You Good?
Pairing: Joe Burrow x actress!fem!readerÂ
Warnings: Mild language, public setting, fluff, established relationship
Summary: After the Met Gala afterparty, Joe helps you out of the van, and suddenly getting back to the hotel feels a little impossible to resist.
AN: I haven't posted in a while. Sorry. I have been too busy watching off campus. It's soooo fucking good.Â
Taglist: @ashloveshockey
Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist
The afterparty finally spits the two of you back out into the cold New York night sometime after two in the morning.
Your heels are killing you.
Not in the cute, exaggerated way actresses pretend in interviews, either, genuinely killing you.
You’re halfway folded over in the back of the van, laughing deliriously as you try to unclip one of the impossible silver straps digging into your ankle.
“I’m serious,” you mutter. “If these shoes ever come near me again, I’m suing somebody.”
Joe’s sitting beside you, jacket discarded, tie loosened slightly, watching you with that quiet amusement he always gets when you start spiralling from exhaustion.
“You said that three hours ago.”
“Yeah, well now I mean it spiritually.”
That actually gets a laugh out of him.
A real one.
Low and warm and tired.
The driver opens the van door, and suddenly the noise of Manhattan floods in, camera shutters somewhere down the street, muffled music leaking from another event, traffic lights reflecting off wet pavement.
Joe steps out first.
Even exhausted, he still looks unfairly good. Hair a little messy now, sleeves pushed up slightly, expensive black tailoring somehow even better after midnight.
You stare for a second too long.
He notices immediately.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
“Liar.”
You grin tiredly. “You just look very… Met Gala right now.”
“Met Gala,” he repeats flatly.
“Yeah. Annoyingly attractive. Like a guy in a cologne ad.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It should. Unfortunately it isn’t.”
His mouth twitches.
Then he looks down at you still trapped in the van and holds out a hand automatically.
“C’mon.”
You try to stand on your own.
Immediately wobble.
Joe catches you before you can even pretend you had it handled.
“Okay,” he says. “Nope.”
“I’m fine.”
“You almost died.”
“I looked graceful.”
“You looked concussed.”
You laugh, grabbing onto his shoulder, but before you can properly climb down, one arm slides around your waist.
Then suddenly,
you’re lifted.
Not dramatically. Not like some huge showy moment.
Just easy.
Effortless.
Like you weigh nothing to him.
“Joe,”
“You can barely walk.”
“These shoes are criminal.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
Your laugh disappears into his shoulder for a second as he steadies you against him on the pavement. The city buzzes around you, flashes flickering distantly somewhere across the street, but he barely seems to notice now.
His focus stays completely on you.
One hand firm at your waist.
The other still holding yours.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
You nod, looking up at him.
Too handsome. Honestly irritating.
“You know,” you murmur, “you’re being suspiciously nice to me.”
“Suspiciously?”
“Mhm. Makes me think you want something.”
Joe gives you the driest look imaginable.
“I want sleep.”
You grin. “Liar.”
That finally breaks him a little.
A tired smile. Small but real.
Then he glances toward the hotel entrance, toward the warm gold light spilling out onto the sidewalk.
“You ready?”
You lean into him slightly, still holding his arm.
“Yeah,” you say softly.
And with his hand steady at your back, he guides you inside like the rest of the city stopped existing hours ago.
