YOU KNEW IT WAS GOING TO BE ONE OF those nights the second you walked into the restaurant — the soft lighting, the too-many conversations layered over each other, the way every couple seemed effortlessly paired off and linked together.

Hand holding. Leaning shoulders. Fingers tracing knuckles. Casual touches shared like oxygen.

And Joe? Joe walked a step ahead of you. Not rudely. Just… like he forgot for a second that you were there with him, not behind him.

He held the door open without actually looking at you and let a couple of his teammates clap him on the back as you both stepped inside. You offered small smiles, polite hellos. You didn’t expect Joe to grab your hand or press a kiss to your temple — you never did — but you thought maybe he’d stand close enough that your arms brushed.

Instead he slid into a seat at the long table and left just enough space between you that a stranger could’ve squeezed between your chairs.

You sit down, smooth your dress, tell yourself it’s fine. It’s always been like this. He’s kind and attentive when it’s just the two of you, but out here, in the open, distance seems to form around him like a shield.

Conversation erupts around the table. Forks clink. Laughter rolls like a wave you keep trying to swim into, but you never quite reach the shore. The girls are sweet, chatting with you about work and weekend plans, and you do your best to stay present. To not glance at Joe too often. To not notice how he hasn’t touched you at all.

Not a hand on your knee. Not a lean-in whisper. Not even one of those quiet looks you two share when something funny happens.  And the worst part? Every other couple feels like a reminder.

Sam has his hand on his girlfriend’s thigh, tracing circles without even noticing he’s doing it. Logan is whispering something into his wife’s ear that makes her laugh and swat his chest. Even the rookies keep their girlfriends tucked close, shoulders brushing, bodies angled toward each other like second nature.

You feel like an extra at your own table.

Then dessert comes. Everyone reaches across plates, passing spoons, sharing bites. Joe leans forward to grab a small dish of crème brûlée — and for a fleeting second, his arm grazes yours. Not intentional, just proximity. You shouldn’t feel that small spark in your chest at something so accidental. You shouldn’t crave something as tiny as that. But you do. You always do.

When the check comes, Joe stands first, tossing a couple bills down to cover the tip. He rakes a hand through his hair, says something to the guys, and barely looks back to see if you’re following.

You walk behind him again. Like a shadow trying to keep up with someone who shines everywhere but next to you.

The night air is cool when you step outside, but your chest is hot with the kind of heaviness that comes from swallowing disappointment for too long. You don’t say anything on the walk to the car. Neither does he.

Joe unlocks the doors with a short chirp of the fob, and you slide into the passenger seat while he circles to the driver’s side. The interior smells faintly like leather and that cologne he only wears on nights he knows there’ll be cameras. He starts the engine, adjusts the rearview mirror, and pulls out of the parking lot without turning on the radio.

You rest your head against the cool window, watching the restaurant get smaller in the mirror. The laughter from inside still feels lodged somewhere under your sternum — all those easy touches and warm gestures shared by people who didn’t seem to have to think about it. You don’t know whether you’re annoyed or hurt or just tired. Maybe all of it. Maybe more.

Joe taps his fingers against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern. He does that when he’s thinking. But you can’t tell whether he’s thinking about you, about football, or about absolutely nothing at all.

Streetlights pass in streaks across your face. You feel them more than you see them.

“Did you have enough to eat?” he asks after a few minutes. His voice is mild, casual, like this is any normal drive home after any normal night.

“Yeah,” you answer, barely louder than the hum of the engine.

He nods, eyes on the road. He doesn’t ask anything else.

You trace circles on your knee with your thumb, the same way he used to do without realizing it. You wonder if he notices he stopped. You wonder if he ever noticed he did it in the first place.

Cars drift past in the opposite lane, their headlights flashing briefly through the cabin. Joe’s profile is lit up in quick, clean slices — jaw, cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looks calm. Comfortable, even. Like tonight didn’t scratch at anything inside him.

You, on the other hand, feel scraped raw.

A red light slows the car to a stop. He drums his fingers again, then glances at the dashboard clock. “You okay?” he asks, not turning his head all the way, just shifting his eyes toward you.

You force a small nod. “Just tired.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Long day.”

The light turns green. The car rolls forward. The conversation ends there — as if it was ever really a conversation.

You catch your reflection in the dark window. You don’t look angry. You don’t even look sad. You just look… muted. Like someone turned the saturation down on everything you usually feel.

By the time the hotel appears, glowing faintly off the highway, your throat feels tight from all the words you didn’t say. Joe pulls into the lot, parks, unbuckles. You follow his lead.

The walk inside is another stretch of quiet hallways and soft carpet. He checks in with a quick nod to the receptionist, collects the keycards, and hands one to you without meeting your eyes for longer than a second.

The elevator doors slide open, and you both step inside. That’s where the night swells. Where the silence finally feels like pressure instead of air. And when he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that careless, unbothered way…it hits you that he really, truly doesn’t see it. Doesn’t see you. Or maybe he does, but he’s hoping you’ll be too tired to say anything.

You stare straight ahead at the glowing numbers above the doors, counting each floor, willing your heartbeat to slow down.

You feel stupid for how disappointed you are. Stupid for noticing every inch he put between you tonight. Stupid for letting it sting.

When the doors open, Joe steps out first, swiping the keycard, pushing the door open with his foot.

“You coming?” he asks casually, already tugging off his jacket. You nod even though he doesn’t turn around to see it.

Inside, the room is dim and warm, but nothing about it feels comfortable. You kick off your heels, placing them neatly beside your suitcase, trying to ground yourself.

You hear Joe rummaging around in his overnight bag. A zipper. A sigh. The soft thud of him sitting on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes.

And then he says it — the thing that tips everything over.

“Tonight was fun,” he says lightly. “Good to get out.”

You freeze. Fun? He barely looked at you all night, and he thought that was fun? You swallow hard. “Was it?”

Joe glances up, confused. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t it be?”

You take a breath. Not the kind that steadies you — the kind you pull in before you break something open. “I just…” Your voice comes out thinner than you want. “You barely even talked to me.”

He blinks like you’ve spoken a language he doesn’t understand. “What? I talked to you.”

“No, Joe.” Your throat tightens. “You talked near me.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. You can tell he doesn’t like the way that sounds. “Okay, now you’re just being dramatic.”

That does it. The spark in your chest catches. “I’m not being dramatic,” you say, stepping toward him. “You ignored me the entire night.”

“I didn’t ignore you,” he argues, his voice sharper now. “I was talking with the guys. It was a team dinner. What do you want me to do, hang all over you?”

