when it’s not balloons or cake? When it’s a baby — when it’s her or him crying, and I don’t know what to do?” You swiped at your cheeks, shaking your head. “I can’t even keep it together for one day.”

Joe was quiet for a moment, just studying you. Then he reached forward, his hand sliding up to cup your face. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, slow and deliberate. “You know what I see?” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“I see someone who’s been running herself ragged because she wants everything to be perfect for her family. Someone who’s been planning every little detail — not because she cares about the decorations or the cake, but because she cares. Because she loves this baby already.” His voice softened even more. “That doesn’t make you a bad mom. That makes you the best kind.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your lip trembling. “You really think so?”

He smiled, brushing his thumb over your chin. “I know so. You’ve already done the hardest part — loving them before you’ve even met them.”

Your chest tightened, and a sob escaped before you could stop it. Joe pulled you into him, his arms strong and warm as he tucked your head beneath his chin. “You’re gonna be an amazing mom,” he whispered against your hair. “And I’m gonna make sure you never have to do it alone.”

You let yourself melt into him then, the sobs quieting as his steady heartbeat grounded you. His shirt smelled faintly of soap and something warm — home.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting on the back of your neck. “Now, you wanna hear something good?”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “What?”

Instead of answering right away, Joe pushed himself to his feet and held a hand out to you. You hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing in confusion, before sliding your hand into his. He pulled you up gently, steadying you when you wobbled, then guided you out of the bathroom and to the bedroom. His touch was careful — not hurried, not forceful — just patient. Like he wanted to let you take your time.

When he stopped in the middle of the room you looked up at him, brow furrowing. “Joe, what—” Your words caught in your throat when your eyes drifted to the bed.

There, laid out neatly on the bed, was your dress. The one that had been left behind — the one you’d cried over earlier when you realized it hadn’t been delivered. It looked perfect, the soft fabric catching the light spilling in through the window.

You blinked a few times, like your brain needed a second to catch up. “Wait—how…?” You turned to Joe, half laughing, half disbelieving, your fingers brushing the fabric like you were afraid it might vanish. “How did you even get this?”

He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tee tracked down the delivery driver. Managed to convince him to full throttle it over here in exchange for, uh—Super Bowl tickets for the next fifty-six years or something.”

You let out a laugh that broke through the heaviness still clinging to your chest, shaking your head. “You’re lying.”

“Swear to God,” he said, grinning. “Man drove like his life depended on it.”

Then his smile softened, the teasing fading into something gentler. “And, hey—sorry about all that,” he said, his voice low, almost sheepish. “Next time, I’m personally hand-delivering anything that matters to you. No more delegating to my friends. Only the best for my wife.”

You felt your chest tighten, warmth blooming where the ache had been. You laughed again, quieter this time, cradling the dress to your chest. “God, I love you,” you murmured, still smiling, a little pout tugging at your lips as you turned toward the mirror. You held the dress up against you, catching your reflection — puffy eyes, messy hair, and all — and for the first time that day, you didn’t look completely broken.

Joe watched you for a moment longer, something tender in his gaze. Then he took a quiet step back. “I’ll give you a minute,” he said, his voice low. He lingered in the doorway for just a heartbeat before pulling it closed behind him, leaving you in the soft hush of the room.

When you finally step outside, the air feels lighter — like the whole house has exhaled. Family and teammates fill the living room and backyard, laughter echoing off the walls, the faint hum of music floating through open windows. It smells like frosting, grilled food, and the faint sweetness of punch.

Ja’Marr is front and center, of course, holding a cake like it’s a trophy. You blink, almost afraid to ask, but he beats you to it with a proud grin. “Don’t ask how,” he says, nodding down at the confection — a three-tier masterpiece covered in white icing and pastel roses.

You tilt your head, reading the cursive piping across the front. ‘Congrats — It’s Complicated!’

“Oh my God,” you breathe out, already laughing. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

Ja’Marr shrugs, still beaming. “Apparently, it was from a cancelled gender reveal. Dude cheated. Baker didn’t wanna waste good cake, so I made a deal.” Joe groans from across the room, pinching the bridge of his nose, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching. “We’ll just scrape off the words,” Ja’Marr says confidently, already reaching for a knife. “No one’s gonna notice.”

That sets off another wave of laughter — even Joe, shaking his head and muttering something about how this would only happen here. Tee’s recording it on his phone, a few of the offensive linemen are arguing about who gets the first slice, and your mom’s in the corner crying because “it’s all just so beautiful.”

You can’t help it — you start laughing, really laughing this time, the kind that bubbles up from deep in your chest until your cheeks hurt. The sound mixes with everyone else’s, warm and alive, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that the reveal went sideways. 

You’re surrounded by love and noise, by people who care enough to fix what they broke and make it better in their own ridiculous way. Joe catches your eye from across the room, smiling — the kind of smile that says see? we’re okay. 

And for the first time all day, you actually believe him.

You move through the party with a careful mix of grace and amusement, making the most of what you can, though a small knot of anticipation tightens in your stomach. Without the official reveal, it feels like the day is missing its climax.

Eventually, he finds you near the drinks table, a calm smile on his face, and gently takes your hand. “Ready?” he asks, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You frown slightly, confusion knitting your brows. “Uh… ready for what?” He doesn’t answer, just squeezes your hand and guides you toward the backyard, where a semi-circle of teammates, family, and friends are gathered.

The cool evening air greets you as Joe leads you outside, the faint glow of string lights bouncing off faces turned expectantly toward you. Everyone’s gathered — Robin with her camera already raised, Jimmy grinning like he knows something you don’t, teammates elbowing each other, whispering and laughing.

You blink, scanning the yard in confusion. Then, through the gaps in the crowd, you see them.

Two giant inflatable babies — one pink, one blue — wobbling toward each other across the grass like sumo wrestlers. The sight is so absurd, so unexpected, that for a moment you just stare, wide-eyed.

The pink baby flails dramatically, its round arms waving in slow, chaotic arcs. The blue one stumbles in response, its inflated head bobbing side to side. It takes a moment before you realise what’s actually happening: Joe’s brothers are inside the suits.

