#jb9

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.

The dermatologist glanced at her phone, a notification stealing her focus, then back up. “Yes?”

Leah stabbed a fork into her own salad before she continued. “When is he leaving for the Pro Bowl that is on Tuesday night over 2,000 miles away?”

She laughed softly. “He’s not even packed yet,” she admitted, covering her mouth to chew her bite before continuing. “I was surprised he even said yes. They asked him two weeks ago and he said no. Then they called again two days ago and he changed his mind.”

Leah arched an eyebrow, her eyes flickering past her. “Speaking of…” she muttered, nodding toward the entrance of the kitchen.

Joe shuffled into the kitchen, rapidly typing into his phone, his golden brown hair falling into his face. Colby darted between his legs, nearly tripping him before slinking off toward the living room. “Babe,” he said without looking up, “I got you a ticket. Are you moving your appointments?”

“Uh, the ones that can be telehealth I can take care of tomorrow morning,” she said, taking a sip of her water. “The rest I’ll have to reschedule.” She leaned her hip against the island, watching Joe frown at his phone. “Are we flying out tonight?”

Joe finally looked up from his phone, approaching her with a warm hand curling against the small of her back. His lips pressed against her forehead as he murmured, “Yeah. We leave at 9:30. You good with that?”

She cast a glance toward Leah who chuckled from her spot leaning against the kitchen island. “You realize that gives us,” she checked her watch, “four hours to pack, shower, and get to the airport?”

Joe shrugged, pouting with a small poke of his pink bottom lip. “Sounds like plenty of time. Leah’s already here, she can take Colby.”

Leah scoffed, waving her fork between them. “Oh, so I’m just the emergency cat-sitter now? Amazing.”

“You’re the emergency cat-sitter who gets free merch, free game tickets, nice ass trips. I could go on,” he said, snagging a cherry tomato from her plate. She shook her head, watching her fiancé pop the tomato in his mouth, chewing with a level of smugness. “If you think about it, this is a mutually beneficial situation. Symbiotic relationship.”

“I would tell you to break up with him but you’re already locked in,” Leah sighed dramatically, twirling her fork before pointing it at Joe. “And for the record, I am happy that you decided to participate in the Pro Bowl.”

[ . . . ]

Moscone Center was loud, and bright, and overwhelmingly overstimulating. She blinked against the brilliant lights of the indoor arena, adjusting her jeans and pushing up the sleeves of her plain, long-sleeved white tee. Due to the last minute nature of Joe’s decision to attend, they hadn’t been able to get her a true seat in the stands. A sideline pass hung around her neck instead, and she leaned against a padded wall, taking videos of Joe warming up from her spot for Robin.

Joe jogged toward her the second he was able to slip away before the game started. She pushed off the wall, grinning as he pulled her into a brief hug. She pulled away, lifting her hand and linking their pinkies together in their unspoken ritual.

“Sure you’re good here?” Joe asked, allowing his hand to fall without unlinking their pinkies. The sound of a photographer shifting his lens towards them in her periphery didn’t escape her, but she took a deep breath and allowed herself to absorb this moment: Joe’s beautiful blues looking soft and unguarded, sweat already forming at his temples under the harsh lights, a bubbling energy radiating off him she recognized as a competitive eagerness she’d grown to adore.

“I’m good,” she nodded, assuring him. “Go have fun. Play smart.”

[ . . . ]

The AFC lost by six points.

She’d spent the second half in conversation with two other AFC receivers’ girlfriends. If this was a true game, she would have been unable to tear her eyes away from the field, clinging to every second of gameplay. But this was just flag football. It was half-hearted sprints, laughter louder than grunts of effort, players switching positions, and Joe playing with a loose ease he rarely allowed himself.

Despite the loss, Joe was still in a better mood than she had seen him in weeks. His positive mood seemed most evident from the way he was happy to ramble about the conversations he’d had with other players while they rode the elevator up to their hotel suite. His fingers were loosely interlaced with hers, swinging between them as they made the way down the hall.

Even after they were settling in for the night, taking care of those last steps before sleep, Joe’s buoyant energy hadn’t waned. She watched him from her place on the edge of the bathroom counter while he washed his face, her legs swinging idly as she listened to him recount an argument he’d had with Tee over some obscure football statistic. She bit back a smile at how ridiculously domestic it all felt with him standing there in just his boxers, face half-lathered in cleanser, still buzzing from the night while she handed him a towel for his face before he could drip water everywhere.

Joe patted his face dry with the towel, the corners of his mouth quirking up when he caught her staring. “What?” he asked, tossing the towel onto the counter beside her. She reached out, tugging him closer until he stood between her knees, her fingers brushing the damp strands of hair at his temples back from his face.

She didn’t answer right away, just traced the sharp line of his jaw with her thumb, the faint scratch of stubble catching against her skin. Those eyes that were always so damn blue, even under the dim bathroom lighting watched her with quiet curiosity. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to the tip of his nose, grinning when he scrunched his face in surprise.

Joe let out a soft laugh that started in his chest and warmed his entire face, creasing the corners of his eyes and bringing a light wash of pink to his cheeks. “Okay, seriously,” he murmured when she went to push his hair back again, “Did I miss a spot?” He rubbed his jaw self-consciously, but she caught his wrist, pulling his hand to her lips to press a kiss against his fingers before lacing them with hers.

“No,” she hummed. “Just… it makes me happy to see you happy.” She kissed him again, softer this time, lingering against his lips until she felt his free hand slide up her exposed thigh to rest on her skin.

by the time he’s done analyzing film necessary for the following day, he leaves his study and enters the kitchen to you making tonight’s dinner – penne vodka with grilled salmon. he walks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. his head lowers right next to you, taking a look at what you’ve been cooking up.

“smells delicious.” joe whispers into your ear, while you plate the grilled salmon. he kisses the soft spot where your shoulder and neck meet, as you stretch your neck to give him more access.

“thank you,” you reply softly, as you finish plating the last of the grilled salmon. he leans in further, now resting his head onto the top of your head. turning the stove off, you finally turn around to take a look at your boyfriend. you look up and cup your hands to his tired face, thumbs stroking his cheeks. you two stay in this position for a moment.

“long day?” you ask, looking into his striking blue eyes.

“defense had me losing my damn mind today.” he mutters, turning his head slightly to kiss the palm of your hand.

“well, let’s take it easy tonight, yeah?"

--

after dinner you two lounge on the couch to digest, with your back leaning onto joe’s chest as you passively watch the video in front of you. (something about why escalators have teeth…? you’re too tired to really know why.) joe wishes he could capture this moment forever in his mind. nights like these make him realize that it’s all worth it – the wins, the losses, the fights, the sacrifice.

all for the peace that he comes home to. all for the love he receives tenfold from you,

all for you.

he has one hand resting on your hip, while the other lazily drags up and down your upper arm. he looks down at you, noticing you slowly drift off to sleep as your breath evens out and your eyes slowly close. joe lowers down the volume of the television and with as much swiftness as a 6’4 football star can, he carries you bridal style into your shared bedroom. you instinctively nuzzle your head into his neck and mutter incomprehensible words to him.