“No,” you say quietly but firmly. “I want you to act like you like me.”

He stares at you, confused, almost offended. “I do like you.”

“Then why does it never look like it?”

Your words hang between you. Joe tosses his hands up, frustrated. “You know how I feel about showing affection in public. I told you that when we started dating.”

“I know,” you say, your voice softening but your hurt still there. “I don’t need you to make out with me in public or post me everywhere. I’m not asking for that. But Joe… sometimes you act like we’re just—” Your voice catches. “—like we’re friends. Or cousins. Or something I’m not.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I’m private. I don’t like giving people something to talk about.”

“And what do you think they’re talking about now?” you ask quietly. “Because to everyone else, it looks like you can’t even stand next to me.”

His nostrils flare slightly — the kind of small, involuntary reaction he gets when he feels cornered. “I’m not going to change who I am just because you’re feeling insecure.”

The word hits you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. “Insecure?” you echo.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, but he did, even if he didn’t intend for it to land like a punch.

You look down at your hands, trying to keep your voice steady. “Joe, do you have any idea what it feels like to date someone who treats you like a secret every time you’re in public?”

“I don’t treat you like a secret.”

“You kind of do,” you whisper. “Maybe not on purpose. But that’s how it feels.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t know what you want from me.”

You let out a long, tired breath — the kind that drains out weeks of swallowing feelings. “I want you to love me out loud,” you say softly. “Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… visibly. A little touch. A look that says we’re together. Something. Anything. Just so I don’t feel like I imagined the way you treat me behind closed doors.”

Joe’s expression shifts — defensiveness mixing with discomfort, confusion, guilt, irritation. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it. “Can we not do this tonight?” he mutters. “I’m exhausted.” He says it so casually — like your hurt is just another task on his to-do list. A thing he can postpone. A thing that can wait.

Something in you snaps. Not violently. Not dramatically. But in the quiet, heartbreaking way a rubber band finally gives after being stretched too far. Your voice comes out tighter, sharper than before. “So that’s it? You get to shut down the conversation because you’re tired?”

Joe’s head lifts a little, eyes narrowing. “I’m not shutting it down. I’m saying now isn’t the time to have a whole meltdown about one dinner.”

One dinner. You actually laugh — a stunned, breathless sound that feels more like disbelief than humor. “Are you serious right now?”

He throws his hands out. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be. You know how I am in public. You know that hasn’t changed. And now suddenly you want something different and that’s not fair to me.”

Your chest burns.

He’s not yelling, but his voice is rising. He’s frustrated. Defensive. Talking at you, not to you. “You agreed to this. You said you were okay with keeping things low-key. And now you’re blowing up because I didn’t… what? Feed you cake at the table? Put my arm around you so the whole team could stare?”

“Joe,” you say, your voice trembling, “it’s not about cake. It’s not about PDA. It’s about being treated like I exist when other people are around.”

He scoffs under his breath. “That’s dramatic.”

There it is again.

“Stop calling me dramatic,” you snap, louder than you mean to, louder than you’ve ever used with him. Your throat feels raw, your eyes hot. “God, Joe, do you even hear yourself? I’ve been feeling like this for months. Tonight was just the point where I couldn’t pretend anymore.”

He shakes his head, muttering something like, “Here we go,” and it makes your chest twist.

“You think this is nothing,” you fire back. “You think this is me being needy or insecure or changing the rules on you. But I’m telling you — I feel alone when I’m with you. I feel invisible next to you. And I shouldn’t.”

He crosses his arms — relaxed, detached, like he’s weathering a storm he finds mildly inconvenient. “Are you done?” Those three words hit harder than anything else tonight.

You look at him — really look at him — and realize he’s not fighting for you, not trying to understand you, not even meeting you halfway. He’s waiting for you to stop talking so things can go back to normal for him.

The sting that floods your chest is cold and sharp and immediate. You swallow hard, shaking your head slowly. “Unbelievable.” 

You don’t trust your voice after that. You don’t trust yourself not to break open completely. So you turn away — slow at first, then quicker — and head for the bathroom.

“Seriously?” Joe calls after you, but you don’t respond. You shut the door behind you with a soft click, not a slam. A slam would mean anger. This is something worse — disappointment so deep it quiets you.

The bathroom light is too bright. You grip the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache, trying to steady your breathing, trying to figure out where your voice went.

On the other side of the door, you hear nothing. Not footsteps. Not movement. Not him coming after you. The silence slices right through you.

You breath in through your nose, out through your mouth, fighting the heaviness swelling in your chest. You don’t want to cry — not over this, not over him brushing you off like you’re a passing inconvenience. But your body doesn’t always listen. Your eyes burn anyway.

You turn on the tap, letting the water run, trying to muffle the shaky quiet of your breath. The mirror reflects the version of you you didn’t want to become — the one who tries so hard to appear unfazed, even when your splintering inside.

A knock never comes. He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t say he’s sorry. Doesn’t try at all and that hurts in a way the dinner never could.

You finally shut the water off and press your fingertips to your eyelids, grounding yourself before stepping back. 

With a quiet sigh, you peel off the nice dress you’d worn to the dinner, the fabric falling in a soft heap on the floor. You pull on an oversized T-shirt, the familiar cotton comforting against your skin, loose and forgiving. In the mirror, you wipe away your makeup with slow, deliberate motions, the streaks of mascara and foundation tracing faint lines down your cheeks like a map of the evening’s weight. You brush your hair out of your face, tug your pajama shorts into place, and take a moment to just breathe, letting the mundane routine of preparing for bed feel like something steady in a night that’s been anything but.

You stay in the bathroom a few minutes longer, waiting — stupidly — for something. A sign that he cares enough to check on you. That he realizes he said the wrong thing. That he realizes he didn’t say nearly enough.

Nothing.

Eventually, a muted rustle from the bedroom breaks the silence — the faint creak of the mattress as he sits. You can picture him: leaning back, scrolling on his phone or rubbing his hand over his face, convincing himself you’re the one who blew things out of proportion. You take a deep breath and open the bathroom door.

The room is dim now, one lamp turned off. Joe sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking up only when the door clicks shut behind you. His eyes skim over you the way someone glances at a scoreboard — brief, calculating, not emotional.

“You done?” he asks again, this time quieter, but the phrasing is the same. The lack of softness is the same.

It hits you harder than the first time.

“I wasn’t having a tantrum,” you say, voice soft but steady. “I was trying to tell you something important.”

