My Empire (Jesse, Joe, Logan, Oliver)

you’ve been thinking about the wall at the end of the hall for weeks. the one where the light pools in the afternoon and there’s nothing there to catch it.

the painting’s in your tote, still wrapped in the brown paper the woman at the flea market folded around it. an abstract in a chipped gold frame — big careless slabs of red and rust and hot pink shoved up against each other, not trying to be anything in particular. eleven dollars. you’d stood in front of the booth for a full minute before you understood why you couldn’t put it back down. it was warm. in a house full of right angles and the color of wet concrete, it was just — warm.

you measure with your eye, then with the level on your phone, then with your eye again. tap the nail in. it goes cleaner than you expect, and when you hang the frame it sits a little crooked, so you nudge the bottom corner with one finger until it doesn’t.

then you back up to the other end of the hall to look.

it’s loud. that’s the whole thing about it. against all that gray it’s almost rude — all that red practically buzzing, the gold of the frame catching the window light — and you stand there in the middle of his hallway with your arms crossed, grinning at it like you got away with something.

you take a picture. thumb hovering over his name. but you don’t send it.

you want to see his face.

———

he’s home a little after six, gym bag over one shoulder. you’re up off the couch before the door’s all the way shut.

“don’t take your shoes off yet. i got you a surprise.”

“yeah?” he gets one shoe half off, then leaves it. “what’d you do.” but he lets you take his hand, lets you walk him backward down the hall toward it.

he sees it.

you’re watching his face, because that’s the part you’ve waited for all afternoon — and it does open, it does, just not the way you’d been picturing. he laughs. surprised, easy, the sound he only makes when his guard’s all the way down and something’s caught him sideways.

“baby.” he’s grinning at it. “that’s the ugliest thing i’ve ever seen.”

he’s still in it, delighted — “where’d you even find that?” — looking from the painting to you and waiting for you to be in on it with him.

“flea market, over on vine.” you say it too fast. “eleven bucks.”

and the afternoon just goes out of you. quiet. all at once. you feel the grin you walked in with come off your face before you can keep it there.

he catches it. half a second late, but he catches it — he watches everything — and the laugh settles.

“it’s just not my thing,” he says. gentler now, looking at you instead of the wall. trying to walk it back to somewhere okay. “good find, though. eleven bucks, you can’t lose.”

“right?” you hear yourself say it. “it’s hideous.”

you reach up and straighten the corner that doesn’t need straightening, and you let him think you’re both laughing at it. it’s the easiest thing in the room to do. he rolls the shoulder the bag strap sat on and tips his head toward the kitchen, says something about what you’re doing for dinner, and goes.

behind him all that red goes on buzzing against all that gray.

———

you leave it up three more days. he doesn’t bring it up again — but then, to him there’s nothing to bring up. it was a bit. he walks past it on the way to bed, on the way to the kitchen, the way you walk past a thermostat.

so you take it down.

it’s a tuesday, he’s at the facility, and it comes off the wall easier than it went up. you wrap it back in the brown paper. the nail you leave — pulling it would mean spackle, and there’s no point making a project of it. just the bare nail at the end of his hall, where the light still pools and there’s nothing now to catch it.

it rides in your passenger seat to your place.

your hallway’s narrow and already crowded — photos, a mirror you painted, a row of cheap postcards. you find a spot between the window and the closet and tap the nail in yourself, and it goes up against your wall like it was cut for it. here it doesn’t fight anything. it just looks like the rest of you.

you step back and look at it a while.

it’s a good little painting.

———

you’re back at his place that weekend like nothing happened, because nothing did, technically. you made dinner. he did the dishes, sleeves shoved up, while you sat on the counter and told him about your week.

it’s later, when he’s coming back from the bedroom pulling a clean shirt on, that you catch him stop.

just for a second. at the end of the hall.

he’s looking at the bare stretch of it — the nail still in the wall with nothing on it. you watch it not quite land; he figured the ugly thing had run its course, and a nail with nothing on it doesn’t say anything to him yet. he tugs the shirt down and keeps walking.

you figure that’s the end of it.

it isn’t. he’s easy through the rest of the night, loose, but when you’re loading up your bag by the door he leans on the edge of the hall and tips his head back toward it.

“hey — what happened to your painting?”

“oh —” you zip the bag and pull the strap up onto your shoulder. “took it home. it wasn’t really a this-house kind of thing.”

you say it light. like it’s nothing, because you’ve decided it’s nothing.

he doesn’t answer right away.

you look up and he’s standing there with one hand on the edge of the wall, and you watch him run it back. all of it. the way he laughed. ugliest thing i’ve ever seen. the eleven bucks out of you too fast, your face going before you could stop it, the hideous, right? — the out you handed him so he’d take it. three days of walking past it like a thermostat. the bare nail. the painting forty minutes across town in a hallway he’s never seen, where you’d decided it should live instead.

he gets to the end. you can tell the second he does.

“…oh,” he says.

his hand comes off the wall. he looks at the empty stretch of it like it’s saying something to him it wasn’t an hour ago.

he doesn’t say anything else. he’s looking at you the way he watches film of a game that’s already over — like he can see the whole thing unfolding and there’s no reaching in to change the play.

———

he shows up thursday. no text, just the knock, and when you open the door he’s already got the look — the one he gets when he’s decided something on the drive over and is bracing to go through with it.

he doesn’t say hi. he comes in, walks down your narrow hall like he’s been here a hundred times, and stops in front of it, between the window and the closet.

then he lifts it off the nail.

“hey —” you’re behind him. “what are you doing?”

“taking it.” it’s already under his arm, no paper, just the bare frame against his side. “it’s mine.”

“you didn’t even like it.”

he turns around. whatever he usually does in a corner — the joke, the warm pivot, the easy version of the sentence — he’s not reaching for it.

“you put something of yours on my wall,” he says, “and i laughed at it.”

his jaw works. he looks at the painting instead of you.

