bayou baby

He turned, and there it was in his eyes—that determination that used to make you feel safe and now made your stomach drop.

"Yeah," he said simply. "I'll be active for Sunday."

The casual way he said it—like it wasn't roughly six weeks post-surgery, like the doctors hadn't said twelve weeks minimum, like your world hadn't tilted sideways—made something cold settle in your chest.

"Six weeks, Joe." Your voice came out steadier than you felt. "They said twelve."

"That was a minimum timeline." He set his keys down but didn't move closer. "Everyone heals differently. I've been working my ass off—"

"I know you have—"

"—doing everything they've asked. Extra sessions, every protocol." His jaw tightened slightly. "The doctors wouldn't have cleared me if I wasn't ready."

He wasn't wrong about the work. You'd watched him grind through recovery like it was a opponent he could out-prepare. Early mornings at the facility, extra PT sessions, meticulous attention to every exercise and restriction. He'd done everything right.

But six weeks wasn't twelve weeks, no matter how hard he'd worked.

"It's only been six weeks," you said again.

"And I'm ahead of schedule." There was an edge to his voice now. "That's what happens when you actually do the work."

"You look good. I know you do." You tried to keep your voice level. "But that doesn't mean—"

"What?" He cut you off, frustration bleeding through his usual control. "What doesn't it mean? I'm moving well, the doctors are happy with my progress, I'm not in pain—"

"It's been six weeks—"

"You keep saying that like it's some magic number." Joe ran a hand through his hair. "Bodies don't heal on a fixed timeline. Mine is healing faster."

"Or the team is pushing you back faster."

His expression went cold. "That's not what's happening."

"How do you know?" You took a step toward him. "The team is losing without you. You really think there's no pressure on the medical staff to get the franchise quarterback back on the field?"

"That's not how it works."

"Isn't it?" Your voice rose slightly. "They're employees, Joe. Just like you. And their jobs depend on winning games."

He went quiet. You'd hit something true and you both knew it.

"I trust them to do their jobs," he said finally, voice low.

"Even when their jobs depend on getting you back out there?"

Silence stretched between you. Joe's jaw worked like he was trying to find an argument that would land, but couldn't.

"I don't doubt that you've worked hard," you said, softer now. "I don't doubt that you look ready. But Grade 3 tears don't care how many extra PT sessions you do. They don't care that the team needs you. They heal on their own timeline."

"So what do you want me to do?" His voice had an edge you rarely heard. "Keep sitting? Wait the full twelve weeks even though I'm ready now?"

"I want you to be sure. Not just cleared. Actually sure."

"I am sure."

"I'm not."

The words hung in the air between you, honest and raw.

Joe's expression shifted—something between frustration and hurt. "This is my career. My body. My choice."

"I know." Your throat felt tight. "And I can't stop you. I'm just asking you if you can wait four more days."

"Why?" He finally moved closer. "What's four days going to prove?"

"Maybe nothing." You met his eyes. "But if something goes wrong on Sunday and you could've prevented it with four more days..."

You didn't finish.

Joe stared at you for a long moment. Then he sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

"Four days," he said finally. "Thanksgiving."

"Thanksgiving."

The agreement should have felt like relief. It just felt like postponing the inevitable.

Neither of you moved. The silence felt heavy with everything still unsaid.

Then Joe reached for your hand. Pulled you closer until you were standing between his knees.

"I hate that you're scared," he said quietly, looking up at you.

"I hate that I can't stop being scared."

His hands settled on your hips. Solid. Grounding.

"I know you think I'm not listening. Or that I don't care what you think." His voice was lower now, stripped of the earlier defensiveness. "But I do. It matters."

Your throat tightened. "Joe—"

"You matter," he continued. "What you think, what you feel—it matters to me."

You hadn't realized how badly you needed to hear that until the words landed.

"I know I'm asking you to trust something you don't trust. I know that's not fair." His thumbs brushed against your hips, an absent, soothing gesture. "But I need you to know—I'm not being careless. I'm not being stupid. I've worked my ass off to get back, and I wouldn't go out there if I didn't believe I was ready."

"I know you believe that," you whispered.

"And I need you to believe that I hear you. That I'm waiting those four days because what you're feeling matters more to me than proving something on Sunday."

He pulled you down onto his lap, and you went, tucking yourself against his chest. His arms came around you immediately, solid and sure.

"I love you," he said quietly, into your hair. "You know that, right?"

You nodded against his shoulder.

"I need you to say it."

You pulled back enough to look at him. "I know you love me."

"And I need you to know that you're not invisible in this. You're not just... background noise while I make decisions." His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "You're the person I come home to. The person I want to call after games. The person whose opinion actually fucking matters to me."

Your eyes burned. Joe didn't talk like this often. Didn't lay himself bare emotionally unless it really counted.

"I just don't want to watch you get hurt," you said.

"I know. And I can't promise that won't happen." His forehead pressed against yours. "But I can promise I'm being as smart about this as I know how to be."

He was quiet for a moment, then: "Four more days. And when I go back out there, I need you to trust that I did everything I could to be ready. Can you do that?"

You thought about it. Really thought about it.