He runs a hand down his face, exhaling in frustration. “And I heard you. I did. You feel ignored. You want more from me in public. I get it. But blowing up over one night doesn’t exactly help your case.”

The way he says “your case” makes it sound like you’re presenting evidence in a trial he has already decided to dismiss.

You blink, slow and disbelieving. “Is that really all you took from what I said?”

Joe shrugs — shrugs — and it makes something cold settle deep inside you. “Look,” he mutters, “I’m not trying to fight anymore. I’m tired. You’re upset. Let’s just… drop it for tonight.”

You stare at him, feeling a mix of anger, hurt, and something that feels dangerously close to clarity. “Drop it,” you echo. “So we can pretend everything’s fine tomorrow?” 

He doesn’t answer — which is an answer.

The quiet stretches again, heavy and deliberate. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, weighing down the words you’ve fought to get out. You want to scream, to throw something, to make him see—but you don’t. Not yet. You take a step toward the door, then another, pacing the small space of the room. Every movement sharp with frustration, every breath a reminder that tonight, you’re alone in feeling everything.

“You really think ignoring this fixes it?” you finally snap, your voice breaking through the thick, stale air. It’s not a shout, but it’s sharper than the quiet he seems so comfortable in.

You stand there, chest tight, fists unclenching slowly as the adrenaline drains out of your arms. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t respond. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, maybe out the window, maybe to the corner of the room, but it isn’t on you. The fire that had flared in your chest slowly fizzles, leaving behind only a hollow ache. You let out a long, shuddering sigh, shoulders sagging, and finally step toward the bed.

Sliding under the covers, you tuck yourself in, the cool sheets doing little to calm the warmth still lingering from your frustration. You reach over and click the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into soft darkness. You turn your back to him, pulling the covers a little higher, trying to shut out not just the room, but him entirely.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters after a few long, tense seconds. Not angry, not frustrated—just a flat statement, meant to puncture the tension. You don’t respond. You shut your eyes stubbornly, wishing sleep could pull you away from the ache in your chest, from the echo of everything you tried to say and everything he didn’t hear.

Minutes pass. You hear the faint scrape of him shifting on the bed, the rustle of clothing, a zipper. Then, soft footsteps across the carpet. He’s getting ready, you realize. The sounds are methodical, almost clinical—his routine—and they irritate you even in the darkness.

Eventually, the soft patter of his steps returns. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment. You keep your eyes shut, pretending not to notice him. There’s a pause, a shuffle, then the warmth of him sliding in beside you.

His shoulder presses lightly against yours, tentative but deliberate. You stiffen for a second, resisting the instinct to move closer, resisting the pull you know you’ll feel anyway.

The mattress dips slightly as he adjusts, the sheets rustle, and finally, the subtle weight of him settles in. You remain silent, stubbornly still, turning your face slightly toward the pillow, keeping your eyes shut. You can feel his presence, the steady warmth, the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

Eventually, your own breathing begins to slow, tension easing fractionally, the edges of anger softened by exhaustion. The room is quiet, except for the soft cadence of two hearts trying, in their own stubborn ways, to exist beside each other.

THE DAYS AFTER THAT NIGHT SLIPPED BY like a slow tide, each one carrying the same quiet weight. By the time you and Joe returned to Cincinnati, leaving behind the hotel room and the city lights of New York where the dinner had been, the residual tension felt heavier somehow—closer to home, harder to ignore.

You both moved through your routines, careful not to stir up the unsettled waters that had formed between you. The fight—or argument, or whatever you wanted to call it—was never mentioned again, though its remnants lingered in every glance, every pause in conversation.

Joe left the house earlier than usual, pulling on his practice gear and tossing a quick, distracted nod in your direction before disappearing into the crisp morning air. You watched him go, a small twinge tightening in your chest, and turned back to the quiet house, feeling the emptiness more acutely than ever. By the time he returned, long after the sun had dipped behind the skyline, you were already out the door, caught up in errands, and longer shifts at work that left your feet sore and your mind buzzing, but at least distracted.

The house smelled of stale coffee and his lingering cologne. You kept your interactions to the minimum—“hello” in the morning, a shared nod in the evening, meals eaten in separate corners of the room. Even the bed felt different now, stretched wide with an absence that made you conscious of every inch between you.

And yet, in the quiet, you noticed him. You noticed the way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was looking, the subtle sighs that carried a weight you didn’t dare ask about.

You knew he wanted to fix it—could see it in the half-hearted attempts at conversation, the lingering looks that he quickly averted—but he didn’t know how to start. How do you approach someone who won’t meet you halfway, who has built walls from habits and privacy and stubborn pride?

You, on the other hand, didn’t want to bring it up. Didn’t want to be the one to reopen the wound, to appear needy, desperate, or too much. So you kept busy, pouring energy into work, laughter with friends, errands that made the hours pass faster. But even in the most crowded rooms, in the brightest laughter, there was a hollow spot where his presence belonged.

Some nights, you’d lie awake, listening to the faint hum of the city outside, imagining him next to you, so close yet so far. Did he toss and turn, thinking of you? Did he feel the distance as sharply as you did? Most likely. But neither of you would close it. Neither of you would be the first to admit it.

You were curled up on the living room couch, a half-eaten sandwich resting on your lap, the TV muted as your eyes followed the captions of a show you barely paid attention to. You hadn’t wanted to sit at the dining room table where Joe was spread out with his laptop and notes doing some film study, dissecting every angle like it mattered more than you sitting two feet away.

The sound of the enclosed living room door opening was subtle but familiar, a soft creak in the house. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him. He appeared in the doorway, hesitation written into the set of his shoulders.

Something about his posture—head slightly lowered, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie—made it look like he had swallowed his pride to even ask for whatever he was about to ask. You weren’t sure if that made you feel better, seeing that vulnerability, or worse, because it reminded you how long it had taken to get him to show up in a way that mattered.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. Not quiet enough to be soft, just… careful.

You lifted one eyebrow. “Hey,” you replied, keeping your attention on the screen even though your heart rate had jumped a little.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “So… there’s this thing,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous gesture you recognized instantly. “A joint bachelorette/bachelor party, one of the front office people is throwing it… a few of the guys are going, and, uh… I wanted to know if you’d go too.”

“Oh. Sounds… thrilling,” you said, voice dripping enough snark to make the point without having to look at him.

He sighed, a long, low sound that filled the quiet room. “Never mind,” he muttered, starting toward the door, like he had already given up before you even spoke.