“i gave you my opinion on it. like you’d brought it over for a grade.” he stops. “you let me think it was a joke because that was easier than telling me it landed wrong. you handed me the out, and i took it.”

he drags a hand back through his hair. the frame stays tucked against him the whole time, like setting it down isn’t on the table.

“you’ve been in it the whole time,” he says. quieter. “you’re the only thing in that house i’d notice if it was gone.”

a breath.

“so it’s going back up. tonight.”

———

you follow him back across town. he doesn’t put the painting in the trunk — sets it in the back seat, upright, like it’s a person.

at the house he goes straight to the end of the hall. the nail’s still there, right where you left it, nothing hanging off it. he hangs it back up without measuring, without the level on his phone, and of course it sits crooked.

he steps back. looks at it.

reaches out and nudges the bottom corner with one finger until it isn’t.

the same fix you made the first time. he doesn’t know he’s making it.

“better,” he says.

you stand at the far end of the hall, where you stood that first afternoon — except now he’s next to you, shoulder against yours, the two of you looking at eleven dollars of red and rust and hot pink glowing against all that gray. it still doesn’t match a single thing in the house.

he doesn’t tell you it’ll grow on him. he looks at the other walls instead — the empty ones — and you can feel him seeing them for the first time.

“bring the rest of your stuff next time,” he says.

like it’s nothing.

“i’m not moving in with you.” you say it from where you’re leaning, shoulder still against his. “it’s been five months.”

“five good months.”

“joe.”

“you’re here four nights a week. your shampoo’s in my shower, there’s a drawer.” he counts it off easy, like he’s had the argument loaded for a while. “you did one wall better than the decorator i paid for the whole house. that’s a tryout. you passed.”

“that’s a sample size of one wall.”

“so move in and do the rest of them.”

you laugh. “we’ve known each other five months. people don’t —”

“people do it in less.”

“people who aren't the only one giving something up do it in less.”

he doesn’t have a fast one for that. tips his head — fine, that one’s real, and he’s not going to be the guy who throws money at it to make it not real. but he’s still got the look, the one that decided something on the drive over and hasn’t undecided.

“the sentiment, i love,” you say, gentler. “you want me here. you want the house to have me in it — i got that the second you hung the ugly thing back up crooked. the u-haul, give me a year.”

“we’ll see.” he’s not agreeing to the year. there’s the grin now — the one you walked in with all those days ago, except it’s his, and aimed at you instead of the wall. “i think i can wear you down before then.”

———

he's the one looking at you now, not the painting.

you don't decide to do it so much as stop deciding not to — you turn into him, hand flat on his chest, and he goes still under it. not guarding himself. holding his breath, like moving wrong might end it.

"hey," you say.

he lets the breath go.

you kiss him. and there's none of the ease he does everything else with — he kisses you back a half-step behind, the smoothness that runs every room he walks into no good to him here — in his own hallway, the painting glowing red beside you, the one thing in the house with anything to say. just a guy with his hands coming up to your face, catching up.

you kiss him until he stops being behind it. you feel the moment he quits keeping up and lets you have the pace — his hands going slack on your jaw, then sliding back into your hair to hold on instead of steer.

"come here," you say against his mouth, even though he's already there.

you walk him backward down the hall. the same way you walked him to the painting that first night, except he goes easy now, no surprise to brace for, letting you steer him by the front of his shirt past the bare walls he's going to let you fill. the bedroom's dark. you leave it that way.

you take his shirt off first. he lifts his arms, ducks his head, and then he's just standing there letting you look at him — and you watch the joke arrive. the easy line, the thing he'd hand anyone else to take the edge off being looked at this long.

he doesn't say it.

"stay here," you tell him.

"i'm here." he means it the way he meant the hard sentence in your hallway. present. no exit cued.

you get the rest of it off between you. you take your time — no show in it, but no hurry either, because you want to watch what waiting does to him. and something it does. the guy who walked in cocky thirty seconds ago, who said i can wear you down, is gone. his hands come up like they want to help and then don't know where they're allowed, and he lets them drop, and he just lets you.

you put a hand flat on his chest and walk him back until his knees hit the bed. he sits. you climb into his lap, and he makes a sound low in his throat when you settle against him, both hands finding your hips like it's the only place they're sure of.

you kiss him slow, and you can feel how hard he's holding still underneath you — like if he moves he'll stop being able to let you run this. so you run it. you take one of his hands off your hip and put it where you want it, and his breath stutters against your mouth, and he follows you there. he's good with his hands the way he's good at everything — except there's no plan in it now, just him learning you in real time, reading you off every sound you make.

"there," you tell him, when he gets it right.

"yeah?" low, rough. he does it again, watching your face like the answer lives there.

you don't make him wait long. you lift up, reach between you, take him in your hand — and he goes still all over, jaw tight, bracing. then you sink down onto him slow, and the sound that comes out of him is nothing like the man who's smooth in every room he walks into. his forehead drops to your shoulder. his hands clamp down and stay.

"god," he breathes into your skin. "okay. okay."

you set the pace. slow at first, rolling down against him, and he lets you have every bit of it — whatever instinct a man built like him has to take it back, to flip you, to run it, he doesn't use it. he just holds on and feels it and says your name when you grind down, says it again, like it's the only word he trusts himself with.

then you slow. almost to nothing. he makes a sound, hips lifting to chase you, and you put a hand flat on his chest and hold him down.

"say you're sorry."

his eyes come open. "— what?"

"for my painting." you roll down once, slow, and feel his whole body try to follow it. "you laughed at my painting."

"i'm sorry —" it comes out fast, on a breath, like he'll say anything to get you moving again.

"mm. too easy." you go still. "sorry for what."

"for laughing."

"at."

his jaw works. you can see him clock that you're going to make him say all of it. "at your painting."

"and?"

"and —" his hands flex on your hips, and whatever's left of the smooth guy is gone, and he says the real one. "it was the best thing in that house. and i laughed at it."

"better." you give him an inch back — a slow grind, just enough to pull a groan out of him — then take it away again.

"now tell me how bad you want me to move in."

"you're killing me."

"how bad." you don't move.

"bad." it breaks out of him. "i want you in it. i want to come home and have it not be empty. move in."

"mmm." you tilt your head like you're thinking it over, rolling down slow while you do, and you watch him try to hold the thought and lose it. "i'll think about it."

"you said — god — you said a year."

"i said i'd think about it." you lean down, mouth at his ear. "you wanted to wear me down. so wear me down."

"baby —" it slips out of him. the same word he laughed the painting off with. nothing easy in it now.

you tip his face up. make him look at you — and that's his line, the one he'd run a whole room with, except you're saying it and he's the one who does it, eyes coming up to yours, glassy and open and not hiding a thing. he doesn't reach for the joke that would put the wall back between you. there's no wall left to reach for.

"i've got you," you tell him. you, to him. the line he'd usually be the one saying.

something goes out of him at that — the last of the holding-on. his hands start to shake where they grip you, his breath goes ragged, and you can feel him fighting it, the instinct to hold the line even here, even now.

"let go."

and he does. he comes with your name in his mouth and his face pressed to your throat and both arms locking around you like he's the one who needs holding through it. you don't stop. you take him all the way to the end of it, slow, until he's shaking and spent and still won't let go.

you follow him a breath later — his hand finding its way between you, clumsy and sure at once, working you until you come apart with your forehead dropped against his.

after, he doesn't let go. keeps you in his lap, both arms around you, his face in your neck, his heart going under your palm.

"a year, huh," he says into your skin. low. half gone.

"a year."

"...we'll see." no argument left in it. his arms don't loosen — he holds onto you the way he wouldn't put the frame down, like setting you anywhere else isn't on the table — and you stay where you are, in his lap, in his house, and let him.

Barbie was pressed against his thigh, her head resting on his leg. She watched the screen like she understood what was happening. She didn’t, obviously, but she watched anyway. Her tail gave a lazy thump every time Joe shifted or glanced down at her. She’d been like this since her first night—glued to him, following from room to room, looking at him like he hung the moon. Riley called it “embarrassing” how quickly Barbie had chosen her favorite parent. Joe called it “good taste.”

Riley was somewhere behind him, moving through the house as she always did when she didn’t have anywhere to be. She was restless, but not anxious—just alive. He tracked her by sound: the fridge opening, cabinets closing, her humming under her breath. It might have been a song she was working on, or just a jingle from a commercial. He’d stopped trying to tell the difference.

“You’re not even watching,” Joe said to Barbie, scratching behind her ear without taking his eyes off the screen. “You’re just here for the body heat.”

Her tail thumped again. Guilty as charged.

Riley’s phone rang from somewhere in the kitchen, and he heard her answer with a casual “Hey, what’s up?” The kind of greeting that meant she knew whoever was calling.

Joe kept his eyes on the screen, half-listening. He caught fragments: “Wait, are you serious?” A pause. “Johnny, don’t mess with me right now.” Another pause, longer this time. Her voice pitched higher. “Ireland?”

That got his attention. He paused the game.

Riley appeared in the doorway, phone still pressed to her ear, eyes wide. She was doing that thing where she talked with her whole face, her free hand gesturing even though John Ryan couldn’t see her.

“No, yeah, I—that’s incredible. Can I call you back in like ten minutes? I just need to—yeah. Yeah. Okay. Love you. Tell Niall I said hi. Okay. Bye.”

She hung up and stared at Joe.

He raised an eyebrow. “Ireland?”

“Niall Horan wants to write with me.”

He blinked. Processed. “One Direction?”

Riley let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scream. “Yes, Joe. One Direction Niall. He’s working on his next album, and apparently, he heard some of my stuff and told Johnny he wanted to collaborate and—” She stopped, pressing her hand to her chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Barbie’s head lifted at the commotion, looking between them with alert concern.

Joe set the controller down and turned to face Riley fully. She was vibrating, practically bouncing on her heels. Something warm spread through his chest at the sight of her, this excited.

“That’s a big deal,” he said.

“It’s a huge deal. Like—huge. Writing for someone else’s album, someone at that level—” She shook her head, still processing. “I’d have to fly to Ireland. They’re recording at some studio in Dublin, and they want me there for like a week, maybe ten days.”

“Okay.”

Riley paused, narrowing her eyes at him. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “You should do it.”

“Just like that?”

“Birdie.” He stood up, crossing to where she was still standing in the doorway. Barbie immediately jumped off the couch to follow him, unwilling to be left behind. “This is exactly the kind of thing you’ve been working toward. Writing for other artists, getting recognized for that side of what you do. Why would I not want you to go?”

She searched his face for something—hesitation, maybe, or the old careful distance that used to creep in when her career pulled her away. She didn’t find it.

“What about Barbie?” she asked.

Joe glanced down at Barbie, who was sitting at his feet, leaning her full weight against his leg and gazing up at him adoringly. “What about her?”

“I can’t take her to Ireland. The logistics alone—”

“So leave her with me.”

Riley’s mouth opened, then closed. “You want to keep my dog for ten days?”

“Don’t you trust me with her?” He raised an eyebrow. “She likes me. She’s settled here. I don’t have anything planned.” He looked down at Barbie. “You want to stay with me, right?”

Barbie’s tail wagged so hard her whole body wiggled.

Riley was looking at him with something soft and wondering, the way she did sometimes when he surprised her by being exactly who she needed him to be.

“Call him back,” Joe said. “Tell him yes.”

___ ___ ___

The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been since Riley arrived.

Not a bad kind of quiet. Just… different. Joe had gotten used to the noise of her—the humming, the piano at odd hours, the way she narrated her own actions when she thought no one was listening. “Where did I put my phone? I just had it. Barbie, did you see where I put my phone?” Barbie never answered, but Riley asked anyway.

Now it was just him and the dog, three days into their solo stretch, and they’d found a rhythm.

Barbie followed him everywhere. From the bedroom to the kitchen, then to the couch. From the couch to the bathroom, where she sat outside the door and waited like he might disappear. When he went to the facility for training, she sat by the door until he returned. Sarah had sent him a photo from the security camera—Barbie in the same spot for four hours, staring at the door. Her tail started wagging the second his car pulled into the driveway.