"Yeah," you said finally. "I can do that."

It wasn't a lie. You could trust that he believed he was ready. That he'd worked for it. That he wasn't being reckless on purpose.

You just couldn't trust that it was enough.

But sometimes love meant trusting the person even when you didn't trust the situation.

Joe kissed you—soft, lingering, like he was sealing a promise.

When he pulled back, his hands were still framing your face. "We're okay?"

"We're okay."

"Even though you think I'm being stubborn?"

"Even though I know you're being stubborn."

That got a huff of laughter from him. His arms tightened around you.

"I worry too, you know," he said quietly.

"About what?"

"That I'm asking too much. That you'll get tired of this—the schedule, the injuries, the pressure. That one day you'll decide it's not worth it."

You pulled back to look at him properly. "Joe—"

"I know what I'm asking you to sign up for. And I know it's not easy." His voice dropped lower. "So when you push back, when you worry—it's not annoying. It's not you being dramatic. It's you giving a shit. And that matters to me more than you know."

"I'm not going anywhere," you said firmly.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Less about reassurance and more about connection.

When you broke apart, you stayed curled in his lap, his arms around you, your head tucked under his chin.

Four days wouldn't fix your fear. Wouldn't make the timeline longer or the clearance more trustworthy. Wouldn't change the fact that Grade 3 turf toe injuries didn't care how hard you worked.

But Joe had heard you. Had chosen to wait not because he doubted himself, but because your fear mattered to him. Because you mattered to him.

He'd said it plainly, the way he said everything important: you weren't background noise. Your worry wasn't a burden. It was proof that you cared, and he valued that.

You still didn't trust the clearance. Still thought six weeks was too soon. Still knew you'd hold your breath every time he dropped back in the pocket once he returned.

But you trusted him. Trusted that he wasn't being careless. Trusted that he'd heard you even if he couldn't give you what you really wanted—which was for him to wait the full twelve weeks, or better yet, not play football at all.

That was the thing about loving Joe Burrow: you didn't get to protect him from the thing that made him who he was. You just had to trust that he valued you enough to be as careful as his nature allowed.

Four more days. Then Thanksgiving. Then you'd watch him go back out there and hope that everyone who'd cleared him was right.

And even if they weren't—even if your fear proved justified—at least he'd know you'd been there. Worrying. Caring. Loving him enough to fight for four more days.

That would have to be enough.

You stayed like that as the afternoon light faded—you in his lap, his arms secure around you, the melted ice pack forgotten on the coffee table.

Outside, Sunday was four days away. Thanksgiving was eight. The season stretched ahead with all its uncertainty and risk.

But right now, in this moment, you had each other.

It had been weeks since Y/N felt like her boyfriend actually saw her. Not in the casual way, not the way strangers on the street glance and move on, but the way Joe used to look at her: like she was the one steady thing in a world full of noise.

Now, the noise had swallowed him whole.

Joe Burrow was all over the news again, cameras flashing, reporters calling his name, teammates clapping him on the back in celebration. The stadium lights had dimmed hours ago, but he was still glowing from the win, confident, sharp edged, and almost untouchable.

And Y/N sat in the passenger seat of his car, staring out the window, her lips pressed into a thin line.

He didn’t notice at first. He was humming along to some low hip-hop track, one hand on the wheel, the other resting carelessly on his thigh, still riding the adrenaline high from the game.

Only when the silence stretched, heavy, thick, did he glance over. “You’re quiet,” he said, his voice casual, unaware.

“Am I?” she murmured, still watching the blur of city lights pass by.

Joe frowned faintly, eyes flicking between her and the road. “You good?”

She turned her head then, slowly, finally meeting his eyes. The softness that usually lived in them had been replaced by something sharper. “You really have to ask?”

He blinked, confused for a second, then his jaw tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/N gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “You’ve barely looked at me in weeks, Joe. You come home late, you’re gone before I wake up, and when you are around, your mind’s somewhere else. The only time I see your face anymore is on ESPN.”

Joe gripped the wheel tighter. He hadn’t expected this, not tonight, not after a win. “You know it’s football season. You know how it gets-”

“I know,” she cut in, voice low but steady. “I also know that living in the same house as someone doesn’t mean you actually have them.”

That landed. He exhaled through his nose, glancing away like the words had stung. For a moment, neither spoke. The sound of the tires on the road filled the space between them, humming and relentless.

Finally, Joe let out a small, almost disbelieving chuckle. “You’ve got an attitude tonight, huh?”

Y/N crossed her arms, sinking deeper into her seat. “Call it whatever you want.”

He looked over, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more of a challenge. “You keep that up,” he said under his breath, “and we’ll see how long it lasts when we get home.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even anger not exactly. It was confidence, the kind that came naturally to him both on and off the field. But beneath it, a flicker of irritation burned at her tone, at himself, at the truth in her words.

Y/N didn’t answer. She only turned back to the window, her reflection staring back at her, illuminated by the passing lights. Her pulse was quick, her thoughts tangled, half fury, half longing.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, the night had gone still. The house loomed quiet, too familiar, too empty for how much space they both took up inside it.