“Wait,” you groaned before your brain could stop you. Your chest was still tight from the argument you’d had days ago, the silence that followed, the way he’d sat on the edge of the bed as if nothing had happened—but there was something in the way he lingered near the doorway now like he was trying to offer some tiny olive branch that made your irritation falter. 

You exhaled slowly, half frustrated, half begrudgingly amused at yourself. “I—I’m going,” you said, voice low but steady.

He froze, hand on the doorknob, and glanced back at you, eyes narrowing in cautious hope.

“I’m not going to cancel last minute. It’s been on the calendar for weeks now, Joe. I wasn’t going to just… not go.” Your tone was softer now, but firm. You could feel your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion.

He scratched at the back of his neck again, looking almost sheepish. “I… I didn’t think, after… everything… that you would still want to go.”

You shook your head, laughing without humour. “I’m not doing this for you,” you said, the words clear and precise. “I’m doing it because I already said I would. Because I already planned to."

He hesitated, leaning against the doorframe for a second, taking a measured breath. Then he gave a small nod and muttered, “Right. Okay.” His voice was quiet, subdued—not the usual confident tone that filled rooms, but softer, uncertain.

You turned back toward the muted screen, letting your fingers hover over the remote for a moment before pressing the button to raise the volume. The show’s dialogue filled the room, but it barely registered; your sandwich sat forgotten, dry and tasteless, like the last few days had been.

Joe stayed in the doorway for a moment longer, arms crossed loosely, like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or wait. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to — your silence said enough. Finally, with a resigned exhale, he stepped back, letting the door click softly behind him as he left.

And that’s how you find yourself standing in front of the mirror a few hours later, spinning slowly in the short cheetah-print dress you’d chosen for the “Y2K” theme the soon-to-be newlyweds had insisted on. It’s bold, it’s fun, it’s unapologetically you — the kind of outfit that makes you feel like you can own the night.

You smooth the fabric over your hips, tug lightly at the hem, and tilt your head, checking your reflection from every angle. Your hair falls in loose waves, a little wild, a little careless, perfect for a night where glitter and loud music matter more than the quiet tension at home. Your makeup is fierce without being overdone — a golden shimmer on your eyelids, a sweep of bronzer along your cheekbones, and lips that demand attention without saying a word.

This is good, you tell yourself. This is your chance to reclaim the night, to shake off the residue of cold silences and unspoken frustration. Joe can sulk in his corner, live in his private bubble of avoidance, but you won’t let that ruin the vibe. Tonight isn’t about him. Tonight is about letting loose, laughing until your ribs ache, and reminding yourself that you can still enjoy yourself.

You slip into heels, feeling the familiar pinch at first, then the rise in confidence that always comes with them. A quick glance at the clock tells you you have just enough time to grab your bag, slide on your jacket, and head out without feeling rushed.

Your phone buzzes — texts from the WAG groupchat with many already at the club, a mix of emojis and impatience. You smile, a genuine curve of lips that Joe hasn’t seen in days, and grab your bag.

You pad down the stairs quietly, hoping to slip past him unnoticed, to make it to the car without any unnecessary exchange. Optimism, as it turns out, is not your ally tonight.

There he is at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the banister with his phone in hand, looking impossibly composed. When he looks up and sees you, something shifts — an imperceptible tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

He looks… good. Too good. Every detail, from the sharp line of his jaw to the way his shirt fits across broad shoulders, makes your chest tighten with a mix of irritation and something more complicated that you don’t have the patience to name right now. Everything about him seems to bother you, from the confidence he carries to the way he tilts his head like he’s assessing, judging, savouring.

He doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he lets his gaze travel slowly over you, taking in the dress, the heels, the hair, the way you’ve made an effort that apparently, tonight, he notices. You stiffen under it, thinking he’s going to comment — compliment, tease, anything — but he doesn’t.

Eventually, he clenches his jaw like he’s forcing himself to let words stay locked away, and with a deliberate calm, he asks, “You ready to go?” He avoids your eyes fully, letting his flick briefly toward the stairs before settling back on the floor, like he’s testing your patience or his own resolve.

You take a breath, straighten your shoulders, and nod, letting your fingers brush lightly against the strap of your bag. “Yeah,” you answer, voice quiet but firm.

He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod and gestures toward the door with a tilt of his head. The movement is casual, but there’s a tautness beneath it, a restrained energy that hints at all the words neither of you have said over the past days.

Outside, the cool night air greets you. You both slide into the car, him in the driver’s seat, you in the passenger, the engine humming to life as if it’s its own quiet witness to the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Streetlights flicker across his face as he pulls out of the driveway, carving shadows along his jaw, highlighting the faint crease between his brows. You can tell he’s thinking — overthinking, maybe — but not saying a word, and that restraint grates at you more than any argument ever could.

He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping a slow rhythm you can’t decipher. You don’t look directly at him, instead turning your gaze to the window, watching the city shift from quiet residential streets into the neon-soaked buzz of nightlife.

At one red light, you feel his eyes on you. Not a quick glance — a look. You keep facing forward, but you can feel it, the weight of his attention, the unspoken words pushing at the space between you. When the light turns green, he’s the first to look away.

As you get closer, he slows the car, merging into the lane leading toward the private entrance the team uses for events. There’s already a small crowd outside — players, spouses, girlfriends, coworkers — dressed in a chaotic collage of Y2K nostalgia. Low-rise everything. Sparkles. Denim. Butterfly clips. Neon mesh tops. It should make you laugh, but the knot in your stomach is still too tight.

Joe pulls into the valet line, exhaling once through his nose, like he’s bracing himself. He puts the car in park but doesn’t immediately open the door. For a second, you think he’s going to speak — maybe offer some kind words — but he doesn’t. His fingers flex once on the steering wheel, knuckles going pale.

“You… good?” he asks finally, eyes fixed on the windshield. The question is simple, nearly emotionless, but you hear the quiet strain beneath it.

You force a small, controlled smile. “Yeah. I'm good,” you say, and even you can hear the lie tucked under it.

He nods like he believes you, or like he’s pretending to. Hard to tell which. Then he steps out, walks around the car, and opens your door. He doesn’t offer a hand — he hasn’t in days — but he waits, the slightest courtesy lingering in his posture.

You step out into the night, the thumping bass from inside vibrating through the pavement. Lights flash from the entrance in bursts of pink and blue. A group of your friends spot you from across the sidewalk, waving dramatically, already cheering your arrival.

You finally smile — a real one — and wave back.