“You’re codependent,” Joe told her, scratching behind her ears as she pressed her head into his palm. “You know that, right?”

Barbie’s tail thumped against the couch cushion. She did not care.

He’d finished a morning workout and showered, and now he was on the couch with ESPN on mute. Barbie was stretched out with her head in his lap. His phone buzzed on the coffee table—Riley’s face lighting up the screen, a FaceTime request.

He answered, and there she was. Hair piled on top of her head, no makeup, wearing a sweater he was pretty sure she’d stolen from him before she left.

“Hi lovey,” she said, her whole face brightening when she saw him. “Hi, baby girl!”

Barbie’s ears perked at Riley’s voice. Joe tilted the phone so she could see the screen, and Barbie’s tail went into overdrive, her whole body wiggling as she tried to figure out how to get closer to the tiny Riley in the rectangle.

“She’s been like this all day,” Joe said. “Following me around, staring at me, sleeping on your side of the bed.”

“She loves you.”

“She’s obsessed with me. It’s concerning.”

“Can’t relate,” Riley deadpanned. Then her face shifted into something excited. “Okay, wait, I have to show you something. Hold on.”

The camera jostled as she moved, and then suddenly there were two other faces crowding into the frame—a guy with brown hair and an easy grin, and behind him, unmistakably, Niall Horan.

“Joe, this is Johnny and Niall. Guys, this is Joe.”

“Hey, man,” Johnny said, waving. “Heard a lot about you.”

“All good things,” Niall added, his accent thick. “She won’t shut up about you, honestly. It’s disgusting.”

“That’s not true,” Riley protested, but she was grinning.

“It’s very true,” Niall said. “Yesterday, she made us stop working so she could text you back. Said it was ‘urgent.’ It was a photo of a dog.”

Joe felt his mouth curve. “It was a good photo.”

“It was an excellent photo,” Riley agreed.

“You two are nauseating,” Johnny said cheerfully. “Anyway, nice to meet you, Joe. We’re stealing your girl for a few more days, but we’ll return her in one piece.”

“Maybe two pieces,” Niall said. “Depends on how the session goes tomorrow.”

Riley shoved him out of frame, laughing, and then it was just her again, walking into what looked like a hallway.

“They’re idiots,” she said. “But it’s going really well. Like, really well. We wrote two songs yesterday, and I think one of them might actually be something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She was glowing. That specific kind of happiness she got when the work was good, when the music was flowing. He loved seeing it on her. “I wish you were here. But also I’m glad you’re not because I’m a mess and I haven’t slept and I look like a gremlin.”

“You look good.”

“You’re contractually obligated to say that.”

“I don’t remember signing anything.”

She smiled, soft and private, the kind of smile that was just for him. “I miss you.”

“Miss you too.” He glanced down at Barbie, still staring at the phone. “She misses you more, though. I’m pretty sure she thinks you abandoned her.”

“Tell her I’ll be home soon. Tell her mama loves her.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Joe.”

“She’s right here. She can hear you.”

Barbie’s tail wagged at the sound of Riley’s voice saying her name. Riley made a kissy noise at the screen, which only made Barbie more agitated, standing up on Joe’s lap and nosing at the phone.

“Okay, I have to go,” Riley said. “Session in twenty. But I’ll call you tonight?”

“Yeah. Go make something good.”

“I will.” She paused, her face softening. “Thanks for taking care of her. I know you said you didn’t have anything planned, but still. It means a lot.”

“She’s easy,” Joe said. “We’re having a good time.”

Barbie’s tail wagged at the attention, even though she had no idea what they were talking about.

“Send me pictures,” Riley said. “I want daily Barbie content.”

“You’ve gotten three videos today.”

“And I want more.” She grinned. “Okay, I really have to go. Talk tonight?”

“Talk tonight.”

She waved, blew a kiss at Barbie, and then the screen went dark.

Joe sat there for a minute, phone in hand, Barbie warm and heavy on his lap. The house was quiet again. But it didn’t feel empty the way it used to—before Riley, before Barbie, before any of this. It just felt like waiting. The good kind.

“She’ll be back soon,” he told Barbie.

Barbie sighed deeply and put her head back down.

“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “I know.”

___ ___ ___

Joe saw it before anyone called him.

He was in the kitchen making a protein shake, Barbie at his feet waiting for something to drop, when his phone started buzzing. Not a call—just notifications. A lot of them. The kind of rapid-fire succession that meant something was happening online.

He ignored it at first. Finished the shake. Wiped down the counter. But the buzzing didn’t stop, and eventually curiosity won out.

He opened his phone to find 17 text messages, 4 missed calls, and his name trending on Twitter.

That was never good.

He clicked on the first link someone had sent him—Sam, just a URL with no context—and the page loaded slowly, buffering in that way that meant a lot of people were looking at the same thing.

And then he saw it.

Riley and Niall. Outside what looked like a pub, standing close together. Niall’s arm around her shoulders. Their heads tilted toward each other, his mouth near her ear like he was telling her something private. Her hand on his chest. Both of them are laughing.

Joe’s stomach dropped.

He scrolled. There were more. A whole series of them, taken from different angles, all telling the same story: Riley Carter and Niall Horan, looking cozy in Dublin. The headlines were already writing themselves.

RILEY CARTER SPOTTED WITH NIALL HORAN IN IRELAND—WHAT ABOUT JOE BURROW?

TROUBLE IN PARADISE? RILEY CARTER GETS CLOSE WITH ONE DIRECTION STAR

IS RILEY CARTER CHEATING ON JOE BURROW?

He could feel his jaw tightening. His grip on the phone was too hard. The old familiar spiral threatening at the edges—the one that used to send him inward, make him shut down, convince him that the safest thing to do was pull back before he got hurt.

Barbie whined at his feet, sensing the shift.

Joe made himself breathe.

He looked at the photos again.

They were walking out of somewhere—a pub, maybe, or a restaurant. Niall was leaning in close to her ear, probably saying something over the noise of the street. Riley’s head was tilted toward him to hear. One shot caught her mid-laugh, her hand raised like she was about to push him away, but frozen in the frame, it looked like she was touching his chest.

It looked intimate. It looked like something.

But Joe knew Riley. Knew she wouldn’t touch someone like that—not with him at home, not with what they were building. She was tactile with her friends, sure, but this wasn’t that. This was just a bad angle. A frozen millisecond that told a lie.

Joe knew what the old version of him would do. Stew on it. Let it fester. Convince himself it meant something. Wait for her to bring it up and then pretend it didn’t bother him while letting it poison everything.

Fuck that.

He called her.

It rang twice before she picked up, her voice breathless and confused. “Hey—sorry, I was just about to call you, I don’t know if you’ve seen—”

“I’ve seen.”

“Joe.” Her voice shifted, urgent. “It’s not—those photos are—”

“I know.”

Silence.

“You know?” she repeated carefully.

“I know what it looks like and I know what it is.” He leaned against the counter, making himself unclench. “I’m not spiraling. I’m not shutting down. I just wanted to hear your voice and have you tell me there’s nothing to worry about.”

More silence. Then, softly: “There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Okay.”

“We were leaving the studio. Niall was telling me this stupid joke about a goat—don’t ask, it’s a long story—and I was laughing, and someone got photos, and it looks… I know how it looks, Joe. But I swear—”

“Riley.” He cut her off gently. “I believe you.”

He could hear her exhale on the other end of the line. Relief and something else. Something that sounded like wonder.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at Barbie, who was still watching him with her big brown eyes. “I’m not saying I didn’t feel a way when I saw them. I did. But I’m not going to let a couple of bad-angle paparazzi shots mess with what we have. That’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“Joe Burrow.” Her voice was thick now, teasing but tender. “Look at you, being emotionally mature.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

She laughed, watery and warm. “I love—” She stopped. Cleared her throat. “I really appreciate you calling instead of going dark on me.”

He caught the stumble. Filed it away.

“I’ll always call,” he said. “That’s the deal now.”

“Yeah.” She sniffled. “Okay. That’s the deal.”

They stayed on the phone for a few more minutes, talking about nothing—her session that day, what he’d had for lunch, Barbie’s ongoing campaign to sleep directly on top of him at all times. Normal stuff. Easy stuff. By the time they hung up, the knot in his chest had loosened completely.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was Helen.

Helen: Have you seen the photos?

Joe: Yeah.

Helen: Do you want to address it? I can draft something, or we can do a quick statement—

Joe: No.

Helen: Are you sure? The narrative is already building. We could get ahead of it.

Joe looked at Barbie. Barbie looked back at him. He had that podcast tomorrow—some sports show he’d agreed to weeks ago, the kind of easy promo his team liked him to do in the offseason. He’d been planning to go alone.

Joe: I know how I’m going to address it.

Helen: How?

He didn’t answer. Just looked at Barbie.

“You want to go for a ride tomorrow?”

Her tail wagged.

___ ___ ___

The studio was in downtown Cincinnati, one of those converted warehouse spaces with exposed brick. Joe had done a handful of these—enough to know the rhythm, the easy back-and-forth, the way hosts wanted him to be charming but not too polished, relatable but still impressive.

He was good at it. The professional version of himself, giving just enough to seem open without actually revealing anything.

Today was different.

Barbie trotted beside him on her leash as he walked in, her nails clicking on the concrete floor. The orange and black Bengals bandana around her neck had been Joe’s idea that morning—he’d found it in a box of merch someone had sent him and never opened. It fit her perfectly. She looked ridiculously adorable. She looked like she belonged to him.

She’d been calm in the car, sitting in the passenger seat like she belonged there, watching the city pass with her usual quiet dignity. Now she was alert, taking in the new environment, but not anxious. Just curious.

The producer met him in the hallway, a guy in his thirties with a headset and a clipboard. His eyes dropped to Barbie immediately.

“Oh—uh, hey. We didn’t know you were bringing…” He gestured vaguely.

"Yeah, she didn't want to be left alone today," Joe said.

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” The producer recovered quickly, already adjusting. “We can set up a bed for her or something? Keep her comfortable while you’re recording?”

“She’ll be fine with me.”

And that was that.

The hosts were two guys Joe had met once before—Mike and Danny, both former athletes, both loud in the way that podcast hosts tended to be. They ran a sports and culture show that walked the line between serious analysis and bullshit, which was probably why Joe’s team had booked it. Low stakes. Easy content.

They lost their minds when they saw Barbie.

“Burrow. What the hell.” Mike was already out of his chair, crouching down to Barbie’s level. “Who is this?”

“This is Barbie.”

“Barbie,” Danny repeated, delighted. “Joe Burrow has a poodle named Barbie. In a Bengals bandana.”

“She’s a fan.”

“Is she now?”

“Biggest one I know.”

Barbie, for her part, accepted the attention with grace. She let Mike scratch behind her ears, tail wagging politely, but her eyes kept flicking back to Joe. Making sure he was still there.

“She’s gorgeous,” Mike said. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“Semi- recent development.”

They got settled—Joe in the guest chair, Barbie curled at his feet after doing three circles to find the exact right position. The producers did their checks, the hosts put on their headphones, and then they were live.

The first twenty minutes were easy. Football stuff. Offseason training, thoughts on the upcoming roster, and a few questions about his recovery that he navigated with practiced ease. Barbie dozed through most of it, occasionally lifting her head when Joe’s voice shifted or when the hosts laughed too loudly.

And then Danny leaned back in his chair and grinned.

“Okay, we gotta address the elephant in the room. Or I guess the poodle in the room.” He gestured at Barbie. “Where did she come from? This is very off-brand for you, Burrow.”

Joe felt his mouth curve. He’d been waiting for this.

“She’s mine,” he said simply.

“Since when do you have a dog?”

"I'm solo parenting for a few days." He reached down to scratch Barbie's head, and she leaned into his hand without opening her eyes. "Her mom's out of town for work."

The words landed exactly how he intended. Casual. Easy. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Mike and Danny exchanged a look.

“Her mom,” Mike repeated slowly.

“Yeah.”

“And her mom would be…”

Joe just looked at him. Didn’t fill the silence. Let it sit there.

Danny laughed, shaking his head. “He’s not gonna say it. Look at him. He’s just gonna let us twist.”

"I don't know what you want me to say." Joe leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxation. "I told you the story."

"You told us nothing, and you know it."

Joe shrugged. But he was smiling now, just a little. Just enough.

"She seems pretty attached to you," Mike observed, watching Barbie, who had rolled onto her side with her head pressed against Joe's ankle.

"She's got good taste."

"Clearly."

“We have an understanding.” Joe looked down at her. “She tolerates my schedule, and I give her the good treats. It works.”

Danny leaned forward, clearly not ready to let it go. “So when her mom gets back from this work trip… is Barbie going back too? Or is this a shared custody situation?”

Joe considered the question. Considered how much he wanted to say, how much he was willing to give.

“She goes where her mom goes,” he said finally. “But her mom’s been spending a lot of time in Cincinnati lately. So.”

“So.”

“So Barbie’s gotten pretty comfortable here.”

Another exchanged look between the hosts. The kind that said, "We’re not getting more than this,", but holy shit.

“Well,” Mike said, grinning, “I think that’s the most information Joe Burrow has ever voluntarily given about his personal life. I’m honored.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

They moved on after that—more football talk, some rapid-fire questions, a debate about whether Cincinnati chili was actually good that Joe refused to participate in—but the damage was done. Joe knew it. The hosts knew it. And by the time the episode dropped, everyone else would know it too.

Her mom’s out of town for work.

Her mom’s been spending a lot of time in Cincinnati.

He hadn’t confirmed anything. Hadn’t said Riley’s name. But he’d said enough.

After the recording wrapped and Joe was walking Barbie back to his car, his phone buzzed.

“Good girl,” he told her.

Barbie wagged her tail, satisfied with a job well done.

___ ___ ___

The teaser dropped three days after the recording.

Joe didn’t even know it was coming—his phone just started buzzing while he was at the gym, notification after notification until he finally pulled it out to see what was happening.

The podcast’s Instagram had posted a fifteen-second clip. Just Barbie, trotting into the studio in her Bengals bandana, Joe’s hand visible at the edge of the frame, holding her leash. The caption read: “We have some questions. Full episode drops in two weeks.”

That was it. No context. No audio. Just Riley’s dog in his team’s colors, walking into a podcast studio like she owned the place.

The internet did the rest.

By the time Joe got home from training, it was everywhere.

___ ___ ___

@sportsgossip: Some podcast just posted a teaser with a dog in a Bengals bandana?? No context??

@bengals_beat: Is that a poodle? In Bengals merch? Whose dog is this

@thatgirlkendra: okay but why would a podcast post a teaser that’s just… a dog walking

@cincyfootball: I’m so confused. What is this promo.

@nikiforov_stan: everyone’s asking about the dog but zoom in on the wrist. Those bracelets. I know those bracelets.

@joeburrowfan: WAIT. The pink Alo bracelet The orange and black one. That’s Joe. That’s Joe Burrow’s wrist.

@bengals_nation: oh shit they’re right. He always wears those. That’s him.

@popcultureburner: okay so Joe Burrow is walking a poodle in a Bengals bandana into a podcast studio. Still confused.

@raборtupdates: STOP. ZOOM IN ON THE DOG. That’s a chocolate standard poodle. That’s BARBIE. That’s Riley Carter’s dog.

@barbietourdiary: I’D RECOGNIZE THAT DOG ANYWHERE. THAT’S BARBARA JEAN DELPHINE CARTER.

@midwestprincess: JOE BURROW HAS RILEY CARTER’S DOG???

@popcultureburner: wait wait wait. Didn’t deuxmoi just post that Riley was cheating with Niall Horan??? And now Joe has her dog???

@deaboringmoi: [screenshot of previous post] “Source says Riley Carter and Niall Horan have been ‘very close’ during Dublin sessions. Joe Burrow blindsided.”

@ramabortupdates: deuxmoi posting cheating rumors and then Joe casually showing up with Riley’s dog in Bengals merch is SENDING ME

@joeburrowfan: he didn’t say a single word. he just showed up with her dog. in a bandana. the cheating rumors are DEAD.

@thatgirlkendra: the way he’s just walking around with Barbie like it’s totally normal while the internet was trying to say Riley was cheating on him… this man is UNBOTHERED

@rabortupdates: Joe Burrow said “I’m not addressing those rumors with words, I’m addressing them with a poodle in team colors”

@midwestprincess: so let me get this straight. Riley is in Ireland WORKING. Joe has her dog. He put her dog in Bengals merch. He’s dog sitting for his girlfriend while she’s on a work trip. And deuxmoi tried to make it a cheating scandal???

@bengals_nation: he squashed those rumors without opening his mouth. that’s a QB1 move right there.

@popculture_tea: not joe burrow ending deuxmoi’s whole career with a fifteen second teaser clip

@joebrrr: they identified him by his BRACELETS and his GIRLFRIEND’S DOG. this is unhinged. i love it.

@nflwags_updates: Deuxmoi in shambles rn

@barbietourdiary: Riley just liked three tweets about Joe having Barbie. She’s watching this unfold in real time and LAUGHING.

@ramabortupdates: the fact that he didn’t do an interview, didn’t release a statement, didn’t have his team deny anything. He just showed up with her dog. King behavior.

@thatgirlkendra: imagine being deuxmoi and trying to start shit and then the internet identifies Joe Burrow by his bracelets walking Riley’s dog. I’d simply delete my account.

___ ___ ___

Joe scrolled through it all with Barbie curled against his side on the couch, her head in his lap, completely unaware that she was trending on three different platforms.

“You’re famous,” he told her.

She didn’t lift her head. Unimpressed with internet fame.

Riley had texted him a string of laughing emojis when the teaser dropped, followed by: “Bandana was a nice touch, Burrow.”

Joe: She looked good in it.

Riley: She looks good in everything. She’s a supermodel.

Joe: Wonder where she gets it from.

Riley: Smooth.

He hadn’t heard from her since that morning—she was deep in a session, she’d said, and probably wouldn’t surface until late. He didn’t mind. This was the rhythm now. She did her thing, he did his, and they found each other at the end of the day. It worked.

Not too long now, until she was home.

___ ___ ___

The next evening, Joe was in the kitchen reheating one of the meals his chef had prepped earlier that week—grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, rice. Simple. Easy. He’d already fed Barbie, who was now sprawled on her bed in the living room, watching him with sleepy eyes.

Music played low from the speaker on the counter. Something Riley had added to his rotation—a Maggie Rogers album she insisted he needed to hear. He’d resisted at first, but now he found himself putting it on without thinking. It sounded like her, somehow. Warm and restless and alive.

He was in a good mood. The kind of settled contentment that had become familiar over the past few months—the feeling of a life that actually fit. Training was going well. His wrist felt strong. Barbie was good company. And Riley would be back soon, and then the house would be full of her noise again, her music, her chaos.

He was looking forward to it. The waiting didn’t feel heavy anymore. It just felt like anticipation.

Barbie’s head lifted suddenly, her ears perking. She was staring at the front door, alert in a way she hadn’t been a moment before.

Joe turned down the burner, frowning. “What?”

Barbie was already on her feet, tail starting to wag, her whole body orienting toward the entrance.

And then he heard it. A key in the lock. The door opening. Footsteps in the entryway.

Barbie took off, nails scrabbling on the hardwood, and Joe heard a familiar voice say, “Hi baby girl, hi, I missed you, I missed you so much—”

Riley.

She wasn’t supposed to be back for like two more days.

Joe wiped his hands on a dish towel and moved toward the living room just as Riley appeared in the doorway, Barbie dancing around her feet.

She looked tired. Travel-worn, her hair pulled back in a messy knot, wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that might have been his. But she was smiling—or trying to—and her eyes were bright in a way that made his chest tight.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, looking at him.

Joe put the towel down slowly. “You’re early.”

“I’m early.”

“Everything okay?”

Riley didn’t answer. She walked past him, back toward the kitchen, her hand trailing across his arm as she passed. He followed, watching as she moved around the counter and turned off the burners on the stove and shut off the oven. He didn’t care.

This was hers. Her life. The life she’d always wanted that she’d somehow made happen. That he’d worked with her towards achieving. If she wanted to talk to him, he’d talk. If she didn’t want to say anything, he’d bask in the silence with her. If she needed to know his feelings, he gave them freely. She never wondered where he was when he wasn’t with her or felt disconnected from him. He needed to break her heart and his own to realize what was important to him.

Riley turned to him, reached up, and removed his snapback, then dropped it to the floor. Tangling her hands in his hair and letting him pull her hips in while he searched her face. Something was different; he could feel it.

“I’m done being careful,” Riley said, her voice low. “I’m done with baby steps. I’m done pretending I’m not all in when I am.”

His grip tightened on her waist. “Okay.”

“If you’re not sure—if there’s any part of you that’s still figuring it out—tell me now. Because I can’t do this halfway anymore, Joe. I won’t survive it again.”

“I’m sure.” His voice came out rougher than he expected.

“Then say it.” Her eyes were bright, her breath uneven. “I need to hear you say it.”

He knew what she meant. The thing that had been sitting in his chest for months, pressing against his ribs every time he looked at her. The thing he’d almost said a hundred times and swallowed back because the timing wasn’t right, because he was scared, because he didn’t know if he’d earned it yet.

His hand moved to her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheek, and he felt something crack open in his chest.

“I love you so much, Riley.” His voice broke on her name. “I’ve loved you every single day since you left. I loved you when I was too stupid to say it. I loved you when I didn’t deserve to.” He pulled her closer, needing her to feel it. “I’m never not going to love you.”

Riley’s breath caught. Her eyes were wet now, and she was looking at him like he’d finally given her something she’d been waiting for.

“I love you too.” She was laughing a little, or maybe crying, he couldn’t tell. “God, Joe. I love you so much.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “I know. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“You’re here now.”

“I’m here now,” he repeated. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kissed him then—or he kissed her, or they met somewhere in the middle. It didn’t matter. What mattered was her mouth on his and his hands pulling her closer and the way everything else just fell away. The food on the stove going cold. The music still playing. Barbie, who had given up on getting their attention, and returned to her bed with a dramatic sigh.

None of it mattered.

Just this. Just them. Finally.

The kiss turned desperate almost immediately.

Riley’s hands were in his hair, pulling him closer, and Joe’s brain short-circuited somewhere between her tongue sliding against his and the sound she made when he lifted her onto the counter. Her legs wrapped around him instantly, ankles locking at the small of his back, drawing him in until there was no space left between them.

They’d done this before. Regularly. But this felt different—charged with something that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had always been there, and they just hadn’t been allowed to name it yet.

Now they had.

I love you so much, Riley.

I love you too.

The words were still echoing in his chest as he kissed down her neck, her head falling back to give him access. She was pulling at his shirt, untucking it from his joggers, her hands sliding underneath to press flat against his stomach.

“Off,” she breathed. “Take it off.”

He stepped back just long enough to pull it over his head, and then her hands were on him again—tracing the lines of his chest, his ribs, dragging her nails lightly down his abs in a way that made his muscles jump.

“I missed you,” she said, and it sounded like a confession. “I missed you so much.”

“I’m right here.” He pulled her sweater off, revealing a plain black bra underneath that somehow looked better on her than anything else could. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kissed him again, softer this time, her hands cupping his face. He let himself sink into it for a moment—the tenderness of it, the relief—before the urgency took over again and he was reaching behind her to unclasp her bra, letting it fall between them.