After the glitter bomb fiasco, Joe's brothers decided this was the least they could do to make things right. While everyone was cleaning up and trying to salvage the party, they’d quietly called Joe’s contact at the ultrasound clinic and gotten the gender directly. No envelope, no balloon company this time — just a backup plan in true Burrow fashion. And now, in front of your whole family, they’re turning your ruined reveal into a full-on comedy show.

The crowd howls with laughter as the two babies charge each other, bellies bouncing, arms flapping, their muffled shouts barely audible through the fabric. One trips and does a dramatic tumble into the grass, and the other pauses for a second — arms raised like a champion — before diving back into the fight.

Joe’s hand finds the small of your back. “They said they wanted redemption,” he murmurs, his voice full of amusement. Around you, people are clapping, shouting encouragements, chanting like it’s a title match.

Then it happens — a slow-motion moment straight out of a movie. The pink baby winds up for a ridiculous fake punch and whacks the blue one square in the belly. The blue baby wobbles, teeters backward, and finally topples over in the grass with a dramatic thud.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then everyone cheers. You freeze, realizing what it means. The pink baby… won.

Your hands fly to your mouth, a choked sound escaping your throat as tears blur your vision. You’re laughing and crying at once, overcome by the sheer ridiculousness and beauty of it all — this chaotic, imperfect, unforgettable reveal that somehow feels more “you” than anything could have planned.

Confetti cannons burst to life around you, pink paper raining down from the deck. Someone’s yelling, “It’s a girl!” and the crowd’s laughter rises again, louder this time, a wave of joy sweeping through the backyard.

Joe’s arm slides around your waist as you shake your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Think we should name her Carol?” he teases softly, voice low in your ear.

You turn, giving him that look — the one that says you’re lucky I love you. “Too soon,” you whisper, laughing as another burst of confetti explodes behind you.

Joe cradled Colby—who met him at the door—in one hand and a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers in the other as he eased into their bedroom. The kitten trilled softly, twitching his little nose at the scent of the gorgeous white lilies. He set the flowers down on the nightstand bordering her side of the bed, where she could smell them without having to sit up or turn her head, and placed Colby gently onto the sheets near her feet. She shifted weakly beneath the sheets when she felt Joe’s weight sink onto the mattress beside her. She murmured something indistinct but didn’t open her eyes.

He rested a cool palm against her forehead, pursing his lips into a serious line when he realized she was still feverish. He lingered there a moment longer than strictly necessary before gently tucking strands of hair that had escaped her silk scarf.

“Hey, baby,” he whispered softly. She fluttered her eyes open and tried to sit up, wincing sharply at a bout of cramps. Joe shook his head slowly and eased her back down onto the pillows.

“You’re still warm,” he noted, thumb brushing her cheek lightly. “Did you take the meds I left out?”

Her voice was raspy as she admitted she hadn’t, that she had forgotten until he mentioned them just now. He kissed her temple, lips cool against her overheated skin, then drew back to study her. Her usually bright eyes were dull with discomfort.

“Have you had lunch yet?” he asked. She shook her head minutely, her face tightening as another cramp seized her abdomen. She swallowed hard, pulling in a long, deep breath through her nose.

“I was waiting for you,” she mumbled. Colby’s soft paws padded across the comforter, settling near her chest with a low purr. She reached down blindly to stroke the kitten’s head. “Figured I would just make us one lunch when you got back…”

Joe’s brows knit together sharply, catching the rasp of dehydration in her voice. The bedside clock read 2:37 PM. He scanned the nightstand: an empty water glass, an ibuprofen bottle, and her phone.

His jaw tightened briefly before softening with deliberate calm. “Sweetheart,” he started, tone firm but quietly caring, “we talked about this. I want you to focus on getting better, baby. I can handle the other stuff.”

He slid off the bed, scooping up Colby and setting him gently on the rug. “Stay down,” he commanded, ignoring the indignant meow from the kitten.

Joe crossed the room to the closet, finding her electric heating pad coiled neatly on the upper shelf. He plugged it in beside her, tucking the warm rectangle securely against her lower abdomen. She sighed immediately as the comforting heat began to slowly seep through her clothes, her rigid muscles loosening fractionally.

“Is that helping?” Joe’s fingers skimmed over her back in steady circles, his gaze locked on her face. She gave a tiny nod, swallowing hard as heat chased the sharpest edges of the cramp away. “Good,” he nodded. “How does a smoothie and some crackers sound? That pomegranate and berry protein one you liked last week, plus the wheat ones we have in the pantry. Do you think you can keep those down?” Her weak hum was muffled against the pillowcase, but he caught it—a hesitant yes.

Joe didn’t linger long after that affirmation, grabbing Colby and making his way downstairs to the kitchen. She listened, head throbbing, to the distant clink of blender parts being assembled, then the electric hum of the appliance kicking in. She drifted off for a bit, waking only when the mattress dipped beside her again. Joe gently urged her to sit up, propping pillows behind her. His hand steadied the sweating glass pressed into her palm, filled with a pale magenta mixture. She managed half before pulling back, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. He slid an arm around her waist to support her frame.

He murmured low words she couldn’t parse, something about hydration and Vitamin C, as he tilted the glass for her next sip. Her stomach protested weakly, but she kept it down. When she finished the other half and ate a handful of crackers, Joe eased her back against the pillows, then climbed onto the mattress beside her. She turned onto her side to face him, feeling his hand wrap around her thigh, guiding the muscle over his hip. His breath stirred damp strands sticking to her forehead. She pressed her nose against his jawline, inhaling the sharp scent of aftershave mingled with the autumn air clinging to his shirt.

“You smell like outside,” she muttered. His chuckle rumbled beneath her cheek pressed to his collarbone, a solid anchor against the dizzy sway of her low-grade fever.

“Forgot to change my shirt,” Joe replied, shifting to peel the fabric over his head. He tossed it onto the floor before sliding back toward her, bare-chested. She sighed as his skin warmed her icy feet, tangled against his shins. He flinched at the feeling, releasing a short burst of laughter. “God… what… what happened to your socks?”

“They were itchy,” she whined into his shoulder, stretching her legs further against him. She felt Joe’s sigh vibrate through his chest beneath her ear, a faint ripple of exasperated fondness that made her lips curl upward despite the pain and discomfort in her body. His palm settled firmly against her lower back, reaching under her hoodie to skate over her warm skin.

“I can’t believe you got me sick at the same time as my period,” she groaned against Joe’s skin. “You picked up that bug from the locker room,” she mumbled accusingly. “Then you kissed me with your plague-riddled mouth.” Her sniffle punctuated her dramatics, but she clung to him tighter, drawing comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.

Joe slid one hand under her hoodie once more, drifting down to her lower back, where he knew she was quite sore. “My plague-riddled mouth,” he echoed drily, his lips pressing against the crown of her head. “The owner of that mouth made you that smoothie, didn’t it?”

She huffed a weak laugh into his collarbone, her chilled toes burrowing deeper against the warmth of his thighs. He flinched again, yet didn't pull away as her icy skin met his. “The owner of that mouth is working overtime to earn forgiveness,” she rasped, nuzzling against the steady pulse in his neck.

His fingers traced languid circles low on her spine, sinking under the hem of her sweatpants to knead the knotted muscles above her hips. She melted into it with a ragged sigh, the tautness in her abdomen easing fractionally beneath the heat from her heating pad.

“Flowers, smoothie, cuddles… overcompensation for germ warfare?”

She released another deep breath, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. “If you think rubbing my back makes up for exposing me to locker-room pathogens—”

“I ordered those double chocolate muffins from that bakery downtown,” Joe murmured against her head, feeling an involuntarily smug smile tug at his lips. She froze mid-complaint, blinking slowly. “The ones with the dark chocolate chunks? They’ll be delivered tomorrow morning.” He licked his lips in an attempt to keep his smile under control. “Bright and early, fresh and warm.”

She hummed lowly, conflicted. “That’s low, Burrow. Weaponizing my weaknesses. Very, very low.” Yet her fingers curled reflexively against his bare skin, tracing the line of a stray scar along his ribs.

It wasn't loud or sudden, there hadn't been any single moment where he woke up and realized everything had shifted. It was quieter than that—more like turning around after a long walk and discovering the landscape behind him had transformed into something he didn't recognize. The things that used to drive him, those metrics he used to measure his worth, they didn't carry the same weight anymore.

Sure, he still wanted to win. Still felt that familiar fire in his chest every time he stepped on the field. But now, when he pictured success, when he let himself imagine what it would feel like to finally reach that constantly moving finish line, the image in his head looked different. It wasn't something he could name easily, not in words that would make sense to anyone else, maybe not even to himself. Simply a switch in what mattered.

A different kind of finish line, one that didn't move just because he got close to it.

On Fridays, the locker room carries a specific kind of energy. Nothing that quite lives up to game day intensity, but close enough where you can feel it humming under everyone's skin. Music thumps from someone's speaker, hardly audible over the overlapping conversations and the rhythmic clang of people shoving stuff into their lockers. Half of the offensive line is clustered in the corner debating restaurant options for tomorrow night's pre-game meal.

Joe sits at his locker, methodically working the laces of his cleats loose, only partially paying attention to the chaos surrounding him. His shoulders hang, muscles singing with the particular ache that means they've been used right. Not the grinding, bone-deep exhaustion that comes from forcing your body past its limits, but the earned soreness of a day done well.

Today had been one of those practices where everything lined up. Routes ran crisp and balls placed exactly where they needed to be. The offense was moving like a single organism instead of eleven guys separately trying to remember their assignments. Those days used to be rare enough that he never took them for granted anymore.

Joe lets himself sit in that satisfaction for a moment longer before his brain starts working on what they'll need to clean up before Sunday.

“Burrow,” Tee drops into the seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. Tugging the last of his laces free, Joe glances over. Tee's got a towel slung over his shoulder and a mischievous grin already in place. No matter the day, the way Tee carries himself after a good practice is always contagious. "Soto tomorrow night?" Tee continues, tilting his head to the side with a face that looks like he already knows the answer. "Most of the guys are going."

Joe slips his cleats off one at a time while Tee sits, waiting for an answer. Sure, the guys go out most days before home games, a simple routine they’ve developed to help strengthen their chemistry. A good meal, some good conversation, all around good vibes. The guys are able to use this as a chance to enjoy steaks and talk their shit so that it never makes it onto the field. Joe usually goes, has gone plenty of times this season already.

Just not this week.

“Can’t,” Joe finally answers as he turns, setting his cleats off to the side in his locker and reaching for his shower bag. “Got a family dinner.” 

"Family dinner before a game?" Ja'marr seamlessly inserts himself into the conversation, pushing Tee out of the (his) chair he was sitting in. Joe fights the urge to roll his eyes, because he already told Ja'marr about this the other day. "That's new."

Standing, Joe offers Tee, who’s looking like a wounded puppy, his chair. “Did we not have a whole conversation about this?” He gives Ja’marr a pointed look, watching as the man freezes in thought. “Have people coming into town, kinda mandatory.” He reminds Ja'marr, also filling Tee in. 

The words hardly have a chance to leave his mouth before he watches understanding dawn across both their faces. Tee's expression shifts first—eyebrows rising, mouth curving into something that's equal parts knowing and delighted. Ja'Marr's a beat behind, but when it clicks, his whole face lights up with that particular grin that makes Joe want to throw something at him.

They exchange one of those looks, the kind Joe's not privy to, but it tells him they've definitely been discussing his personal life when he's not around. It’s not like he minds, these are his brothers in the ways that count, but it still makes him feel overly exposed sometimes. He's still getting used to the way that more often than not, his happiness is written across his face in a language everyone can read whether he wants them to or not.

"Alright, alright," Tee concedes, settling onto Joe’s chair with the air of someone graciously accepting defeat. Though, his tone suggests he's filing all of this away for future reference, building to that running catalog of Joe's life outside these walls to later discuss. "But that means you're obligated to celebratory drinks after the game. No excuses."

Joe laughs, the sound caught somewhere between amusement and resignation. He can already picture it, the three of them gathering at his home when they make it back from the stadium, any tension from the former four hours dissolving, even if it’s just for the night. Win or lose (though he’s only planning for the former), they’ll decompress together.

"Deal," he agrees, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Hopefully we have something to celebrate."

"We will." Ja'Marr's already halfway out of his practice gear, moving with efficient grace. "Browns don't stand a chance." His confidence is unshakeable, absolute in the way where it leaves no room for doubt. Joe wishes he could bottle that certainty and save it for the moments when his own starts to waver. Ja'Marr never seems to have those moments, or, if he does, he's learned to bury them so deep nobody else can see.

"From your mouth to God's ears," Tee mutters, but he's smiling when he says it. “Anyways, you, Burrow, have lots to celebrate lately no matter the result.” The words settle in Joe's chest in a way that makes it hard to breathe for a second. He looks up to find both of them watching him.

"Yeah," Joe says quietly, and the admission feels bigger than it should. His mouth curves into a small smile he doesn't try to hide. "Yeah, I definitely do." He leaves it at that, but the idea of it sits with him as he heads to the showers, as he changes into street clothes, as he says his goodbyes and pushes through the facility's side exit.

The thought circles back, resting inside him in a way that feels good. Solid. The sort of gratitude that drums quietly beneath everything else, coloring the ordinary moments in ways he's still learning to recognize. He thinks about it as the highway stretches ahead of him, as all the familiar exits blur past and the cityscape shifts from glassy skyscrapers to older brick buildings that carry history in their bones.

On the right, the small shop appears and Joe signals, sliding his Porsche into a parking spot. Through the window on the front of the building he can spot Elena moving between displays, her silver hair catching the afternoon light as she adjusts a vase of sunflowers. When he pushes through the door of Petal & Stem, a bell chimes. Elena’s head pops up in response, her blue eyes brightening at the sight of her favorite quarterback customer. 

“Hello," she greets warmly. Nudging the vase of sunflowers next to another filled with lilies, she makes space on the crowded counter as Joe makes a mental note that he hasn’t gotten lilies in a while. "Right on time."

Heat creeps up Joe's neck and he ducks his head slightly, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. "Am I that predictable?"

"Dependable," she corrects him, already moving toward the back of the shop with a purposeful stride. “And you're still my most loyal customer, so I'm not complaining." Joe shakes his head, that bashful grin tugging at his mouth as he follows her to the work table. Sure enough, there's already a bouquet waiting, wrapped in brown paper and sitting exactly where he knew it would be.

"These just came in this morning." Elena says, adjusting one of the stems with the practiced precision of someone who's been doing this longer than he's been alive. She's made it her personal mission over the past years to educate Joe on flowers, refusing to let him walk out of here without knowing exactly what he's buying. So, he recognizes the white tulips immediately, the peach spray roses that she only recently added to his vocabulary, and—tucked right in the center where it can't be missed—a singular white daisy.

Always the daisy.

The smile on his face grows, something warm and satisfied settling inside him as he looks over the arrangement. "Thank you, Elena. They're perfect." The woman beams a smile at him, clearly pleased with herself. She makes an additional small comment that makes Joe giddy, before moving toward the register. 

"Practice go well?" Reaching for the white ribbon next to the till, Elena unties the twine currently holding the wrapping together, replacing it with the ribbon. It's part of her routine, the way she fusses over arrangements like they're never quite finished until they leave her hands. "Big game Sunday, right?"

“Mhm, always a big game,” Joe watches as Elena secures a pretty bow around the wrapped bouquet. "Yeah, practice was good. Team should be ready." 

"Good, good." She nods approvingly, smoothing the brown paper with careful fingers. "You boys have been playing well this season. George and I watch every game. He keeps saying this is your year."

Joe makes another mental note, reminding himself to get tickets for the older couple to enjoy a game in person sometime soon. "Tell him I appreciate the confidence."

"Oh, he doesn't need telling. He'll be screaming it at the TV Sunday afternoon regardless." Or, maybe, he’ll put them up in his suite. That should make for an entertaining story before bed. Elena finishes her adjustments and slides the bouquet across the counter, tapping her finger sternly on the counter when Joe reaches for his wallet. "Twenty-two."

“Elena—”

"Twenty-two," she repeats firmly, already punching numbers into her register with the air of someone who won't be argued with. "Loyal customer discount. Don't fight me on this, Joseph."

Pursing his lips, Joe pulls out his wallet and hands over the bills. She's been doing this since the third time he came in—knocking off a few dollars here and there like he can't afford full price, as if he's some college kid stretching a budget instead of an NFL quarterback. He's tried arguing before. It never works.

But, he's learned his own way around her system.

While Elena tucks the cash into the register, Joe slips a crisp twenty from his wallet and shoves it into the tip jar sitting on the counter. It’s an old mason jar with a faded pasta sauce label. The jar is nearly empty, just a few singles and some loose change rattling around the bottom. 

As she snaps the till shut, Joe catches Elena's sharp eyes. Her face is decorated with a knowing look and Joe feels like he just got caught stealing from the cookie jar by his own grandmother.

"Joe Burrow!"

"What?!" Joe snatches the bouquet, carefully cradling it the crook of his arm. He’s already backing toward the door, the picture of innocence. "I didn't do anything."

"You're impossible."

"You're the one who keeps undercharging me." He pushes the door open with his shoulder, bell chiming overhead. "See you next week, Elena."

"Be safe out there Sunday," she calls after him, a smile returning. She shakes her head, looking down at the twenty that’s definitely going to be sitting in the jar next time he comes in. Elena never takes it out until he slips the next one in, almost as if she believes he’ll for some reason take it back one of these times.

The door swings shut behind him and Joe heads back to his car, the October breeze sending a chill down his spine. Settling the bouquet in the passenger seat, the white and peach with that single daisy catches the lingering sun filtering through the tinted windshield. Joe pauses, staring at the flowers and feeling that same quiet satisfaction that's been humming under his skin all day.

Finally starting the engine with a rumble, he pulls out of the parking space and onto the street, heading back towards the other side of town. The streets are busy with mid-afternoon traffic, folks kicking off their weekends happy hour or, for the families, a nice dinner. Joe navigates through it all with the ease of repetition.