Joe watches the interaction quietly, something in his expression softening for just a moment before he quickly schools it back into neutrality. “Have fun,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the music.

You glance at him, unsure whether he means it or if it’s just something to say. But you nod anyway. “You too,” you offer, even though you’re not sure he will.

Inside, the club feels like stepping into another universe — one made of bass, glitter, and bodies moving under hazy pink lights. The air thrums with nostalgia; every corner is drenched in some version of early-2000s chaos. Your friends latch onto you immediately, pulling you into their circle with excited shrieks and compliments shouted over the music. Someone hands you a drink, someone else fixes a butterfly clip in your hair, and for a moment you let their warmth pull you out of your own head.

Across the room, you catch a glimpse of Joe with the guys — all of them in their own version of the theme, some ironically, some embarrassingly committed. He’s got a backwards cap on and a white tee stretched across his shoulders, the kind that shouldn’t look as good as it does. He stands slightly behind the group, nursing a drink, nodding along to whatever conversation they’re having. He laughs once at something Ja’Marr says, but it’s short, controlled, like he’s too aware of where you are to fully relax.

He doesn’t come over. Not once.

But every few minutes, when you shift or laugh or tuck your hair behind your ear, you feel him looking. You turn your head — just enough to catch the tail end of a glance he pretends he wasn’t giving, eyes sliding away as if he’d been focused on anything else.

You stay close to your girls — smiling, laughing, sipping slowly. You’re polite when someone compliments your outfit. You dance a little when your favorite old-school song comes on. You’re doing everything you can to seem light, easy, unbothered.

And you’re almost convincing yourself… until you head to the bar.

When your group makes its way toward the bar, you slide onto an open spot, elbows against the counter, letting the cool surface kiss your skin. You ask for another drink — something fruity, something sweet — and while you wait, someone steps up beside you.

He’s got that slick confidence some men wear like cologne: too strong, too obvious, impossible to ignore.

“Didn’t think anyone else could pull off a dress like that,” he says, tone smooth and practiced.

You blink, brows lifting. His gaze drags down the length of your legs like he thinks he has the right. You shift your weight subtly, turning your body a little toward your friends.

“Thanks,” you answer politely, offering a small, tight smile — the kind that clearly means that’s enough.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“So… you here alone?” he asks, leaning in. He positions his elbow on the bar like he wants to trap you between it and his shoulder.

“No,” you say gently, keeping your tone friendly but final. “I’m with friends.”

He nods once but doesn’t look away — instead he scans the room lazily, then returns his eyes to you with a grin that’s just a little too confident. “But no guy with you?” he presses. When you don’t answer immediately, his grin widens as if he’s just solved a puzzle. “That’s good news for me.”

Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek. “I’m actually—”

“Taken,” a voice cuts in — low, steady, and unmistakably sure of itself. “She’s taken.”

You freeze because you know that voice. You know it in the way your pulse jumps, in the way the air around you shifts, in the way your body recognises him before your mind catches up.

You straighten instinctively, rising from your seat before you can even think about it — not out of fear, but because your whole body reacts to that voice like it’s been waiting for it, like gravity itself just shifted and pulled you upright.

And then you feel it fully — the weight of his presence closing in around you, familiar and grounding. An arm slides around your waist — slow at first, deliberate, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to. His palm spreads across your hip, fingers settling with a kind of certainty that sends heat rushing up your spine. He steps in behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his chest at your back, the familiar scent of him curling around you even through the noise and sweat and neon lights.

Joe.

You don’t turn. You can’t yet. You’re too aware — of his body bracketing yours, of the protective tension in his grip, of the way his presence sinks into your skin like a memory your heart has been starving for.

The guy beside you flicks his eyes between the two of you, unimpressed. “Didn’t look like it,” he says, smug and dismissive, like he thinks this is a game he’s still winning.

You feel Joe go perfectly, dangerously still. Not rigid. Not angry. Just controlled in that razor-sharp way he gets when something digs right under his skin and hits bone. His hand tightens slightly on your waist — not enough to hurt, just enough that you feel the message in the pressure: stay with me.

The guy’s smirk barely has time to settle before something shifts — in Joe, in the air, in the space around you. You feel it like a warning, like the moment right before lightning hits: charged and inevitable.

In one smooth, decisive motion, he turns your body toward him, guiding you with the hand still warm and firm at your waist. His other hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, then cupping your jaw with a care that contradicts the tension coiled through the rest of him.

You look up — and his eyes are already on you, intense, darkened, full of something he hasn’t let himself say out loud these past few days. Something he’s been swallowing, avoiding, burying under schedules and silence.

He doesn’t give himself another second to reconsider. His thumb strokes your cheek once, and then he kisses you. Not tentative. Not a whisper of a kiss meant to prove a point.

It’s deep and immediate and hungry — a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with heat. His hand holds your jaw firmly, angling your mouth toward his as he presses into you like he’s been craving this, craving you, for far too long.

Your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you closer, slotting your body fully against his. The noise of the club dims, blurs, disappears under the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

It’s a kiss that burns, and brands, and warns.

But he doesn’t stop. Even when your lungs start to burn. Even when your fingers tremble against his chest. Even when the reason — the guy, the stupid smug stranger — is long gone, swallowed by the crowd. Joe keeps kissing you like he’s starving. Like he’s trying to make up for days of silence in a single breath. Like he’s terrified that if he lets you go now, he won’t get another chance.

And for one wild second, you let him. You forget the bar. The club. The people around you. You forget why he stepped in at all. But then reality snaps back like a rubber band against your skin.

Your palms push flat against his chest, shoving him back just enough to break the kiss. He stumbles half a step, brows knotting in confusion, breaths ragged. You swipe the back of your hand across your mouth, grounding yourself, anchoring yourself.

“What the hell?” you spit, breathless and furious.

His eyes widen a fraction — not offended, just startled — like he hadn’t even considered that you might be angry. Like the possibility never crossed his mind. “What?” he says, chest rising and falling. “I—”

“You don’t get to do this to me, Joe.” Your voice fractures in the middle — anger, sadness, confusion, all tangled.

His brows tug together, helpless, almost pained. “Do what?”

A scoff tears out of you as you shake your head, something hot and bitter burning in your chest. Of course. Of course he doesn’t get it. Of course he swoops in, touches you like he owns you, kisses you like he’s been thinking about it nonstop — then acts surprised when it hurts.

You turn sharply and walk away, needing space, air, anything that isn’t him. The crowd swallows you immediately, bodies brushing past, lights flickering across your vision.