Riley arched into him as his hands found her breasts, her breath catching when his thumbs brushed over her nipples. He ducked his head to take one into his mouth, and she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Joe—”

He loved the way she said his name. Loved that he could make her sound like that—wrecked and wanting.

Her hands moved to his joggers, shoving at the waistband impatiently. He helped her push them down, kicking them aside, and then he was reaching for her leggings, and she was lifting her hips so he could pull them off along with her underwear in one motion.

And then she was bare on his kitchen counter, and he was standing between her thighs, and she was looking at him like he was everything.

“I need you,” she whispered. “Please.”

He didn’t make her wait.

He pushed into her slowly, watching her face the whole time—the way her lips parted, the way her eyes fluttered shut, the way her whole body seemed to sigh with relief as he filled her.

“God,” she breathed. “Joe.”

He dropped his forehead to hers, giving her a moment to adjust, giving himself a moment to just feel this. The warmth of her presence around him. The smell of her shampoo. The way her hands gripped his biceps was like she was anchoring herself to him.

“I love you,” he said again, because he could now. Because he was allowed.

Riley’s eyes opened, wet and bright. “I love you too. Now move.”

He did.

It started slow—long, deep strokes that made her whimper against his mouth—but it didn’t stay that way. The months of careful, the weeks of waiting, the days of missing her while she was in Ireland—it all built up and spilled over until he was fucking her hard and fast, her back arching, her nails raking down his back, both of them too far gone to be quiet about it.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her to meet every thrust, and her head fell back, and he kissed the column of her throat, tasting salt and skin.

His thumb found her clit, and she cried out, her whole body tightening around him.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her neck. “Come on, Birdie. Let go.”

She shattered with his name on her lips, clenching around him in waves that pulled him right over the edge with her. He buried himself deep and let go, groaning into her shoulder, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Riley’s legs were still wrapped around him, trembling slightly. Her forehead was pressed to his shoulder, her breath hot and uneven against his skin. Joe’s hands had gone slack on her hips, his thumbs tracing absent circles on her hipbones as he came back to himself.

“Holy shit,” Riley said finally.

He huffed a laugh against her hair. “Yeah.”

She lifted her head, and her face was flushed, her eyes glassy, her hair a disaster. She looked wrecked. She looked perfect.

“I love you,” she said, like she was testing out the words. Seeing how they felt in her mouth.

Joe tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you too.”

She smiled then—slow and satisfied and a little smug. “We should have said that months ago.”

“Probably.”

“Think of all the ‘I love you’ sex we missed out on.”

He laughed, actually laughed, and pulled her closer. “We’ll make up for it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He lifted her off the counter—she yelped and wrapped herself around him—and carried her toward the bedroom. Barbie lifted her head as they passed, gave them a deeply unimpressed look, and put her head back down.

They had the rest of the night.

___ ___ ___

Joe woke up to sunlight and the smell of coffee.

The bed was empty beside him, but the sheets were still warm, and he could hear movement somewhere in the house. He lay there for a minute, letting himself feel it—the looseness in his muscles, the quiet in his head, the steady certainty that had settled into his chest sometime during the night and hadn’t left.

I love you so much, Riley.

I love you too.

They’d said it again. Multiple times. In bed, half-asleep, tangled together in the dark. It still didn’t feel old. He wondered if it ever would.

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and followed the sound of the coffee maker to the kitchen, where he found a fresh pot but no Riley. Barbie was in her bed, watching him with her tail already wagging.

“Where’s your mom?” he asked.

Barbie’s ears perked, and she looked toward the living room.

And then he heard it. The piano.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked toward the sound, stopping in the doorway.

Riley was at the piano—the one he’d bought before he even asked her to come back, the one that had been sitting in his house for months like a promise he wasn’t sure he’d get to keep. She was wearing his Bengals hoodie, the one that swallowed her whole, the hood bunched up behind her neck. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot. No makeup. Bare feet tucked under her on the bench.

She looked like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.

Her fingers moved across the keys, and Joe recognized the opening notes immediately. The song that had been following them since the beginning—since she played it in her house in New Orleans and he felt something shift in his chest that he couldn’t name. Since he found the album in that record store and bought it even though he didn’t own a turntable. Since she got a lamp tattooed on her ribs to prove that what they had was real.

This Must Be the Place.

Riley’s voice came in soft, almost like she was singing to herself.

“Home is where I want to be, but I guess I’m already there…”

Joe leaned against the doorframe, coffee forgotten in his hand. She didn’t know he was watching. She was just playing, just singing, existing in his space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I come home, she lifted up her wings. Guess that this must be the place…”

He pulled out his phone without thinking about it. Opened the camera. Hit record.

She still didn’t notice. Her eyes were half-closed, her body swaying slightly with the music, completely lost in it. The morning light caught the edge of her profile, the curve of her cheek, the way her lips moved around the words.

“And you’re standing here beside me. I love the passing of time…”

Joe held the phone steady, watching her through the screen. This was it. This was his life. This woman, in his house, at the piano he bought for her, wearing his hoodie, singing the song that meant them.

He didn’t want to keep it to himself anymore.

Riley’s fingers stilled on the keys as the last notes faded. She sat there for a moment, quiet, and then she turned her head and saw him.

“Hey.” A small smile. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” He lowered the phone.

Her eyes dropped to it. “Were you recording me?”

“Maybe.”

“Joe.” She was already getting up from the bench, crossing to him with her hand out. “Let me see.”

He handed it over and watched her face as she played it back. The soft focus of the morning light. The oversized hoodie is slipping off one shoulder. Her voice, a little rough from sleep, filled the room.

When it ended, she looked up at him.

“Can I post this?”

He blinked. “You want to?”

“Yeah.” She looked back down at the screen, something settling in her expression. “I really do.”

Joe studied her for a moment—this woman in his hoodie, in his house, asking permission to tell the world exactly where she was.

“It’s your TikTok,” he said.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Post it.”

Riley smiled—slow and certain—and turned back to the phone. No caption. No context. Just her.

Then she set his phone down on the counter, and he pulled her in and kissed her.

___ ___ ___

The End