“hm?” he softly asks, as he enters the bedroom.

“lemme do the dishes.” you murmur, brows furrowed.

“baby no, you’re tired. i got you.” he lets out a soft chuckle, heart softening at your stubbornness as you return back to dreamland. as he places you down onto the bed, he drapes a blanket over your resting body. he double checks that you’re comfortable before quietly leaving the bedroom.

once he returns to the living room, he starts to pick up your dishes and cleans up after you two. he doesn’t mind -- it helps him clear his mind after the long day he had and also gives you a break from work as well as chores. it’s a win-win situation.

but little does he know, you’re upstairs hearing the dishes cluttering around alongside the kitchen faucet running. you can hear another video quietly playing on the television, but you choose to ignore it all in your exhaustion. you let out a faint smile as you go back to sleep, knowing for a fact that he will be in bed with his arms wrapped tightly around you.

“i don't care what other people say, don’t let go. dreaming of each other.”

on his day off, joe does his typical morning routine -- wake up at 7AM, leave a cup of coffee for you, work out, and shower all before you wake up. however this time around, you long for his touch as soon as he wakes up. you feel him stir and right before he sits up, you (with as much strength as you can against a football star) try to pull him back into bed.

“stay.” you mumble, wrapping your arms tighter around his bare torso and snuggling your head deeper as can get into his neck.

“babe, i gotta go work out.” he replies softly, but he can’t help but feel bad for leaving the bed cold with you in your tired state. he looks down at you -- brows furrowed, hair mussed all over the place, a pout on your face and a well-loved lsu tee on your body. he brushes the hair out of your face with endearment in his eyes and a gentle smile on his lips. he strokes your hairline and you lean into the touch.

“five minutes?” you murmur, sighing into his neck. you hold onto him a little tighter, a hand snaking up to his jaw, stroking the faint stubble that rests there. he can’t help but let out a chuckle under his breath as he settles back into bed, arms wrapped tight around you.

“alright, alright. five minutes.” with a kiss to your temple, he returns back into your arms.

five minutes turn into ten. into thirty. into an hour.

neither of you mind because you hold each other tight, whether you're in his arms or he’s in your arms. the reps and the weights can wait – but the time he spends with you in bed while the world moves, can’t wait.

“you may be on my mind. everyday, baby, say you’re mine.

you and me on my mind. everywhere, baby, say you’re mine.”

joe is very certain and absolute in his relationship with you. he rarely ever gets jealous, and he never fusses, pouts, or makes it a whole thing when he sees you with one of his teammates or one of your coworkers. he knows that you love him, and that he loves you.

however, when you two are at a restaurant, a stranger who cannot leave you two – you in particular – alone gets on his nerves. he notices the waiter slide a negroni over to you, claiming it was from the man from across the room. you and joe glance over to him, the stranger tosses a wink over to you.

joe raises a brow, staring back at the drink in front of you two, mocking him. some nerve that guy has – buying you a drink in front of your boyfriend. who even does that?

“what the fuck?” he mutters, not realizing he said it out loud. his protective instincts kick in, sliding one of his large hands across the table reaching out for you. his thumb rubs along your knuckle, and he squeezes it in reassurance, more for himself than for you.

“joe, honey, you alright?” you ask, holding the menu on your other hand. you try to look into his eyes, getting a read of his mood. in return, you get the calculated, cold joe trying to assess the situation and figure out what to do next. you glance over to the stranger in disgust, trying to give him a hint that you’re clearly with your boyfriend. a boyfriend who could probably crush him if he wanted to.

“i’m alright,” he replies, trying to brush the annoyance off. he tries to read the menu in front of him to distract himself from the confrontation. he has no reason to be jealous – the most beautiful woman is sitting in front of him and they’re eating at one of his favorite restaurants in town, with his team headed to playoffs after a nailbiter home game. what’s not to be upset about?

but yet, the drink goes untouched and any mention of the stranger is never brought up all dinner.

–

as you two settle into your bedroom for the night, you notice joe put up a particularly colder front. when joe makes his way into the bathroom, you follow behind promptly after. you sneak your arms around his waist, resting your head between his bare shoulder blades. you pause before you speak to him.

“you know i’m yours, right joey?” you ask, trying to soothe the anxiety bubbling in him. “no stranger in a restaurant or man is going to change that, ever. what happened in that restaurant is not, and never an indicator of our relationship, or how you treat me at all. i’m all yours.”

you can feel the cold front slowly melt the more you reassure joe – his shoulders feel less tense and his body feels less rigid in your hold. you place a kiss on his shoulder blades, and you feel a deep sigh of relief from him. he turns around and cups his large hands into your face, as if memorizing you. he looks down at you, blue eyes staring into yours, and back to the charm necklace he gave you for your one-year anniversary.

“i love you. thank you for loving me as i am, even when i feel like this. i shouldn’t have to. but i hate that,” he pauses, and you can see him trying to calculate the rest of his thoughts, almost nitpicking what he means. “i hate that it took one small moment to freak me out. that i might lose you.”

“it’s not your fault, it never is,” you answer back, reaching out to brush a stray hair out of his face and giving him a kiss on his palm. “you’ll never lose me, and it’ll take a lot for me to leave you.” you lightly chuckle, trying to cut the tension. you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer to you, joe’s arms wrapping around your waist.

“oh yeah? like what?” he eggs on, resting his forehead onto yours. he pulls you even closer against him, your bodies melting into each other.

“hm, i don’t know,” you smile, your lips ghosting against his. “but don’t try it.” you joke, finally closing the distance between you two. your lips press sweetly against joe’s as he smiles into the kiss.

“not planning on it, at all.” he softly replies, his lips kissing around the edge of your mouth before returning back to your lips. you two relish in the moment, hands moving around bodies before joe lifts you onto the bathroom counter. after all this time, you feel your heart skip a beat.

sometimes, he just needs a reminder that you’re his and that he’s yours.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

--

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

--

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

--

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

--

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

--

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

--

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

That decency carried into everything. He showed up on time. He put his phone down when you talked. He remembered the name of your impossible coworkers and the small details about your week you barely remembered telling him. He’d give you his schedule without you asking, casually including you in his life like it was the most natural thing in the world. With Joe, the effort wasn’t sporadic or performative, it was a rhythm, woven into his everyday actions. And that was what had undone you. Because your history with men was different: the kind of relationships where effort was rare, where “date night” was a last-minute afterthought, where chores piled up and communication felt like pulling teeth. You’d gotten used to lowering your expectations, swallowing your needs. With Joe, though, you didn’t have to. For the first time, someone showed up without needing to be begged, and the sheer simplicity of that made your heart (and legs) ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

Which was probably why ordinary things hit you like a punch in the face. Because with Joe, responsibility, care, and communication weren’t luxuries, they were instinct. They should have been normal all along, and yet, with him, they felt extraordinary. They made you warm and gushy, made your stomach flutter and made your thighs press together and made you feel many other ways you didn’t want to admit out loud. Joe didn’t just love you; he respected you. And God, somehow, that respect turned you on more than anything else ever had.