“Hey—” You hear him behind you, voice strained. “Hey, wait—”

You don’t. You keep moving, pushing through bodies, weaving between dancing strangers.

“Y/N.” This time it’s firmer. Closer. Footsteps follow. Faster. He’s right behind you now, matching your pace like he refuses to let the distance grow.

“Would you just—” You feel his fingers curl gently but insistently around your arm, tugging you back toward him. “Stop.”

You whirl around, fury crackling through you. “Don’t—” you hiss, breath shaking. But he’s already stepping closer, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that makes your heartbeat stutter painfully in your chest.

“Look at me,” he says, low, steady, the command threaded with something raw. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t give him that. But your eyes lift anyway. 

His eyes lock onto yours, searching, tense, unblinking — and then his voice drops, softer but no less intense. “Talk to me,” he says. “Please. Just… tell me what’s wrong.”

You yank your arm out of his grip, breath shaking as it escapes your lungs in something closer to a laugh — a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Oh, I’ll tell you what’s wrong.”

His jaw flexes. He braces for it.

“You had no right to do that,” you snap, voice rising before you can stop it. “In front of everyone, Joe. In front of my friends. In a club full of people. Like you suddenly get to claim me when we haven’t even—” You cut yourself off, chest heaving.

“We never revisited that conversation,” you say, quieter but more lethal. “Not once. You shut down. You avoided me. I tried to give you space, tried to understand the way you are — how you freeze up when things get too public, how you hate eyes on you, how you get weird when anything feels too exposed. I respected it. I followed your lead.”

His brows pinch, because he knows that’s true. Because he felt it too.

“And then you go and pull this stunt?” you demand, voice cracking. “You can barely speak to me for days and then kiss me like that in the middle of a room full of people. You don’t get to go cold and then suddenly act like—” Your throat tightens, burning. “Like you want me,” you whisper. “Like you want all of me. Because you can’t just switch it on and off. You can’t keep doing this to me.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

You shake your head, breath trembling. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me? The way you look at me some days, like I’m the only person in the room? And then the next day you act like you barely know me? I’m trying to make sense of it, Joe. I really am.”

Your voice breaks completely. “Because behind closed doors? When it’s just us?” You swallow hard, blinking back heat from your eyes. “That’s the version of you I… I love.”

He goes absolutely still, like the air has been sucked out of the space between you.

“I love that man,” you say, anger and heartbreak tangling in every syllable. “The one who lets me in. The one who touches me like I matter. The one who doesn’t run. The one who—” Your voice drops. “The one who kisses me like that.”

Your hands lift helplessly, falling again. “But I don’t know which you I’m getting anymore. I don’t know what you want from me. And it’s driving me insane.”

He stands there, breathing like he just ran a mile, chest rising and falling as your confession echoes between you — raw, trembling, disbelieving even to your own ears.

And then, finally, he moves.

Not toward you at first. Just a step back, like your words punched the air out of him and he needs space to take it in. His hand drags through his hair, slow and rough, like he’s trying to physically pull his thoughts together. When he looks at you again, his eyes are different — wide, unguarded, stripped of every wall he usually hides behind.

“Jesus,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “You think I don’t want you?”

You flinch, because the hurt is still hot, still burning through your ribs. “Of course you do,” you mutter, voice cracked, bitter. “In private. When no one’s looking. When it’s easy.”

He shakes his head immediately — sharp, almost desperate — like the thought alone guts him. “No. That’s not—” He stops, jaw tight, breath unsteady. “I’m bad at this. I know I am. I know I pulled away. I know I didn’t say enough. I know I didn’t say anything. And I should’ve. I should’ve talked to you instead of shutting down.”

He swallows hard, shoulders rising with a breath that sounds like it hurts. “The truth is you… you scare the hell out of me.”

You blink, taken off guard. “What?”

“You do.” His voice is rough, thick with honesty he’s clearly terrified to give. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone. And I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to—” His throat works. “I didn’t want to screw this up so I told myself to slow down,” he continues, eyes never leaving you. “To back off. To take a breath before I did something stupid. But then I saw that guy leaning into you, and I—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if the memory alone ignites something hot in his chest. “I lost it. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan it. I just—"

He takes another step toward you, close enough that the bass of the club vibrates between your bodies. "I needed him to know you weren’t available. And I needed you to know that I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens again, this time for a different reason. He sees the tears gathering at your lashes — anger, confusion, affection, all of it — and his voice softens. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm.

“I’m so damn sorry for making you doubt any of this. I never meant to hurt you. I’ve just… I’ve been trying to play it safe. And every time I’m around you, I get so far past ‘safe’ I can’t see straight.”

You look away for a second, swallowing down the remaining hurt. “You still kissed me in front of everyone,” you say, the last edges of your anger clinging to your words. “You put me in a position you know you’d hate. You blindsided me.”

He nods — not defensive, not dismissive — but with the weight of someone who knows he deserves that. “I know,” he murmurs. “And I can’t take that moment back. But I swear to you, I didn’t kiss you to make a scene. I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to for days and I was too scared to do it when it mattered. And tonight, I… I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

You hold his gaze, searching, still wary.

He steps just a little closer — close enough for his voice to fall softer, steadier, honest in a way that makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to confuse you,” he says. “I don’t want to be hot one day and cold the next. I don’t want you wondering where you stand with me. I don’t want you thinking I don’t want you the way you want me.”

Your breath shakes, because the moment feels too big, too raw, too close.

“I want this,” he says, finally, clearly, like he’s saying something he should’ve said days ago.

"When things get real for me — really real — I get in my head. I overthink. I freeze.” A humourless laugh slips out of him. “You said that earlier. And you’re right. I do. I hate eyes on me. I hate people knowing too much. I hate the idea of anyone watching something I haven’t figured out how to protect yet.”

His eyes flick briefly down, then back up. “And you’re the one thing I want to protect the most. Which makes me… an idiot.”

You huff out a shaky breath. “Joe—”

“I’m not making excuses,” he cuts in gently. “I’m telling you why I screwed this up so badly. Why I panicked. Why I pulled away even though it killed me.” He pauses, searching your face like the next words matter more than anything he’s said tonight. “I’ve never loved someone the way I love you. Not even close.”

The words settle between you, warm and trembling and undeniably real. You’re still hurt. You’re still unsure. But you’re also listening and he sees that — sees your breathing slow, the anger easing but not gone, your eyes softening even as your walls stay up.

He takes one final half-step closer, barely brushing your space. “You’re allowed to still be mad,” he says, voice low. “Just… don’t walk away from me yet. Not tonight.”

