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Alex and your anons since y'all are so up everyone's fucking asses and we're going on almost a week of this bullshit. You guys have now switched to harassing Sav for saying this when mind you no one was fucking harassing Alex at all. AND mind you, I had to take time away because of the disgusting vile shit that Alex's anons send me. Like at the end of the day, why are you still dragging this shit out??
cit 🩷 just saw. i am so sorry, love. none of that vile shit is true and none of it defines you — you know who you are and so do we. take care of you first, mute or block whatever you need to, and i'm right here whenever. i love you a lot. we've got you.
Okay not sure if you did this before but one about your first time with him after being together for a little…maybe in general, or maybe just not being too experienced.
you being nervous; of him seeing your body that you’re insecure about, of you being too inexperienced for him or having no experience, of him just wanting the sex, then leaving, of overthinking it and maybe not pleasing him.
but he doesn’t do any of it. he does make you feel loved, takes it slow with you and lets you know that you can always say if you need to stop (no judgement), him making you feel good and you making him feel good, him taking care of you during and after and so well too.
(possibly adding you telling him before about you being inexperienced or never doing it. and him telling you that he doesn’t love any less and that he’ll go you’re pace - for background).
anon 🩷 here — thank you for trusting me with this. hope you love her 🩷
pairings: joe burrow x reader 🩵
wc: 4.4k
an: anon i hope this is what you were looking for. thank you for trusting me with this one, it sat with me for a week before i could write it 🩷
if you're new here, welcome to the family — follow along for more joe (and colston) content. you can find everything else i've written on my masterlist. if you want to be added to the taglist for future fics, just send me an ask or a message and i've got you.
likes are lovely but reblogs are what keep this blog going — if you loved it, please share it 🩷
The ride back is the part you didn’t plan for.
You planned for the restaurant — you’d looked at the menu on the way there, decided on the pasta so you wouldn’t have to think about it at the table. You planned for the dress, which you’d tried on three times before deciding it was the right amount of effort. You planned for him showing up at your door with a bag, because he’d told you last week he was staying, and you’d said yes and meant it.
You did not plan for the ten-minute drive to your apartment feeling like an hour.
He’s got one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb moving in a slow pass over the fabric of your dress, and he’s talking about something Zac said at practice last week. You’re nodding. You’re laughing in the right places. You’re aware of exactly how far his hand is from your knee.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m listening.”
He glances over. Doesn’t push. Just squeezes your thigh once and keeps driving.
The building’s parking lot is mostly empty. Sunday night. He kills the engine and doesn’t move.
“Y/N.”
“Hm.”
“You okay?”
You look at him. He’s watching you in the dim light from the dashboard, his face open in that way it gets when it’s just the two of you.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
He gets out. Walks around the car. Opens your door for you the way he always does, one hand out for you to take, the bag from the back seat already over his shoulder. You take his hand.
“Cold?” he says.
“A little.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and puts it around your shoulders without asking. It’s too big. It smells like him. You try not to make a thing about it.
Your apartment is on the third floor. You’ve cleaned it twice since Friday. He doesn’t say anything about that, but when he steps in and sets his bag down by the door, you know he noticed. He notices everything.
“You want water?” you ask.
“Sure.”
You go to the kitchen. You need something to do with your hands. He follows, but he takes the long way — pauses to look at the new frame on your bookshelf, the one you’d told him about but he hadn’t seen yet, and by the time he gets to the kitchen you’ve already poured two glasses and set them on the counter.
He picks his up. Watches you over the rim.
“Come here,” he says.
—
You cross to him. He sets his water down. Takes yours out of your hand and sets it next to his.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
His hands come to your waist. Just resting there. He’s looking at you the way he does when he’s trying to figure out what you’re not saying, and you know from experience that if you don’t say it, he’ll wait you out.
“I’m okay,” you say.
“I didn’t ask that time.”
“I know.”
He waits.
You put your hands on his chest. His shirt is soft under your palms — the good one, the black one you told him you liked once, months ago, and he’d remembered. Your fingers pick at a spot near his collar because you need to be doing something.
“I’m a little nervous,” you say.
He doesn’t say anything at first. His hands tighten on your waist a fraction — not to pull you closer, just to hold you where you are.
“Okay.”
“Not in a bad way.”
“Okay.”
“I just want you to know.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
You look up at him. He’s not doing the face he does when he’s trying to fix something. He’s just looking at you.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he says.
“I know.”
“I mean it. Whatever we do or don’t do tonight — I’m still staying. That was the plan. That’s still the plan.”
Your throat does something. You don’t say anything. He watches you for a second and then leans down and kisses your forehead. Slow. His mouth stays there a second longer than it needs to.
“Come on,” he says. “Couch.”
—
The couch is where you usually curl into him easily. Tonight you sit down and don’t know what to do with your hands.
He notices. Of course he notices.
He sits down next to you — close, but not on top of you. Angles himself so he’s facing you. One arm goes along the back of the couch behind your shoulders. Not touching. Just there.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“About what.”
“Whatever’s in your head.”
You look at your lap. You pick at the hem of your dress.
“I told you before. About — you know. That I haven’t done a lot.”
“I remember.”
“I know.”
“I remember all of it.”
You nod. You still can’t look at him. You feel him watching you, the weight of it, patient in the way he gets.
“I’m just in my head about it,” you say. “That’s all.”
“About what specifically?”
You laugh a little. It doesn’t sound like a laugh. “Do you want the list?”
“Yeah. I do.”
You look up at him. He’s not smiling. He’s not making it easy or making it harder — he’s just asking, because he wants to know.
“About — being nervous, obviously. About my body. About you seeing it and me not being — I don’t know. Whatever I’m supposed to be. About being bad at it. About doing something wrong or not knowing what to do. About —”
You stop. You don’t say the last one.
“About what,” he says.
“Nothing.”
“Y/N.”
“About you leaving. After.”
His hand comes off the back of the couch and finds the back of your neck. Warm. He doesn’t pull you toward him. He just holds you there.
“I’m not leaving after.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going anywhere after. I’m here. That was the plan when I packed the bag on Friday, and it’s still the plan.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. I need you to know that.”
You look at him. His eyes are so soft it almost hurts.
“I’m working on it,” you say.
He nods. His thumb moves once, slow, at the nape of your neck.
“Okay,” he says. “So let’s start there.”
—
He kisses you first.
Not on the mouth. On the temple, then the cheek, then the corner of your jaw. Slow. Nowhere he hasn’t kissed you before. You feel your shoulders come down half an inch.
His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw. Tips your face toward his.
“Okay?” he says.
“Yeah.”
He kisses you on the mouth then. Soft. Familiar. He’s kissed you like this on your couch, on your doorstep, in his car — nothing new about it. You know how to do this. Your hand comes up to his chest and stays there.
He keeps it there for a while. Doesn’t rush. His hand moves from your jaw down to your shoulder, over the fabric of your dress, resting at the top of your arm. Nothing you haven’t felt before.
When he does deepen it, he does it slowly. His hand comes to your waist and pulls you a little closer, and you go, and his mouth is warmer, and you feel your pulse in a place that isn’t your chest anymore.
You make a small sound against his mouth. He hears it. He pulls back an inch.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Still okay?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses you again. His hand slides from your waist to your thigh, over the dress, and stops there. Doesn’t move up. Just rests. He’s giving you a second to catch up to it.
You get a hand in his hair. He makes a sound this time — low, quiet — and it goes through you in a way you weren’t ready for.
Then his hand on your thigh moves. Just a little. His fingers curl into the fabric, and your hand tightens in his hair too hard.
He stops.
He pulls back and looks at you.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Come here.”
—
He pulls back all the way. Sits up. Takes his hand off your thigh and puts it on top of your hand instead, the one that’s still fisted in his shirt.
“Look at me.”
You do.
“We’re stopping.”
“Joe —”
“We’re stopping for a second. Not — not for the night. Just right now. Okay?”
You nod.
He exhales. Runs his free hand over his face. When he drops it, he leaves it on the back of his own neck, and you know he’s trying to figure out what to say. He’s not good at this part. You watch him decide to try anyway.
“I don’t want to do anything you’re not sure about. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want. I don’t — if we get to any point tonight and you want to stop, you stop. You say it. You don’t have to explain it, you don’t have to feel bad about it, you don’t have to wait until it’s a big deal. Just tell me. And we stop.”
“Okay.”
“I mean any point. Now. Ten minutes from now. The middle of it. After. Whenever. It’s fine. It’s — it doesn’t hurt my feelings. It’s not a thing. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He’s still going. You can see him deciding not to stop, because if he stops he’s going to have to trust that he said enough, and he doesn’t want to leave any of it up to guesswork.
“And I know you told me. About — before. And I’m telling you, that doesn’t — that doesn’t change anything for me. I don’t need you to be good at this. I don’t want you to be worried about being good at this. There’s no — there’s nothing you have to do. I just want to be with you.”
He stops. Looks at his hand on top of yours.
“That came out wrong.”
“It didn’t.”
“It came out like a speech.”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“It was perfect.”
He looks up. His mouth does something small at the corner.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
—
You lean forward and kiss him.
He lets you. He doesn’t move his hands right away — leaves them where they are, on top of yours, on the back of his own neck — and lets you set the pace. You kiss him slower than he was kissing you. You want to know you can.
When you pull back an inch, he’s watching you.
“Bedroom?” you say.
“If you want.”
“I want.”
He nods. Stands up. Offers you his hand.
You take it. He pulls you up gently. Doesn’t hurry you down the hall. He turns the lamp on next to your bed instead of the overhead, without asking, and it occurs to you that he remembered — you’d told him once, months ago, that you hated the overhead in this room, and he’d filed it, and now here he was.
He sits down on the edge of your bed and pulls you between his knees. Hands at your waist. He looks up at you.
“Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re doing good.”
You laugh a little. “I haven’t done anything.”
“You told me you were nervous. That’s the hard part.”
He puts his hands on your hips, over the dress, and slides them down over the fabric to the hem. Stops there. Looks up.
“Can I?”
“Yeah.”
He lifts it slow. You lift your arms for him. He pulls the dress up and over and off, and drops it somewhere on the floor by his bag, and then he just looks at you.
You start to cross your arms. You can’t help it.
He catches your wrists before they get there.
“No,” he says. Quiet. “Don’t do that.”
“Joe —”
“Come here.”
He tugs you down onto his lap. You go. He gets one arm around your waist and the other at the back of your head and pulls you in against him, and his mouth goes to the corner of your jaw, and he stays there.
“You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I’m not —”
“You are. It’s okay. But you don’t have to.”
His hand at your waist moves. Just his palm on your skin, warm, sitting there.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he says, into your neck. “You know that?”
You didn’t. You didn’t know that.
“Since — I don’t even know. A while.” His mouth moves along your collarbone. “So whatever you’re worried about me seeing. I’m already gone. I’m already — you don’t have to worry about that part. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Say it.”
“Okay.”
He pulls back to look at you. His hand comes up to your face. Thumb at your cheekbone.
“You’re beautiful. I’ve told you that. I’m gonna keep telling you that. But if you don’t believe me tonight, that’s fine. Just believe that I’m here. That’s the important one.”
Your eyes are wet. You didn’t know they were going to be.
“Hey,” he says. Softer. “Come here.”
He pulls you in. Your face goes to his shoulder. He holds on.
“We can stop,” he says.
“I don’t want to stop.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to stop, Joe.”
“Okay, baby. Okay.”
—
He kisses your temple and stays there a second. His hand runs up and down your back, over your skin, tracing the clasp of your bra and back down.
“Can I lay you down?”
“Yeah.”
He guides you off his lap and onto the bed, one hand at the back of your head. Then he’s over you — one knee between yours, weight on his forearm — and he stops. Looks at you.
He’s still in his shirt and jeans. You reach up and tug the hem.
“Take it off.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He sits back on his heels, pulls it off in one motion, and tosses it toward his bag. You get your hands on his stomach. Warm skin. He exhales through his nose.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He lowers back down. Forearm by your head. Kisses you, then your jaw, your throat, the spot below your ear. His mouth is warm and slow.
His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, stops at the strap of your bra.
“Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I?”
You nod. He waits.
“Say it.”
“Yeah, Joe.”
He reaches under you and unhooks it. Pulls the straps down slow, then the whole thing. It drops to the floor. You start to move your arm out of habit. He catches your wrist and places your hand on his chest instead.
“Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“Yeah, you are.” His palm rests at your ribs, thumb brushing. “Look at you.”
You’re not going to cry again. You’re not.
“Joe—”
“I mean it.”
His mouth moves to your collarbone, then lower. He takes his time — the space between your breasts, the swell of one, then the other. When his lips close around your nipple, you make a small sound you didn’t expect. He stays there.
His hand slides down your side, over your hip, to the waistband of your underwear. Stops.
You thread your fingers into his hair.
He looks up. Eyes dark.
“Can I—”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Joe. Yes.”
A small huff that’s almost a laugh. He hooks his fingers in the fabric and slides it down your legs. You lift your hips to help. You don’t cover yourself this time.
He tosses them aside. Looks at you.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“There you are.”
He kisses your knee, then the inside of your thigh, working higher. Slow.
You know where he’s going. Your stomach flips.
“Joe.”
He pauses. Looks up.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
“You don’t—”
“Y/N.” His thumb strokes your thigh. “I want to. Okay?”
You nod.
“Words.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
“Okay.”
Then his mouth is on you, and every thought scatters.
He takes his time. Mouth first, then his fingers. He listens — to every sound you make, every shift of your hips — and figures out exactly what you like. When your hips start moving too much, his free hand spreads across your stomach and holds you.
“Joe—”
“Yeah.”
“Joe—”
“I’ve got you.”
You come apart faster than you ever have with anyone else. Your hand tightens in his hair, the other pressed over your mouth, and you’re making sounds that aren’t words. He doesn’t stop until you tug at his hair, telling him it’s too much.
He kisses your thigh. Works his way back up your body. His mouth is wet when he reaches you. He wipes it on the back of his wrist without hiding it.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“That was—”
“Don’t.”
He laughs, small and real.
“Wasn’t going to.” He kisses your forehead. “Was just gonna say you’re incredible.”
—
You lie there for a second and just breathe. His weight is half on you, half on his forearm. His mouth is at your temple.
“Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“I want—”
“Yeah?”
You pull back to look at him. His hair is messed up from your hand. His mouth is still shiny at the corner. He looks like he could stay right here all night and be happy.
“I want to make you feel good too.”
Something moves in his face. He kisses you before he answers. It’s slow. You can taste yourself on him.
“You already do.”
“Joe.”
“I mean it. You don’t have to do anything. This isn’t — this isn’t a trade.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“I know it’s not a trade. I want to.”
He looks at you for a second. Then he nods.
“Okay.”
He rolls onto his back for you. Pulls you with him so you’re half on top of him. His hand goes to the back of your head, and he kisses you again, slower this time, and you can feel him through his jeans against your hip.
You get your hand at the waistband of his jeans. He inhales through his nose.
“Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to be nervous.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah?”
“Not right now.”
He almost smiles. His hand comes down and helps you with the button — not taking over, just helping — and then he lifts his hips for you, and you get the jeans and everything else down and off, and he kicks them the rest of the way off the bed.
Then it’s just him.
You look at him for a second. You can’t help it.
“Hey,” he says. Quiet.
“Hi.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” You look up at his face. “Yeah, I’m — yeah.”
He watches you decide. Doesn’t rush you.
You put your hand on him.
His head goes back against the pillow. His hand tightens on your hip.
“Fuck.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, baby. Yeah. That’s — yeah.”
You move your hand. Watch his face. His jaw works. His hand at your hip flexes, releases, flexes again. He’s trying not to move.
“You can tell me,” you say. “What you like.”
He opens his eyes. Looks at you.
“Anything you’re doing is fine.”
“Joe.”
“What.”
“Tell me.”
He exhales. His hand comes up and covers yours. Shows you — grip, pace, the pressure he likes. Doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t take over. Just gives you the information and lets go.
You do what he showed you.
“Yeah,” he says. Low. “Yeah, just like that.”
His hand goes back to your hip. His fingers dig in a little now. Not enough to hurt. Enough that you know he’s trying to stay in his body.
“Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“You gotta — you gotta stop in a second.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You slow down. He exhales hard.
“Come here.”
—
You let go. He sits up and pulls you up with him — hand at the back of your head, mouth on yours, kissing you like he’s trying to catch up to himself. You end up in his lap. Your legs on either side of him. His hand at the small of your back.
He pulls back. Puts his forehead against yours.
“You still with me?”
“Yeah.”
“You want to keep going.”
“Yeah.”
“Words, baby.”
“Yes. I want to keep going.”
He nods against your forehead. His hand runs down your back and up again. Kisses you again. Slower.
His hand comes up your side, over your ribs, and stays at the space just under your breast.
“Tell me if you want to stop.”
“Okay.”
“Any time. I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Tell me if it hurts.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me if you want it different. Slower, whatever. Just tell me.”
“Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He holds your face for a second. Looks at you like he’s checking one more time. Then he kisses you and turns you.
He lays you back down. Comes over you again — one forearm by your head, one hand at your hip. His weight on you. He kisses the space below your ear.
“Look at me.”
You do.
He reaches down between you and lines himself up. Doesn’t move yet. Just there. He’s watching your face.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He pushes in slow.
Your hand goes to his back. Your other hand grabs the sheet. He stops halfway. Watches you.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, Joe.”
He pushes the rest of the way in. Stops again. His forehead comes down to yours. He exhales.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, baby. Yeah.”
He stays still. Lets you catch up. His hand comes up and pushes your hair back off your face, and he kisses you — slow, careful, mouth open.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s — yeah.”
“Not too much.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He moves. Slow. His forearm by your head, his other hand at your hip. He’s watching your face for every one of the first few, and you can feel him holding back — his jaw set, breath coming through his nose — because this isn’t about him yet.
“Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“You can — I’m okay.”
“I know you’re okay.”
“You’re going slow for me.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
He kisses your jaw. Keeps the pace. His hand moves from your hip up your side and back down, over and over, like he can’t stop touching you.
“You feel —” He stops. Puts his face in your neck. “God.”
You get both hands in his hair.
“Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“I want you close.”
He makes a sound in his throat. Comes down onto his forearm and pulls you against him tight, one arm under your back, the other braced by your head. Your chest against his. His mouth at your temple.
“Like this?”
“Yeah. Like this.”
He moves like that. His pace stays slow. You can feel his heart against your chest and his breath at your ear and every place he’s touching you, and he doesn’t stop talking — small things, quiet, at your temple, at your ear.
You feel so good. You okay. You’re doing so good. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.
His hand comes up and holds the side of your face.
“Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“Look at me.”
You do.
He kisses you. Doesn’t stop moving. His forehead comes back to yours.
“I love you.”
Your breath catches. He hasn’t said it before. Neither have you.
“Joe —”
“I’ve been trying to figure out when to say it.”
“Joe.”
“This is — not what I planned. I know.”
“I love you.”
He exhales like he’d been holding it. His mouth comes down on yours.
He moves a little faster. Not much. Enough that you feel him losing some of the control he’s been holding onto. His hand tightens at the side of your face. His breath goes ragged.
“You gonna come for me again?”
“I don’t know if I can —”
“You can.”
He gets a hand between you. Finds you. His thumb.
“Joe —”
“Yeah. Yeah, baby.”
You come apart the second time with your hand fisted in his hair and your face in his shoulder, biting down on nothing, and he’s saying your name against your temple, and then he’s gone too, his whole body going tight, one hand hard at the side of your head.
He doesn’t collapse on you. He holds himself up on his forearm and stays there, breathing, his face in your neck.
You’re both quiet for a second.
His mouth moves at your jaw.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Joe.”
He kisses your temple. Stays there.
—
He stays inside you for another minute. His mouth at your temple. His breath slowing.
Then he pulls back to look at you. Pushes your hair off your forehead.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
He kisses you. Gets up. You hear the bathroom, the water running. He comes back with a washcloth — warm — and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Let me.”
You nod. He cleans you up slow. Doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t make it a thing.
When he’s done, he tosses the washcloth toward the hamper and lies back down. Pulls the comforter up over both of you. Gets an arm under your head and pulls you into him so your cheek is on his chest.
You lie there for a while.
His hand moves in your hair. Slow.
“Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“You said it first.”
“I know.”
“You beat me to it.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out when to say it too.”
His hand stops for a second, then keeps moving.
“Yeah?”
“For like a month.”
“A month.”
“Maybe longer.”
You feel him laugh a little. His chest moves under your cheek.
“Well,” he says. “Now we both know.”
You turn your face up to look at him. His eyes are closed. His hair is a wreck. There’s a mark at the base of his throat you don’t remember making.
“Joe.”
“Hm.”
“You’re staying, right?”
His eyes open. He looks down at you.
“Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“I brought a bag.”
“I know. I just —”
“I’m staying.”
“Okay.”
“I’m staying all night. I’m staying for breakfast. I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“You want me to keep going?”
“No.”
“I can keep going.”
“Joe.”
“What.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs. Full. You feel it in his chest.
He kisses the top of your head. Pulls you in tighter. His hand goes back to your hair.
“Get some sleep.”
“Okay.”
You listen to his breathing get slower. It doesn’t take long — he’s out before you are, which you didn’t expect. His arm is heavy around you. His hand still in your hair, gone limp now, his thumb resting behind your ear.
The lamp is still on.
You reach over and turn it off. His arm tightens on you in his sleep. Doesn’t let go.
You close your eyes.
taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷
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hiii, I was wondering if I could be removed from your taglist? I’m just not that into joey fanfics anymore:( I might still read them sometimes if they come across my feed! nothing against you, hope it’s ok<3
of course lovie!! taking you off right now 🩷 don’t ever feel bad about that — reading tastes shift and you should only be reading what you actually love. always welcome back if you ever want to be added again, no pressure either way. sending you so much love 💋
pairings: joe burrow x reader 🩷
wc: 2.7k
an: this one is for the anon who sent in this ask. bb — i hope this holds you a little. you are so loved, and there is nothing dramatic or bothersome about needing a soft place to land. sending you the biggest hug. 🩷
cw: depression, crying, being hard on yourself. take care of yourselves reading this, loves. 🩷
The song comes on somewhere between Kenwood and home.
It's one of yours. He knows it's one of yours because he's watched you sing it in the driver's seat, in the kitchen, in the shower with the door open — head back, eyes closed, absolutely wrecking the high note every time and not caring. He liked that about you the first month he knew you. He still likes it.
You're looking out the window.
He waits through the first verse. Fingers on the wheel, one hand, the other resting on the console between you. You don't reach for it. That's a new thing. You used to put your hand under his on long drives, palm up, and leave it there.
Chorus comes. He starts singing it himself. Quiet. He gets the harmony wrong on purpose — pitches down where the song goes up, mumbles the word he knows you love — and waits for you to look over and tell him he's butchering it.
You smile at the windshield.
You don't look over.
He lets the second chorus play out and turns the radio down.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” You're already answering before he's done asking. “Just tired.”
“Yeah?”
“Long day.”
He nods. He puts his hand on your thigh, palm flat, and leaves it there. You cover it with yours after a second — not the way you used to, threaded through his fingers, just laid on top — and he doesn't say anything about that either.
At the light, he looks at you.
Your head's against the window. Eyes on the road ahead of the car. You're not on your phone, which is the other new thing — three weeks ago you'd have been showing him something a mutual sent you, laughing before he could even see the screen. Your phone is face-down on your thigh under his hand. It hasn't lit up in a while.
The light turns green.
“You want anything?” he says. “I can swing by somewhere.”
“No, I'm okay.”
“Sure?”
“I'm sure, babe. Thank you.”
The thank you gets him. You don't thank him for asking if you want a milkshake. You never have. You'd say only if you're getting one and then eat half of his no matter what you ordered. He almost points it out and doesn't.
He drives you home.
———
You're in the kitchen when you get home.
He's watching from the doorway. You've got the fridge open and you're looking at it like you don't remember what you came in for. You do this now. He's seen you do this three times this week.
“Hungry?” he says.
“No, I —” You close the fridge. “I don't know. I don't think so.”
“I can make you something.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know I don't.”
You look at him. You almost smile. It's the little one. It sits there for a second and then it's gone, and you say, “Maybe just toast.”
“Toast it is.”
He makes you toast. Butter, cinnamon, the way you like it. He puts it on your plate and hands it to you and you take it with both hands like it's more than toast, and he watches you eat half a piece standing at the counter before you say you're going to go get ready for bed.
It's nine.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I'm just —”
“Tired.” He finishes it for you. He doesn't mean to. It comes out gentle. You look at him like you've been caught at something and he wants to take it back immediately.
“Sorry,” you say.
“For what.”
“I don't know.”
He sets the pan down. He crosses the kitchen and he puts his hand on the back of your neck the way he does, thumb behind your ear, and he leans down and kisses your forehead. You close your eyes. You lean into his hand a little. Not much. Enough.
“Go to bed, babe.”
“You coming?”
“In a bit. Gonna clean up.”
“Okay.”
You go. He listens to you go — bathroom, the water running, the medicine cabinet, the water again, the bedroom door. He cleans the kitchen slower than he needs to. He wipes down a counter that isn't dirty. He puts the butter back in the fridge and stands there with the door open the way you were doing ten minutes ago and doesn't know why.
When he gets to the bedroom, the light under the door is off.
He knows before he opens it that you're not asleep. He can just tell. Something about the way the room feels — you're too still, or you're not still enough, or he's known you long enough that your sleeping body sounds different than your awake one and this is the awake one. He gets in bed. He doesn't turn a light on. He rolls toward you and puts his arm over your waist and pulls you back against him, and you come — you always come, you've never once not — but you don't reach back for his hand. You used to find his fingers under the covers and lace them through yours before he'd even settled.
Tonight your hand stays where it is.
He puts his face in the back of your neck and breathes.
He doesn't say anything.
He's not going to say anything tonight.
———
He's up before you.
He's downstairs making matcha when he hears you moving around in the bedroom. Drawer opening. Drawer closing. Another drawer. He finishes his and starts one for you the way you like it, and he's on the landing with it when he hears the small sound.
He wouldn't have heard it from the kitchen. It's that small.
He sets the mug on the hallway console and goes.
You're on the bedroom floor. You're in one of his shirts and nothing else and you've got the top drawer of your jewelry stand pulled all the way out, in your lap, and you're going through it with both hands — sorting, pushing things aside, checking the same corner twice — and you're crying. Not loud. You haven't made the sound again. Your shoulders are doing it and your face is wet and you haven't looked up.
He says your name.
You don't hear him. Or you hear him and you can't stop.
“Babe.”
“I can't find them,” you say. You're still looking. Your hands are still moving. “I can't find them, Joe, they were right here, they're always right here —”
“Okay.”
“They're the — you know the ones, the little gold ones, the — I got them at that place in Athens, they're not — I don't even know why I —”
You stop. You put both hands over your face.
He's already moving. He's on the floor before you've gotten the next word out, sitting behind you, pulling you back against his chest with one arm around your ribs and the other hand where it goes — palm at the back of your neck, thumb behind your ear, holding. You come back against him hard. Your whole body does. Like you've been holding yourself up for a long time and you finally get to stop.
He doesn't say anything for a while.
He just holds on.
Your hands are still over your face. He can feel you trying to breathe and not being able to. He puts his mouth against the top of your head and keeps it there.
“Hey.”
You shake your head.
“Hey. I've got you.”
“I'm sorry,” you say into your hands. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's — it's earrings, Joe, it's stupid earrings, I don't know what's —”
“Shh.”
“I don't know what's wrong with me.”
His arm tightens.
“Nothing's wrong with you.”
“Joe —”
“Nothing's wrong with you, baby.”
You cry harder. He feels it in his chest, the whole shape of it, and he doesn't move. He doesn't try to turn you around and look at you. He doesn't ask you anything. He puts his chin on top of your head and he holds on, and his hand stays where it is, thumb moving slow behind your ear, and he lets you.
The drawer is still in your lap. He reaches around and lifts it gently and sets it on the carpet next to you, and then he puts his arm back where it was.
You keep crying.
He keeps holding on.
He's not going anywhere.
———
You stay there a while.
He doesn't count how long. You're not crying as hard anymore — it's coming in slower now, the shape of it changing, and he can feel you starting to breathe again. His hand is still where it was. Thumb still moving. He hasn't said anything in a while and you haven't either, and the sun is coming through the blinds in the flat morning way it does, and the drawer is on the carpet next to your knee.
You take your hands off your face.
You don't turn around. You keep your back against his chest and you look at the drawer on the floor and you say, “Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm —”
You stop. He waits.
“I'm sorry.”
“Baby —”
“No, I — I mean it, I'm — I've been like this, I know I've been like this, and I didn't want to —”
You stop again. He can feel you trying to get the sentence out and not getting there. He doesn't help you. He wants the shape of it from you, whatever shape it comes in.
“I didn't want to make it your thing,” you say. “I didn't want to be a — I know it's been weeks, I know you can tell, I'm not — I know I haven't been, and I just — I didn't want to load it on you when it's not even — I don't even have a reason. Nothing happened. I just feel like this and I couldn't figure out how to tell you that without it sounding —”
“Without it sounding what.”
“Dramatic.”
He closes his eyes.
“Or like I was — I didn't want to be a bother. You've got so much going on and I'm just —”
“Stop.”
You stop.
He turns you around. Not fast. He shifts and he gets his hands on your shoulders and he moves you so you're facing him on the floor, cross-legged, knees against his, and he waits until you look at him. It takes you a second. Your eyes are red and your face is a mess and you won't quite meet him at first, and he waits, and you do.
“You're not —” He stops. He can hear himself about to get it wrong and he stops. He tries again. “There's no version of this where you're a bother. Okay? That's not — you don't get to be that. To me.”
“Joe.”
“You're just mine.” He says it like it's the answer to a question. “The sad part too. That's mine too. That's not — you're not loading it on me. I'm already carrying it, I've been carrying it, that's — that's the deal.”
You start crying again.
He pulls you back in. Your forehead against his collarbone, both his arms around you, one hand at the back of your head now, the other flat between your shoulder blades. You've got a fist in the front of his shirt. He can feel it. He doesn't let go.
“I've been trying,” you say into him.
“I know you have.”
“I didn't want you to —”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.” He says it into your hair. “I love you. I love you when you're like this. That's not — that doesn't turn off, babe, that's not how it works.”
You nod against him. Small. He feels it more than he sees it.
He keeps holding on.
———
You've stopped crying.
You're still against him. You haven't moved and he hasn't moved you. His shirt is wet where your face is and neither of you cares. He can feel you breathing. You're doing it deliberately now — the long inhale, the slow release — and he recognizes it. It's the thing you taught yourself for the anxious nights. He didn't know you'd been using it lately. He does now.
“Hey.”
“Hm.”
“Come here.”
He stands up first. He does it slow so you can hold onto him if you need to, and you do — one hand at the hem of his shirt, the other braced on his forearm — and he pulls you up with him. You're smaller like this. You're always smaller like this and he never gets used to it.
He walks you to the bed.
You sit on the edge and he crosses the room and opens the second drawer down, the one that used to be his and became yours, and he pulls out the black hoodie. The one you steal. The one that lives in there now because there was no point pretending it was his anymore. He brings it back and he crouches in front of you and he holds it open at the hem, and you lift your arms without him asking.
He pulls it over your head.
He fixes your hair for you where it caught in the collar. He does it with both hands, careful, one piece at a time, and you close your eyes.
“Water,” he says.
“Joe —”
“I'm getting you water. Get in bed.”
You get in bed.
He goes downstairs. He's back in ninety seconds with the water and the matcha he made for you an hour ago, cold now, and he sets both on your nightstand and gets in bed next to you on top of the covers. He puts his back against the headboard. He opens his arm.
You come.
He arranges you against him the way you like — your head on his chest just under his collarbone, one of your legs between his, his arm across your back, his hand where it goes on the back of your neck. You tuck your hand up under his shirt against his ribs the way you always do. First time in weeks. He feels it and doesn't say anything.
His other hand finds the top of your head. Fingers in your hair. Slow.
“You don't have to talk,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Not right now. Not later either if you don't want to. Whenever.”
“Okay.”
“But I'm here for it. When you want to. All of it.”
You nod against his chest.
He keeps his hand in your hair. He looks at the ceiling. The sun has moved a little on the wall and he watches it and he doesn't move and you don't move and after a while your breathing starts to change — slower, deeper, that different sound — and he realizes you're actually asleep. First time in maybe a week that you've actually slept.
He stays exactly where he is.
He's not going anywhere.
———
It's almost dark when you come downstairs.
You woke up around six in his hoodie with his arm still around you. You cried again for a minute, quiet, and he didn't move. You told him you'd come down in a minute and he kissed your forehead and left the room, and you heard him downstairs a while later. You washed your face. You took your time.
He's in the kitchen. He's got a pan going and he doesn't turn around, just holds out an arm, and you go to him and he pulls you into his side and kisses the top of your head and hands you the wooden spoon.
“Sit,” he says. “I've got it.”
You sit on the counter. He cooks. He asks you what you want to watch after and you say you don't care, and he says that means Bravo, and you almost smile.
He turns the water on to rinse something at the sink.
He stops.
He reaches for something on the counter by the faucet and turns around and holds out his hand.
“Babe.”
You look.
In his palm — the little gold ones. Both of them.
You don't say anything. You take them from him. You hold them in your closed fist against your chest and you look at him, and he's looking at you, and he doesn't say see, they were here the whole time and he doesn't say anything about the morning at all. He just puts his hand on your knee and squeezes once.
“I love you,” he says.
Then he goes back to the pan.
taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @willowpains @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3
am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷
venus meets the south node in virgo today, which may bring an old relationship pattern back into view.
especially the pattern where you become helpful, accommodating, endlessly understanding, or impossible to disappoint because being needed feels safer than simply being loved.
the lesson is not to stop caring for people.
it is to notice when care becomes the price you pay to keep your place in their life.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i’ve been lowkey more sad recently (depressed). feel like reading on here is one of the few things that has helped me.
could you possibly do one with joe x reader where she’s more sad, less like herself, and just seeming to loose some of her spark. he notices little things over time but maybe you breaking down to him or him seeing you break down is what gets you to finally open up to him (after not wanting to feel like a bother to him or seem dramatic).
i feel like he’d just make you feel so loved and cared for through words and touches and actions that he knows always help calm you or you like. and make you feel safe and able to open up to him and supported by him.
bb 🥹 i hope this holds you a little. there is nothing wrong with you and you are not a bother, ever. sending you the biggest hug 🩷
pairings: joe burrow x reader 🩷
wc: 2.7k
an: this one is for the anon who sent in this ask. bb — i hope this holds you a little. you are so loved, and there is nothing dramatic or bothersome about needing a soft place to land. sending you the biggest hug. 🩷
cw: depression, crying, being hard on yourself. take care of yourselves reading this, loves. 🩷
The song comes on somewhere between Kenwood and home.
It's one of yours. He knows it's one of yours because he's watched you sing it in the driver's seat, in the kitchen, in the shower with the door open — head back, eyes closed, absolutely wrecking the high note every time and not caring. He liked that about you the first month he knew you. He still likes it.
You're looking out the window.
He waits through the first verse. Fingers on the wheel, one hand, the other resting on the console between you. You don't reach for it. That's a new thing. You used to put your hand under his on long drives, palm up, and leave it there.
Chorus comes. He starts singing it himself. Quiet. He gets the harmony wrong on purpose — pitches down where the song goes up, mumbles the word he knows you love — and waits for you to look over and tell him he's butchering it.
You smile at the windshield.
You don't look over.
He lets the second chorus play out and turns the radio down.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” You're already answering before he's done asking. “Just tired.”
“Yeah?”
“Long day.”
He nods. He puts his hand on your thigh, palm flat, and leaves it there. You cover it with yours after a second — not the way you used to, threaded through his fingers, just laid on top — and he doesn't say anything about that either.
At the light, he looks at you.
Your head's against the window. Eyes on the road ahead of the car. You're not on your phone, which is the other new thing — three weeks ago you'd have been showing him something a mutual sent you, laughing before he could even see the screen. Your phone is face-down on your thigh under his hand. It hasn't lit up in a while.
The light turns green.
“You want anything?” he says. “I can swing by somewhere.”
“No, I'm okay.”
“Sure?”
“I'm sure, babe. Thank you.”
The thank you gets him. You don't thank him for asking if you want a milkshake. You never have. You'd say only if you're getting one and then eat half of his no matter what you ordered. He almost points it out and doesn't.
He drives you home.
———
You're in the kitchen when you get home.
He's watching from the doorway. You've got the fridge open and you're looking at it like you don't remember what you came in for. You do this now. He's seen you do this three times this week.
“Hungry?” he says.
“No, I —” You close the fridge. “I don't know. I don't think so.”
“I can make you something.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know I don't.”
You look at him. You almost smile. It's the little one. It sits there for a second and then it's gone, and you say, “Maybe just toast.”
“Toast it is.”
He makes you toast. Butter, cinnamon, the way you like it. He puts it on your plate and hands it to you and you take it with both hands like it's more than toast, and he watches you eat half a piece standing at the counter before you say you're going to go get ready for bed.
It's nine.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I'm just —”
“Tired.” He finishes it for you. He doesn't mean to. It comes out gentle. You look at him like you've been caught at something and he wants to take it back immediately.
“Sorry,” you say.
“For what.”
“I don't know.”
He sets the pan down. He crosses the kitchen and he puts his hand on the back of your neck the way he does, thumb behind your ear, and he leans down and kisses your forehead. You close your eyes. You lean into his hand a little. Not much. Enough.
“Go to bed, babe.”
“You coming?”
“In a bit. Gonna clean up.”
“Okay.”
You go. He listens to you go — bathroom, the water running, the medicine cabinet, the water again, the bedroom door. He cleans the kitchen slower than he needs to. He wipes down a counter that isn't dirty. He puts the butter back in the fridge and stands there with the door open the way you were doing ten minutes ago and doesn't know why.
When he gets to the bedroom, the light under the door is off.
He knows before he opens it that you're not asleep. He can just tell. Something about the way the room feels — you're too still, or you're not still enough, or he's known you long enough that your sleeping body sounds different than your awake one and this is the awake one. He gets in bed. He doesn't turn a light on. He rolls toward you and puts his arm over your waist and pulls you back against him, and you come — you always come, you've never once not — but you don't reach back for his hand. You used to find his fingers under the covers and lace them through yours before he'd even settled.
Tonight your hand stays where it is.
He puts his face in the back of your neck and breathes.
He doesn't say anything.
He's not going to say anything tonight.
———
He's up before you.
He's downstairs making matcha when he hears you moving around in the bedroom. Drawer opening. Drawer closing. Another drawer. He finishes his and starts one for you the way you like it, and he's on the landing with it when he hears the small sound.
He wouldn't have heard it from the kitchen. It's that small.
He sets the mug on the hallway console and goes.
You're on the bedroom floor. You're in one of his shirts and nothing else and you've got the top drawer of your jewelry stand pulled all the way out, in your lap, and you're going through it with both hands — sorting, pushing things aside, checking the same corner twice — and you're crying. Not loud. You haven't made the sound again. Your shoulders are doing it and your face is wet and you haven't looked up.
He says your name.
You don't hear him. Or you hear him and you can't stop.
“Babe.”
“I can't find them,” you say. You're still looking. Your hands are still moving. “I can't find them, Joe, they were right here, they're always right here —”
“Okay.”
“They're the — you know the ones, the little gold ones, the — I got them at that place in Athens, they're not — I don't even know why I —”
You stop. You put both hands over your face.
He's already moving. He's on the floor before you've gotten the next word out, sitting behind you, pulling you back against his chest with one arm around your ribs and the other hand where it goes — palm at the back of your neck, thumb behind your ear, holding. You come back against him hard. Your whole body does. Like you've been holding yourself up for a long time and you finally get to stop.
He doesn't say anything for a while.
He just holds on.
Your hands are still over your face. He can feel you trying to breathe and not being able to. He puts his mouth against the top of your head and keeps it there.
“Hey.”
You shake your head.
“Hey. I've got you.”
“I'm sorry,” you say into your hands. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's — it's earrings, Joe, it's stupid earrings, I don't know what's —”
“Shh.”
“I don't know what's wrong with me.”
His arm tightens.
“Nothing's wrong with you.”
“Joe —”
“Nothing's wrong with you, baby.”
You cry harder. He feels it in his chest, the whole shape of it, and he doesn't move. He doesn't try to turn you around and look at you. He doesn't ask you anything. He puts his chin on top of your head and he holds on, and his hand stays where it is, thumb moving slow behind your ear, and he lets you.
The drawer is still in your lap. He reaches around and lifts it gently and sets it on the carpet next to you, and then he puts his arm back where it was.
You keep crying.
He keeps holding on.
He's not going anywhere.
———
You stay there a while.
He doesn't count how long. You're not crying as hard anymore — it's coming in slower now, the shape of it changing, and he can feel you starting to breathe again. His hand is still where it was. Thumb still moving. He hasn't said anything in a while and you haven't either, and the sun is coming through the blinds in the flat morning way it does, and the drawer is on the carpet next to your knee.
You take your hands off your face.
You don't turn around. You keep your back against his chest and you look at the drawer on the floor and you say, “Joe.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm —”
You stop. He waits.
“I'm sorry.”
“Baby —”
“No, I — I mean it, I'm — I've been like this, I know I've been like this, and I didn't want to —”
You stop again. He can feel you trying to get the sentence out and not getting there. He doesn't help you. He wants the shape of it from you, whatever shape it comes in.
“I didn't want to make it your thing,” you say. “I didn't want to be a — I know it's been weeks, I know you can tell, I'm not — I know I haven't been, and I just — I didn't want to load it on you when it's not even — I don't even have a reason. Nothing happened. I just feel like this and I couldn't figure out how to tell you that without it sounding —”
“Without it sounding what.”
“Dramatic.”
He closes his eyes.
“Or like I was — I didn't want to be a bother. You've got so much going on and I'm just —”
“Stop.”
You stop.
He turns you around. Not fast. He shifts and he gets his hands on your shoulders and he moves you so you're facing him on the floor, cross-legged, knees against his, and he waits until you look at him. It takes you a second. Your eyes are red and your face is a mess and you won't quite meet him at first, and he waits, and you do.
“You're not —” He stops. He can hear himself about to get it wrong and he stops. He tries again. “There's no version of this where you're a bother. Okay? That's not — you don't get to be that. To me.”
“Joe.”
“You're just mine.” He says it like it's the answer to a question. “The sad part too. That's mine too. That's not — you're not loading it on me. I'm already carrying it, I've been carrying it, that's — that's the deal.”
You start crying again.
He pulls you back in. Your forehead against his collarbone, both his arms around you, one hand at the back of your head now, the other flat between your shoulder blades. You've got a fist in the front of his shirt. He can feel it. He doesn't let go.
“I've been trying,” you say into him.
“I know you have.”
“I didn't want you to —”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.” He says it into your hair. “I love you. I love you when you're like this. That's not — that doesn't turn off, babe, that's not how it works.”
You nod against him. Small. He feels it more than he sees it.
He keeps holding on.
———
You've stopped crying.
You're still against him. You haven't moved and he hasn't moved you. His shirt is wet where your face is and neither of you cares. He can feel you breathing. You're doing it deliberately now — the long inhale, the slow release — and he recognizes it. It's the thing you taught yourself for the anxious nights. He didn't know you'd been using it lately. He does now.
“Hey.”
“Hm.”
“Come here.”
He stands up first. He does it slow so you can hold onto him if you need to, and you do — one hand at the hem of his shirt, the other braced on his forearm — and he pulls you up with him. You're smaller like this. You're always smaller like this and he never gets used to it.
He walks you to the bed.
You sit on the edge and he crosses the room and opens the second drawer down, the one that used to be his and became yours, and he pulls out the black hoodie. The one you steal. The one that lives in there now because there was no point pretending it was his anymore. He brings it back and he crouches in front of you and he holds it open at the hem, and you lift your arms without him asking.
He pulls it over your head.
He fixes your hair for you where it caught in the collar. He does it with both hands, careful, one piece at a time, and you close your eyes.
“Water,” he says.
“Joe —”
“I'm getting you water. Get in bed.”
You get in bed.
He goes downstairs. He's back in ninety seconds with the water and the matcha he made for you an hour ago, cold now, and he sets both on your nightstand and gets in bed next to you on top of the covers. He puts his back against the headboard. He opens his arm.
You come.
He arranges you against him the way you like — your head on his chest just under his collarbone, one of your legs between his, his arm across your back, his hand where it goes on the back of your neck. You tuck your hand up under his shirt against his ribs the way you always do. First time in weeks. He feels it and doesn't say anything.
His other hand finds the top of your head. Fingers in your hair. Slow.
“You don't have to talk,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Not right now. Not later either if you don't want to. Whenever.”
“Okay.”
“But I'm here for it. When you want to. All of it.”
You nod against his chest.
He keeps his hand in your hair. He looks at the ceiling. The sun has moved a little on the wall and he watches it and he doesn't move and you don't move and after a while your breathing starts to change — slower, deeper, that different sound — and he realizes you're actually asleep. First time in maybe a week that you've actually slept.
He stays exactly where he is.
He's not going anywhere.
———
It's almost dark when you come downstairs.
You woke up around six in his hoodie with his arm still around you. You cried again for a minute, quiet, and he didn't move. You told him you'd come down in a minute and he kissed your forehead and left the room, and you heard him downstairs a while later. You washed your face. You took your time.
He's in the kitchen. He's got a pan going and he doesn't turn around, just holds out an arm, and you go to him and he pulls you into his side and kisses the top of your head and hands you the wooden spoon.
“Sit,” he says. “I've got it.”
You sit on the counter. He cooks. He asks you what you want to watch after and you say you don't care, and he says that means Bravo, and you almost smile.
He turns the water on to rinse something at the sink.
He stops.
He reaches for something on the counter by the faucet and turns around and holds out his hand.
“Babe.”
You look.
In his palm — the little gold ones. Both of them.
You don't say anything. You take them from him. You hold them in your closed fist against your chest and you look at him, and he's looking at you, and he doesn't say see, they were here the whole time and he doesn't say anything about the morning at all. He just puts his hand on your knee and squeezes once.
“I love you,” he says.
Then he goes back to the pan.
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