So when you came home from work after a day that felt like ten rolled into one, work, errands, witnessing a full-blown Karen meltdown in your local coffee shop, then sitting in traffic until your back ached, you expected to be greeted by the messy kitchen you’d abandoned that morning. But instead, there was Joe. He stood at the sink with his sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he moved a plate under the running water, the muscles in his back shifting underneath his white tee with every motion. He didn’t hear you right away; he was humming under his breath, the kind of absent, comfortable tune that made the whole room feel lighter. You froze in the doorway, stomach clenching and heat prickling across your skin. God, he was just… doing dishes. Something so simple. So ordinary. But the sight of him with his hands in soap, focused and calm, and, god his arms, it all made you cross one leg in front the other, made your thighs press together automatically and you could feel your panties dampen. You were too aware of the way your body reacted, that little ache starting low, the pulse that said you wanted him before he even turned around.

“Hey, baby,” he said finally, glancing over his shoulder with that easy smile. “You’re home.”

Your voice stuck in your throat, and when you managed words, they came out too thin. “You…your doing the dishes?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged like it was obvious, turning back to rinse another plate. “a lot of these were also mine, and I didn't want you coming home to a sink full of crap. Figured I’d knock it out.”

Something in your chest tightened, and at the same time heat rushed lower, sharp and needy. You tried to laugh it off, leaning against the frame like your knees weren’t threatening to give out. “You make it sound so heroic.”

He smirked at that, tossing you a quick glance. “Guess I’m just a guy who knows how to use dish soap.”

It wasn’t fair. Responsibility shouldn’t be this sexy. But you couldn’t stop staring at his hands, at the veins up his arms, at the way his broad frame looked so steady, so capable. You muttered a quick “thank you,” but your body betrayed you, you were biting your lip, shifting on your feet, feeling heat pooling where it shouldn’t from something as stupidly wholesome as a man washing plates.

Knocking out of your trance, you set your purse and keys on the counter, then moved to wrap your arms around Joe’s waist from behind. You rested your head against his back, enjoying the closeness, the warmth, the steady movement of his muscles as he finished rinsing the last dish. For a long, quiet moment, you just let yourself melt against him, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, letting it ground you. Eventually, you shifted, hands sliding away from his waist and up to grab his face and turn it toward you so you could give him a quick kiss.

“Thank you, again” you mumbled against his lips.

Joe hummed, kissing you back harder, like that little taste wasn’t enough. You pulled away quickly, to his obvious dismay, his lips chasing yours as if he could catch them. You smiled, patting his chest. “I gotta go showerrr.”

“Fine,” he grumbled playfully, leaning back toward the sink. “But don’t take too long.”

You carried your purse back to your shared bedroom to put away, and turned the shower on and waited for the water to be at your desired temperature. 

The shower was supposed to clear your head, supposed to wash away the day that clung to your skin like smog, but the second the hot water beat against your shoulders and steam curled around you, your thoughts circled right back to Joe. You closed your eyes, letting the warm spray cascade down your body, and all you could see was him, standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, broad back flexing as his hands moved steady under the water, veins tightening with every plate he rinsed. It was ridiculous, how something so ordinary could unravel you, how your thighs pressed together instinctively under the stream, heat pooling low as if your body were reacting on instinct alone. Your breath hitched as your head tipped back, the ache between your legs impossible to ignore. He had no idea what he did to you, or maybe he did, no, he definitely did, with the way his lips had chased yours earlier when you tried to pull away, hungry like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go. You told yourself to focus on the warmth, on the comfort of being clean, but your mind betrayed you, replaying his hum, his smile, his hands, until by the time you twisted the knob off, steam curling around your flushed skin, you were trembling in more ways than one.

Wrapping yourself in a  towel, you padded across your bathroom, hair damp against your shoulders. You went through your nightly routine on autopilot, patting your skin dry, applying serum, moisturizer, all the familiar steps that usually grounded you. Tonight, though, it felt like your hands were moving through molasses, every thought wandering back to the man downstairs, your man. By the time you slipped into your favorite pajamas, soft shorts and a loose top, you caught yourself in the mirror, cheeks warm, lips a little swollen from biting them too much. You looked like someone in trouble, and you knew exactly whose fault it was.

When you finally made your way back downstairs, Joe had set the table, food waiting with the same casual effort he put into everything else. You smiled, sliding into your seat, grateful for the normalcy. Dinner passed with easy chatter, though you found yourself inching closer to him without realizing it, your bare knee brushing his under the table, your hand reaching for his a little more than usual. He noticed, of course he did, but he didn’t call you out; he just smiled that small, knowing smile that always made your stomach flip.

Afterward, the two of you curled up on the couch, plates cleared, the hum of the TV filling the silence. Usually you were content to curl into his side, but tonight you were practically draped over him, cheek pressed against his chest, arms wound tighter than usual around his torso. He shifted a little, arm looping around your shoulders, but kept talking like normal, his voice rumbling through you.

“I just don’t get it,” Joe said, frustration edging into his words. “The front office is dragging their feet, and it makes no sense. Trey’s work speaks for itself, they should’ve had this deal done weeks ago. It’s so embarrassing that our franchise is the only one in the NFL to not be able to get basic deals done, it’s so…”

You wanted to listen. You really did. But God, did he know how hot he looked when he was angry? His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed, his voice steady but sharp with conviction. It was unfair, how easily he could undo you and make your panties dampen without even trying. Before you could stop yourself, your hand lifted, fingers curling around his jaw as you guided his face down toward yours. You kissed him, soft but insistent, pouring all your pent-up energy into the press of your lips.

He responded immediately, kissing you back with just as much heat, but when he pulled away, his eyes searched yours with a spark of amusement. “What was that for?” he asked, lips curving into a grin. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“You seemed like you needed it,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them.

Joe laughed, low and warm, before leaning in to press another kiss against your mouth, this one slower, lingering. When he pulled back, he tucked you even closer into his side, his hand stroking absentmindedly down your arm. “Guess I did,” he murmured, voice softer now, and you buried your face against his chest, dizzy with how badly you wanted him and how easy it always was to love him.

And just like that, you melted against him, your body buzzing with the quiet satisfaction of being close to him, of knowing he was yours, responsible, steady, infuriatingly attractive in every ordinary thing he did.

-

The next day was one of your rare days off, and when Joe left for practice that morning, you kissed him goodbye at the door before collapsing back against it, already wondering how to spend your time. There was plenty you could do, laundry, shop, watch a tv show, finally catching up on that never-ending reading list, but your mind landed on the box in Joe’s office. The bookshelf you had ordered almost a week ago had been sitting there untouched, waiting like a problem you kept pretending not to see. Your growing pile of books had forced your hand into buying it, but between both of your busy schedules, no one had taken the time to put it together. Today, you told yourself, would be the day. It had to be, especially since last night in bed you had told Joe, “I’m gonna build it tomorrow, I don’t have anything to do anyway.” He had just looked at you with that skeptical little smile, replying, “How about, we build it together tomorrow.” You’d taken a fake offense to that, asking if he didn’t believe in you, and he’d only chuckled, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and said, “Let’s go to sleep, hm?”

So here you were now, walking into Joe’s office with determined steps, only to stop dead when you actually reached the box. The thing stood nearly to your chest, wide and ominous, and for a moment you swore it was smirking at you. You planted your hands on your hips, let out a long sigh, and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The sheer weight of the project crashed down on you all at once, there was no way you could lift this, let alone build it on your own. With a groan, you pressed your head into your hands in defeat. “Ughhh. Well, that’s too bad.” Abandoning the mission, you shut the office door behind you and padded toward the couch, where your Barnes & Noble bag sat waiting like a much safer choice. If you couldn’t organize your books on a shelf, at least you could enjoy one of them now. Curling up against the cushions, you slipped into the story, the real world blurring at the edges until the sound of the garage door rumbling open hours later barely even registered.

Joe came home to find you completely immersed in your book, and your focus was so deep that you didn’t even look up when the door shut behind him. He couldn’t resist. He crept across the room with practiced stealth, leaned down so his breath brushed your ear, and whispered, “Hey.”

“AHH!” you shrieked, the book flying from your hands as you whipped around. Joe collapsed onto the floor in laughter, clutching his stomach while you pressed a hand over your racing heart.

“Joe!” you scolded, trying to keep your face stern, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “I didn’t find that very funny.”

“Didn’t you?” he teased, still grinning as he pushed himself back up. His eyes flicked toward your book bag near the couch, then back to you with a raised brow. “You didn’t build it, did you?”

With a dramatic sigh, you flopped back into the couch. “It’s so confusing. IKEA manuals are a nightmare. I’d rather live without a bookshelf forever.”

He smirked knowingly, already amused.

“Well,” you said weakly, unable to meet his eyes, “we could just leave it in the box forever.”

“Not a chance,” he said easily, shaking his head. Then, as if he hadn’t just thrown down the gauntlet, he disappeared toward the bedroom to shower.

You tried to return to your book, but your concentration was gone. The page in front of you blurred, not from lack of interest but because the chapter had taken a turn—one far more intense than you were prepared for. Heat prickled across your cheeks as your eyes skimmed the words, and you could feel your body reacting even as you told yourself to focus. The thought of Joe walking back in and catching you red-faced in the middle of something like this made your stomach twist. You kept half an ear tuned to the sound of the water running down the hall, ready to slam the book shut if he came back too soon.

When Joe finally returned, his hair was damp, his skin still pink from the hot water, and he smelled faintly of his body wash. He looked unfairly good—clean, relaxed, casual in a way that made your chest tighten. He plopped down beside you on the couch, leaning back as his weight dipped the cushion. “What’s got you so hooked?” he asked, nodding at your book.

“Nothing,” you blurted, shutting it with unnecessary force and sliding it onto the coffee table like it had just betrayed you.

He gave you a look, one eyebrow raised, but didn’t press. Instead, he draped an arm across the back of the couch, and you sank into his side almost automatically, letting the warmth of him soak into your skin. For a few minutes you stayed like that, until the image of the unopened box in the office started gnawing at you again.

“Joe?” you asked softly.

“Yeah?” His voice was gentle, patient.

“Can you help me build the bookshelf? You were right—I can’t build it. I tried earlier but… the box is literally taller than me. I think it might win if I try to fight it alone.”

His grin widened, pearly whites flashing. “Yeah, let’s go.” He stood immediately, offering his hand. You slipped yours into his, stomach fluttering at how naturally he said it, no hesitation at all.

In the office, the box sat waiting like a challenge in the corner. Joe crouched down beside it, slicing it open with his box knife, then spread the contents across the floor. Panels, screws, little wooden pegs—it all looked overwhelming to you, but to him it was a puzzle, and he set about organizing each piece into neat piles. You sat cross-legged with the instruction booklet in hand, determined to be useful, but within minutes that resolve crumbled. Watching him work was far too distracting. Every twist of the screwdriver made the muscles in his forearm flex and the veins stand out against his skin. Every time he leaned forward, the fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his back and shoulders, leaving your mouth inexplicably dry. You kept rereading the same line in the manual over and over, the words slipping past your eyes without sinking in.

“Hand me the E screws?” Joe asked, not looking up from the panel he was steadying.

You blinked down at the labeled plastic bags, fumbling. “Uh… what?”

He finally glanced up, smirk tugging at his lips when he caught your expression. “You good? You’ve been staring at that page for like ten minutes.”

“I’m… making sure you don’t mess it up,” you stammered, heat rushing to your cheeks.

His grin widened, playful and knowing. “Sure you are.”

The teasing only made it worse. Your body was buzzing with tension, an ache coiling low in your stomach with every precise movement of his hands. He worked steadily, confident, sliding panels into place, tightening bolts with a patience that should have been boring but had you practically vibrating with want. By the time he stood, wiping his palms on his shorts and admiring the upright shelf with a satisfied nod, you weren’t sure if you wanted to fill it with books or push him against it and ruin it instantly.

You just sat there, staring at him, words caught in your throat. God, he looked so good—shirt clinging to his chest, hair still damp from his shower, veins standing out from the effort. He looked delicious, in that raw, real way that had your entire body shook and wet to its core and it didn’t help that you keptvshifting restlessly where you sat. And the thing was, it wasn’t just the way his body looked that had you like this. It was the fact that he cared. He came home from a long and tiring practice, showered, sat down beside you, and then without a second thought, got up and built you a bookshelf just because you asked. No complaint, no sighing about how tired he was, no comments about how he’d “get to it later.” He just did it. That was the kind of decency that should’ve been standard, the kind of partnership everyone deserved, but in this moment it was unraveling you. You couldn’t stop thinking: this is what a boyfriend is supposed to be like. This is how men should act. Thoughtful, helpful, present. And somehow, instead of just making you feel cared for, it made your whole body ache for him.

Your mind betrayed you instantly, painting pictures of climbing into his lap right there on the floor, of his hands abandoning the screwdriver to grip your hips, of tugging that shirt over his head and letting him ruin you against the very bookshelf he’d just built. The thought made your stomach flip and your pulse hammer in your throat. The truth was, he didn’t even need to do much to get you there—just being decent, just respecting you, just showing up for you was enough to leave you trembling, willing to give him whatever he wanted if he asked. You wanted to whisper it, wanted to tell him, Joe, you could have anything from me right now and I’d give it to you, gladly.

He thought he was just putting a piece of furniture together, but to you, it was foreplay. It was responsibility and effort and care turned into the most intoxicating seduction. You bit your lip hard, praying he couldn’t see all of that spelled out in your eyes, praying he couldn’t feel how badly you wanted him.

Joe wasn’t oblivious, not even close. The whole time he was crouched on the floor with screws and panels spread around him, he’d felt your gaze like a heat lamp on his skin. Every time he glanced up, there you were, thighs pressed tight together, chewing your lip like you were about to burst. He’d caught the little shifts in your sitting, the way your voice wavered when he asked for the screws, how your eyes lingered on his arms longer than the instruction manual. And now, standing back to admire the finished bookshelf, he caught the way you were still staring at him, wide-eyed and restless, like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to clap or crawl into his lap.

He thought back to earlier, when he’d come back from his shower and found you clutching that book like it was guilty evidence. He hadn’t said anything, but he’d glimpsed a few words before you slammed it shut too quickly, words that explained the blush high on your cheeks and the way you wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. He’d known immediately what kind of chapter you’d been on. And now, putting the pieces together, your flushed face, your tight thighs, the way you were watching him as if every little gesture was undoing you, he couldn’t help the curl of satisfaction in his chest. You were worked up, and it wasn’t the book that had you trembling anymore. It was him.

When you finally stood, he didn’t move. He just waited, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, as if daring you to come closer. You did, slowly, almost unwillingly, as if pulled by something magnetic. When you reached him, your hands slid up his chest until your arms looped around his neck, your eyes locking onto his. Your voice was soft but unsteady. “It’s ridiculous, you know. You’re just… doing normal things. Washing dishes, building a shelf. That’s what people are supposed to do. That’s what men are supposed to do. But I can’t stop—” your throat tightened, “—I can’t stop wanting you. All the damn time.”

His grin spread, teasing, wicked but fond. “So, let me get this straight,” he murmured, leaning in until his breath brushed your cheek. “You’re all worked up because I…did normal boyfriend things?”

Your cheeks burned as you held his gaze, unable to deny it. “Don’t tease.”

“Oh, I’m teasing,” he said with a low laugh, his hands sliding to your waist to tug you closer. “You’ve been staring at me like I hung the moon and stars just for using a screwdriver and putting a couple of shelves in their place. God, baby… if I’d known that’s all it took, I’d have built you an entire house by now.”

You hid your face against his shoulder, embarrassed, but he only tilted your chin up with one finger until you were forced to meet his eyes again. “Well, yeah,” you admitted quietly, heartbeat drumming in your ears. “Men are usually supposed to do the heavy lifting, the hard work. And you—you just make it look so easy. So good.”

His smile softened, genuine now, his thumb stroking over your cheek. “Well, of course I do. I’d never let you carry something like that alone. Just like I’d never let you do the dishes either, would make your hands too dry.”

That pulled a shaky laugh out of you, and you slid one hand from the back of his neck to cup his face. He melted into it instantly, his eyes fluttering shut for just a second like your touch grounded him in place. When he opened them again, his voice was softer, a little rougher. “Do I at least get a thank you for building the shelf?”

You smiled, trying to play it off, letting a teasing lilt into your voice. “Yeah… thank you.” You started to pull back, to step away before you lost yourself completely, but Joe’s arms tightened around you.

“Oh no,” he said with a grin, and before you knew it, his hands slid lower, gripping your thighs firmly as he hoisted you up and over his shoulder in one smooth motion. You let out a startled laugh, pounding lightly at his back as he carried you toward the stairs.

“Joe!”

“Don’t act so surprised,” he teased, his voice smug but affectionate as he jogged up the steps with you. “You’ve been begging for this all afternoon without saying a word.”

He carried you straight into your shared bedroom, softening his hold as he set you down on the bed with care, like you were something precious. Before you could even catch your breath, the mattress dipped again beneath Joe's weight as he leaned over you, one hand braced against the sheets by your hip, the other cradling your jaw as his lips pressed firmly against yours. The kiss started soft, careful, like he wanted to savor the taste of you after holding back all evening, but within seconds it deepened. His mouth moved over yours hungrily, and when you opened for him, he took it, tongue brushing against yours in a way that made your toes curl.

You clutched at him, fingers threading into the curly ends of his hair, tugging him closer, but he pulled back just enough to smirk down at you. “Still can’t believe it,” he murmured, eyes bright and teasing. “All I had to do was wash a few dishes and build a bookshelf, and now you’re looking at me like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted.” His thumb stroked lazily across your cheek, watching the way you squirmed under him. “You gonna admit it?”

Heat flared across your skin, your voice shaky when you tried to hold your ground. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were just… being a decent guy. That’s what men are supposed to be like.”

“Exactly,” he said, grin widening as he leaned closer, his nose brushing yours. “Which means every guy should be able to get you like this, right?” He pressed his hips just barely into yours, letting you feel the hard line of him through his shorts, the proof that he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended. “But they don’t. I do.”

A shiver shot through you, your thighs tightening reflexively around his hips as your arms looped tighter around his neck. You looked into his eyes, breath catching. “Yeah. You do.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, soft and reverent. “God, Joe, I’d give you anything you wanted right now.”

Something flickered across his face at that, satisfaction, affection, hunger all tangled together. His teasing grin softened into something deeper as you cupped his face again, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He melted into your touch instantly, pressing a kiss to your palm before looking back down at you with that same dark, intent gaze.

“Then thank me properly,” he said, his voice low and rough as he dipped down to claim your mouth again. The kiss was messier this time, wetter, his tongue sliding against yours as his hand skimmed down your side, squeezing your hip. You moaned into him, body arching up into his as if you couldn’t get close enough. He swallowed the sound, groaning into the kiss as his grip tightened, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

When he pulled back for air, his lips were slick and swollen, his forehead resting against yours. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Watching you squirm the whole time I was building that damn shelf, knowing you were already wet for me just because I was doing what I’m supposed to? Baby, you have no idea how hard it was not to stop and take you right there on the floor.”

Joe’s words left you dizzy, your pulse hammering in your ears as he leaned back in to kiss you again, slower this time, like he wanted to stretch out the moment and make you feel every second of it. His mouth moved over yours with a patience that made you ache, every brush of his lips purposeful, every drag of his tongue deliberate. It was the same way he did everything, focused, steady, with his whole self. And it was that steadiness, that certainty, that made you melt completely beneath him.

His hands wandered as the kiss deepened, sliding under the hem of your loose top, warm palms skimming over your ribs before pushing the fabric higher. You raised your arms without thinking, letting him pull it off, and the way his eyes lingered on you sent another wave of heat rushing through your body. He didn’t rush, didn’t paw at you, he just looked, lips parting like he wanted to memorize you, like you were something worth taking in slowly. That reverence alone made you shiver, had your legs tightening around his waist as if to anchor him to you.

He bent down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your throat, pausing at the spot that made your breath hitch before moving lower. Each kiss was deliberate, steady as the rhythm of a heartbeat, like he was setting a pace meant to unravel you without overwhelming you. His hands found the waistband of your shorts, slipping them down with the same ease he carried everywhere else in life, as if undressing you was just another task he’d handle carefully, responsibly, but with enough intensity to make your body burn.

You reached up, looping your arms around his neck, pulling him down so your forehead brushed his. “You really don’t know what you do to me,” you whispered, echoing his words from before, your voice trembling but honest. “You– you’re just everything and I… I’d give you anything and everything.”

He groaned low in his throat, kissing you hard like he couldn’t stand another second without it, and the sound of it alone had your stomach flipping. His hips pressed into yours, steady but insistent, and the rhythm he set was the same one he carried into everything, measured, intentional, each movement more about giving than taking. You clung to him, nails grazing his back as his body moved with yours, heat pooling and spreading until you couldn’t think straight.

There was no rush, no frantic pace. Joe gave himself to you the same way he gave everything else, completely, fully, with all of his focus. His mouth found yours again and again between murmured words of praise, telling you how beautiful you were, how good you felt, how much he loved the way you held onto him like he was the only steady thing in the world. And in that moment, he was. Every kiss, every press of his body into yours, every whispered word was steady, grounding, and at the same time, it lit you up from the inside out.

When the tension finally snapped, it wasn’t fireworks or chaos, it was warmth flooding through you, steady and overwhelming, like the inevitable release of something you’d been holding back all day. Joe held you through it, his forehead pressed to yours, his lips brushing your temple as your body trembled against his. His own release followed, sharp and quiet, buried in the crook of your neck as he clung to you just as tightly as you clung to him.

Afterward, he didn’t move right away. He just stayed with you, his weight a comfort, his hand stroking slow circles on your hip. When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his lips curved into a soft, almost sheepish smile. “Guess I should build you furniture more often.”

You laughed breathlessly, brushing the hair from his forehead, still reeling, still warm all over. “Don’t,” you murmured, kissing him again. “Or I might not survive.”

-

You woke up the next day sore. Of course. Every part of you seemed to hum with the memory of the night before, and though it made you smile against the pillow for a moment, the reality of your alarm clock came crashing in too soon. You groaned, dragging yourself out of bed, wishing more than anything that you had another off-day. But no, you had to rush into work. And because the universe apparently enjoyed making your life bad when you were just coming off of a good night, everything went wrong. First, you were nearly out of gas and barely made it to the station on fumes, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles and praying you wouldn’t stall on the side of the road. Second, in your bleary morning haze, you’d thrown on the wrong bra—the one you’d meant to throw out weeks ago because of how uncomfortable it was, the one that always pinched at your ribs and left angry red marks on your skin. It was somehow the only one left in your drawer at Joe’s place since most of your stuff was still scattered at your old apartment. And third, the final straw: your coffee shop messed up your order. You asked for your usual iced caramel latte and walked out with… whatever this was. Something bitter and watery, nothing like the sweet comfort you’d been counting on. You stared down at the cup in disbelief, thinking, How do you mess up a caramel latte?

Safe to say, by the time you were driving home from work that evening, you were exhausted and cranky, the weight of the day pressing down on your shoulders. You tried to remind yourself that there are people out there having a way worse day but it didn’t help. All you wanted was to crawl into bed with Joe and let him hold you, but technically, you were supposed to spend the night at your apartment. The lease still had three months left, and while most of your things had been moved into Joe’s house already, you kept telling yourself you’d ease into it, that you’d give yourself time. But who were you kidding? You spent nearly every night at Joe’s anyway. Living with him was already your reality—it was just the paperwork that hadn’t caught up yet.

When Joe had asked you to move in, you remembered how the world had stilled around you. No one had ever asked you that before, not in the way that mattered. Your exes hadn’t cared to build anything with you, not even a shared living space. They couldn’t even take care of themselves, let alone you. They never cooked, never cleaned, never built their own furniture—God, some of them also had made you genuinely worried about their hygiene. But Joe was different. Joe was the kind of man who did those little things without question, who put thought and effort into being a partner. And maybe that was why it got to you so much, why the sight of him doing dishes or tightening screws had your body tightening in ways you didn’t want to admit out loud. Because deep down, you knew this was it—he was it.

So instead of taking the exit toward your apartment, you went toward Joe’s house. By the time you pulled into the driveway and walked inside, your whole body felt heavy with the weight of the day. You set your things on the countertop with a defeated sigh, your shoulders slumping, your pout giving you away.

You heard footsteps, and then Joe was there, warm and solid, wrapping his arms around you before you could even explain. He pulled you into his chest and you let him, burying your face into the soft cotton of his shirt, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent. His hands slid through your messy work hair, smoothing it back gently, and for a moment you let yourself just stand there, eyes closed, melting into the safety of him.

Without a word, he guided you toward the couch, sitting down first and tugging you easily into his lap. You folded into him instinctively, curling against his chest like it was the only place you belonged. For a long while, it was silent, the only sound was his steady breathing, his hand combing slowly through your hair as his chin rested atop your head. Finally, he murmured softly, “What’s wrong, baby?”

That question was all it took for the dam to break. Words tumbled out of you, your whole disastrous day spilling into the air. You complained about almost running out of gas, about the cursed bra digging into your ribs all day, about the barista messing up the one thing you had looked forward to all morning. You ranted about traffic, about your boss brushing off your comments during a meeting, about how everything just seemed to go wrong in unison. Joe said nothing at first, just listened, his fingers still stroking through your hair, his phone nowhere in sight, completely tuned in to you. He nodded at the right moments, asked small questions to show he was following, but never once cut you off or made you feel like you were overreacting. When your voice faltered, he didn’t push. He just let the silence stretch comfortably until you found the thread of your rant again.

By the time you muttered, “And then I didn’t feel like going to my apartment, so I came here,” your head was pressed against his chest, your voice small and tired.

Joe rubbed slow circles on your back, pulling you tighter against him. His voice was quiet, steady. “It’s not okay for your boss to just brush you off like that. You’re allowed to be upset.”

The simple validation hit harder than you expected. Your throat tightened, your chest ached, and suddenly your body wasn’t just tired anymore, it was alive again, lit up in a way you couldn’t control. God, how unfair was it that respect, basic decency, could make you feel hotter than any cheap pick-up line ever could? You tipped your head back, staring up at him, and when he pressed a kiss to your temple and murmured, “I got you,” you swore your heart stopped.

Those three words undid you completely. Your breath hitched, your body humming with an insistent need that had nothing to do with stress anymore. The ache low in your stomach sharpened, your thighs pressed together without you thinking about it, and suddenly all you could think about was climbing into his lap, straddling him right there on the couch, and letting him take everything away. You leaned into him harder, almost dizzy with how badly you wanted him, how safe and wanted and cherished he made you feel. You knew you’d come home because you didn’t want to sleep alone, but sitting there in his arms, you realized what you wanted even more was to lose yourself in him all over again.

You stayed curled against his chest for a long while, the weight of his arm around you slowly coaxing the tension out of your body. The storm in your head dulled, but the ache of the day lingered, heavy and tired in your bones. Joe pressed another kiss to your temple, lingering there as though he could breathe calm straight into you. “C’mon,” he murmured softly, lips brushing your hairline. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, so you let him tug you to your feet. His hand didn’t leave yours as he guided you upstairs, the quiet rhythm of his footsteps and the hum of the AC grounding you. In the bathroom, he turned the water on, testing it with his hand until it was hot but not scalding, steam beginning to fill the room and curl into the corners. You leaned against the counter, watching him, your heart aching at how simple he made it, how unshakably steady he was. By the time he helped you out of your clothes and pulled you into the shower with him, your body was already starting to unclench.

The spray hit your shoulders in a rush of heat, and you let out a sigh you hadn’t realized you were holding. Joe moved in behind you, his broad chest warm against your back, and slid his fingers into your hair. He massaged shampoo into your scalp with slow, careful circles, his thumbs pressing gently at the base of your skull. Your eyes fluttered shut instantly, your body tilting back into his as you let him work through the knots of your day. The pressure was perfect, enough to soothe without overwhelming, and you found yourself sighing again, your lips parting around the sound.

He rinsed the shampoo out carefully, shielding your forehead so nothing dripped into your eyes, then repeated the process with conditioner, combing his fingers through until your hair was soft and detangled. You stood pliant under his hands, letting go of control, letting yourself be cared for. And when he finally slid his arms around your waist from behind and pressed a kiss to your wet shoulder, you thought maybe there was nothing in the world softer than this.

Afterwards, wrapped in towels and moving through the quiet of your bedroom, you padded into the bathroom dressed in your pj’s with damp hair dripping onto your shoulders. You expected Joe to drop into bed and call it a night, but instead he sat down on the stool that was on your sink in the bathroom. “Do your thing,” he said simply. “You always look calmer after.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “You mean… you’ll let me do your skincare?”

He gave a little shrug, casual as anything, though the warmth in his eyes gave him away. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll do whatever you want.”

The words hit you harder than they should have, a lump catching in your throat. You gathered your bottles and jars, stepping between his knees. Tilting his chin up, you worked through your routine, spray, serum, moisturizer, eye cream—your fingers careful and practiced, smoothing each layer into his skin. He stayed perfectly still, his eyes soft and fixed on you the whole time, his hands finding your hips just to anchor himself. Every time your fingertips brushed his cheek or jawline, you saw him melt a little more, and in turn, you felt your chest lighten. By the time you finished, the day no longer felt like it was sitting on your shoulders, it had dissolved, leaving only this.

“There,” you whispered, brushing your thumb gently over his cheekbone. “So perfect.”

His smile was slow and fond as he slid his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap. “If it makes you feel better,” he murmured, lips grazing your jaw before trailing to the corner of your mouth, “then it’s perfect for me too.” He kissed you softly, lingering, his thumb tracing lazy patterns over your hip.

When you finally climbed into bed, your body was already heavy with comfort, your skin warm and clean, your hair now dry against the pillowcase. Joe slid in beside you, tugging you into his chest like it was instinct. His arm draped over your waist, his fingers idly tracing circles against your hip, grounding you even as your eyelids grew heavier. You burrowed closer, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the faint scent of soap and laundry clinging to his skin.

“Better?” he murmured into your hair.

“So much better,” you whispered, your words slurred with sleep, but sincere. You curled tighter into him, one leg tangled over his, your hand clutching the fabric of his shirt as if to keep him there.

He kissed your hair, breathing deep and slow. “Good. I got you.”

The last thing you registered before sleep took you under was the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear and the warmth of his chest rising and falling against yours. Safe, cared for, wanted, you drifted off wrapped up in all of it, your bad day dissolving into nothing more than a memory.

-

Thankfully after that very tiring day, the weekend was finally here, and for once, you hadn’t needed to wake up to the annoying buzz of your alarm clock. You should’ve been thrilled, but saturdays also came with the chore you’d been putting off all week: laundry. Yesterday, ever since you’d had to wear that piece of shit bra, the one you were supposed to throw away weeks ago, had dug into your ribs until angry red marks lingered across your skin. That was enough of a reminder that the pile in the hamper couldn’t be ignored any longer. After shoving a load into the washer, you padded back through the house, already craving the comfort of Joe’s presence.

You found him in the living room, sprawled comfortably on the couch, half-watching a basketball game that didn’t seem to hold his full attention while idly scrolling through his phone. The sight alone softened you, his broad frame stretched across the cushions, the calm ease in his posture, the way he somehow always looked like home. Without thinking twice, you plopped down beside him and curled into his side. He didn’t even pause what he was doing; his arm slid naturally around your shoulders, tugging you closer until you fit perfectly against him. You sighed against his chest, letting the tension in your shoulders loosen as the warmth of his body seeped into yours. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, the quiet broken only by the muffled commentary from the TV and the faint taps of his thumb against his phone screen.

Then Joe shifted, placing his phone facedown on the armrest, and looked down at you with that small, patient smile that always undid you. “This is what I’ve got so far,” he said, and began laying out his upcoming week. He told you which days were stacked with practice, how long practice was each day,  when he’d have to go in and see the athletic trainer, and even which evenings he thought he’d be home early enough to cook dinner with you. He spoke casually, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to include you in his schedule without you having to ask. But it wasn’t normal, not for you. Your exes had never cared to make space for you in their lives like this, never told you their schedule and when they could be with you. With them, you’d always felt like an accessory, not a partner. Yet here Joe was, mapping out his week for you like your presence was a given, like your time mattered to him as much as his own. It shouldn’t have made your throat tight or your stomach flutter, but it did. Communication this simple, this decent, felt more intimate than anything you’d ever known.

You listened with your cheek resting against his chest, his steady voice vibrating through you like a lullaby almost putting you to sleep. The warmth of him, the rhythm of his breathing, the softness of the moment, it all blurred together until your eyelids grew heavy. Your body sagged against him, on the edge of drifting off, when you felt his hand tighten lightly around your arm. “Baby, you good?” he murmured, bending his head so his lips brushed your hair.

“Mhm,” you managed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “Just… my head hurts a little.”

Immediately, he shifted beneath you like he was ready to get up. “Let me grab you some Tylenol.”

You caught his shirt in your fist, tightening your grip before he could move. “No, it’s not hurting that much. Stay. Please.” Your voice came out softer than you meant it to, but it worked, he eased back into the cushions, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. You let out a quiet sigh of relief and burrowed closer, his heartbeat steady against your ear.

But after a few minutes of silence, you stirred again, the thought slipping out before you could swallow it down. “I should probably go to my apartment… get the last of my clothes.” You sat up halfway, bracing yourself to actually make the trip you had put off.

Joe’s arm stayed firm around your waist, keeping you anchored. “How about you stay here and rest, and I’ll go?” he offered easily, like it was obvious.

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Rest? No, it’s okay, I’ll—”

“Baby,” he interrupted gently, his voice low and steady, the way it always was when he was making sure you listened. “Take a nap. Your head hurts. I’ll go grab your stuff. Don’t worry.” His lips curved into a grin, his eyes flashing with mischief. “...and maybe I’ll pick up that lingerie set you left there.”

Your jaw dropped, and you smacked his chest lightly, heat flaring in your cheeks. “...Joe.”

He chuckled, unbothered, his grin widening as he kissed your temple. “What? Don’t blame me. You left it there. I’m just doing you a favor.”

You tried to glare at him, but your lips betrayed you with a smile. The truth was, your body was humming with warmth all over again. It was ridiculous, how a man offering to run errands for you,  how a man simply showing up, could have you this undone. But it was Joe. And when Joe did something, even the simplest things made you want to give him everything.

-

The garage door rumbled shut and you heard the familiar heavy footsteps, followed by the sound of keys being tossed onto the counter. When Joe appeared in the doorway, there was a smug look tugging at his mouth, the kind that told you he had fully enjoyed himself rifling through your apartment and, no doubt, had brought back exactly what he promised. You braced yourself for whatever comment he was about to throw your way, something cocky and playful, just to watch you squirm. But the second his eyes landed on you, standing at the stove with your apron tied around your waist and your hair twisted up in a claw clip, the teasing smirk slipped right off his face. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes flicking from the steam curling above the pot to the strands of hair that had fallen loose around your face, and his chest rose with a breath like he’d just been sucker-punched.

He didn’t even try to recover his smug act. Without a word, he carried your bag of clothes up the stairs and into the bedroom, tossing it into the closet with none of the fanfare he’d been planning, before returning almost immediately to your side. “What can I do?” he asked, already reaching for a cutting board. You smiled, a little amused at how quickly he shifted from cocky to domestic, and handed him the chicken breast you’d set aside. He rolled his sleeves up and started slicing, though it didn’t take long before you realized he wasn’t exactly focused on the task.

Because instead of paying attention to the knife, Joe kept leaning toward you, brushing his lips against your temple, your cheek, the edge of your jaw whenever you tilted your head just right. You laughed softly, swatting him away with your shoulder, but he didn’t stop,  he just grinned and pressed another kiss against the top of your hair, his hand steadying your hip as if he needed to keep touching you while he worked. “You smell too good to concentrate,” he murmured, and you rolled your eyes, muttering something about how he’s able to even smell you, when all you can smell is the food, but you continued stirring the sauce as if your knees weren’t threatening to give out.

It wasn’t until you caught the sound of the knife hitting the board at a wrong angle that you realized how little attention he was paying. You turned your head just in time to see him jerk his hand back, cursing under his breath, the knife clattering against the counter. “Joe!” you gasped, dropping your spoon. But when you saw the sheepish grin spreading across his face, and the chicken strips half-butchered from his distraction, you knew exactly what had caused it. His eyes lingered on you, on the soft strands that had escaped your bun and framed your face, on the glow of your skin from standing near the stove. He wasn’t even embarrassed, not really. He just shook his head with a laugh, muttering, “Can’t cut correctly when you look like that.”

You shook your head, laughing softly at his excuse even as your chest fluttered in that all-too-familiar way. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, sliding the cutting board out of his reach before he could do any more damage. But of course, Joe never quit while he was ahead. Instead of reclaiming his place at the counter, he dipped the wooden spoon you dropped into the bubbling alfredo sauce and raised it to his mouth with exaggerated seriousness.

“Joe! You’re gonna burn your tongue” you gasped, lunging for the spoon, but he tilted it just out of reach, grinning like a kid caught with candy. He took a slow, deliberate taste, licking his lips before making a thoughtful humming sound. “Needs more pepper,” he announced, though his eyes betrayed him, sparkling with mischief. You shoved at his chest, but he leaned in anyway, brushing a kiss against your cheek that landed dangerously close to your mouth.

“You’re not helping,” you scolded, though your voice cracked into a laugh, betraying you completely. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it, slipping behind you and resting his chin on your shoulder, his arms sliding easily around your waist as though he belonged there. Every time you tried to stir, he was pressing kisses against the curve of your jaw, murmuring about how good dinner smelled, how good you smelled, his lips dragging lazily against your skin. He was more distraction than sous-chef, and though you tried to swat him away, deep down you relished every second of it, warmth curling in your stomach with each little kiss.

By the time the pasta was plated, you’d lost count of how many times he’d stolen a taste of the sauce or brushed his lips against your skin. When you leaned across him to grab the parmesan, he caught you mid-motion with another quick kiss, smirking like he’d won some secret battle. “Joe,” you warned, trying to keep a straight face, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upward into a grin that matched his. You set the cheese down on the table with a shake of your head, already resigned to the fact that you’d never win against his persistence.

Dinner itself was quieter, calmer. The two of you sat across from each other, plates steaming, the house humming with the soft background noise of the muted TV. It wasn’t anything fancy, just chicken alfredo on a saturday night, but somehow, with him, it felt like more. He twirled pasta around his fork absentmindedly, eyes flicking up to you more often than they lingered on his plate. When you leaned over to take a bite out of his, claiming it tasted better from his plate, a tiny streak of sauce caught on your chin, and before you could even reach for a napkin, Joe stretched across the table and brushed it away with his thumb. His touch lingered, his thumb dragging softly against your skin, and his gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary. Something about the simplicity of it, him tending to you without hesitation, made your chest ache in the best way.

Conversation flowed easily, weaving between light teasing and little stories. He told you about a funny text from Ja’Marr earlier, his voice animated as he scrolled through his phone to show you, and you teased him mercilessly about almost slicing his finger off while cutting chicken. He flushed slightly, grumbling good-naturedly, but eventually laughed with you. Then, leaning back in his chair, he admitted with a sheepish smile, “Can’t help it. You were standing there looking so damn pretty, hair falling in your face like that. How’m I supposed to focus?” His eyes softened as he said it, the teasing tone slipping into something quieter, more earnest, and you felt your pulse skip at the sincerity in his voice.

When the plates were empty, he reached across and grabbed both of your dishes, going to wash them. And you cleaned up the table, wiping it and cleaning it to get rid of extra crumbs or sauce that might have spilled. By the time the kitchen was tidy, the two of you migrated to the couch without thinking, the evening winding down into something softer, more intimate. You curled into his side again, your legs tucked up, your head against his chest, and he draped a blanket over you both. The low hum of the TV filled the room, but you barely paid attention to it; the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his arm around you lulled you deeper and deeper into the comfort of sleep.

At some point, he started rubbing your back absentmindedly under the blanket, his big hands kneading away the ache you hadn’t realized was there. You sighed in relief, the tension leaving your body piece by piece, your eyes slipping shut. “Feel good?” he murmured, voice low, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“Mmhm,” you whispered, your words slurred with drowsiness. You burrowed closer, clutching at his shirt as though anchoring yourself. He chuckled softly, tucking you even closer, his lips lingering in your hair.

By the time sleep claimed you, your last thought was how unfair it was that something so ordinary, cooking dinner side by side, sitting across from him at the table while he brushed sauce from your chin, curling into him on the couch, could feel this overwhelming, this intoxicating, simply because it was Joe. Because with hi,, responsibility and care weren’t afterthoughts; they were instinct, stitched into everything he did. And that was what undid you. In every relationship before him, you would’ve been lucky if your partner had remembered to plan a single date night, let alone folded you into their schedule or offered to run errands for you without being asked. You’d gotten used to the bare minimum, to disappointment, to relationships where communication and thoughtfulness were luxuries, not expectations. But Joe changed that. With him, it wasn’t about grand gestures, it was about the little things: telling you his schedule without prompting, listening when you needed to vent, kissing your temple when your head hurt, offering to do little things for you, so you wouldn’t have to. Things that should’ve been normal all along, but weren't normal for you until him. And maybe that was why it made you so warm, why it made your chest ache with affection, why you get wet just at the thought of him. Because Joe made decency feel like desire, made communication look hot, made responsibility feel like the sexiest thing in the world, and for the first time, you realized that with him, you’d never have to settle for less again.