You drag a hand through your hair and look away because it’s too much — the heat of his body against yours, the sincerity in his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your hurt. It hits you harder than the alcohol ever could. Too intense. Too real.

And suddenly the anger you’ve been clinging to like a shield doesn’t feel sharp anymore. It softens at the edges, cooling into something molten and heavy in your chest — heartbreak and hope twisted together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Your throat tightens. You swallow. Once. Twice.

“I’m still mad,” you say eventually, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the music.

“I know.”

“But I’m not walking away.”

He exhales shakily — relief, disbelief, something softer beneath it — like he hadn’t let himself hope for that answer until this second.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay,” you echo.

Neither of you move, and for a long moment, the tension hangs — taut, fragile, a wire stretched between two people who know the stakes and are terrified of snapping it. 

You feel the weight of your own indecision. Every instinct tells you to retreat, to step back and reclaim the space that’s suddenly been invaded by something more than words, more than anger, more than anything you thought you were prepared to handle tonight. But another part — a part that hasn’t stopped hoping, that hasn’t stopped wanting him despite everything — keeps you rooted, trembling in place.

Finally, he does something small. Simple. Almost imperceptible if you weren’t watching for it. He extends his hand toward you, palm up, fingers slightly curled as though asking permission rather than demanding.

It’s not a surrender. It’s not a promise. It’s an olive branch — a fragile, trembling offer of something neither of you knows how to define yet.

Your hand hovers in the air, unsure if it wants to meet his or withdraw entirely. Your chest rises and falls, and you glance down at the space between your fingertips, the world shrinking to the narrow stretch of air separating you both.

It’s tempting. Dangerous. It’s hope wrapped in apology and a little fear, and it makes your pulse jump in a way that’s entirely unfair. You’re not sure if you trust it. You’re not sure you trust him. But you also know that something inside you — something stubborn, something that refuses to let go — wants to reach out.

You lift your hand slowly, almost involuntarily, letting your fingers brush against his. It’s tentative, a test, a quiet truce. And when his hand closes gently over yours, warm and firm, it’s not perfect, it’s not complete, but it’s a start.

Your fingers barely settle into his before he’s already moving — slow, steady, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might spook you, but certain enough that you feel the quiet resolve threaded into the gesture. His hand wraps fully around yours, warm and grounding, as he guides you through the crowd.

The people around you blur into shadows and color as he leads you, weaving between dancers and bodies and the pulse of the bass. He stays close — closer than he needs to. His arm brushes yours with every step, his thumb tracing absent-minded, almost nervous circles against the back of your hand.

It’s a contradiction in motion: soft, hesitant touches paired with a grip that refuses to let you drift even an inch farther than he wants you. You feel it with each step — that shift in him. That decision. That choice.

When you reach the booth where your friends are still gathered, laughing and talking over music, Joe slows but doesn’t let go. If anything, his hand tightens on yours, like instinct takes over before thought can catch up.

Your friends look up — first at you, then at him — and confusion flickers across a few faces because Joe Burrow doesn’t do this. He doesn’t wear his feelings where anyone can see them.

Tonight though, he stays.

He slides in behind you, hand drifting from your fingers to your waist, settling there with a familiarity that is very much not subtle. His thumb presses into your hip bone, slow and possessive. You swear you feel heat bloom under your skin. Then, as the conversation around you picks up again, he leans down — like it’s nothing, natural — and rests his cheek briefly against your temple.

You go still because that? That’s not a Joe move. Not the Joe everyone else knows, at least.

His hand doesn’t stay still long. It slips lower, fingers brushing along your hip, then the curve of your thigh when you shift. When you move closer to your friends, his hand returns to your lower back, guiding you without pushing. When you lean forward to grab your drink, his palm finds your waist again, sliding under the hem of your top just enough that you feel the heat of his skin against yours. It’s not once, not twice, but constant.

He’s glued to you — physically, emotionally, magnetically — like his body refuses to accept even an inch of distance. And every time he touches you, it feels a little less like a claim and a little more like a confession he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

Your friends notice. How could they not?

His arm around your waist as you talk. His fingers brushing your knuckles when you take a sip. The way he leans down to say something only to you, his breath warm against your ear. The absent slide of his hand along your hip when someone else steps close to you in the crowded booth and he instinctively pulls you nearer.

It’s jealous, possessive, needy. It’s devotion edged with fear — the kind that says don’t go far, I’m still figuring out how to deserve you.

He doesn’t even pretend to go back to his boys. They glance over once or twice, eyebrows raised, but Joe? He doesn’t move. Doesn’t waver. He sits with you — stays with you — like this is where he was supposed to be all along.

For the first time… he lets himself be yours in public. And God, you can feel it. Every brush of his fingers. Every protective shift of his body. Every subtle press of affection he gives without even realizing who’s watching. 

It sends warmth sweeping through you — slow, dizzying, undeniable. It builds slowly like heat rising beneath your skin, like something thick and honey-sweet settling low in your stomach. Because the longer he stays pressed against you, the more undeniable it becomes: Joe isn’t hiding you — not tonight, not anymore.

He doesn’t let go of you when the night winds down. Not when your friends begin gathering their things, not when you slide out of the booth, not when he guides you toward the exit with a hand on your lower back like he’s afraid the crowd might swallow you again.

Outside, the air is cooler, quieter, but his touch stays warm on your skin.

His car is parked a block away, and even then — even with fewer people, fewer eyes — Joe sticks close. His fingers find yours again, not tentative this time, not searching. Certain. Firm. Like he’s made a decision and the only thing left is to follow it.

He opens the passenger door for you and you settle into the seat as he rounds the car and slides into his own. For a moment, the only sound is the engine turning over and the muted rush of traffic in the distance.

Then his hand falls onto your knee.

His palm rests there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb makes a slow pass over your skin, a subtle stroke that sends a pulse straight up your spine. He doesn’t look at you when he does it, doesn’t announce it, doesn’t wait for your reaction. He just… keeps it there. As if he’s been waiting all night to touch you in a way that isn’t frantic or apologetic or desperate — just real.

The city lights flash across his face as he drives — sharp lines softened by the dark, jaw tight with concentration, eyes fixed on the road. But every few seconds, that thumb moves again, a slow, rhythmic sweep side to side that feels more like reassurance than anything he could say out loud.

You feel your muscles unwind, inch by inch. The anger’s gone. The ache is still there — a bruise beneath the ribs — but what’s rising in its place is quieter, warmer. Something that feels dangerously close to peace.