Joe cut the engine. For a long moment, neither moved. The air between them buzzed with things unsaid, frustration, exhaustion, affection that had gone brittle with neglect.

He sighed heavily and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Y/N... baby, come on. Don't be like this." His voice was low, tired. "I'm sorry I haven't gave you any attention recently, its hard and-

Y/N scoffed and finally turned to face him, her eyes flashing in the darkness. "Yes, I know exactly how it is. It's always the team, isn't it? Always practice, or meetings, or God forbid, an actual game. When's it gonna be about me for once, huh?"

Joe opened his mouth to respond, but Y/N cut him off. "No, save it. Let's just go inside." She flung open her door and slammed it shut behind her.

Joe muttered a curse under his breath. Grabbing his bag, he hurried to catch up to her, his long strides eating up the distance between them. He caught up to her at the front door and grabbed her arm gently but firmly.

"Y/N, wait. Don't be like this." He turned her to face him, his blue eyes searching hers. "You know I love you, babe. I'm not trying to ignore you."

Y/N jerked her arm away. "Could've fooled me. It sure feels like I'm the last thing on your mind lately." She shoved past him into the house.

Joe followed her inside, kicking the door shut behind him. "That's not true and you know it," he said, exasperation creeping into his voice. "I love you. I just... I'm busy, okay? The season's starting up again and it's important to me. To my future."

Y/N whirled on him, her hair flying. "To your future? What about our future? When are you going to be there for me like you used to? I feel like a damn ghost in your life now."

Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting for patience. "I don't know what you want me to say, Y/N. I'm doing my best here."

"Your best sucks," she shot back. "I want you to make me a priority again, like you used to. I want to feel loved and wanted, not just tolerated until football comes back around."

She turned and started up the stairs, her bare feet padding on the wood. Joe watched her go, his jaw clenching. Fine, if that's what she wanted... He took the stairs two at a time, catching up to her in the bedroom.

He closed the door behind them with a snap and stalked toward her. Y/N froze, her eyes widening as he advanced on her. Joe grabbed her waist and yanked her against him hard.

"You want to feel loved?" he growled in her ear, his hands roaming over her body possessively. "I'll show you fucking loved."

He spun her around and bent her over the bed, hiking up her skirt. Y/N gasped as he pulled her panties to the side, exposing her ass. His hand squeezing her left cheek.

"You're mine," he snarled, squeezing. "You don't get to pout and whine when I don't pay you attention sometimes. When I do give you my attention, you'd better damn well appreciate it."

He unzipped his pants, freeing his cock. It sprang out hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening. Y/N trembled as he pushed her upper body down onto the mattress, holding her there with a hand between her shoulder blades.

"Joe..." she whimpered. "Please..."

"Please what?" he taunted, running the head of his cock through her dripping folds. "Please fuck you? Please make you scream? Please remind you who you belong to?"

He didn't wait for an answer, slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside her with one brutal thrust. Y/N cried out at the sudden intrusion, her walls clenching tight around him.

"Fuck," Joe grunted, gritting his teeth at the exquisite feeling of her. "So fucking tight."

He pulled back and plunged in again, setting a relentless pace that had the bed creaking beneath them. Y/N could only hang on, gasping and moaning as he pounded into her.

Joe leaned over her back, his front pressing into hers as he bit and sucked at her neck. His fingers found her clit and rubbed it in fast circles, determined to make her come undone.

"You're mine," he panted in her ear, his hips slapping against her ass with each thrust.

Y/N could only whimper in response, lost to the pleasure overwhelming her senses. Joe groaned, feeling his own release building. He rubbed her clit harder, pinching the sensitive bud as he fucked into her with short, brutal thrusts.

"Come on me," he commanded roughly. "Come now, baby."

Y/N let out a high-pitched noise as the coil inside her stomach snapped. Her pussy clenched and spasmed around Joe's cock, squeezing him as she came hard. Joe cried out her name, slamming into her one last time before he erupted inside her.

He collapsed on top of her as the last waves of their shared orgasm washed over them. They lay there for a long moment, chests heaving and bodies slick with sweat.

Finally, Joe rolled off of her, pulling out of her with a wet sound. Y/N flopped onto her back next to him, both of them spent.

"You okay?" Joe asked softly after a moment, reaching over to brush her hair out of her face.

Y/N nodded tiredly, too drained to move. "Yeah... I'm okay. That was... intense."

Joe huffed out a laugh. "Sorry for snapping like that. I just..." He sighed heavily. "You know I love you more than anything, right? It's just... football is my dream, Y/N. My whole life. It's hard sometimes for me to balance it all."

Y/N turned her head to look at him fully, her eyes softening. She reached up to cup his cheek.

"I know, baby. I do. And I'm proud of you, I really am. I just... miss you sometimes, you know? Miss being your number one."

Joe kissed her gently, pouring all his love into it. "You are my number one," he said firmly against her lips. "You always will be. Even if I don't always show it."

They kissed again, slower this time, their hands roaming over each other. They didn't have all the answers yet, wouldn't have all the answers for a long time likely. But they had this, each other, and their love. And right now, that was enough.