His next destination appears on his left and he pulls into the parking lot that runs along the side of the building. There aren’t many lingering cars, most of them having already joined the rest of the Cincinnati crowd. The building is a converted warehouse space; exposed brick and massive windows that let natural light flood the interior—the kind of place that probably used to be used for manufacturing or storage before someone saw the vision of what it could become. Modern but not sterile, professional without feeling like any of that corporate fuss. Joe's always liked that about this place.

Grabbing the bouquet he heads for the entrance, stepping into the open reception area. The same golden lighting streams through windows, catching the hardwood floors and making them gleam. The space smells of lavender, clean without that antiseptic edge that makes you think specifically of clinics with their antiseptic sting.

Kristin is at the front desk with a phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, fingers flying over her keyboard. She catches Joe’s eye, offering a quick smile and a little wave without breaking stride in her conversation. Joe returns the gesture as he moves past the desk. The hallway ahead guides him past various different treatment rooms and also the gym space. Most everything in here is visible and open, designed so you can see the work happening even as you move through the space. Although, there are still shades for privacy when it's needed.

He walks slowly, glancing through the glass walls as he passes. In one room, a therapist works with an older woman on balance exercises, encouraging as she guides her through each movement. In another, someone's on a treatment table while a therapist manipulates their shoulder through different ranges of motion, explaining something Joe can't quite hear through the walls. The gym space shows a few people working independently, all sorts of different rehabilitation work.

Joe keeps moving, scanning each room until he finds what he's looking for.

Room seven, tucked toward the back where it's quieter and a little more peaceful. Through the window he can see you knelt beside a treatment table, eye-level with a kid who can't be more than ten. Marcus. Your hands are gentle but firm as you guide him through what Joe realizes looks like a mobility exercise, positioning his ankle at different angles while you talk him through each movement.

A couple strands of hair have fallen astray but you’re too focused on your work to care. The center's logo sits embroidered on your fitted zip up, leaving you looking professional and polished in a way that screams you belong here.

Stopping just outside the door, Joe has no inclination to bother you while you’re busy with Marcus, so he patiently stands off to the side. It’s an old habit he still hasn’t been able to break. He just loves watching you do what you love, especially when there's no one you’re doing it for.

You demonstrate the stretch yourself, mirroring the movement so Marcus can see exactly what you want from him. This is what you built. After everything, the final injury that ended your dance career, the grueling years of grad school, all those late nights wondering to Joe if you'd made the right choice—you'd built this. A career helping people like Marcus find their way back, using all that pain to give other people their second chances.

Joe is so beyond proud of you he catches himself mentioning it to people in passing conversations, fighting the daily impulse to remind you how extraordinary you are.

“Joe!” A childlike voice exclaims suddenly. Marcus’ attention has drifted past you towards Joe, eyes having gone wide. Your head whips around, surprise flashing across your face before it softens into something that makes Joe's heart kick against his ribs.

After being caught for the second time today, Joe reluctantly pushes the door open and enters the space. “Hey, buddy,” he smiles, crossing to where Marcus is practically vibrating with glee on the table. Offering a fist bump, Marcus returns it with enough enthusiasm that Joe has to brace himself. "How's the leg treating you?"

"It's good!" Marcus' words tumble out fast, tripping over each other with his eagerness. "Way better than last month. I can do the one leg balance thing now without holding onto anything, and the mobility exercises don't hurt as much anymore. She says—" he gestures to you, "—that if I keep progressing like this, I might be able to start running drills again by December."

"That's huge, man!" Joe gives Marcus a pat on the back. He remembers you telling him about Marcus late one night, both of you sprawled on the couch after a particularly long day. How the kid had come in three months ago barely able to put weight on his left leg after a compound fracture to his fibula. Broken in three places during a youth football game when he'd landed wrong coming down from a tackle. You'd described what all his surgery entailed and the way his mom had cried in your office when you'd explained how long recovery would take. That was the one and only time you'd ever seen Marcus cry, not from pain but from the thought of missing his entire season.

Running back, you'd said. Fast as hell for a ten-year-old. Could be really special if he properly keeps up with recovery. You have dozens of patients nowadays, cycling through your schedule in carefully managed blocks of time, but Marcus’ always held a different weight. Not that you'd ever let it show or say it out loud, you were too careful about maintaining boundaries and professionalism, but Joe had picked up on it anyway. The way your voice softened when you talked about his progress, how you'd light up when describing small victories that might seem insignificant to anyone else.

Marcus was your first patient under fifteen, the first kid you'd worked with after officially starting as a physical therapist, and maybe that's why he mattered a little more. Or maybe it was just Marcus himself with that oversized heart packed into a ten-year-old body, that compassion and drive that makes most adults look at him with something close to admiration.

Joe met him for the first time about two months ago, stopping by on a different Friday afternoon to find you working with a kid who couldn't stop asking questions about football. Within five minutes, Marcus had Joe laughing. Within ten, Joe understood exactly why you'd gotten attached. There was something about the kid that got under your skin in the best way—that refusal to feel sorry for himself, that determination to come back stronger even when the odds felt stacked against him.

Looking at Marcus now, bouncing on the treatment table despite his injury, Joe can see what you saw from the beginning; that determination and refusal to let something broken stay broken. The same qualities Joe's recognized in you, the ones he's tried to cultivate in himself over years of fighting back from his own setbacks.

"Seriously, that's really good progress," Joe adds walking over to where you're standing. He slides an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side where you fit like that space was designed specifically for you. Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, when you glance up at him, he offers a small apologetic smile—sorry, was trying to stay out of the way.

"The game last week?" Marcus pipes up, apparently unable to help himself even though he's supposed to be concentrating on more important things. "That throw in the fourth quarter was insane!"

Joe huffs a laugh against your hair. "Which throw? I made a few."

"The one where you rolled out right and just launched it down the field while you were getting hit. Ja'Marr caught it right in the end zone." Marcus is gesturing wildly, whole body moving in excitement. He nearly forgets about his leg entirely until you reach out to steady him with a practiced hand.

"Ah. Yeah, that was a good one."

"Good? Dude, it was f—" Marcus catches himself, eyes darting over at you sheepishly. "Sorry. It was really awesome."

"Nice save," you chuckle dryly, fighting back a smile of your own. Joe loves the dynamic between you and Marcus, the way the kid clearly adores you as much as you do him, but still maintains that respect. Marcus tucks his chin into his chest, but Joe catches the way his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. 

Joe snorts before you lightly tap his chest, shooting him a look. "Why don't you wait in my office while we finish up here?" you suggest, staring up with those same eyes that still make his breath catch sometimes. "Just ten more minutes, maybe fifteen."

"Yeah, okay." Joe squeezes your shoulder once more before stepping back. He turns to Marcus, offering a handshake. "Good seeing you, man. Keep putting in the work and she'll make it worth your while."

"I know," Marcus' brown eyes smile back at him. "Good luck on Sunday!" he calls as Joe nears the doorway. 

"That's the plan," Joe grins over his shoulder, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind him.

Your office is three doors down, actual walls instead of windows for walls, allowing that extra bit of seclusion when you need a moment for yourself. The desk is pushed against the wall beneath a window facing the outside, shelves lined with textbooks and binders. The space is too compact for miscellaneous clutter, so you've learned to be ruthlessly efficient with what you keep. Joe closes the door behind him and sets the flowers carefully on your desk.

Despite him having been here dozens of times, he takes a moment to look around. A framed photo of you and Drew at graduation sits on the shelf, both of you grinning in caps and gowns. Another frame holds a picture of your family at what looks like Thanksgiving years before he met you, everyone squeezed around a table that's definitely too small for the number of people trying to fit.

And there, on the corner of your desk, is a candid unknowingly taken last summer. Joe and you at the beach, him flat on his back while you're sprawled diagonally. Your front half stretches across his torso, one hand propping your head up while the other holds a book. Your hair falls forward, blocking part of your face, but you can tell you're mid-sentence, reading aloud. Joe's eyes are closed behind his sunglasses with one hand resting on your lower back and the other tucked behind his head. The both of you were sun-drunk and completely lost in the moment, nothing else in the world existing beyond that.

He remembers that day with crystal clarity; the way the West Coast sand was too hot to walk on barefoot, how you'd made the group stop at three different spots looking for the "perfect" place to set up your towels. You'd read to him for over an hour, some novel you'd been dying to share, voice growing soft and drowsy as the afternoon stretched on. During the drive home, you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder and he made a point of trying not to hit any potholes that might wake you.

Small things, good things. He lets his eyes drift closed, just for a second, breathing in the quiet of this small space.

Shortly after, the door wiggles suddenly and Joe's eyes open to find you slipping inside, closing it behind you with a soft click. Your hair is a little tidier like you made a point to fix it on your way into the office, even though he thinks he likes you best with hair that’s a little unruly. 

“Hi.”

Joe's mouth curves into a specific smile he never plans for, the one that happens without his permission whenever you appear. His hands are already itching to reach for you.

"Hi, baby." He watches as your eyes look him up and down, stopping as they catch on the bouquet. You must’ve been too in the zone with Marcus to notice them earlier.

Crossing to the desk in three quick strides, your fingers hover above the petals for a heartbeat like you're afraid they might dissolve. You touch the white tulip first, fingertip tracing the curved edge with the same precision you use on injured muscles, mapping its shape like you're memorizing it.

No matter how many flower arrangements he brings home for you, you always take your time appreciating the next as if they only get better and better. You always claim they do. "These are beautiful."

As your left hand brushes delicately along petals, his eyes snag on the way your ring catches light with every little movement. A yellow gold eternity band with that singular oval diamond he spent three months choosing, visiting six different jewelers and driving his mom crazy with questions. It sits so perfectly on your finger, as if it was carved from your bone. 

Each time his eyes land on it, the memory flashes for a split second in his mind, clear as day. He'd spent weeks practicing a whole speech with his friends, getting the final approval from his parents, only to forget every single word. Down on one knee with the ring in hand, the only words that resurfaced were your name, softly followed by, “Daisy.”

How that ended up being enough, he's still not sure. But, Joe made a point later that night, in bed together, to whisper every practiced line against your skin in the dark until it lulled you both to sleep.

"Elena sends her regards." You catalogue each bloom, that little crease appearing between your eyebrows that means you're concentrating fully. The same one that appears when you're reviewing treatment plans or trying to remember where you left your keys, even though they’re always in the same spot on the counter. "Said these came in this morning and made her think of you immediately."

"White tulips." Fingers ghosting over to the peach roses next, you identify each stem with the knowledge you’ve accumulated from years of his weekly deliveries. "Spray roses." Turning the bouquet over, you finally find it tucked in the center like a secret, making your whole face change. You fall back on the same five syllables that seem to perpetually fit the moment: “Always the daisy."

"Daisy for my Daisy, always." A promise disguised as tradition, wrapped in a singular flower. Constant as breathing, reliable as the sunrise. You and your daisy have become his fixed point without trying, the things everything else seems to orbit around.

The silence stretches between you, quiet but whole. Joe can hear the vacuum running somewhere down the hall, its low drone mixing with the distant murmur of voices in other rooms. All of it feels secondary to the way you're looking at him like he's responsible for every good thing that's ever happened to you, as if he hung the moon just so you'd have light to work late by.

"How was practice?" Your hand never strays far from the bouquet, thumb rubbing against the ribbon edge over and over.

"Great," Joe shifts his weight against the desk, settling himself on top of the wooded span. The movement brings him close enough to catch your perfume beneath the building's lavender he may be beginning to grow the slightest bit nose-blind to. Vanilla and bergamot from a small shop he’d found in Paris last spring. He bought it as a welcome gift for when your flight finally arrived, after getting things settled with your job here. You’d sprayed it on immediately after he gave it to you, the scent mixing with the smell of coffee and pastries and morning sex you’d had an hour before.

"Team's ready for Sunday. How was your day? Besides Marcus, I mean."

"Busy." You lean against the desk too, barely a foot's worth of space between your body and his. He can feel the heat radiating from your body, see the slight sheen across your neck that might either be from the warm room or the proximity. "Had a college athlete come in this morning with a torn meniscus. She's terrified she's going to lose her scholarship."

Picking up on the weight in your voice, he notices the way it thickens around the edges like when you're carrying someone else's fear. Your thumb worries at your ring, twisting it in quarter turns—a new habit you've developed in the past month, like you're constantly confirming it's still there, using the certainty as something to hold onto. The jewels catch light with each rotation, sending tiny prisms across the desk surface.

"Will she?" He keeps his voice gentle, knowing how deeply you absorb your patients' pain even despite his small concerns.

"Not if I can help it." Steel creeps into your tone, jaw setting with that familiar determination. Your fingers stop their nervous twisting, hands lightly shaking out their jitters. "She's young and strong. Willing to put in the work, too. That's half the battle."

Joe reaches out, catching your hand before you can start twisting the ring again. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, feeling the small scar on your middle finger from that childhood accident with a glass door. He tugs gently and you come without hesitation, stepping into the space between his knees. Your hand lands on his shoulder, nails catching on cotton as your fingers curl into his hoodie.

With him sitting on your desk and you standing, the position brings your faces nearly level. He can see the tiny flecks in your eyes, the way your mascara has smudged slightly at the outer corner of your left eye. There's a faint mark on your lower lip where you've been biting it—probably during that session with Marcus, concentrating so hard you forgot not to.

"You're so good at this." His thumb traces the valleys between your knuckles, memorizing the span of your hand for the thousandth time. He can feel your pulse through the thin skin of your wrist, rabbit-quick and all too telling. "Really good. Watching you with Marcus earlier..."

He trails off because the words that come to mind feel inadequate. It does something to him, seeing you gentle a scarred kid's fears with just your presence. Never talking down, always making him, or anyone else for that matter, feel capable even while correcting form. You'd pushed hair back six times during that short amount of time he was watching, he'd counted, each time immediately returning your attention to Marcus like he was the only thing that mattered.

And in that moment, to you, he was.

"He's special." You murmur quietly, a secret cradled gently underneath the privacy of your moment. Your thumb finds the edge of his jaw, nail scraping lightly against day-old stubble. "They're all special, but Marcus..."

"I know." Joe's free hand finds your hip, thumb catching on the edge of your jacket pocket. Through the layers of clothing, he can feel the subtle shift of your weight, the way you lean the slightest bit closer. "I see it too. He's a cool kid." The afternoon sun has shifted lower, painting a golden glow that halos your figure. Your breathing has synced with his without either of you trying; lazy and slow like time itself has thickened.

"I love seeing you with kids." 

Your breath catches, he feels it in the slight stutter of your chest, seeing it in the way your pupils dilate despite the lighting. Your fingers abandon his face to find the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the strands. The touch sends electricity down his spine, making his hand tighten reflexively on your hip.

"Yeah?" The question comes out breathy, a siren song to his ears.

"Mhm." His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, fingers finding a strip of warm skin underneath the hem of your top. You're feverishly hot there, skin silk-smooth except for the tiny raised goosebumps forming. "You're so patient with them. Make them feel capable instead of broken and that's..."

He stops, shaking his head because his mouth has once again got ahead of his mind. How does he explain that watching you with children makes him picture Sunday mornings five years from now? Tiny feet pattering across floor, your voice patient and warm explaining why the sky is blue, why birds fly south, why dad has to go to practice. The images are so vivid they make his chest ache.

"That matters. You matter." Something stirs beneath your skin, spreading like watercolor bleeding across paper. You duck your head slightly, but Joe catches your chin with his fingers, tilting your face back up. 

"Not even just with them." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, feeling the heat bloom under his touch. The bone is delicate under your soft skin and it reminds him that some things are meant to be held gently, and you're one of those. "Sav at the barbecue last month. You spent two hours teaching her cartwheels in the backyard and she wouldn't stop talking about it for days."

He sees the exact moment you remember it too, the grass-stained knees and shrieking laughter, the way Logan's daughter with her floppy pigtails had refused to leave your side the entire afternoon. Even despite the memory, you bashfully start to deflect, "she was just excited to have—" 

"Your cousin's baby at that birthday party.” Joe continues. “Screaming his head off until you took him. Had him asleep in ten minutes while everyone else had been trying for an hour."

“He just needed to be held differently.”

“Exactly. My brother's kids when they came to visit last fall.” Grinning, you watch that familiar glint sheen over his crystal blue eyes. “Had them playing some game you made up on the spot about dragons and knights. Couldn’t even follow the rules myself, but they were obsessed.” Your hand covers his where it rests against your face, fingers sliding between each other until they're intertwined. Your palm is soft against his, size difference apparent in how his hand dwarfs yours.

"You're just," lets out a breath, trying to figure out the feeling that’s been blossoming in his chest for who knows how long now. "You're so good with them and it's not even something you have to think about."

"Joe." His name comes unsteady, thick with all the emotion you're trying to swallow down.

"I think about it." The confession slips smoothly between Joe's soft lips. "About you, us, with kids someday. Watching you with them. How soft you'll be with them."

"I don't know though..." You start, voice catching slightly. Your eyes drop from his, focusing somewhere around his middle. "Might not be as good when it actually matters. When they're mine and I just can't hand them back at the end of the day."

Joe's mouth curves into something knowing, fingers pressing into your back to make you look at him again. He notices the doubt flickering in your eyes, that uncertainty you try to hide behind nonchalance. "You're pretty when you lie."

"Can see it already," he continues while his voice drops to a low register that makes your brain go fuzzy every time. "You at eight months pregnant still trying to work full days even though your feet are killing you. Getting frustrated when you can't move the way you need to." His hand at your back slides around to span across your stomach, palm flat against you through the jacket. "Wearing only my shirts and hoodies cause nothin’ else will fit comfortably."

Your breath has gone shallow, eyes wide as you watch him paint this future with words.

"Probably reading everything you can get your hands on about all things adjacent. Like a couple months ago when you got that patient and had to learn all those tiny joint mobilizations from scratch." He's not wrong. You have a habit of fixating on things, especially when they're new to you. "Making me try whatever weird craving hits at two in the morning. And I'll do it, even if it's..." his nose crinkles, "I don't know, pickles and peanut butter or something."

Opening your mouth to say something, words don’t travel far because he's not done.

"I keep imagining all these random moments." He pauses, almost shy about this admission. "Early in the morning again, you half-asleep in a rocking chair with our baby and me sitting on the floor next to you guys. Just being there together when the rest of the world's asleep—our little family."

His hand drops from your face to join the other, holding you like you're already carrying that future he sees so clearly.

"I don't know exactly how it'll be." His words are laced with honesty. "I just know I want it, need to see you like that. Because of us." His eyes search yours, looking and finding hints of that same wish. "Sometimes I look at you and think about it so hard I forget what I was doing beforehand. This whole future that hasn't happened yet but just feels... inevitable. Like it's already ours, just waiting for us to catch up to it."

"All those little instances that add up to a whole life. And I want it. All of it. More than I've ever wanted anything." Every syllable hangs heavy between you with all sorts of promises. You cup his jaw, thumb pressing into the dimple that appears when he smiles.

“Such a romantic,” your eyes shimmer as your mouth does a small pout. “That’s why I love you.” Joe's heard you say it thousands of times by now—whispered against his neck in the dark, laughed into his mouth between kisses, murmured sleepily on Sunday mornings. But it still hits him the same way every time, like that first time. He's never quite convinced he deserves it, but that never stops him from being grateful anyway of being one of those who deserves your love.

"Though… we still have the wedding to get through first." Your voice comes tangled with something that makes his blood run hot. He's suddenly found those hints he was searching for within you.

"I'm good with waiting." His hands pull you impossibly closer, until one of his thighs slots between yours. The pressure and heat of you against him makes thinking difficult. "Means I get the honeymoon to look forward to."

You laugh, thumb pressing harder against his cheek. "And after that?" His mouth drops to your ear, lips brushing the shell as he speaks. "After the honeymoon I get to break in every part of that house with you again. Just this time as your husband."

You make another sound, needier this time. His fingers spread over the curve of your ass through your leggings. The fabric does nothing to hide the way you tense for him, blunt edge of his fingernails biting gently into the muscle as he squeezes.

"Bedroom, living room, kitchen, you name it. Office too cause you always love distracting me in there, hm?” Joe’s leg presses against your core, teasing you with every shift of his thigh. The slick gathering between your thighs makes every little movement sharper, every hint of pleasure that much sweeter.

"Joe." His name is barely a whisper, hot against his neck where you've dropped your forehead to his shoulder. Your hips, subtly but unmistakably, roll forward, chasing more friction. He has to bite his cheek just to keep from groaning at how clear your need is, how perfectly he can feel just what you want from him.

"Every room." He enforces, voice dropping to that register that always makes you pliant, agreeable to anything. His lips find your neck, pressing the words into your skin between open-mouthed kisses. “Especially that new car. Love watching me drive it so bad, don't you? Neediest girl I know."

Your breath turns shallow, chest pressed to his, rising and falling in quick, uneven waves. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to make his eyes flutter, a jolt snapping through him.

"That first night back, I'm not letting you out of my arms."

The office suddenly begins feeling a little too small, door unlocked where anyone could walk in. "You're going to get us in trouble." Your voice trembles, hips pressing helplessly in a slow search for more. Mouth finding his jaw, your teeth drag over rough stubble in a way that makes his cock twitch. “We should go home. Now.”

Joe grins, planting one more kiss to your pulse point before pulling back. Your face is flushed, lips the slightest bit more swollen, and eyes cloudy with lust. You look done for already, and he's hardly even touched you yet.

"Whatever you want, sweetheart."

You step back, reluctantly, the space between your bodies feeling immediately wrong. Joe watches you try to compose yourself, smoothing down your clothes and touching your hair, but your hands shake slightly and there's a dazed quality to your movements that makes him want to crowd you against the desk, consequences be damned.

He stands, muscles protesting from sitting in one position too long. Catching sight of your tote bag hung on its usual hook and your purse that hangs next to it, Joe makes quick work of gathering them. Throwing the empty container from the lunch he packed you this morning in the tote bag, he then slings both bags over his shoulder. 

You turn off the small desk lamp, closing the blinds next. Small shadows encase the room as you gather the flowers in your right hand, fingers making a point to brush over the daisy once more. Joe backs into the hallway and you join him, closing and locking the door behind. Joe tests the handle himself twice after you do, a small habit he’s created for the sake of his own sanity.

After ensuring the door is indeed locked, your hand reaches for his, fingers slipping seamlessly between his own. The ring presses against his skin once again, pressing into the space between his third and fourth finger. He can feel the bands setting, the slight raise of it against his finger when you adjust your grip. 

Years ago, Joe was fixed on racing toward something just out of reach. Each touchdown, every championship, any award—they were all supposed to be finish lines but never were. The moment he crossed one, another appeared in the distance, shimmering like a mirage in the desert. He'd learned to train himself to find satisfaction in the endless pursuit, love the ache of always reaching, never quite grasping.

But now, with you, Joe understands the truth built slowly over the last couple of years: he's been running the wrong race all along. The real finish line was never about what he could achieve on a field. Never about proving himself worthy through statistics and victories and championships that fade as soon as the next season starts.

It was this, the quiet moments between the chaos. The weight of your bags on his shoulder, evidence of the life you're building together. Your fingers intertwined with his, ring pressing unspoken promises of a lifetime into his skin with every step. The way you both exist in this space between who you were and who you're becoming, together. 

The finish line he'd been chasing his whole life wasn't a line at all, it was more like a circle. Something that doesn't end when it's achieved but begins again every morning when you reach for each other before your eyes even open. Every Friday when he brings you flowers. Every Sunday when you watch him play. Every ordinary Tuesday when you fall asleep on the couch, head on his shoulder, trusting him to carry you to bed.

Some finish lines, Joe considers as you walk to the door, facing home and the thousand unnamed moments that make a life, aren't meant to be crossed. They're meant to be worn. Carried. Held.