By the time he pulls into your driveway, the tension between you has softened into something fragile but steady — a truce held together by touch and the promise of trying again. He squeezes your knee once before letting go. And as the engine cuts off and the silence settles, you realise you’re no longer bracing for the next hurt, just waiting to see what comes next. 

The night isn’t healed, not by a long shot, but it’s no longer breaking. It’s beginning.

YOU DON’T BREAK OPEN ALL AT ONCE. You settle back into each other slowly — in the quiet, in the in-between moments, in the subtle ways your walls start lowering without either of you calling attention to it.

You start noticing the little things first: the way he reaches for your hand when you leave restaurants, fingers lacing through yours like muscle memory finally allowed to be muscle memory again. The way his palm settles on the small of your back at events, guiding you through crowds like you’re something he refuses to lose track of. And sometimes — when he thinks no one is watching, or maybe when he’s finally stopped caring if they are — he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Nothing big. Nothing loud.

Just steps. 

Steps you don’t rush him through, steps he takes on his own, steady and sincere. You’re proud of him for that — not for being perfect, not for performing, but for trying. For choosing closeness even when he still gets nervous about being seen.

And tonight, that quiet confidence he’s been building, the small gestures that have made your days feel warmer, they trail behind him all the way to the stadium.

The anticipation, the way your chest tightens at the thought of seeing him in action, it all laces itself into the nerves that curl low in your stomach. It’s game day, and even though you’ve gotten used to his routines, even though you’ve learned how to exist alongside his world without breaking it, you still can’t help the familiar, fluttering worry that comes every time he’s out there, fighting, giving everything he has.

The hum of the stadium seeps through the glass, low and steady, vibrating faintly under your fingertips as you sit perched on the window sill, knees pulled up to your chest. Your phone rests in your lap, screen glowing softly, fingers unconsciously tugging at your nails.

You hadn’t seen him yet this morning. You’d sent him a quick good luck message earlier that morning; he’d liked it, a tiny acknowledgment that warmed you despite the distance.

You were familiar with the rhythm he needed: solitary mornings, quiet preparation, the sort of headspace that let him focus on what he does best. The night before had been just as you liked it — him at the kitchen table, eyes on film study, coffee cup warm between his hands, and you on the living room couch, book in hand, quietly near but co-existing seperately.

Your gaze drifts out the glass, scanning the field, and there he is — Joe, phone in hand, and definitely not doing warmups. Your brow furrows. That’s strange, you think. He’s always out early, getting his stretches in, warming up his body and mind. 

And then your phone dings, vibrating softly against your thigh. You glance down, picking it up, and the notification makes your chest flutter:

Joey 💞 Come to the sideline today? Joey 💞 I want to see you before the game.

You look back up, catching him glancing up at your suite, scanning the window like he knows exactly where you are. You shake your head, smiling despite the nerves curling in your stomach, even though you’re sure he can’t see you from here.

Excusing yourself from the cluster of familiar faces in the suite — Robin, Jimmy, his cousins, childhood friends, old teammates — you make your way toward the elevator, heart hammering in that anxious-but-excited rhythm you only get with him.

You don’t come down to the sidelines often. The suite is your safe space — private, quiet, free from cameras, free from people watching your every gesture. And, admittedly, you worry about what your nerves might do to him if you’re too close on game day — about how your anxiety might project onto him, about how easily it could distract the calm, controlled focus he fights to maintain.

You push the caution aside, letting your feet carry you forward, toward him, toward the pre-game moment you both somehow need.

The elevator doors open, spilling you out into the pulse of the stadium. The noise hits you in waves — cheers from early-arriving fans, the sharp whistles of staff moving across the field, the clatter of equipment being readied. Lights glare, people bustle, cameras flash somewhere in the distance, and the smell of turf and sweat hangs heavy in the air.

You navigate through the flurry, careful not to collide with staff or players warming up, until you reach the barrier that separates spectators from the field. You lean against it lightly, knees brushing the metal, scanning the chaos for him. Your chest hammers as your eyes dart across the sideline, catching movement, a familiar silhouette.

There he is — Joe, standing a few yards away, talking to a couple of guys in his pre-game huddle, phone tucked under his arm. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you, and your chest tightens just slightly with nerves, your hands fidgeting at the barrier. Then your eyes meet, and something in the world stills. You give him a half-wave, a small, tentative gesture, and his lips twitch upward in recognition. That little smile, that familiar spark, makes your pulse jump.

He excuses himself from the group, weaving through the sideline with casual confidence, and you brace yourself for what you think will come next: maybe a quick hello, a soft touch on the shoulder, a brief hug. The type of acknowledgment that keeps the balance between public and private, the kind of gentle connection that doesn’t draw attention.

But then — everything changes.

He locks eyes with you, moves with determination that cuts through the cameras, the flashing lights, the shouting crowd. He doesn’t hesitate. By the time he reaches you, he’s closing the space entirely, both arms wrapping around you, and your knees go weak from the sheer force of it. Before you can even process it, before your brain can tell your heart to slow down, he kisses you.

Not a quick peck. Not a polite gesture. A full, certain kiss, the kind that’s been building between you for weeks, months even, now unleashed without restraint, without apology. The noise of the crowd, the cameras, the world around you — it all disappears. The cheers ripple across the field, cameras flash, teammates glance your way, and the broadcast catches the moment for everyone watching at home, but none of it touches the quiet intensity of the moment you’re trapped in.

You freeze for a heartbeat, stunned. Your arms wrap around him instinctively, melting into the warmth of him, into the certainty of his presence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely untethered in the best way possible.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper against your ear, voice low and raw, “I don’t care who sees anymore.”

And just like that, he’s jogging back toward the field, slipping into warmups, but not before planting another quick, sharp kiss on your lips — enough to make the crowd react, enough to set your heart racing in a way that will linger for hours. Your cheeks burn, warmth spreading from your chest outward, and even as the adrenaline races through you, a calm settles behind it. 

The flashes, the cameras, the world watching — it doesn’t matter. Because tonight, in front of everyone, he chose you. Chose you without hesitation, without reservation, without the usual carefulness that keeps him guarded.

And as you pull yourself upright, gripping the barrier with one hand, your phone forgotten at your side, you realise something crystal clear: you finally have him out loud. No more holding back, no more careful distance, no more private gestures kept behind closed doors.

Your Joe, in front of everyone, just chose you and you know with an unshakable certainty that he’ll never hold you at arm’s length again.

Additional photos:

Additional photos: