#nfl fluff

he pushes the cart, holds the list like it’s a playbook he's memorizing for a big divisional matchup next week, debates mashed potato texture like he’s scouting opponents, and slips your favorite chocolates into the cart when he thinks you’re not paying attention because he knows your period is coming up, and there’s nothing more you love than those fancy little lindor chocolates when you’re under the weather, bonus points if he feeds them to you. but beneath the teasing, the sneaky aisle kisses, and the soft touches on your lower back, there’s something heavier humming between you. something new. because halfway through the produce section, joe stops, leans his forearms on the cart, and looks around at the shelves like he’s absorbing it all—the grocery store, the ingredients, the future holidays he hopes you’ll spend together. when his eyes land back on you, they’re softer, warmer, almost boyish. “this is our first holiday together, isn't it? like actually ours,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, and it hits you so hard your fingers literally fumble the cranberries, because suddenly it’s real; this life you’re building together, step by step, meal by meal, holiday by holiday.

the morning of, he moves through the house with this nervous energy he thinks he’s hiding. checking the oven temperature twice, flipping through recipe cards to try to plan out when each dish is made so that you can maximize your time, smoothing a hand down your back whenever he walks by, like touching you calms him. there’s something so endearing about this large, confident commands-the-entire-stadium-with-one-flick-of-his-wrist, joe burrow being anxious about hosting a family holiday dinner with you. he keeps stealing glances at you like he’s memorizing the moment, like seeing you in your shared kitchen, wearing his old hoodie, cooking your first holiday meal together is permanently altering his brain chemistry. halfway through basting the ham, he wraps his arms around your waist and murmurs, “this feels really serious, doesn’t it?” in that quiet, slightly shaky voice he only uses when he’s telling the most special truth he’s ever known. 

and when family finally arrives—robin with a pie and green bean casserole, jimmy carrying a bottle of chateau margaux and a bottle of cider, siblings and sister-in-laws piling in behind with nieces and nephews—you catch joe staring at you from across the living room with this full, warm, almost overwhelmed expression, the kind that says he knows exactly what you both just stepped into. a real life. shared traditions. a future. 

watching you move around the kitchen with his mom, laughing beside his sisters-in-law, trading stories with his cousins as you wipe your hands on a dish towel and reach for another bowl—it hits him in a place he didn’t know still hurt. it settles in his chest like something warm and cozy, something he’s been aching for longer than he ever admitted out loud. because seeing you there, so effortlessly woven into the fabric of his family, reminds him what all of this has always been for.

all the holidays he spent wondering if he’d ever have someone to bring home. all the years he sat at this same table, watching his brothers slip their arms around the women they loved, pretending he didn’t feel that sharp little pinch in his ribs. all the nights he lay awake thinking, when is it my turn? and now here you are. moving through this home like you were meant to be here all along, like the universe was just waiting for the timing to be right. and as he watches you laugh with robin over his poor, but adorable attempt at setting the table all by himself, or tease his cousin about burning the rolls, he realizes with absolute, bone-deep certainty that every lonely thanksgiving, every ache, every moment of wanting led him to this. 

to you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...will only eat your pumpkin pie 

joe insists, no, actually demands, that he only eats the pumpkin dishes you make on thanksgiving, and he does it with the kind of stubborn loyalty that makes everyone laugh except him, because he’s deadly serious about it. he’ll take a polite slice of robin’s pie just to be respectful and to not earn any death-glares from her or have her threaten to not bring him a snicker's salad during every visit anymore, but he doesn’t even finish it, doesn’t even bother pretending, because the second no one’s looking he’s leaning into you, voice low and warm against the shell of your ear, whispering, “it’s good, but yours is better,”. the way he says it—slow, honest, almost sinful—makes heat crawl up your neck. and the moment you bring out your pumpkin pie or spiced pumpkin loaf with a cinnamon crumb top, he’s there, sliding behind you with those big warm hands, finding your waist like he’s magnetized, chin dropping to your shoulder as he hums at the smell. he always reaches out to smear whipped cream on his fingertip, licking it off with a hum deep in his chest before he tastes your skin right after, lips brushing your jaw as he murmurs, “yours is also sweeter,”. 

he tries every year to sneak an early bite, and every time you try to scold him, he cages you against the counter, grin smug and boyish, bending to whisper, “c’mon…just one taste. for quality control,” and the way his hands slide over your hips makes it impossible to say no.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...“helps” in the kitchen (he doesn’t help.)

joe wanders into the kitchen constantly under the guise of helping, but he doesn’t help at all. he just gravitates to you like he’s incapable of staying more than ten minutes without touching you. if you’re stirring the gravy on the stove, he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder, arms winding around your waist as he sways you gently, murmuring into your neck, “smells good…so good,” and you can’t tell if he’s talking about the food or about you. if you’re chopping potatoes, he stands behind you with his hands on your hips, rocking you just enough to make you threaten him with the knife, which only earns you one of those cocky half-smiles he doesn’t show anyone else.

every time you try to step away, he tugs you right back against him, whispering soft things he knows will make your knees wobble—“you look so pretty like this,” “you’re working so hard, baby,” “wanna kiss you all over,” sometimes you catch him giving you that look—the heavy-lidded, hungry one that says he’s been imagining bending you over the counter all afternoon. something about you being so domestic in his world turns him on, and he’s so shameless about it. he’ll never say anything out loud with family nearby, but you feel it in the way his fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, warm and claiming, or the way he kisses the back of your neck before pulling away like nothing happened.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...carves the ham like it’s a high-stakes operation

he stands over the ham like a surgeon, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration, brow furrowed, mumbling to himself about “optimal slice width,”. he absolutely will flex his knife skills even though you’ve never once seen him cut anything more complicated than strawberries on a weekday. he pauses halfway through to look up at you and announce, very seriously, “this is why quarterbacks have good hand control. all about precision,”.  then he hands you a piece like he’s offering a sacrament: “taste test. it’s science. and don't worry, it's not too thin, babe, i know you like a thick slice,” he says with a wink that has your face turning the color of a tomato. 

if you smile too big, he gets smug. if you tease him, he squints at you and mutters, “you’re lucky i love you,”. 

⋆˙⟡ joe who...eats off your plate 

it always starts the same, too. your fork halfway to your mouth, your focus somewhere else for a split second, and suddenly his much bigger fork slides right in front of yours, scooping the exact bite you were about to take. he doesn’t even look guilty. he barely even looks at you. he just steals it, lifts it to his mouth, and eats it with this obnoxiously satisfied little hum, shoulders relaxing like he just had the best bite of his life. you glare at him every single time and he meets it with that tiny, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “what?” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your plate, “you weren’t eating it fast enough,”. 

sometimes he’ll lean in, kiss the corner of your mouth, then steal another bite like the kiss was meant to distract you. sometimes he’ll hook his chin over your shoulder and eat directly from your plate with your fork, pretending he’s helping you. and when you protest? when you push him away and tell him to get his own food? joe just grins, nudging at your thigh with his knee under the table. “baby…everything i have is yours and everything you have is mine. that includes your cranberry sauce,” and you pretend to be annoyed, rolling your eyes, but you’re already sliding the plate closer to him—because he’s joe, and he looks so cute and happy stealing your food that you can’t help but let him.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...pulls you into the pantry like he can’t go another second without you

the pantry becomes joe’s personal hideaway during the entire evening. every time you walk in for spices or extra ingredients, he follows a few seconds later, closing the door behind him with a soft click. doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing, he spots you heading to the pantry? he follows. before you can even ask what he’s doing, his hands are already sliding up your sides, pushing you gently against the shelves, the motion causing the spices to rattle as you land with a dull thud. 

he dips his head to kiss down your neck, soft, a little sloppy, just the way he knows you love. and the way he breathes, a little shakily, like he’s trying to hold himself back from doing something shameless that would earn him a stern talking to by his mother, makes your knees turn to liquid. “i needed a minute,” he murmurs, teeth brushing your skin. “just with you,” he cages you in against the shelves with his arms, big body crowding yours, his forehead pressed to yours while his thumb strokes your waist in slow, deliberate circles. 

sometimes he kisses you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs, and when he pulls back, his lips are so red and swollen, your lip combo all over him, and he looks so stupidly in love you swear you might melt. he always tries to sneak one more kiss, one more touch, one more breath against your mouth before you whisper that someone might come looking. god forbid one of his little nephews accidentally opens the door on you two, because you do not have an answer for why this adorably oblivious child is running around the house saying "uncle joe had his under in auntie y/n's shirt!". 

and joe always grins at your valid concerns, that stupid, cocky little grin, whispering, “that’s why it’s fun. make's me feel like a teenager again,” before reluctantly letting you go…only to follow you out a minute later, still looking at your lips like he’s starving.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...keeps checking on you like it’s instinct

even in a house full of his people, full of relatives who haven't seen him in forever, joe’s attention is always on you. his eyes are drawn to you like you were the shiniest object in the room. you’ll be talking to his brothers or helping his grandma to the living room or laughing with the cousins in the backyard, and when you glance over, he’s already watching you with that soft, protective gaze that makes your whole chest glow. he’ll cross the room under the excuse of getting another drink, brushing his hand over your lower back as he passes—just a quick reassurance that you’re okay, that he’s here. sometimes he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear before walking away, sometimes he presses a tiny kiss to your shoulder when no one’s looking, and sometimes he doesn’t leave at all—just stands behind you with his hand on your hip like he belongs there. he checks if you’ve eaten anything since this morning. he brings you water if he notices your lips look a little dry. he steals quiet moments to whisper, “you good?” against your cheek, even when you clearly are, because he just needs to hear you say it.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...is beyond thankful for you

joe laces his fingers through yours with a quiet urgency, the kind that’s been simmering beneath his skin all evening. he’d spent half the night subtly trying to steal you away—brushing past you in the kitchen, touching the small of your back as he helped his mom with the dishes, giving you those long, loaded looks across the living room whenever his aunt pulled you into another story about his childhood. and when he finally manages to slip his hand into yours without anyone noticing, he doesn’t let go. instead, he tugs you gently but deliberately toward the back door, his eyes flicking to yours with that soft, determined look, like he’s decided that if he doesn’t get a moment alone with you right now, he might spontaneously combust.

the door clicks shut behind you, muting the warm hum of his family. cold air skims over your skin, crisp and clean, and joe exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. the porch is dim, washed in pale gold from the light above, and he turns you fully toward him, as if he’s finally carved out this quiet corner of the world just to say everything he hasn’t been able to say inside.

his hands settle on your waist, drawing you in with a reverence so bare it steals the breath from your lungs—his eyes soft and sleepy-warm, lashes brushing downward like he’s trying to memorize you one blink at a time. there’s something almost boyish in the way his expression opens for you, unguarded and achingly sincere. “c’mere,” he murmurs, tugging you closer like the words he’s carrying can only survive in the inch of air between your mouths. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven, like he finally stopped running the second he got you alone.

“needed you alone for this,” he says, the confession rasping out of him. “just you. no noise. no eyes on us. nothing tugging at you but me,” his hand glides up your side, slow and sure, cradling your jaw. 

“is everything alright, baby?” you question gently, your fingers finding home in his hair, twisting the soft strands as you listen to his breathing—the most soothing sound you’ve ever heard in your entire existence on this planet. 

he inhales, the sound a little shaky. “yeah, yeah. everything’s good, fantastic actually. it’s just, you’re…” he tries again, swallowing hard, “you’re everything to me, sweetheart,” his voice cracks, just enough to make your heart throb. “i know i fuck around and act like i’m annoyed at the world half the time, but the truth is? i wouldn’t get through any of it without you. i wouldn’t be who i am right now if it wasn’t for you, for what you did to me when we first met, for what you continue to do to me,” his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, lingering this time. “you make every part of my life softer. easier. better. you walk into a room and it’s like everything i was worried about just—,” he exhales shakily, nose brushing yours, “evaporates. you have this kind of effect on me that i don't think i've ever seen or experienced before. it’s intense, so fuckin’ intense, but that’s just what love feels like. you taught me that,”.

your eyes soften, tears pooling in the corners, “joey,” you whisper. 

he leans in closer, lips barely grazing yours as he whispers, “i’m thankful for you every damn day, you know that? for the way you look at me like i’m someone worth loving. for how patient you are with me. for how you navigate through this crazy life that we live. for how you hold me without even touching me. for how you always show up for me even when shit gets tough. for how you make my life brighter and worth enjoying,” his voice softens, and his eyes, god, his eyes, gleam with a kind of wonder that feels otherworldly, like he’s carrying whole constellations behind his lashes, stardust pooling in the corners as he looks at you as if you hung the sky just for him. “for how you let me love you the way i’ve never loved anyone. for how you allow me to be soft around you. i love you so much for letting me be this version of myself. i thank the universe every fuckin’ day that you walked into that dingy diner that day in colombus. that you didn’t get scared when i made a move on you,” he grins, “even though it could’ve been better planned,” a chuckle leaves his lips. 

you nod slowly, recalling that moment you walked into the old diner with your friends, and the very first thing you saw was joe sitting in the corner booth with his old college friends. all of them whispering to each other like teenage girls and egging him on as if there was some elephant in the room you weren’t aware of, “yeah,” you giggled. “could’ve given me a heads up that you were paying our bill. gianna thought we were being mass cat-called or something,”.

“had to make a good impression. had to show you i can support my woman if needed,” he murmurs, that smirk playing at the edges of his lips, but the fire in his eyes betrays him—wild, hungry, impossible to ignore. before you can respond, he’s on you, closing the space with a precision that makes your pulse stutter. the kiss he presses to your lips is everything, the kind that numbs your senses, bends time, and leaves the world falling away. it’s not gentle; it’s not soft. it’s intense, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carries the weight of every unspoken word he’s ever held for you, every longing he’s barely contained, every heartbeat that thunders for you alone.

his mouth molds to yours with unyielding certainty, tilting your head just so, pressing lips to lips with a rhythm that’s both demanding and soft. when his tongue finds yours, it’s a slow, deliberate sweep, a teasing pull that makes your knees tremble and your hands claw instinctively into his shoulders. the heat of him presses into you, chest to chest, breath mingling with yours, every exhale shared and shivering, every heartbeat synchronized in the tension between you. he holds your jaw in one firm hand, fingers warm and grounding, anchoring you in the moment, and you feel the subtle tremor of want that runs through him—the quiet, feral need to claim, to keep, to consume only you.

the world shrinks until there’s nothing left but him, the taste of him, the weight of his body, and the desperate pull of this slow, impossible kiss. your heart races against his chest, your breath hitching as he tilts you closer, tongue and teeth teasing, lips dragging in long strokes, and for a moment, neither of you exists outside of this suspended second. every brush, every press, every groan swallowed into the space between you is a promise, a confession, a collision of desire and devotion that leaves you dizzy, trembling, and entirely undone in the gravity of him. he pulls away for a second, and you find your lips chasing his before a soft, “i love you,” leaves his mouth, but it doesn’t sound small; it sounds like the center of his entire universe. “i love you in ways i didn’t even know were possible. in ways that scare the hell out of me because it’s so big, so real, so much more than anything i ever thought i’d get to feel,”. 

“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he smiles against your chilled lips, pressing another kiss to them before saying,  “and i don’t ever want a life that doesn’t end with you in it,”.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...steps into your childhood home for the first time and instantly softens

it hits him the second he steps over the threshold. this soft, nostalgic warmth that seems to breathe out of the walls and wrap around him. the smell of cinnamon and butter, the kind that settles into a home after years of holiday mornings and late-night baking; the old family photos lining the staircase, each one a tiny universe of memories he wasn’t there for but wishes he could’ve been; the worn-in couch where you once napped after school, blankets still folded the exact way your mom likes them; even that faint creak in the floorboard by the hallway, the one you warned him about, the one that used to betray every teenage attempt at sneaking out. every detail feels intimate, untouched by the world, like he’s stepping into a place that shaped the girl he loves long before he ever knew her. he takes it all in with this quiet awe, like he’s afraid to blink and miss something important.

and then there’s that look in his eyes as he turns to you and murmurs, “so this is where you grew up…” it comes out gentle, like a confession, like an exhale he’s been holding. you can feel something inside him shift, like he’s finally holding a piece of the puzzle he didn’t know he’d been missing. and the moment your family gathers around him, any lingering tension melts away. they don’t treat him like “joe burrow, the star quarterback”; they treat him like your person. your dad gives him a handshake that’s half test, half welcome; your mom pulls him into a hug so sincere he just freezes for a beat, startled by the softness; your siblings eye him up until he fumbles out a nervous little joke that immediately breaks the ice and makes everyone laugh. and he blushes, actually blushes, because it’s the first time he’s been the outsider stepping into your world. but he handles it the way only joe does: with that shy smile, those polite manners, and that quiet charm that makes everyone fall a little bit in love with him without even trying.

but the sweetest part is how effortlessly he fits into your family’s traditions. he helps your mom set the table with the same cutlery and dishes you’ve used since your first thanksgiving, listens intently to your little brother explain the rules of a card game he’s never played, and sneaks quiet glances at you from across the kitchen like he’s falling in love all over again, seeing you in your element as you pester your dad about what he wants for christmas. he teases you for the way you still know where everything is—even the charlie brown themed mixing bowls stacked on the very top shelf of the cabinet with the missing screw—and kisses your temple when he passes behind you, as if he can’t help himself. and because he doesn’t like turkey, your mom surprises him with a small glazed ham “just for joe,” and the way he lights up at that, a soft smile on his face, hand squeezing your waist, makes you warm all over. he whispers, “i like her. she gets me,” and you roll your eyes, but he can see the glow in your cheeks.

outside, he lets you pull him into your childhood backyard, the place where you used to build snowmen and climb trees for hours and hours. he listens to your stories about your neighbor’s scrappy dog whose bark sounds more like a bronchitis patient’s cough, about the time you scraped your knee trying to prove you had superpowers, about your first kiss behind the tool shed (which he grumbles about playfully)—as if every detail is sacred, like he can't miss it because it won't be the same. and he kisses you there, under the same branches you once hung fairy lights on when you were twelve, murmuring, low and rough around the edges, “i wish i’d known you back then…how soft you probably were, how damn…perfect. but now, jesus, now i do. and i’m so damn glad i get to. you’re everything i’ve wanted, everything i didn’t even know i needed, and i can’t believe you’re mine,”.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t wait until everyone leaves to have you all to himself

once the last dish hits the sink and the soft hum of family chatter finally dissolves, joe’s patience snaps like a frayed, over‑pulled thread. he’s been restless for hours, tension coiled tight beneath the table, eyes dark every time you so much as shifted in your chair. his hand kept finding your upper thigh, fingers squeezing once, twice, like little warnings. the back of his knuckles skimmed dangerously high under the napkin, brushing your inner thigh with slow passes that made your breath hitch. and every time you looked at him, he whispered “later” in that quiet murmur that always ruins you, the sound rumbling low in his chest like a promise he’s seconds from cashing in. 

the moment the final goodbye leaves someone’s lips, he’s done pretending. he grabs your hand, hooks his fingers through yours and yanks, pulling you down the hallway with a pace so clipped and urgent you have jog a little to keep up. that hungry, crooked grin cuts across his face, the one that screams he’s hanging on by a thread. he’s practically vibrating with excitement, shoulders tight, jaw flexing, every stride carrying this sharp, impatient energy—like he’s two breaths away from throwing you over his shoulder and sprinting.

“you’re not letting me sleep without you…right?” he mutters, voice already rough, already dragging over your skin like heat. “i promised my mom i wouldn’t do anything…indecent under your family’s roof but i just…” he’s flushed and wired as he says it, pupils blown, radiating a wild, relentless need that’s been simmering beneath the surface all night. he doesn’t wait for your answer, he can’t. all you can do is watch him with your mouth slightly open in disbelief, and as the tension crawling under his skin finally breaks loose, and he’s dragging you into your childhood bedroom like he might fall apart if he has to wait another second. the door clicks shut. too loud, too sharp. and before the sound even settles, he’s on you. he pins you against the wood with his whole body, crowding you, caging you in that way that always steals your breath. his mouth crashes into yours, desperate and hungry, his kiss all heat and teeth and reckless need. he kisses you like he’s been starving, like every minute at dinner was torture, like he’s trying to make up for all the touches he couldn’t take in front of your family.

his palms frame your jaw, big hands warm and possessive, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a heartbreaking contrast of gentleness—like he can’t decide whether he wants to worship you or devour you whole. his breath shakes against your lips, his body trembling with everything he’s kept tucked behind polite smiles for hours. and when his forehead presses to yours for half a heartbeat, his voice breaks out in a shaky whisper, “i needed you all night,”.

the room feels impossibly small now. your old posters taped crookedly on the walls, your twin mattress buried under the floral comforter your mom insisted “was good enough until you left for college.” joe’s eyes flick to the bed for a fraction of a second, then back at you, teeth clenched, chest heaving, every inch of him shaking with the need to sink into you. you can see it—the raw, feral edge of him, famished and unhinged, and it drives a shiver through your core. “this is gonna be fuckin’ stupid,” he growls, voice deep, sinful, “but i do not care,”.

his hands rip under your shirt, fingers grazing your ribs, leaving flutters throughout your body in their wake, teasing higher and higher until his thumbs roll over your perky nipples, tugging just enough to make your chest arch, your gasp muffled into his mouth. your back presses against the door, every nerve alive, and he groans, a sound like gasoline on fire, hot and rough and filthy. “jesus, you’re perfect,” he rasps, lips dragging across your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, sucking and licking, claiming. he shoves you toward the bed, and the second your back hits the mattress, it screams, a loud, undeniable creak, and you both freeze, grinning like lunatics. “quiet, baby,” he hisses, breath hot against your ear, “or they’re gonna hear exactly how much you missed this cock,”.

one hand slams over your mouth, while the other slides down your stomach, palms cupping, gripping, teasing anything he can, before yanking your thigh open for him. the instant he pushes in, achingly slow, yet so so so perfectly, you arch, a broken, muffled moan pressing into his hand. every inch of him consumes you, stretching you, filling you to the brim with that perfect, sinful precision you’ve come to worship. joe’s pace is relentless, controlled but merciless, a rhythm built on pure, brutal want. the bed squeaks each time your pelvis meets his, every creak a sharp, wicked punctuation to the moans spilling out of you. the risk of being caught, of someone hearing, fuels him, makes him grip your thigh tighter, drives him over the edge faster. curls damp at the temples, jaw clenched, eyes pinned to where your bodies collide like he’s watching live art. “shh…fuck, shh, i know, i know,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours, voice thick with lust. “i’ve got you. take it. take all of me,”.

you can barely breathe as he fucks you with that perfect, relentless rhythm he’s perfected with you—deep, exact, hitting every sweet spot over and over until your thighs shake, every nerve raw with sensation. your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails claw into his shoulders, hips grinding involuntarily as he slams in, hard, merciless. he groans into your neck, low, filthy, “god…you’re so tight for me…i swear, baby, you get even tighter when you try to be quiet, fuck,”.

your whimpers burn hot against his palm, each thrust making the bed frame squeal, every creak a delicious promise. “yeah? that feel good?” he pants, voice fraying. “that good you can’t think about anything but this cock?”. you nod into his hand, another broken whine escaping, “oh, joey please,” and he bites your shoulder to swallow his own moan, hips snapping harder, pulling deeper, faster, harder. fingers digging into your hips like he can’t let go, can’t get enough, can’t stop claiming you.

“you’re mine,” he growls, deep, guttural, words vibrating over your skin. “all mine…in your squeaky fuckin’ bed…jesus christ, i can’t get enough,”. he drives into you deeper, so deep it feels like you see stars, your body trembling, quivering, locking around him, each muscle taut, toes curling, breath shattering in your chest. his pace turns ruthless, hips slamming into you with a rhythm that leaves no air in your lungs, no room for anything but him. and fuck—he loves it. loves how ruined you are beneath him, how you give and take and tighten with every stroke.

“look at this,” he pants, one hand sliding to your stomach, pressing there just enough to feel the outline of him inside you. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he watches the way your body swallows him. “you’re taking me so deep, baby. so fuckin’ deep,”.

your tits bounce with every thrust, full, perfect, irresistible, and he can’t stop staring, can’t stop the desperate sounds ripping out of him every time they move for him.

and the room? god, the room is obscene.

wet, slick sounds fill the space, each thrust a loud, messy clap of skin against skin. your bedframe hits the wall with every movement, loud enough that the two of you should care—should remember that anyone walking up the stairs right now would hear every filthy second. but neither of you even think about stopping. you’re both too far gone, too lost in the heat, in the rhythm, in the way his body claims yours and yours claims him right back. loud, messy, unapologetic, and utterly, beautifully unrestrained.

your orgasm tears through you in a way that feels almost merciless. a slow burn that turns your body to mush all at once, tightening around him so sharply he swears under his breath. it’s not the kind of climax that hits and fades; it blooms, unfurling in waves that keep cresting no matter how hard you gasp for air. your nails drag down his back, your thighs trembling around his hips as your whole body arches into him like you’re trying to pull him even deeper, hold him there, keep him there. joe feels every ounce of it, the way your walls flutter and clamp around his cock, the way your breath stutters into his mouth, the way your voice breaks when you try to say his name but can’t get past the sound of yourself falling apart. his rhythm falters because he’s obsessed with the way you come for him, how greedy your body gets, how wet you get, how you tighten like you’re made to finish on him.

and he loses it. his hips stutter. his breath turns into pants. he grips your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real, something soft, something you. a low, guttural curse grinds out of him just before he presses in all the way. a deep, helpless thrust that forces a shocked moan from both of you. he comes hard, the kind of helpless, bone-deep release that rips a groan straight from his chest. it hits him in a full-body shudder he can’t even pretend to control, his forehead pressed to yours, breath stuttering against your lips like he’s trying to inhale you just to stay on this earth.

the heat of him floods you in thick, heavy spurts, each pulse sinking deeper than the last, and he doesn’t stop—he can’t. he keeps rolling his hips through every trembling wave, slow and desperate, chasing the feel of your body clenching around him. like he needs to feel every last contraction, every flutter of your pussy milking him through the end of his orgasm. like stopping would actually break him.

“fuck…baby…,” his voice is wrecked, raw with pleasure, the words barely forming as his lips drag over your cheek, your jaw, wherever he can reach. he can’t stay still. he can’t stop kissing you, touching you, losing himself in the warmth of your skin while his body keeps spilling the last of his release into you. “you’re…god, you’re unreal,”.

even when the high finally fades, when his breath slowly starts to find a rhythm again, he doesn’t pull away. he stays buried inside you like there’s nowhere else he could possibly exist. his hand slides down to your hip, thumb tracing lazy, loving circles against your skin. gentle now. almost tender. he’s still dizzy, still floating, trying to wrap his head around how completely you undo him every single time. how you make him fall apart, how you put him back together, how he never wants to stop feeling like this.

and the way he softens inside you, still warm, still deep, still holding on…it tells you everything his ruined breath can’t.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives spontaneous, ESPN-level commentary to your entire family while watching the game

your grandma asks an innocent, perfectly harmless question—“why did that man run backward?”—and joe’s world flips into full broadcast mode. he snaps upright from the couch like a quarterback calling an audible, grabs the remote as though it’s a telestrator pen, and rewinds the play with the kind of intensity that makes your aunt jump. suddenly, he’s talking with the cadence of a seasoned analyst, breaking down cover‑2 vs. cover‑3 like he’s giving a ted talk in a packed lecture hall. every hand gesture is precise, punctuated with little emphases: a finger pointing, a palm slicing through the air, even picking up a charcuterie knife to illustrate leverage like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he paces a little, leaning into the screen, voice rising and falling with dramatic pauses that make your family nod along politely, trying to appear engaged while you’re internally dying of laughter. he points out angles, gaps, and player tendencies, sketching imaginary lines between defenders with absolute authority, and occasionally mutters things like, “see, that’s basic spacing, any rookie could understand this,” before flicking his gaze to your stunned relatives. your uncle chuckles nervously, clearly impressed but mostly terrified at joe's quarterback brain, while you can’t stop grinning at the utter, unfiltered joy he radiates.

finally, after eight straight minutes of running commentary, theatrical gestures, and unsolicited analysis, he leans back, grabs his cider, and takes a casual sip like he didn’t just hijack the entire dining room into a miniature studio broadcast. “so yeah,” he concludes, voice calm, almost smug, “that’s why the run game’s dead,” and the room collectively exhales, equally entertained and exhausted. you glance at him, shaking your head, because of course he’d turn your family dinner into prime‑time football, and of course it’s the most him thing ever.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets pissy when the quarterback throws an interception

he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but the second the other QB tosses a pick, joe’s instantly crashing out, evaluating every movement like a coach grading a practice tape. shoulders tense, jaw tight, fingers tapping against his drink like he’s drawing up coverages in the air, muttering under his breath, “can’t throw late over the middle…what are we even doing?” his eyes narrow, flicking to the screen, scanning footwork, timing, every single subtle detail like he’s already seeing the replay in slow motion. you lean over, smirking, and tease, “you wanna go teach him?” and joe freezes just long enough to give you that dangerous, low-key smirk—one brow raised, lips curling, eyes dark and amused, that quiet, don’t-test-me energy that says he could, and he might, if you pushed him. “i could,” he mutters finally, voice low and steady, “that’s the problem,”. and the way he leans back in his chair, shoulders stiff but proud, like he’s daring anyone to challenge him, makes you laugh and shake your head—because of course he’s exactly this type of insane about football, even on a holiday, and somehow, somehow, it’s one of the things you love most about him.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...wants nothing more than a lazy day on the couch with you the day after thanksgiving

he pulls you onto his lap the instant you sit down—no hesitation, no adjustment period, just a quiet, instinctive need to have you close. his hands settle on your hips first, guiding you into place, then slide down to drape over your thighs, palms wide and warm, thumbs tracing lazy, absent-minded circles that make your whole body soften against him. he tucks his chin into the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, breathing you in like he’s been missing you all day even though you’ve been in the same house. his arms settle around your waist, loose but protective, the kind of hold that tells you he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon.

the tv hums in the background, black friday football, the usual chaotic noise, but it barely registers to him. he isn’t leaning forward after big plays, isn’t muttering stats, isn’t yelling at referees. his eyes flick to the screen only out of habit, but every time he does he ends up drifting back to you, lips brushing your jaw or your cheek like he’s hypnotized by your beauty and your presence.

he’s warm against you, so warm it feels like he’s sinking into you, melting into this little cocoon you’ve accidentally built together on the couch. he murmurs quiet jokes into your shoulder, dry little observations about commercials or commentators that make you smile without even meaning to. and every few minutes, in the breaks between plays he’s not really watching, he tilts his head just enough to kiss your temple, your jawline, that soft spot beneath your ear. those kisses get slower as the game goes on, lingering, sweet, full of a kind of affection that makes your chest ache. one of them lands on your neck—soft, deliberate—and he stays there, lips resting against your skin like he’s gathering courage for the words that follow.

“i love thanksgiving now,” he whispers, voice low, almost shy in its sincerity. his breath warms your skin. “you know that, right?”.

you feel something ease in him as he says it, like he’s finally letting the truth out. “you just…you make it special,” he continues, another kiss pressed to the curve of your shoulder. “you make it something i actually care about,”,

his arms tighten around you, not possessive—just certain. content. full. and you can feel it all: the weight of his gratitude; the quiet, unshakable comfort he finds in you; the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s anchoring himself there; the way he breathes a little easier when you lean your head back onto his shoulder.

it’s soft. it’s intimate. it’s domestic in a way that feels sacred. he holds you like this is his favorite place in the world. and like thanksgiving finally means something because it’s a day he gets to spend wrapped around you and spend every single second being grateful to the universe that you came into his orbit. 

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets horny the second the world slows down

the shift always begins in the quiet. the moment the house exhales—leftovers tucked away, the echo of family chatter fading into memory—something in joe unwinds just enough for another instinct to take its place. he watches you move through the soft, dim glow of the living room, the tv humming low, shadows slipping over your skin, and his restraint simply…dissolves. he comes up behind you with that slow, certain step he gets when he’s already made up his mind, sliding an arm around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. his chest presses to your back, his breath a lazy brush against your neck before his lips find that place just beneath your ear. he kisses you there first, knowing how it always sends butterflies through your stomach, and when you soften against him, he releases a quiet, shaky sound he’d never admit to. his hands slip beneath your shirt with a hunger he’s been holding back since noon, fingers splaying wide over your stomach, your ribs, your hips, mapping you like he’s relearning you.

“we’ve got the whole night,” he murmurs against your skin, voice already deep, already ruined, already gone for you. and when you whisper his name, barely a breath, he shudders, tightening his hold like that single sound snapped the last thread of his control.

you don’t stay on the couch. you don’t stay pressed against the patio door. you don’t stay anywhere for long. he kisses you through the hallway like a man dragged under, pinning you to the wall with a groan when you tug at his hair, the kind of sound that vibrates through you and leaves your knees unsteady. he walks you backward toward the bedroom with the singular focus of someone starved, hands gripping, sliding, claiming every inch they touch.

by the time you reach the doorway, you’re already gasping, his mouth hot against your throat, his hands pushing beneath your clothes like he needs skin, needs heat, needs you. and when he finally gets you onto the bed, when he crawls over you with that slow, predatory confidence, it’s like the air thickens. the world narrowing to the drag of his lips down your chest, the way his fingers trace the waistband of your underwear like a promise he intends to ruin. his voice drops to something gravelly, sinful, as he whispers, “been thinking about this all day…about you all day,” before kissing down your stomach, your hips lifting helplessly into the warmth of his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to pull a sound from you that makes him curse under his breath.

and later—maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe lifetimes have passed—he’s above you again, chest pressed to yours, body fully, desperately aligned with yours as he pushes into you with slow, devastating purpose. his hands cradle your jaw as if he’s trying to watch every single reaction he pulls from you, pupils blown wide, hair falling in his face, breath shaking each time you clench around him. every thrust drags a new sound from your throat, and joe drinks them in like they’re oxygen, murmuring your name in a tone that borders on worship. he moves like a man who’s been deprived of touch for days, deep, deliberate, a little rough, a little sweet, utterly obsessed, his mouth finding your shoulder, your lips, your chest, leaving lazy, possessive marks he’ll admire in the morning. the quiet of the night only amplifies everything: the slap of skin, the low growls slipping from his throat, the gasps he pulls from yours. and when he leans down, forehead pressed to yours, voice trembling as he mutters, “so fuckin' good for me, so thankful for this pussy, fuck,” you realize he isn’t teasing. he’s unraveling, falling apart, breaking open entirely for you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...absolutely refuses to set foot in a store on black friday

the moment you mention black friday, his whole body goes rigid. like every muscle locks at once. eyes going comically wide, pupils blown in sheer, primal alarm. it’s the same look he gives when a blitzing linebacker comes out of nowhere, except this time it’s the thought of fluorescent lighting, screaming toddlers, and half-off appliances that has him silently begging the universe for mercy. “are you insane?” he mutters, taking a full step back as if you’ve just threatened him with bodily harm. his hands come up in self-defense, palms out, head shaking slowly like he’s processing a traumatic memory. “no. absolutely not. i’m not fighting an elderly woman in skechers for a half-priced toaster oven,”. his voice is a wild mix of disbelief and genuine fear, the kind that says he has seen things…horrors…unhinged bargain hunters…and he will not go back.

but then you pout. soft, subtle, the slightest tilt of your lips, the almost imperceptible lift of your gaze, and it’s the look he has never once been able to resist—those eyes, wide and innocent, that somehow hold both mischief and pleading all at once. joe’s whole face fractures in that instant; the dread he’d been carrying melts, edges softening like ice pressed under a heat lamp, the tension sliding out of his shoulders in a slow, audible surrender. he exhales, long and labored, a sound thick with preemptive defeat, like he already knows he’s lost before the words have even formed in his mouth.

without a word, he closes the distance, letting instinct guide him. his hands land on your waist, strong but careful, drawing you effortlessly into his chest. the familiar pull, the magnetic weight of him, wraps around you, and you feel it—the quiet inevitability of him, the way he claims the space around you without ever needing to announce it. he bows his head, forehead brushing yours for a heartbeat, and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead—the kind that steadies him more than it steadies you, calming him before the storm of his surrender. “fine,” he murmurs finally, the word heavy, drenched in melodrama, a small groan of protest hidden in the cadence. “we can go.” his voice cracks just slightly at the edges, like it’s painful to admit defeat, and yet there’s something tender in the way he says it, as though every ounce of his theatrical agony is only for you to witness. 

then he straightens, meets your gaze with the seriousness of a man about to enter the hunger games. “but i am not running. not touching anyone. not making eye contact. i am a spectator only…you’re responsible for all human interaction,”. each word is spoken like a legally binding contract he’s unwilling to renegotiate. and yet,  beneath all that theatrical reluctance,  a glimmer sparks in his eyes, a tiny wicked shine he can’t hide. the faintest twitch of a smirk. because he loves this. loves hovering behind you with a hand on your hip, loves grumbling under his breath at the chaos, loves pretending he’s miserable just so you’ll laugh and tug him closer. he’ll complain the entire time, sure, but he’ll be glued to your side, muttering snarky commentary, acting like your grumpy, overprotective shadow…secretly having the time of his life just being there with you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...looks intimidating enough that no one bumps into you

he trails behind you through the chaos of the mall, hood pulled up over his beanie, glasses on, shoulders broad and stiff like he’s on his way to a game instead of shopping for discounted candles. his hands stay buried deep in his pockets, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in that naturally terrifying don’t even think about it way he gets when he’s in public and hyper-focused on you. people take one look at him—six‑foot‑four, built like a greek tragedy, radiating silent menace—and immediately part like the sea. you’re weaving through crowds like you’ve got a vip escort, not because you asked for one, but because your boyfriend looks like he could bench-press emotional damage and fight for sole custody of the mall. he leans down just enough for you to hear him over the noise, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “see that?” he murmurs, “i’m useful,”.

and the worst part is? he’s kind of proud of it.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives brutally honest, judgmental commentary on every black friday shopper

he’s quiet at first, just observing. then the sighs start. loud, drawn out, dripping with disgust. “oh, great, she’s elbowing children for a vacuum she can get off amazon on sale on any other random weekday,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like the entire mall is personally offending him by their lack of intelligence.

he doesn’t hold back. every cart that crashes into another? commentary. every slow walker in the aisle? critique. the guy hoarding the electronics? “wow. selfish and bald. perfect combo,” he smirks at you, eyebrows raised, like he’s daring you to challenge him. “i mean, really. what’s his strategy here? just crush everyone in his path?”.

and the shoppers don’t even know it, but he’s scowling, muttering, judging like he has nothing better to do. he whispers running narrations to you, low and mischievous: “that one’s gonna regret that cart collision. watch…karma,” and then you see a fight break out in front of you.

every so often, he leans down, lips brushing your ear with that grin that’s half mischief, half deadly seriousness. “i could survive the end of the world,” he murmurs, “as long as i don’t have to deal with these people,” and you laugh, because yeah, he’s ridiculous, but somehow, watching joe watch the chaos is way more entertaining than the chaos itself. he’s judgemental, sarcastic, and just a little bit terrifying—but you secretly love it. black friday wouldn’t be the same without him narrating the apocalypse in real time.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...hates every second and is so dramatic about it

he is unbearable in the funniest, most joe way possible. like a man personally wronged by the concept of consumerism. he sighs with the full weight of every burden he has ever carried, loud and theatrical, the kind of exhausted exhale a dying victorian widow would give after discovering her husband perished at sea. every time you pause to look at throw pillows? another sigh. every time you compare prices? a groan that echoes down the aisle. he mutters to himself constantly, too “unbelievable…we’re really doing this…i thought we were above this,”.

“this” as in rummaging through the sale rack at the ugg store.

he gives lethal, passive-aggressive looks to anyone who even brushes the corner of his jacket, clutching the single shopping bag he’s agreed to hold like it’s gus boundary. “i’m not carrying more than three bags, babe,” he says in that rigid, no-nonsense tone, as if he’s laying down federal law. but you know him. you know the second you look the slightest bit uncomfortable, he’ll be shoving every bag up his arms like decorative bangles. hell, if your back twinged even once, he’d drop everything just to scoop you up bridal-style and march you through the mall like a knight protecting his queen.

and then halfway through the makeup aisle, surrounded by glittery palettes and overpriced skincare, he leans down with a grim, war-hardened seriousness. “if someone recognizes me and i end up on twitter again, i’m leaving you here,” the delivery is deadpan. cold. chilling. the threat of a man who has been photographed in a mall one too many times (the photo of him with the bath & body works bag gives him nightmares to this day). 

he’s joking…mostly.

because even as he grumbles, even as he pretends this is the worst day of his life, his arm stays wrapped firmly, possessively around your waist; tugging you into him every time someone walks too close, keeping you sheltered, tucked against his side like you’re the only thing in the entire store keeping him sane.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...softens instantly when he sees you excited

the second your eyes light up, over a sale sign, a cute display, or even just a pair of fuzzy socks, he melts like someone hit pause on reality. the scowl, the sighs, the grumbling about crowds and chaos? evaporated. his jaw unclenches, shoulders drop, and those sharp, teasing eyes soften into something warm and full, like he’s seeing you in a spotlight made just for you. he steps closer without thinking, hands brushing lightly against your waist, and presses a sweet, tender kiss to the top of your head right there in the middle of the aisle, ignoring the curious glances around him. “you’re cute when you’re in bargain mode,” he laughs, his lips grazing your hair as his thumb drifts absent‑mindedly over your hip. when you squeal softly at a matching set of pajamas, holding them up with that little spark in your eyes, he doesn’t even hesitate. he slides the pajamas into the cart, grinning down at you with that messy, boyish pride only you get to see, and leans in to press another quick kiss to your temple, murmuring, “i’d do anything to see you like this. all smiley and loopy,”. even amidst the chaos of the store, he’s fully present, fully yours, completely smitten

⋆˙⟡ joe who...loses it the second you walk into the lingerie store

the second you step inside, a quiet, almost feral grin spreads across his face, eyes darkening with a heat that makes your stomach twist. he’s supposed to be “helping,” or at least waiting outside casually, but the second he sees you browsing, all pretense falls away. his jaw tightens, hands balling into fists at his sides like he’s restraining the kind of hunger that could burn the whole mall down. every shift of his hips, every tightening of his shoulders is loaded with raw, needful energy.

he watches you reach for a delicate maroon lace set, swallowing hard, and his mind floods with you—naked in that fabric, soft and slick against him, hips arching into his hands, breasts pressed to him, toes curling. “holy fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, rough, dripping with want, half for himself and half as a warning he can’t resist. his hips twitch subtly, throat dry, pulse quickening as he imagines the way your body will move for him, the moans he’ll hear, the way he’ll taste every inch. every bra, every silk set, every little lace thong—it’s all for him, all for this private, heated fantasy that he can’t wait to make real. his gaze lingers on you, unbroken, almost predatory, and you notice the sharp inhale, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his jaw flexes like he wants to sink his teeth into you. he swallows again, hips shifting, the need in his eyes unmistakable. you feel it, searing and undeniable—the way his desire practically radiates off him—and it hits you: he’s completely, utterly, unashamedly turned on in the middle of this mall, and it’s all because of you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t resist dragging you into a dressing room 

the second you step toward a fitting room, he’s on you—fingers wrapping around your wrist with that familiar, impatient, i’m‑done‑waiting smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t say a word, just guides you backward, steps long and purposeful, until the door shuts behind you with a sharp click that feels louder than it should. before you can even breathe, he’s crowding you back against the mirror, his body flushing against yours like he’s been starving for hours. his lips crash into yours, hot and insistent, kissing you like he’s claiming territory he already owns. his tongue slides against yours with hungry precision, tasting, teasing, coaxing an involuntary sound from your throat—just a faint, needy little moan that has his breath catching and his grip tightening. he bites your lower lip with perfect pressure, enough to make your knees tremble, and then he swallows your gasp like he’s craving it.

his hands don’t linger politely; they roam with intent. he drags them under your sweater, palms warm against your stomach before sliding higher, thumbs brushing the curve of your breast through your bra, tracing every shape he’s memorized a thousand times. his fingers trail down your waist and lock onto your hips, pulling you harder against him like he needs your body to keep him anchored. his mouth leaves yours only long enough to kiss along your jaw, slow and molten, before finding your throat. every kiss there is filthier, open‑mouthed, messy, hungry, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers threats and promises in a voice frayed with desire. “quiet,” he murmurs, words brushing your pulse, “don’t want anyone hearing how good you feel for me,”.

his body presses into yours fully now, chest to your back as he shifts to kiss the curve of your neck from behind. he nips and sucks deliberately, not enough to leave a mark but enough to make you shiver and grab for him, your fingers curling into his shirt at his shoulders. he slips one hand under your bra, just enough to cup and tease your tit, the slow graze of his thumb sending heat spiraling low through your body. your legs wobble, breath catching, and he just smirks against your skin because he feels it—feels how easily you melt for him, how fast he can undo you. “my gorgeous girl,” he groans into your ear, “every inch of you…just for me,”. his hands slide down again, gripping your hips, pulling you back into him, making you feel the effect you’re having on him, the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding.

and the lingerie you came in to try? completely forgotten. the only thing you can think about is him—his mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off him in waves. every touch leaves you dazed, every kiss steals your balance, every low growl from him shoots straight through you. by the time he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, your lips are swollen, your breathing unsteady, and he’s wearing the slowest, filthiest smirk you’ve ever seen on him. “now,” he whispers, fingertips dragging down the inside of your thigh with sinful softness, “go try something…if you can even think about shopping after that,”.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...spoils you rotten 

he acts like he hates this, but the second you so much as pause in front of something? he’s already reaching for his wallet.

you say you don’t need anything? he buys it anyway, barely glancing at the price tag. “christmas is coming,” he shrugs, like that explains the way he’s filling the cart with everything you even breathe near.

you say something is cute? he doesn’t even let you put it back. “put it in the cart,” he insists, nudging you with his shoulder, that soft little half-smile he gets only with you tugging at his mouth.

you look at something twice? he’s already scanning your expression. the slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers brush the fabric, and he’s stepping closer, voice dropping so only you can hear, “babe. seriously. get it,” and he means it. because he loves giving you things. loves seeing your eyes light up. loves knowing he can make your life easier, softer, sweeter.

he pretends he hates shopping, but he loves treating you. loves it in a way he’d never admit out loud. to him, spoiling you isn’t spending money; it’s showing you in every way he can that you’re his girl, and taking care of you is his favorite thing in the world.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...geeks out over a deal on a lego set he's wanted for months 

the moment he spots it on the shelf, he freezes, eyes widening like he’s just discovered a hidden treasure. it’s the lego set he’s been hunting for months, the one he swore he’d never find at a good price. his jaw tightens, a low, excited hum vibrating in his chest, and he crouches slightly to inspect the box like it’s a rare artifact. “no way…is this—,” he mutters, voice barely containing the thrill, “is this the edition with the moving gears?” his fingers hover over the package, trembling slightly as he turns it in his hands, checking every angle, reading the description like he’s deciphering ancient runes.

you watch, half-amused, half-melting, as his usual calm, cool demeanor evaporates. he starts pacing a small circle around the aisle, murmuring calculations to himself about budget, space on the shelf at home, where he’ll display it, how he’ll tackle it in stages. every now and then he glances at you, grin splitting his face like he’s sharing a private victory, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that only comes from finding something you’ve been obsessing over. “babe…this is insane. they’re not supposed to have it,” he whispers, sounding like a younger version of himself with the way excitement is practically seeping out of him, “and it’s…on sale,”.

you can’t resist teasing him, voice playful and sharp. “so…mr. anti-black friday is suddenly all in for a lego set?” you draw out, arching a brow. joe freezes mid-step, box clutched to his chest, and then laughs, a little breathless and sheepish, cheeks warming. “hey…this...this is different,” he stammers, but the sparkle in his eyes betrays him, betrays the thrill, the glee he can’t hide.

he catches your eye, his smile wide and uncontainable, and in that moment, you see him completely, unguarded, joy radiating from every gesture. “i mean…look at this,” he says, voice full of wonder and disbelief, shaking his head with laughter. “i can’t even…i have to build it now. i just…i can’t wait,” and as he carefully places it in the cart beside you, it’s impossible not to grin too, because watching him geek out over something he loves this much is like seeing a piece of his soul sparkle.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...collapses dramatically the second you get home 

he collapses onto the bed the second you step inside, flopping with the exaggerated theatrics of a soldier finally returning from battle, limbs splayed haphazardly, hoodie half-bunched around his shoulders, hair tousled, chest heaving in dramatic, uneven gasps. the intensity is ridiculous, almost cartoonish, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifts. before you can even react, his hand snakes across the bed with that familiar, fumbling determination, finding your wrist and tugging you down beside him, so you fall into a warm, tangled heap—your shoulder pressed into his chest, his arm draped lazily but possessively over you. his nose nudges yours, brushing against your cheek with an intimate gentleness, lips grazing the curve of your temple, and his voice drifts low, rough, and utterly breathless, “worth it…but never again,”.

your fingers thread through the messy strands of his hair, and you tease, “until next year?” the words barely leave your lips before he groans, muffled against your collarbone, the weight of the day melting from him like ice in sunlight. he burrows closer, pressing his body fully into yours, soft now beneath the dramatics, warm and grounding, the contrast between his chaos and tenderness almost too much to bear. “…fine,” he sighs, voice thick with reluctant surrender, the exaggerated theatrics finally giving way to the quiet, steady rhythm of relief.

and in that moment, as his limbs settle and his breathing evens, you feel it. the absolute trust, the raw intimacy of being the one he comes home to, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the undeniable, unspoken truth that in the messiness of his theatrics and the ridiculous collapse of the day, he is completely, irrevocably yours.

“That’s good, baby,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Then his hand finds your hip.

“Come here.”

Not a question. Just a tug—fingers hooked into the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling you toward his chair instead of the empty one next to him. You go, because of course you do, settling between his legs with your back against his chest. He’s warm—not just from the sun. He runs hot anyway, and the weed makes it worse. You can feel the heat of him through your whole back, radiating through the thin fabric of your bikini top.

He passes you the joint. You take a small hit, hold it, and cough on the exhale—not as bad as you used to, but still enough that he huffs a quiet laugh against your shoulder.

“Getting better,” he says, mouth still on your skin. He takes it back, hits it without effort, and the smoke curls up past both of you and disappears into the afternoon.

Neither of you says anything for a minute. Just the pool filter humming. Someone’s music a few houses over, muffled by the wall—something with a bass line, unidentifiable. A dog barking somewhere far enough away that it sounds more like atmosphere than noise. The high hasn’t hit you yet, but you can feel it at the edges—that first loosening, the way the light starts to look thicker, the way his heartbeat against your back starts to feel like something you could fall asleep to.

His fingers are moving. Your hip, your side, the tie of your bikini bottom. Not going anywhere. Just moving.

Then he starts talking.

———

“Did you know,” he says, and you’re already smiling because nothing good has ever started with Joe Burrow saying did you know while high, “that octopuses have three hearts?”

“I did know that, actually.”

“Three,” he repeats, like you didn’t hear him. His fingers are tracing your arm now, slow and aimless. “And when they swim, one of them stops beating. Just shuts off. So they don’t like swimming because it literally exhausts their heart.”

“That’s why they crawl.”

He goes quiet for a second, and you feel him nod against the top of your head. “That’s why they crawl,” he confirms, like you’ve both arrived at something important.

You take another hit. Smaller this time. Hold it longer. The exhale comes easier, and the high is starting to settle in now, warm and loose, like the sun got under your skin and decided to stay.

“I think about that sometimes,” he says.

“About octopuses.”

“About having three hearts.” His hand has moved to your stomach, palm flat, thumb dragging a slow line above your belly button. “Like, what would you even do with three. That seems like a design flaw. Too many things to break.”

“Or maybe it’s a backup system,” you say. “You lose one, you’ve still got two.”

He’s quiet long enough that you think he’s moved on. Then his arm tightens around you—just barely, just enough to feel.

“That’s a better way to look at it,” he says. Softer now. Not stoned-philosopher soft. Just soft.

The music from the neighbor’s yard has changed to a slower tempo. The ice in your glass is melting. His chest rises and falls behind you in a rhythm that feels like it’s pulling yours along with it.

———

The high is fully in you now. Everything is warm and slow and a little bit golden, like someone put a filter over the whole afternoon. You can feel your own pulse in your fingertips. Every place his skin touches yours buzzes.

He’s been quiet for a while. Not gone—you can tell by the way his fingers keep moving, still tracing those aimless patterns on your stomach. But he’s somewhere in his head, the way he gets when the weed pulls him down instead of out.

“I don’t think about football out here,” he says.

You don’t respond right away. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because you know how rare that sentence is. Joe doesn’t talk about not thinking about football the way other people do. For him, it’s not a complaint. It’s a confession.

“Like, at all?” you ask.

“Not the way I do at home.” His voice is low, unhurried. “In Cincy, it’s always there. Even when I’m not watching film or at the facility. It’s just—running. This background thing that never turns off.”

His thumb has stopped moving on your stomach. He’s pressing his palm flat against you now, like he’s grounding himself through the contact.

“Out here it’s quiet,” he says. “I just wake up, and it’s Tuesday or whatever, and I don’t have anywhere to be, and I just...” He trails off. You feel him exhale against your hair. “I didn’t know I could feel like this.”

You turn your head enough to see his jaw. The clench that usually lives there is gone. Has been gone for weeks, actually, but right now—high and warm and holding you in the sun—it’s so absent it’s almost startling. Like looking at a different version of him. Not a new one. Just one he doesn’t get to be very often.

“Like what?” you ask, quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers start moving again—your hip this time, tracing the string of your bikini.

“Easy,” he says. “I feel easy.”

———

You don’t say anything back. You just settle heavier against him, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder, and his mouth finds your temple like it was already on its way there.

His hand is still on your hip. Still tracing the bikini string. But it’s different now—not aimless the way it was before. His thumb is following the line of it with something closer to intention, dipping just under the fabric, dragging along the crease where your thigh meets your hip.

He might not even know he’s doing it. That’s the thing about Joe when he’s high—his hands get ahead of him and starts doing things his brain hasn’t signed off on yet. And by the time he catches up, he doesn’t stop. Just commits.

You shift against him. Not a lot. Just enough that your hips press back into his, and you feel his breath change against your neck.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says. Low. Not a complaint.

“Doing what?”

His fingers tighten on your hip. “Moving like that.”

“I’m just getting comfortable.”

“Mhm.” His mouth drags from your temple down to the spot below your ear. Not a kiss. Just his lips, parted, resting there. Breathing you in the way he does when he’s high—like your skin is something he needs to memorize. “Real comfortable.”

The hand on your hip slides forward. Slow. Over your stomach, down, fingertips brushing the top edge of your bikini bottoms. He stops there. Not teasing—waiting. Letting the weight of his hand sit just above where you want it, his palm warm and heavy on your skin.

You exhale. 

“Joe.”

“Hm?”

“We’re outside.”

He leans in closer, mouth at your ear. “It’s my backyard.”

His fingers slip under the fabric. Not fast—nothing about him is fast right now. Just a slow drag down, and your breath catches hard enough that he feels it against his chest.

“There it is,” he murmurs. Mouth still at your ear. Smug and lazy all at once.

Your hand finds his thigh, gripping, because you need something to hold onto, and he’s all there is. The sun is still on both of you—your skin hot and damp, his chest slick against your back. Everything feels magnified. The calluses on his fingers. The chlorine smell off the pool. The bass line still thumping from somewhere over the wall, low enough that it almost matches your pulse.

He’s not rushing. He’s not even trying to get you there—not yet. Just touching you like he wants to know how you feel right now, in this exact moment, with the sun and the high and his hand between your legs. Curious more than urgent. Like he’s cataloging what makes you shift, what makes you hold your breath, what makes your nails dig into his thigh.

“You’re so warm,” he says against your neck, almost to himself. “You feel different when you’re high. Softer. Like everything’s—” He stops. Presses his mouth to your shoulder. “I don’t know. More.”

You can’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your hips move instead, pressing into his hand, and he groans—quiet, low, more vibration than sound.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like that.”

His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you can feel him hard against your lower back. He doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t shift or adjust. He just lets you feel it while his fingers keep moving—slow circles, no pressure, then more pressure, then less again. He’s paying attention the way he always does, reading you like something he wants to get exactly right, except the weed has stripped out all the urgency and left nothing but patience.

Your head drops back against his shoulder. Your eyes are closed. The sun is red through your eyelids, and his breath is hot on your throat, and his hand is moving so slow you could scream.

“Joe.” It comes out broken. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

You reach back, fingers sliding into his hair. “More. I need—”

“I know what you need.” His voice is thick. Honey-slow. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers push into you, and your spine arches off his chest. He catches you—arm tight around your waist, pulling you back against him, mouth open against the curve of your neck.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel—”

He doesn’t finish. Just curls his fingers and lets the sound you make finish the sentence for him.

The lounge chair creaks under both of you, and neither of you cares. His fingers are moving with that same unhurried focus—in, curling, dragging out slow enough to make you dizzy. His thumb finds where you need it and presses, and your whole body jerks against him.

“Easy,” he says. The same word he used before, but it means something completely different now. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”

And you do. You feel everything. The high has turned your skin into something electric—every point of contact between his body and yours is buzzing. His chest against your back. His thighs bracketing yours. The arm locked around your waist, forearm pressed flat to your stomach, holding you against him like he thinks you might float away.

You’re making sounds you’d be embarrassed about if you could think. But you can’t think. His fingers won’t let you. Every time you get close to a coherent thought, he changes the angle or the pressure, and it falls apart.

“You’re shaking,” he says against your ear. Not concerned. Pleased.

“Whose fault is that?”

He laughs—low, quiet, stoned. “Guilty.”

Your hand is still in his hair, gripping hard enough that it has to hurt, but he hasn’t said a word about it. His hips are moving in these slow, barely-there rolls against your back, like he can’t help it, like his body is chasing something his brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

“I want—” you start, but your voice dies when his thumb presses harder.

“Tell me.”

“I want you.”

“You have me.”

“Joe.” You tug his hair, pulling his face closer. “I want you.”

He goes still. Just for a second. His fingers stop, buried in you, and his breathing is ragged against your neck. You feel the moment he decides—the way his whole body tenses and then lets go, like something he was holding onto just snapped.

“Turn around,” he says. Rough. Not a request.

You pull away from his chest, and he lets you—barely. His hands stay on you the whole time, guiding your hips as you shift on the narrow chair, turning to face him, your knees on either side of his thighs.

And there he is.

Red-eyed. Flushed. Lips parted. His hair is a mess from your hands, and his shorts are doing nothing to hide how hard he is. He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even touched him yet.

He looks up at you, and his hands settle on your thighs. Heavy. Warm. His thumbs pressing into the soft skin on the inside, just above your knees.

“There she is,” he says. Half-smile. Completely gone.

Something about the way he says it—like he’s been waiting for you to face him this whole time—cracks you both open. You laugh first, and then he’s laughing too, low and stoned and shaking under you.

His hands slide up. Slow. Over your thighs, your hips, your waist. He pulls you down onto his lap until there’s nothing between you but fabric and heat and the fact that neither of you has moved to fix that yet.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, squinting up at you against the sun behind your head. “It’s stupid. It’s stupid how pretty you are.”

“That’s the weed talking.”

“That’s me talking. The weed just let me say it out loud.”

His fingers find the tie at the back of your bikini top. He doesn’t pull it. Just holds the string between his fingers, rolling it, waiting.

“Can I?”

You nod.

One tug and it falls. He catches the fabric before it drops, pulls it away from you slowly, and tosses it somewhere behind the chair without looking. His eyes don’t leave your body. He stares—openly, unhurried, with none of the composure he usually wears like armor. The weed and the sun and the want have stripped all of it out, and what’s left is just him, looking at you like he’s trying to figure out how you’re real.

His hands come up to your waist. He pulls you closer and presses his mouth to your sternum. Just rests there. Breathing. His thumbs are tracing the underside of your breasts, barely touching, like he’s got all day and plans to use every second of it.

“Joe,” you whisper. Your hands are in his hair again.

“I know.” He kisses your chest. Then lower. Then the curve of your breast, open-mouthed, tongue dragging slowly across your skin. “I know. I’m getting there.”

“You’re taking forever.”

“We’ve got forever.” He says it into your skin, simple and stoned and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You reach between you. His stomach tenses under your fingers—a sharp breath, his abs contracting when you trace the line of hair below his belly button and keep going. Your palm presses over him through his shorts, and his head drops back against the chair.

“Fuck,” he breathes. Eyes closed. Jaw slack. His hips push up into your hand without permission, just once, and then he catches himself. Tries to.

“Don’t do that,” you say.

He opens his eyes. “Do what?”

“Hold back.” You press harder. Watch his throat work. “You don’t have to out here.”

Something moves across his face. That same recognition from earlier—like you’ve named a thing he didn’t know he was doing. His hands flex on your hips. His jaw loosens.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Okay.”

You lift up enough for him to push his shorts down, and he does—just enough, shoving the waistband past his hips with one hand while the other stays on you. Like he can’t not touch you for even the two seconds it takes.

You push your bikini bottoms to the side. His eyes drop to watch, and the sound he makes—low, almost pained—hits you right in the chest.

“Come here,” he says. Both hands on your hips now, pulling you forward. “Come here, come here.”

You sink down onto him slowly. The high makes everything louder—the stretch, the heat, the way his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks neither of you will notice until tomorrow. His mouth falls open, a strangled groan caught in his throat, and his head drops forward against your collarbone.

“God,” he manages. “Oh, my god.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. Just both of you breathing, adjusting, feeling everything at twice the volume. The sun is hot on your back. His chest is hot against yours. The lounge chair groans under the shift of your weight, and somewhere a car door shuts, and a bird is going off in a tree, and the world is still happening out there, on the other side of the wall, while you sit in his lap and feel him pulse inside you.

His hands slide up your back. Slowly. Fingers spread wide, pulling you into him. He tilts his head up and kisses you—sloppy, stoned, all tongue and no coordination. You can taste the pineapple juice and the weed, and underneath it, just him.

“Move,” he whispers against your mouth. “Baby, please move.”

You do. Slow. A roll of your hips that barely counts as movement, but his whole body responds—hands tightening on your back, breath punching out of him, his hips lifting to meet yours like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

“Just like that,” he says. Barely words. More air than voice. “Fuck. Just like that.”

The pace stays slow because neither of you can make it anything else. The high has turned everything syrupy—your limbs, your thoughts, the rhythm between you. Every time you rise up and sink back down, it feels like it takes a full minute. Like time is moving through honey, and you’re both stuck in it, and neither of you wants out.

His mouth is everywhere. Your throat. Your collarbone. The swell of your breast. He’s not kissing so much as tasting—open-mouthed and wet and unfocused, dragging his lips across whatever skin he can reach. His hands are the same. Roaming. Restless. Up your spine, down your sides, gripping your ass, then back to your hips to pull you down harder.

“You feel—” He shakes his head against your chest. “I can’t. I can’t describe it. Everything is just—”

“I know,” you whisper. Because you do. Your skin feels like it’s humming. Every nerve is dialed up and spread out at the same time, like the weed took everything your body can feel and turned the volume all the way up.

You plant your hands on his chest and push yourself upright. His eyes open—heavy, glassy, red-rimmed—and he looks up at you with an expression so open it almost hurts. No filter. No composure. No, carefully constructed anything. Just Joe, high and sun-drunk and buried inside you, looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Don’t stop,” he says. His voice cracks on it, and he doesn’t care. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

You roll your hips again. Deeper this time. His head falls back against the chair, and his hands clamp down on your thighs—hard, bruising, holding on like the chair might tip and take both of you with it.

The lounge chair is creaking in a rhythm now. Steady and obscene, and you’d laugh about it if you could think about anything other than the way he feels inside you—thick and deep and hitting the exact right place every time your hips meet his.

“Baby,” he grits out. His stomach is tensing under your palms. His breathing has gone short and ragged. “Baby, I’m—”

“I know.” You lean down, mouth against his ear. “Me too.”

His arm locks around your waist. Pulls you flush against him so there’s nothing between you—chest to chest, skin to skin, sweat and sunscreen and chlorine. His hips start moving faster, taking over, fucking up into you with a desperation that doesn’t match anything else about this lazy, hazy afternoon.

“Look at me,” you say, and he does. Immediately. No hesitation. His eyes find yours and stay there—blown wide, barely any blue left, and so completely unguarded that it feels like seeing something sacred.

He comes first. You feel it—the stutter in his rhythm, the way his whole body locks up, his arm crushing you against him as he groans into your neck. Not loud. Just wrecked. A sound that starts in his chest and gets caught somewhere in his throat, and his hips jerk once, twice, and then he’s pressing as deep as he can get and holding you there.

That’s what tips you over. The feel of him letting go—the sound, the grip, the way his face looks when he’s not holding anything back. It rolls through you slow and devastating, starting low and spreading outward until your thighs are shaking against his hips and you’re gasping into his hair and everything goes white and warm and infinite.

———

The pool filter hums. The bird is still going off in that tree. The bass line from the neighbor’s yard has changed to something you almost recognize but can’t name and don’t care enough to try.

Neither of you moves.

His arms are still around you—loose now, heavy, his fingers barely twitching against your lower back. His face is buried in your neck, and his breathing is slow and damp against your skin. You can feel his heartbeat through his chest, still coming down, still faster than normal.

Your forehead is on his shoulder. Your legs are jelly. The sun is on your back, and his hands are on your skin, and you’re pretty sure if someone asked you your name right now, you’d get it wrong.

He speaks first. Barely.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

You laugh—weak, shaky, muffled against his shoulder. “Good.”

“No, like—” He shifts under you and winces. “I think the chair ate my spine.”

“That’s what you get for not going inside.”

“I’m not apologizing for that. I’m never apologizing for that.” His arms tighten. A lazy squeeze. “That was—”

He doesn’t finish. Just exhales. Long and slow and satisfied, the kind of breath that carries the last of the tension out with it.

You lift your head enough to look at him. He’s a mess. Hair going in four directions. Eyes barely open, so red they’re almost pink. There’s a mark on his shoulder that you don’t remember making and a sunburn starting across his nose.

He looks like the happiest person on the planet.

“What?” he says, catching you staring.

“Nothing.” You brush his hair back from his forehead. It’s damp and warm and sticks to your fingers. “You just look really good right now.”

“I look destroyed.”

“Same thing.”

He grins. Slow and crooked and so completely stoned. His hand comes up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, then stays there—palm against your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“Stay,” he says.

“I’m literally on top of you.”

“No, I mean—” He blinks. Slow. “Out here. Don’t go inside yet. Just stay.”

You settle back against his chest. His arms fold around you again, easy, automatic, like his body already knows the shape of this. The lounge chair groans under the rearranging but holds. His chin rests on top of your head, and his thumb draws slow circles on your shoulder.

The sun is lower now. Not setting yet, but getting there—that golden hour light that makes everything look like a photograph. The water in the pool is still. The music has stopped. Even the bird has finally shut up.

“Hey,” he says after a while. His voice is thick with sleep.

“Hm?”

“The octopus thing.”

You smile against his chest. “What about it?”

“Three hearts.” His words are starting to slur, going slow and heavy at the edges. “But they only need one to crawl.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His arms tighten one more time. His mouth presses to the top of your head.

“One’s enough,” he says.

He’s asleep before you can answer. You close your eyes. The sun keeps going. You stay.

She, and her roommates, had moved into their apartment building a handful of days prior, eager to beat the crowds. She didn’t have to deal with the horrors of dorm life anymore, which was a relief. There were no more communal bathrooms, no RA breathing down her neck, and definitely no awkwardly small twin-sized beds.

Her freshman year at Michigan passed with a slow dip of her toe in the Fall that ended with a full dive into the deep end by the Spring. When she turned down the long list of colleges that accepted her in favor of Michigan, she didn’t think twice. Michigan felt like home immediately. It was easy to build community. It made her proud to carve out pockets of belonging in a place where everyone was searching for their own.

The lecture hall smelled of industrial cleaning products. She took a seat next to a dark-haired girl she vaguely recognized from a study group she floated in and out of last Spring. The pink-colored scheduling block on her calendar told her this pre-semester meeting was due to last 30 minutes at most before she had to attend another meeting with the Black Student Union’s executive board.

The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly as she tapped her pen against her notebook, half-listening to the psychology department coordinator drone on about undergraduate assistant protocols.

“In the Psychology Department, it is our policy that LAs are required to attend all lectures. No exceptions,” the coordinator continued, bringing her attention back to the front of the room. She glanced at the clock to see there were eight minutes left. The dark-haired girl beside her stifled a yawn, and she offered a sympathetic smile before flipping her notebook shut.

The coordinator dismissed them with a final reminder about the meeting days and times for each class the assistants were assigned to. She gathered her things quickly, eager to escape the stale air of the lecture hall. As she stood, the dark-haired girl—Nina, she recalled now—caught her eye again.

“Psych 112, right?” Nina asked, falling into step beside her as they exited.

She nodded, adjusting the strap of her backpack. “Yeah. You too?”

Nina grinned. “I was hoping I would end up with someone I knew. Maybe we can grab lunch before the first lecture?”

The lecture hall doors swung shut behind them with a soft thud, and she inhaled the last August air like it was her first real breath in hours. Nina chatted animatedly about her summer internship and they agreed to meet for lunch at noon before lecture.

[ . . . ]

The first week of classes blurred past her in a haze of syllabus reviews and caffeine-fueled adjustments to her new schedule. On Tuesday afternoon, she nursed a fountain drink, taking a seat next to Nina in the back of Psych 112’s cavernous lecture hall.

The agenda for the first class didn’t deviate from those of her other courses, introductions, expectations, and an overview of the syllabus, but she still took diligent notes, knowing that they would be useful when the students taking the class needed clarifications. Halfway through the professor’s introduction of himself, the lecture hall doors groaned open. Heads turned toward the interruption, and she glanced up just as a tall, broad-framed figure slipped inside with an apologetic grimace.

The latecomer moved with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to taking up space, his shoulders nearly brushing the sides as he ducked inside. She noticed the way sunlight from the high windows caught the buzzed-dark strands of his hair before the door swung shut behind him. He scanned the room with a quick tilt of his head, bending his body slightly to avoid obscuring the view of the students he passed, ironically worsening the issue due to his size. His gaze snagged on the empty seat directly in front of her, and she watched—oddly transfixed—as he folded himself into the chair with a soft grunt.

His shoulders were wide enough that she had to angle her head to see the professor. The scent of fresh-cut grass and the combination of something woodsy yet clean like fresh laundry drifted over her. She inhaled without meaning to, then spent the next few seconds trying to put her finger on what it was.

The professor continued his introduction, but her attention kept drifting to the back of the guy’s head in front of her. There was the sharp taper of his fade, his neck curving into his shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline from whatever he’d been doing before rushing here. When he shifted, pulling a laptop from his backpack, he turned slightly, murmuring a quiet, “Sorry,” when the zipper grew louder than he anticipated. His voice was low, her ears picked up an accent she couldn’t quite place but noted its warm unhurriedness.

“We have a group of undergrads who took this class recently who will be assisting with the class; answering questions and helping out here and there,” the professor announced, gesturing toward the side of the lecture hall where she and the other LAs sat. “Feel free to approach them after class if you need help navigating Canvas or have any initial questions. If you all could come up and introduce yourselves?”

She stood with the other LAs, smoothing her palms against her thighs as they filed toward the front of the lecture hall. The latecomer, now she could see his full profile, tilted his head back slightly to watch them approach, his brown eyes tracking her as the group of six LAs stood in front of the class. They each introduced themselves to the class; name, year, major, their career interest, and a fun fact.

Her turn came third. She stepped forward, acutely aware of the way the latecomer’s attention seemed to be absorbed by her. She began her introduction with her first name, her voice steady despite the sudden dryness in her throat. “I’m a sophomore, double majoring in business and psychology. I’m interested in doing a PHD in organizational psychology, and...” She hesitated, then smiled. “Fun fact, I’ve never lost a game of Battleship.”

The latecomer laughed at her fun fact, a slow, crooked grin crossing his face that made the dimple in his left cheek appear, an unexpected detail she catalogued subconsciously. His hands, large enough to palm a basketball without effort, clapped together in quiet applause as she stepped back into line. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too much.

She tried to look elsewhere, intentionally avoiding the intense gaze of the latecomer as she returned to her seat once the introductions ended and the lecture resumed. But the weight of his attention lingered like sunlight warming her skin, as if undeniable but yet also shared by everyone else in a way that provided a paradoxical personal deniability.

She managed to shake off the fluster through the rest of the lecture, quickly shuffling to the front for the sake of troubleshooting Canvas questions, keeping herself busy to avoid acknowledging the way he lingered at the back of the line. Out of the corner of her eye she just barely registered him checking his phone, shifting his weight in thought, then turning over his shoulder to leave, seemingly deciding he didn’t have time to wait. Her shoulders relaxed, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed.

The last thing she needed for herself was to get distracted in the middle of her first week of classes, she reasoned. She didn’t even know his name. Not that it mattered. Football season hadn’t even started yet, but she could already spot an athlete from a mile away. They had a way of moving, of dressing, of carrying themselves, like they knew exactly how much space they were entitled to take up in the world.

Situationships and toxic men weren’t on her agenda this semester, so she tucked the memory of that crooked grin into the mental drawer that she hid her distractions and clicked it shut.

Or at least she would try to.

[ . . . ]

If there was one thing Colston Loveland was more grateful for than he anticipated, it was being able to enroll at Michigan a semester early. At the time, he had taken that chance for granted. He was just happy to escape the oppressive small-town Idaho monotony, but now having to juggle the first week of classes with the lead-up to their first game, he was glad he had gotten the opportunity to learn the ins-and-outs of Ann Arbor’s sprawling campus before navigating it while exhausted from practice.

He figured he would be running late everywhere, constantly but the exhaustion from practice didn’t stop him from noticing the undergraduate assistant the second he walked into Psych 112. Her name stuck in his head like an earworm he couldn’t shake. She had this effortless presence, like she didn’t realize how brightly she burned in a room full of people trying to dim themselves to fit in. Colston wasn’t usually one to get distracted, but the way she’d smiled softly at her own Battleship fact, made his head spin almost as if he’d taken a hit during practice.

There was no shame in his decision to pull up the psych class’ Canvas page the second he got back to his dorm. Colston’s thumbs moved before his brain could catch up, scrolling past syllabus links and lecture slides straight to the ‘Meet Your LAs’ section. He lingered on her bio longer than necessary, committing her major (business and psych, like she’d said), her hometown, and most importantly, her office hours (Wednesday, 3-5pm in East Hall).

There was no shame in his decision to use the one sure gap in his Wednesday schedule between meetings, practice, and classes to loiter inside East Hall for an hour and a half. Colston found a quiet place to sit inside, pretending to scroll through his phone while he counted down the minutes until her office hours began. The plan was simple: walk in casually, ask something vaguely syllabus-related, and make her laugh at least once. He wasn’t sure that he would call it shooting his shot quite yet, but he certainly wasn’t here just for academic clarification either.

Colston checked his reflection in his phone screen one last time before pushing himself off the bench with a quiet exhale. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, rolling his shoulders back as he approached the open door where he knew she would be waiting. The moment he stepped inside, her head lifted from the notebook she’d been scribbling in, her dark eyes flickering with surprise before settling into something warmer, amused.

Her pen hovered mid-sentence as Colston filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, his head ducking as he entered. She hadn’t expected anyone to show up this early, let alone him, but there he was, all six-foot-something of him, smelling faintly of detergent and that warm woodsy scent she remembered noticing in lecture.

“Oh, hey,” she said, her voice dipping into something softer than she intended. She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter as she gestured to the chair across from her. “You can—uh—have a seat if you want.”

Colston grinned at her hesitation, his dimples appearing like a punctuation mark on his confidence. He slid into the chair across from her with the kind of ease that suggested he’d spent his whole life folding his large frame into spaces never meant to contain him. His knee bumped the underside of the table, jostling her water bottle. He caught it before it tipped, steadying it with an apology leaving his lips before she could even react.

She cleared her throat, bringing her eyes to the laptop screen in front of her to avoid having to look at him. “You’re early. We haven’t even covered any material yet.”

Colston shrugged, leaning back in the chair, making her acutely aware of how small the space between them was. His fingers drummed lightly against the tabletop; long, calloused fingers that flexed absently as if he were thinking about reaching for something. “Figured I’d get a head start,” he said, his deep voice curling around the words with that slow, country cadence. “You never lose at Battleship, but I bet you’re even better at explaining syllabus policies.”

Her eyes narrowed at that comment, slowly licking her lips as she tried to read the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You came all the way here,” she said slowly, tapping her pen against the desk, “to ask about policies you can read in the syllabus?”

Colston’s smirk deepened into a full grin, the dimple in his left cheek carving itself deeper as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Isn’t that what the professor said you were here for?” he countered, voice dipping into playful mock-seriousness. “Helping us navigate Canvas and answer initial questions?”

She exhaled through her nose, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes as she reached for her printed syllabus. “Fine,” she relented, sliding the paper toward him with another pointed clearing of her throat. “Which policies did you need clarified, Mr...?” Her voice trailed off expectantly, finally lifting her eyes to meet his.

“Loveland,” he supplied easily, fingers brushing against hers as he took the syllabus. “Colston Loveland.” His grin widened, like he knew exactly how much his presence disrupted the quiet of the empty office hours space. “But you can call me whatever you want.”

She pulled her hand back, trying to ignore the way her fingertips tingled where his calloused fingers had brushed against them. She leaned her head onto one hand, watching as Colston pretended to study the syllabus with an exaggerated furrow of his brow. His dark lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones, and she noticed how long they appeared, thanks to the contrast from his skin.

“Right... Colston...” she echoed, dragging the syllables out like she was testing the weight of his name on her tongue. The corner of his mouth twitched at the sound, and she caught the way his eyebrows raised for just a moment before falling back into place. “So, clarifications? Questions? Or did you just want me to say your name?”

Colston’s laugh was deep and unhurried, the sound filling the small room the way morning sunlight spilled through a window. He leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning under his weight, and tossed the syllabus onto the table between them with deliberate nonchalance.

“You caught me,” he admitted, the dimple reappearing as his thumb brushed absently over the edge of the paper. “But I do have a question about the grading scale.”

His tone was teasing, but there was something earnest beneath it. Like he wanted her to know he wasn’t entirely full of it.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers reaching for her pen, looking for something fidget while she fought the upward tug at the corners of her lips.

“The grading scale,” she repeated, leaning forward slightly to tap the relevant section with the tip of her pen. “Letter grades are assigned in increments of 10%, with the first three percentages being minus grades and the last three being plus grades. So, for example, 90 to 93 is an A-, 97 to 100 is an A+, anything in between is an A.”

She glanced up to find Colston watching her with the quiet intensity of someone who was absorbing more than just mere percentages. His gaze flickered down to her lips when she paused to wet them, and she quickly pressed on. “Any other burning syllabus questions?”

Colston tilted his head slightly, lips pouting in thought. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “What’s your policy on students who show up to office hours just to bother you?”

Her pen stilled mid-air. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, betraying the composure she was clinging to. Colston’s eyes held hers with an ease that made her want to both squirm and lean in closer. She exhaled, slow and measured, before twirling the pen between her fingers.

“Policy’s simple,” she started, tapping the pen against her palm. “First offense, you get a polite but firm reminder that office hours are for academic purposes.” She leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under her shift. “Second offense, I start assigning pop quizzes.”

Colston’s laugh rumbled through his chest. He rested his chin in his palm, fingers drumming lightly against his cheekbone. “And what’s the penalty for flirting?” he asked, the words rolling off his tongue like he’d been waiting all afternoon to say them.

Her eyes narrowed again, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek as she fought the traitorous twitch at the corner of her lips.

“Flirting?” She repeated, dragging the word out like she was testing its weight.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table, and tilted her head in mock consideration. “You play football, don’t you?”

Colston’s eyebrows shot up, his lips parting slightly in surprise before curling into another grin. “What gave it away?” he drawled, stretching his arms behind his head in a way that made his t-shirt pull taut across his chest.

She kept her eyes fixed on his face, but the flicker of controlled panic in them betrayed her. “Be serious,” she said dryly.

She could hear the grin in his voice before she even saw it.

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Colston said, lowering his arms and leaning forward again. “I’m just trying to figure out how many penalties I can rack up before you throw a flag on me.”

There was that lift of his eyebrows accompanied by the quick tilt of his head. She was beginning to see that it was a tell-tale sign that he was flirting; saying something dumb enough to make her roll her eyes but charming enough to make her want to bite back.

She managed to keep her tone measured as she responded. “The football metaphors are not cute.”

Colston’s grin didn’t falter. “Noted,” he said, tapping his temple like he was committing her words to memory. His fingers moved again, this time playing with the edge of the syllabus still lying between them. “Can I ask you something?”

Her fingers curled around her pen a little tighter. The air between them felt charged suddenly, like the moment before a summer storm breaks when all the humidity in the air is just minutes from breaking into physical, liquid rain. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug that she hoped looked more nonchalant than she felt. “You’ve been asking me questions this entire time,” she pointed out, tilting her head. “What’s one more?”

Colston’s fingers stilled on the syllabus edge, his thumb pressing into the paper with hesitation. The silence stretched just long enough for her to notice the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.

“Professionally speaking...”

“Of course.”

Colston exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb still pressing into the syllabus edge. “Professionally speaking,” he repeated. “If someone were to... try to...” he took in an audible breath through his teeth, “sit in on your office hours for reasons that aren’t strictly academic, would there be some guy... or girl, you never know, who might feel some type—”

Her shoulders shook with laughter as she leaned back in her chair, covering her mouth with one hand to stifle the sound. Colston’s lips pursed in mock offense, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his amusement. “That’s not an answer,” he protested.

“Professionally speaking,” she echoed, mimicking his deep drawl, “if someone were to waste my office hours trying to... flirt, I’d tell them that as long as they’re enrolled in the course, they’re entitled to my time.” She twirled her pen between her fingers, watching his reaction closely. “But unofficially? I’d tell them to at least pretend to care about the course content.”

He hummed, nodding slowly as if processing her words. “So if I care about the course content...” His fingers drummed against the table again. “Hypothetically, of course.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the upward tug of her lips. “Hypothetically,” she echoed. “Then I’d say you’re entitled to my time.”

The silence between them stretched with so much left unspoken until he inhaled and exhaled through his nose and leaned back with a grin that felt suspiciously satisfied. “Good to know, good to know,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that low, unhurried drawl that she was beginning to really enjoy hearing. “Because I do care. About the course content.”

The way his gaze lingered on her face suggested he cared about more than just psych theories, but she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She nodded, looking away from him to check the time on her laptop screen. Office hours were nearly over, and yet no other students had wandered in. It was just Colston, taking up space in the quietest, most inconveniently charming way possible.

“Well,” she said, tapping her pen against her notebook as she glanced back at him, “since you care so much about the course content, I’ll expect to see you at the next lecture. Taking notes.” The challenge in her voice was light but a challenge nonetheless. “On time.”

Colston grinned, stretching his arms behind his head again. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he promised. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall before returning to her face. “Guess I should let you pack up.”

He didn’t move.

She arched her brow, waiting for him to stand, but Colston remained seated. The late afternoon sunlight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and she found herself distracted by the way his lashes fanned against his cheekbones when he blinked slowly, like he was savoring the last few moments.

She decided to turn to her belongings, reaching for her bag, deliberately avoiding eye contact. She could feel Colston’s gaze lingering on her fingers as she tucked her notebook inside. She hesitated for a breath before zipping it shut and standing up, bracing herself for the football player to mirror her action.

Colston unfolded himself from the chair with the unhurried grace of someone who had all the time in the world, his broad shoulders rolling back as he stood. She knew he was large. She had clocked his height the moment he walked into lecture, but up close, the sheer magnitude of him was almost comical. She had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes, and for a fleeting second, she caught the flicker of amusement in them as he registered the movement and the look she was trying, and failing, to hide.

She averted her eyes, shifting her bag strap higher onto her shoulder as she stepped around the table. Colston didn’t move, forcing her to brush past him, close enough that he caught a whiff of her floral, summery, fruit-scented perfume following her wake.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside her as she headed toward the door, his stride effortlessly slowed to match hers despite their height difference. “Next lecture. Taking notes. On time.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “Anything else, Miss?”

She could feel Colston’s amused gaze burning into the side of her face as she locked the office door behind them, her fingers fumbling slightly with the keys. “Don’t call me Miss,” she muttered, finally slotting the key into place with a satisfying twist. “I’m nineteen.”

The hallway stretched long and empty before them, the late afternoon sun casting honeyed stripes across the linoleum from the tall windows. She adjusted her bag strap again, hyper-aware of Colston’s presence beside her.

“Nineteen,” Colston repeated, drawing the word out as if savoring it. He tilted his head down toward her, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “When do you turn twenty?”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Do you get tired? Asking so many questions?” She pivoted to face him, the golden light from the hallway windows catching the warmth in her eyes.

Colston’s lips curved into that slow grin. “Why? You tired of answering?”

“I’m tired of you,” she shot back, the lie obvious in the upward tilt of her voice.

Colston’s laughter filled the empty hallway, bouncing off the lockers lining the walls as they walked side by side. He nudged her elbow lightly with his own, a touch so casual it shouldn’t have sent her pulse skittering, but did anyway. “You’re not tired of me,” he said, voice dipping into that low, teasing register she was learning to recognize. “You like the company.”

“I like peace and quiet,” she countered, silently relieved at the sight of the doors at the end of the hallway. He was too at ease here, too comfortable walking beside her like this wasn’t his first time trailing her out of a building.

Colston hummed, glancing down at her. “I can be quiet. Whatever you need.” The words lingered between them, weighted with promise. His grin widened as he reached past her to push open the exit door, holding it with a theatrical flourish. “After you.”

She rolled her eyes but stepped through, the crisp air immediately kissing her cheeks. “So, lecture, tomorrow,” she said, pivoting to face him as he followed her out. “Notes, on time. And don’t think I won’t check.”

Colston’s grin widened as he rocked back on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets in a way that made his shoulders look even broader. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, dragging out the syllables just to watch her hide another scoff, turning her head to the side to cast her eyes downward at the sneakers on her feet.

She would be lying if she tried to say she disliked that. Just like she would be lying if she said she didn’t find him unfairly attractive and annoyingly charming.

She felt the weight of his gaze before she even lifted her eyes, the warmth of it prickling along her skin. Colston hadn’t moved, he hadn’t even blinked. He just stood there with that infuriating grin, hands still in his pockets, like he could read her thoughts. Like he knew exactly how much she was starting to like the way he looked at her.

“Bye, Colston,” she said, stepping back with a finality, and beginning to turn over her heel toward the parking garage.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, the words slow and syrup-thick with intention. His eyes drifted over her body, taking in her patterned maxi skirt, the solid colored boat neck sleeveless top, and the jewelry layered at her wrists, neck, and fingers, all of it deliberate choices she’d made that morning without knowing she’d be caught in the crosshairs of his attention. She felt the heat crawl up her neck as she turned away, her low-profile sneakers scuffing against the pavement.

She didn’t look back. But halfway to her apartment, she still felt giddy.

[ . . . ]

One thing she was learning about Colston Loveland was that he meant the things he said, especially when he said them in that slow, syrup-thick voice that she grew to learn was a small-town accent from southern Idaho, just an hour and a half outside of Boise. True to his word, he showed up to the next lecture exactly on time, sliding into the seat directly in front of her but not before catching her eye with the raise of his brows and a small grin.

He took notes. Actual, meticulous notes. She peeked over his shoulder once, only to find his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone who spent most of their time at the football facility, the margins dotted with little stars next to concepts he’d circled as if marking them for later. For her she realized, when he strolled into her office hours that next Wednesday asking for some clarification on the different neurotransmitters.

He was just as smart as he was charming, though she could acknowledge how abundantly clear it was that football was the priority. Through their conversations she gathered a few key facts about him.

One, he was the middle child. The second of three boys, all of whom played football. His oldest brother also played college football his freshman year, but he was now a senior at the University of Idaho majoring in Business Administration. His younger brother was in middle school and already had dreams of playing college football.

Two, he was classified as a freshman but was in his second semester at Michigan. He managed to meet all of his graduation requirements early back in Idaho, skipping his senior year of high school and enrolling in Michigan at seventeen.

Three, he was very persistent. Sure, maybe she should have recognized his persistence from the mere fact that he was fighting to step up, hoping to secure the starting tight end position by the end of the season as a true freshman, but it became abundantly clear when he started showing up to her office hours religiously.

Every Wednesday at 3:15 PM, without fail, Colston Loveland would stroll in. Sometimes with his backpack slung over one shoulder, sometimes with a customized fruit bowl he snagged from the team’s dining facility just for her loaded with her favorites after he managed to pull her preferences out of her, and twice with a slight limp that he waved off as nothing.

“He is your type, I’ll give you that...” Jeremy muttered from where he squinted at the laptop screen, elbow propped on the couch armrest.

She felt her entire apartment vibrating with the collective energy of her friends, all crowded around the athletic profile displaying some of the most important information about Colston Loveland, freshman tight end for the University of Michigan football team.

Her head turned at that comment, “What does that mean?”

Jeremy grinned, shrugging with a nod toward where Colston’s stats glowed—6’5”, 245 lbs, 4 receptions for 33 yards over the last three games. “Don’t do that. You know what I mean.”

She moved the laptop from Jeremy’s grasp, glaring as Fareed chuckled into his burrito. “He’s not all that,” she lied, clicking through Colston’s high school highlight reel. The screen filled with footage of him effortlessly snagging passes over defenders half his size, his massive frame cutting through defenders like they weren’t even there.

Aditi nudged her knee with a socked foot. “Girl, you are so full of shit.”

The video rolled on. Colston stiff-arming a linebacker, spinning free with a grin before launching himself into the endzone. “He comes in every week?” Fareed asked through a mouthful of tortilla, eyes flicking between her face and the screen. “Just to ask you about psych stuff?”

“He’s enrolled in the class,” she said evenly. “It’s literally my job. I can’t tell him no.” The excuse sounded half-assed even to her own ears, and Fareed and Aditi’s perfectly mirrored raised eyebrows confirmed it. She clicked away from the highlight reel, trying to shake off the fact that she was affected by this football player loitering around her at every opportunity.

“This man has never needed academic help in his life,” Aditi scoffed, her eyes darting between the laptop screen and her phone, where she’d pulled up Colston’s Instagram.

She watched her best friend’s thumb pause on a photo from last season’s spring game, Colston mid-catch, muscles taut under his jersey, his grin electric even through the pixelated screen. She swallowed, turning away just as Fareed leaned over to tap the photo with a knowing smile.

“Kid’s got hands,” he mused. “But I don’t think he needs your notes.”

“No? Really?” Aditi gasped, shoving at her cousin’s head. “Why are you here?”

Fareed grumbled, taking a swipe at Aditi’s hand. “I live here,” he shot back, rubbing his temple. “Lived here before any of you.”

She rolled her eyes, shutting the laptop with a decisive click. “He can flirt all he wants,” she said, tossing a throw pillow at Fareed’s head. “It’s not going anywhere.”

Aditi snorted, continuing to scroll through Colston’s Instagram. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m being for real.” She tucked her legs beneath her on the couch, biting the inside of her cheek.

“He’s 6’5”, you don’t have to lie to us,” Jeremy expressed through a yawn, stretching his arms behind his head. She glared at him, taking a pillow to his arm with a muffled smack.

[ . . . ]

It wasn’t like she didn’t know Colston was flirting. He made sure she knew that much. The little voice in his head reasoned that if she really didn’t want him around, she’d say so. But she never did. In his head, she even flirted back sometimes, even if she didn’t realize it herself.

Colston was used to being one of, if not the tallest, guy in the room, used to the way people looked up at him, both literally and figuratively. But she never seemed intimidated by his height, by the breadth of his shoulders, or the way his voice carried when he spoke. She just met his gaze, chin tilted up, eyes bright with amusement, or irritation, depending on the day.

He liked that. Liked it a little too much.

He wasn’t quite sure what the policy was on learning assistants dating students, though he figured there probably wasn’t one. He hoped there wasn’t.

“When’s the midterm for this class?” he asked. His eyes watched as she took a sip of the crisp soda through a white straw, her throat moving as she swallowed before answering. The question was innocuous. But the way he stared at her, waiting for the answer told her it was anything but.

“Week seven,” she answered eventually. “Why?”

“Week seven,” he repeated, like the date held some cosmic significance. His straw scraped the bottom of his cup, and he shook the ice absentmindedly. “Do you ever study on your own? Outside office hours?”

She swirled her drink, listening to the ice cubes clink. “Sometimes at Dude,” she replied.

“By yourself?”

She nodded, wary.

“If I stopped by, would you kick me out?” Colston asked, tilting his head slightly, a habit she noticed he had when he wanted to seem more approachable.

She studied him for a beat. “Depends,” she said slowly, “on whether you’re actually studying.”

“Oh, I study for sure,” Colston said, nodding as if this were a serious academic discussion and not thinly veiled scheming. His knee nudged hers under the small table. “Just might need a little...motivation for midterms.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t scoot away. “Motivation,” she repeated flatly. “You mean like how these snacks you bring are supposed to be motivation.”

He didn’t reply beyond a low chuckle to himself. Her eyes tracked the movement of his hands as he reached for his phone lying face down on the table. Silently, he unlocked his phone, then swiped a few times before landing on something that made his smirk deepen. She watched him, eyebrows raised, until he turned the screen toward her, setting the phone on the table between them. The search function on Instagram stared back at her, the blinking cursor awaiting her username.

“What am I looking at, Colston?” she deadpanned, making no effort to move closer despite the way he looked at her expectantly.

His grin didn’t falter. “Your user,” he said, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request and not outright outrageousness. “Unless you wanna give me your Snap instead.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose, the ghost of a laugh escaping despite her best efforts to keep her expression neutral. She pushed the phone back toward Colston with one fingertip, her nails painted a soft, dusty rose tapping against the screen. “You’re really, really brave, Loveland.”

“Brave enough to ask twice,” he murmured, spinning the phone back toward her with a fingertip.

She sucked in a breath through her teeth, lifting her eyes to make contact with his. They remained frozen there, locked in a silent standoff, his fingers still pressed to the phone’s edge, hers still hovering above it.

She exhaled first. “Fine,” she muttered, taking the phone with a pout. Her thumbs moved quickly over the screen, her lips pressed tight as she typed. Colston leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her with a smugness that made her want to toss the phone into the trash to avoid having to admit this plan he seemed to have was actually working on her.

The notification popped up on her phone after she handed his phone back to him. He eagerly pressed the button requesting to follow her, those dark eyebrows inching up again the way she saw him do at least twice every time they found themselves alone in this room, eyes watching her accept the request and follow him back. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the twitch at the corner of her mouth, noticing the time ticking down until she could be set free from this room.

“What are you planning to do with my Instagram?” She asked, flipping her phone facedown as Colston smiled softly triumphant at his screen.

“Plan?” He asked, feigning innocence with a poke of his bottom lip. “Who said anything about plans?” His thumb pressed her profile picture before drifting over to her highlights. “Just wanna see what kinda stuff you post.”

“Oh, we’re playing dumb?” She arched a brow, watching as Colston hesitated long enough to let her know he was formulating an excuse.

Colston’s grin softened into something quieter. “No... nah, I ain’t playin’ dumb.” He tapped her most recent highlight, a compilation of campus sunsets, before locking his phone with a decisive click. “Just wanna know you.” The honesty in his voice shook any edge she thought she had over him.

The silence stretched, thick with something neither dared name, until Colston cleared his throat. “So.” He leaned forward. “You got plans after this?”

The question hung between them casually, but she caught the undercurrent in the way he checked the time on the clock behind her head.

She blinked at him, her straw hovering halfway to her lips. The ice in her cup had melted into a watered down substance. “I’m making dinner tonight. Then I’ll try to finish some stuff that’s due on Friday so I can go out tomorrow.”

He nodded slowly, stubbornly refusing to shift his gaze away from her despite noticing her sudden avoidance of eye contact. “Where you goin’ tomorrow?”

“A Sigma party.” She could see his eyebrows furrow, so she clarified. “Phi Beta Sigma, one of the Divine Nine frats.”

“You got a date or somethin’?”

“Or something,” she echoed, tilting her head just enough to watch his reaction from the corner of her eye. His jaw ticked ever so slightly, his tongue breached his parted lips to lick moisture into them before just barely biting down. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, then twice, then his chest rose with a slow, deep breath.

Colston laughed lowly, finally tearing his eyes away from hers. “Hope you have fun,” he murmured. “I should head out. Got things to take care of.” He stood, towering effortlessly above her even as she straightened her posture, still having to crane her neck just to meet his eyes. “See you in class.”

She hummed, watching him retreat through half-lidded eyes. Only when he disappeared around the corner did she exhale sharply, pressing the back of her hands to her suddenly warm cheeks. “God,” she muttered to herself, gathering her trash with more force than necessary. The crumpled napkin in her fist bore the brunt of her frustration, not at him, but at the way her pulse still hadn’t settled even after weeks of him managing to fluster her.

Her brain was screaming the alarm of jealousy, that he was jealous, but she shoved the thought down with brutal efficiency. It was dumb to assume he was. She barely knew him after all. As much as she told herself that nothing would happen, that nothing could happen between them, it was hard not to imagine that he wanted something to.

[ . . . ]

“That’s her?” Alex Orji all but shrieked when Colston handed over his phone, the screen glowing with her Instagram profile. “That’s the girl?”

“Had to ask twice,” he admitted, rubbing his jaw.

The cereal in front of him had gone soggy, but Colston wasn’t paying attention to anything except Alex’s widening eyes as he scrolled through her feed, past the tailgates and the tropical vacations and the monthly dumps. “Damn. I ain’t know you had that in you, C. Love.”

“Lemme see?” Will Johnson asked through a mouthful of pancake, already reaching for Colston’s phone before Alex handed it over. The dining facility was loud, just as it always was after the early morning lifts were. He had a recovery session in an hour with a series of offensive meetings after, meaning it would be a miracle if he were able to see the sun before it set for the evening.

Will hummed lowly, nodding in approval, scrolling with his thumb. “Lowkey... I think I might know her.”

Colston perked up at that, looking to Alex who cocked his head as he leaned over Will’s shoulder to further scrutinize her face. “From where?” the quarterback asked, swiping through her highlights with exaggerated interest.

“Think she’s one of the BSU chairs...” he murmured, reaching for his own phone to cross reference. Colston stiffened, watching Will scroll through the Black Student Union’s Instagram page, finding their post announcing the executive board and her in the midst of it: Events and Social Engagement Chair, grinning from the center of the fourth picture within the carousel.

“Yeah, that’s her.” Colston’s fingers drummed against the table, watching Will’s reaction with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

Will grinned, locking his phone with a shrug that was far too casual. “No reason.” He popped a grape into his mouth before continuing, “Just funny how small campus is. She bad as hell though, good luck with that.”

Colston retrieved his phone with a grumble. “Luck ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

Alex and Will exchanged a look, resulting in Alex laughing out loud as Will shook his head. “He don’t got a clue in the world,” Will said to Alex, slinging an arm around Colston’s shoulder. “She’s one of those—you know—got her whole life planned, tryna stack her degrees, knows exactly who she is, what she wants, what she doesn’t want.”

Colston shrugged, unfazed. “I know who I am.”

“That’s why he told you ‘good luck with that’, goofy,” Alex snorted.

Will clarified. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ don’t shoot. Just know she’s not some freshman... sorority girl that’s looking for a ring before senior year. She got plans. Don’t take it personally if she ain’t trying to derail them for WAG dreams.”

Colston went quiet, turning his phone over in his hands. The chatter of the dining hall faded into white noise as he tapped the edge of his case against the table before taking in a breath through his nose. “Plans change,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.

Will and Alex exchanged another look, this one loaded with something between amusement and concern. “Just don’t get caught up,” Will said with a shrug. “You been plotting?”

The freshman nodded, biting his bottom lip tentatively before responding. “Kinda... brought her food a couple times. Got her IG. She just told me she’s going to a party today.”

“Where at?” Alex asked.

Colston answered softly. “Sigmas.”

“The black ones?” Alex blurted out loudly, gaining a sharp elbow from Will.

“Yeah,” he muttered, pushing his soggy cereal around the bowl. “Tonight.”

“You don’t need to be plotting shit until you figure out if she likes white boys,” Will muttered, shaking his head at Colston’s stiffened shoulders. The dining hall chatter blurred around them as Colston’s fingers tightened around his spoon. Alex snorted into his orange juice, shaking his head as Will held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying—”

“She likes me,” Colston interrupted, voice low with a certainty that surprised even himself.

The words hung between them, weighted by the unspoken truth that she had never actually confirmed it. But Colston wasn’t blind. He noticed the way she bit her lower lip whenever he leaned into her space and the way her laughter softened whenever he caught her off guard and actually made her laugh.

Will raised an eyebrow, exchanging another glance with Alex before shrugging. “A’ight then, Idaho potatoes. What’s next?”

[ . . . ]

Running his plan by Alex and Will gave Colston the confidence to finally pull the trigger on phase two of his grand scheme. Phase one, getting her to tolerate him enough to exchange social media and eat together, had worked flawlessly. Phase two was trickier, which was why the input of the two upperclassmen he spent nearly every waking moment with was so important.

They confirmed what Colston already knew. She wasn’t just some girl. She wasn’t someone he could just casually wink at, walk up to, and charm into going home with him. She was someone who had to be pursued, someone who wouldn’t give in easily. And, if he was honest with himself, that was what made her all the more enticing.

Phase two started with an observation: she always complained that her Wednesday schedule was too awkward to allow her a genuine chance to stop for a proper meal before her office hours began. He knew she wasn’t opposed to grabbing food with him, the past two weeks had proven that if he paid for it she had no qualms.

So he waited until Tuesday night, right when he knew she’d be scrolling through her phone before bed, and sent her a DM with a proposition.

You mind if I bring you something to eat tomorrow?

Colston’s thumbs hovered over the screen before tapping send, then immediately tossing his phone onto his bed like it had burned him. He paced the length of his dorm room, running a hand over his freshly trimmed hair, cut tight on the sides with just enough length on top to twist between his fingers when he was nervous.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Her reply came through just as he was debating tossing his phone out the window.

Won’t have time to eat before my office hours to be honest.

Colston’s pulse kicked up a notch, but he forced his fingers steady as he typed back.

We could grab something after, if you don’t have anywhere to be.

He held his breath, watching those damn three dots flicker like a faulty neon sign.

The silence stretched long enough that he nearly caved and sent a follow-up insisting that it was purely platonic, just something two friends would do when they have nothing better to do, but then her reply popped up.

Are you paying?

Is that a yes?

Answer the question.

Yes.

Then yeah. Chipotle?

He grinned at his phone like an idiot.

The next afternoon, her office hours passed in a blur, her gaze flicking to the clock every few minutes as if time had slowed just to torment her. When Colston finally appeared in the doorway, all six-feet-and-change of him ducking slightly beneath the frame, her heart quite literally skipped a beat in her chest.

No one else showed up for help, of course. So for the two hours, it was just the two of them, bickering, laughing, she was working on upcoming assignments while Colston reviewed his notes before taking two quizzes due on Friday. The silence that eventually settled between them wasn’t uncomfortable, it never was, but she found herself glancing up far too often, catching him already looking at her with soft, amused eyes, lips curved into the slightest smirk.

“What?” she finally asked, arching a brow, tossing her pencil onto her notebook with a soft clatter.

Colston leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning under his weight, arms folded behind his head like he had all the time in the world. She hated when he did that, hated when his shirt strained around his biceps and chest, hated when the azure cotton lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.

He smirked, noticing her eyes drift over his torso and dart back up to his face when she caught herself. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”

“You need to stare at me to think?” She teased, shifting in her chair as she stretched her legs beneath the table.

“Maybe,” he murmured, shifting forward again, the chair creaking as he rested his elbows on the table, crowding her space without touching her. “You can stare at me too if you want. I don’t mind.”

Then there was that eyebrow raise again.

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth creeping up her neck betrayed her. The way his voice dipped into that slow, honeyed drawl never failed to unravel her composure stitch by stitch. “Finish your quiz,” she muttered, nudging his calf with her foot beneath the table. His chuckle rumbled low as he complied, fingers tapping lazily at the keys on his laptop while she pretended not to trace the flex of his forearms with her gaze.

When the clock finally signaled the end of her office hours, she packed her bag slowly, acutely aware of Colston lingering by the door, his shoulder propped against the frame. He closed the door behind her, falling in step with her as they exited the building. She probably should not have been as surprised as she was when he plainly directed her toward his truck, opening the passenger side door and helping her up with a large, warm hand hovering just over her lower back without touching her like it was entirely subconscious; a given, entirely natural, an inevitable gentlemanliness that he refused to turn off.

By the time she actually made it back to her apartment after saying goodnight to Colston about three times, retrieving her car from the empty garage, and making the 5 minute drive, she was in a euphoric mood. She’d been distracted by his eye contact, and his arms, and his voice, but really, mostly, his arms. She felt dazed when she locked the front door behind her, something evident to Aditi who stared at her with crossed arms.

“What is that?”

She blinked, tossing her keys into the bowl by the door. “What is what?”

Aditi’s gaze narrowed. “That,” she said, gesturing vaguely at her face.

She shrugged, choosing that moment to refill her water bottle. The faucet’s rush drowned out Aditi’s exasperated sigh, but not the way her best friend leaned against the counter, arms folded, hip cocked.

“You smell like food,” Aditi said, nose scrunched. She took a slow sip, the cool water doing nothing to douse the heat prickling up her neck.

Her best friend’s eyes widened when she caught the faint glimmer of mischief in her expression, like she knew exactly what she was doing when she let the silence stretch just a beat too long.

“You went out with him?” Aditi hissed, abandoning her spot by the fridge to follow her into her bedroom, passing where Fareed and Jeremy were sprawled across the couch, controllers in hand. “Tell me you did go out with him.”

She set her bag on the floor, leaning it up against the leg of her desk, the corner of her lip twitching as Aditi practically vibrated with impatient energy behind her. “Define ‘went out with him’,” she said, shedding her knit cardigan

Aditi groaned, flopping onto the bed. “Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. Did you...” she lowered her voice, glancing toward the cracked door where the faint sounds of Fareed and Jeremy’s video game echoed. “Did you go on a date with that child?”

She turned her back to Aditi, pretending to organize her desk just to hide the way her cheeks rounded around her smile. “It wasn’t a date,” she murmured, tracing her finger along the edge of her planner. “Just... Chipotle after my office hours.”

Aditi laughed, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hands. “Uh-huh. And did he pay?”

Her fingers stilled on the edge of her planner. She could feel Aditi’s smirk without turning around. “He offered,” she muttered, shrugging one shoulder with feigned nonchalance.

“Oh my god,” Aditi whispered, dragging out each syllable. “You like him.”

She turned sharply, her braids whipping against her shoulders. “You can’t say anything. I don’t know if there’s some girl secretly obsessed with him. I’ve seen how these girls act around athletes.”

Aditi rolled her eyes, kicking her feet behind her. “Oh, please. You’re the one he’s been stalking for like a month now. Did anything happen?”

Aditi’s question hung in the air, sudden and curious. She busied herself with unclipping her earrings, the hoops clinking against her palm, before answering. “Nothing happened,” she said, voice soft. “We just talked. He made me laugh.” She hesitated, then added, “A lot.”

Aditi’s smirk deepened. “And here I was, thinking you would stand on business.”

She finally fell onto the bed next to her best friend with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling fan above them. “I tried so hard not to laugh at his dumb jokes,” she muttered, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “But the way he says everything—like he’s not even trying to be funny—it just—” She groaned, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in the sheets pulled taut over her bed. “He’s so annoying.”

Aditi rubbed her back, grinning at the way her best friend refused to lift her head. “Oh, please. You’re literally glowing.” She paused, then added, “If you like him... and he likes you... what’s the worst that could happen?”

She groaned into the sheets. “He plays football.”

“Okay, true,” Aditi conceded.

She groaned louder, peeling one eye open to peek at her best friend. “I thought you were gonna make me feel better.”

“I was...” Aditi started, shifting onto her side to get a better look at her best friend. “Then you reminded me he plays football.” She sighed. “But—” She nudged the other woman’s shoulder. “He’s actually kinda cute. For a freshman.”

She scoffed, pressing her forehead against the sheets again. “He’s really hot,” she muttered with a self-deprecating smile that slowly overtook her face when Aditi burst into loud, amused laughter.

"Looking for this?" Fernando's deep voice rumbles behind you, a hint of amusement in his tone.

You turn to find him grinning down at you, the 6'5" giant holding the pasta box like it's some tiny trinket.

"I had it," you lie, crossing your arms with a pout. "Just warming up my jumping muscles."

Fernando chuckles, setting the pasta on the counter before crouching down to your level. "Sure you did, baby. Need me to get you a stool so you can reach the microwave next?"

You playfully swat at his shoulder, though your hand barely makes an impact. "Hey! I'm vertically challenged, not helpless. And for the record, I can reach the microwave just fine."

His large hands find your waist and suddenly you're lifted off the ground as he stands up, placing you on the kitchen counter with ease.

"Better view from up here?" he asks, eyes crinkling with laughter.

"Much," you reply, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Now I can properly appreciate my giant ass teddy bear."

Fernando's expression softens as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. "Your teddy bear, huh? Last week you said I looked like a grizzly that ate too much."

"Well, you're a very handsome grizzly," you counter, nuzzling against his chest. "And you're the perfect weighted blanket when I can't sleep."

Later that evening, you're curled up on the couch watching a movie when Fernando returns from the kitchen with two mugs of hot chocolate. He settles beside you and you immediately shift to rest your head on his bicep.

"Comfortable?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"Mmm," you murmur contentedly. "Your arm makes a better pillow than anything I could buy at a store. And it's self-adjusting."

He flexes slightly, causing your head to bob up and down. "Is that a feature or a bug?"

You swat his chest lightly. "Bug! Definitely a bug. Stop showing off."

"Can't help it," he replies with a grin. "Someone's got to open all those stubborn jars for you."

"Hey! I can open jars," you protest, though you both know it's a stretch. "Sometimes. If they're not screwed on too tight."

Fernando's laughter rumbles through his chest, and you feel the vibrations against your cheek. "Right. And sometimes you can reach things on the second shelf if you jump really high."

You shift to straddle his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I'll have you know that being this tall has its advantages."

"Like what?" he asks, his hands settling on your hips.

"Like I get the best view of your handsome face from down here," you say, leaning in to kiss him. "And I always have a personal mountain to climb when I want a hug."

His arms wrap around you, completely engulfing your smaller frame. "You know," he murmurs against your lips, "sometimes I forget how tiny you are until I see you standing next to normal-sized people."

"Normal-sized?" you pull back in mock offense. "I'll have you know I'm perfectly proportioned. You're just freakishly tall."

"Freakishly strong too," he replies, standing up effortlessly with you still wrapped around him like a koala. "Which means I can carry my tiny girlfriend to bed when she falls asleep on the couch."

You tighten your legs around his waist as he carries you toward the bedroom. "I'm not asleep! Just resting my eyes."

"Sure you are," he says gently, laying you down on the bed before crawling in beside you. "And I'm sure you're not using me as a human mattress right now."

You snuggle against his broad chest, your head fitting perfectly in the space between his pec and shoulder. "I can't help it if you're more comfortable than any pillow I've ever owned. And warmer too."

Fernando pulls the blanket over both of you, his large hand resting on your back. "Well, this teddy bear isn't going anywhere. So feel free to use me as your personal furniture whenever you want."

You tilt your head up to kiss his jaw. "Good, because I've grown quite attached to my giant. Even if you do make me feel like a hobbit."

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "A very cute hobbit. Now go to sleep, baby."

to: colly 🫶🤍

1 image attached

colston loveland why are you hugging this roll of toilet paper tighter than the way you hug me??

then, a few minutes later, a follow up:

to: colly 🫶🤍

cannot believe i have been replaced by a roll of toilet paper

he replies a few minutes later during a break from the event.

from: colly 🫶🤍

the toilet paper will last us two months, baby

to: colly 🫶🤍

not with the way you eat, loveland

he physically has to sit down when he sees that text come through.

'you okay, loveland?' one of his chaperones ask him.

'all good,' he replies easily. 'keeping my girl updated.'

he quickly taps out a reply before going into the next interview:

from: colly 🫶🤍

for the record, nothing will ever replace you. not even a two month roll of toilet paper

to: colly 🫶🤍

and they wanna say romance is dead!

then:

to: colly 🫶🤍

don't forget to take your toilet paper for a walk!!! it has feelings!! and needs!!!!

but it doesn't stop there. the debauchery continues.

to: colly 🫶🤍

1 image attached

do not look at me ever again if it is not the way you are looking at your emotional support toilet paper.

it takes colston several minutes to recover from that one.

from: colly 🫶🤍

how are you even finding these pictures so fast???

she's cackling while kicking her feet from the couch in chicago, having far too much fun.

to: colly 🫶🤍

you forget i was on stan twitter, loveland

cue one very confused tight end staring at his phone for several minutes over a protein bar, trying to figure out what 'stan twitter' means.

from: colly 🫶🤍

i don't even want to know what that means

to: colly 🫶🤍

a wise choice. don't forget to wipe!

colston simply shakes his head, unable to stop the smile from appearing on his face.

there's a lull. he thinks he's in the clear.

he is very much not in the clear.

then...

to: colly 🫶🤍

1 image attached

one of the girls at work sent me this and asked if this a large man with a small man. i said it's a large man with a normal sized man

then, as an afterthought:

to: colly 🫶🤍

i advise hurrying home, colston. the chain is making me think... thoughts... that are not fun to have when a woman is by herself

colston takes a deep breath, scanning the area around him to make sure nobody else can see his phone.

then, he opens up snapchat and sends her a snap of his face, eyes blown and mouth pursed the way it does when he's having unholy thoughts.

if you don't behave i'll have to leave and be on the first flight home.

he watches the solid red arrow for a few seconds, then it becomes a hollow arrow, indicating that she's opened it.

seconds later, she sends a snap back. colston sighs and rubs his face with the hand that isn't holding his phone when he sees the photo she's sent; her stretched out on the couch by his bed, legs on show. her frame is swallowed almost whole by one of his old michigan hoodies, the yellow m on the navy blue material loud and proud. her arms are stretched up above her with the camera in 0.5x, making her legs look even longer than they are. she's pouting at the camera.

is that a promise, tight end?

then she texts him again:

to: colly 🫶🤍

i will continue on my treasure hunt of toilet paper content. i will have a lifetime supply of blackmail content for the rest of time. i love you, hurry home (please) ❤️

colston can only smile, knowing full well how lucky he is to have a firecracker of a woman at home waiting for him. it makes the dull ache of missing her that little bit easier to bear.

⋆ ͘ . ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 sweet, sticky nights. surf boards propped up against garage doors. slipping up the steps of your filthy rich grandfather’s vacation home. sneaking an awfully tall “best-friend” into your bedroom past midnight (through a window..?).

⋆ ͘ . ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 tons of fluff & explicit unprotected (do not recreate this in real life!!) sexual intimacy.

⋆ ͘ . ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ 𝑑𝑦𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑐𝑠 colston loveland x black!fem reader, colston as your summer lover and devoted-bestfriend, and simply headcannons which make sense if you see my vision <3 + colston is very very ughhh he’s just so open & willing & sweet, he’s down to do anything in this fic. i’ve never wrote for him so slight mischaracterization might be obvious.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ 　 ྀི　𓈒    my   di𝚊𝚛𝓎  𓈒  ୨୧ ! this should be my second time writing headcannons, if u have any suggestions pls enlighten me :) i must say, it does bleed into prose for a majority.

❛ tell me, when is the next time i’ll run into you? ❜

— one humid june night.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 sand finds its own way of sticking to your feet, retreating itself within beach bags and forming layers of awful crust atop microfiber towels. you’ve got no clue as to why you’re grandmother likes this kind of fabric — but naturally as a sweet girl you put up with her fads and ways of life.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 every summer, and i mean every summer, it has become destiny to stay with your filthy rich grandparents who insist on having their favorite grandchild over; you are their only grandchild. unless we count a cousin who’s living somewhere in marseille with a man that speaks more french than colston’s french 2 teacher from eight years ago!

◡̈ 𓇼      still, it is unbelievable to you that he understands a pinch (like a grain of salt) of french to this day. don’t ask him about conjugations or proper pronunciation though — he’s not all that great.

◡̈ 𓇼      for reference, he pronounces bonjour like ‘bohn-ju’ instead of ‘bon-zhoor.’ told you, don’t rely on him for foreign languages.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 you like colston though for one major reason: love. his love is unwavering, unconditional, and easy to detach every single summer! sure, is this a self-destructive manner of spending june, july, and august — well of course. 

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍓˚ yet, the memories you two have formed together is adorably cliché! 

◡̈ 𓇼      baking with him. creating spotify playlists that become a picture-perfect combination: solange, drake, paramore, bad bunny, mf doom, and a sprinkle of future if you’re feeling generous. very disorganized & very messy. teaching him how to crochet even though his fingers are too big for the hooks. spending $40 on overpriced smoothies downtown at some indie pop-up shop. colston teaching you how to surf at a less convoluted beach. 

◡̈ 𓇼      understanding the art of surfing felt more mathematical than expected, having to find your happy balance in your weight against the hollow board, and stifling screams whenever icy waves carried you to shore.

◡̈ 𓇼      he’s much more artsy than he lets on, but experimenting with crochet and yarn would be a first step to unlocking the inner picasso in him. settling on making shell-jewelry seams feasible to him though.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍓˚ you now have a tiny anklet wrapped gorgeously around your left leg, it glimmers with sandy beads of shells, cleaned sand dollars, and minuscule conch’s. how thoughtful. 

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 i wonder whoever thought: sneaking a six foot six man into your bedroom through a relatively small window is realistic — you did. colston’s good with climbing, you’re good with scoping the scenery out. should be easy as pie.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 summer breeze past nine in the evening makes you sick however, very sick. you couldn’t tell if your grandmother’s essential oils (sea moss & a tinge of herbs) blasting through the diffuser is what exacerbated it, or rather a mass of butterflies swirling endlessly in the pursuit, the mission, the task: get your childhood bestfriend inside your bedroom. 

  ❛ wait at your bedside, i’ll land right next to you

i’m goin' stateside, where i’ll see you tonight. ❜

— your alexa murmuring.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃  he’s inside. his knee got scraped on the way in since your blinds still found their place of tangling up against the panes and mangling him — the horror. 

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃  colston’s incredibly dramatic. incredibly. did i mention that?

◡̈ 𓇼      “(your name), i can’t fucking believe it. i’ve snuck into your room how many times—”

“like four times, col.”

“exactly! so how did i even manage to scrape my knee against blinds,” he bristles at some cold salve being rubbed against his knee, the brunet assumed it likely came out of an emergency kit. 

your emergency kit was mostly from the swimming lessons you’d volunteer at on bi-weekly days, much to your mother’s dismay you refused to take summer courses. summer was supposed to be fun. 

“i dunno—now stop shifting, lemme put it on you—” brushing a coil out of your face, your nails caught the glimmery lighting coming from fairy lights strung above an adjacent wall covered in polaroids. “colston loveland, move one more time and i’ll show this tube down your throat.”

he huffed, laying back against a coral-shaped throw pillow. “damn. rude much.” 

he settles down with time as always, losing that dramatic edge he rarely showed unless being with those he trusts. something in the air lingers — luckily, it is no longer your sea sickness. 

your eyes dart at his knee no longer twitching, you giggle slightly to the residue of whatever ointment caught in the low light of tonight. your hand is still placed there, poking at the hard muscle he’s gained over years and years of football conditioning.

“you stare a lot, ma,” colston peeks up, no longer covering his eyes. his voice is all warmth and melty, how it undoes you is more than skin deep.

“liar. ‘m not.” equally as quiet, matchin his audible level but never his pitch—you know your naturally bubbly lilt couldn’t go so low, so touching.

his eyes flicker up to meet yours, and there it is. the same look he gives you every summer. unconditional. unwavering. loyal. somewhere when late june and early july kiss sweetly, everything begins to feel a little too real there.

“come closer, you acting like imma bite.” 

you obey, making yourself a spot right next to him. pulling another throw pillow close to your ample breasts, covering the skin that’ll show there. 

unwarranted modesty, although he could carve your body into shape with his eyes closed if he wanted to.

“mm.. don’t cover yourself, baby.” 

◡̈ 𓇼      sex with him is mind-blowing, back-arching, and skin-crawling all in one mixture. a very reactive mixture of unadulterated bliss, his lips meet your plush inner thighs, tracing whatever untouched skin he could find—yet all of you is mapped by him.

colston eats pussy like a starved man, he indulges himself with seasoned fervor in knowing worshipping you is heaven on earth.

your clit gets most of his attention,

a pretty pearl those dark eyes fixate on, just barely, as his pupils are consuming whatever’s left of his irises. 

his motivation is fueled when he gets you to the apex, sweetly watching you unfold—juices spilling across his soft lips and beading on the tip of his tongue. you taste like fresh honey and sweet acrimony, leaving him wanting more. the first taste of you left him hooked—hardly two years ago if your mind would recall it properly. 

“i know you want this dick.” 

“mhmm.. col, please.”

“you gon’ beg?” 

“y—yea,” a pang hits you, coursing through every nerve. “please, i need you. need you so bad it hurts.”

he smiles in knowing you’re hooked, its tragic. he’s accustomed himself to it being the other way around, him devoting whatever time he had on his hands for you — although, tonight you’ve outdone him, dramatically. 

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 “just like that, taking it real good f’me, (your name).” 

colston sounds utterly wrecked, muffled by a sudden crash of waves against the sand—continuously driving deeper into you. his hips flush against your own, pining your thigh open with his hand while the other grips the wooden headboard so hardly it creaks. 

each thrust taunts you, drawing a sycophant symphony of sweet, broken sounds almost drawn out by the sound of sticky skin meeting.

“shit, fuck—look at you,” he groans against your lips, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick strands sticking to his temples. “so pretty when you’re creamin’ on me like this.”

your nautical-themed nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks and indents as you please. the anklet on your ankle bounces with every punishing stroke, shells clicking like a tiny secret whispered between you two. 

he perfectly angles his hips to find the innermost part of you just right and you shatter. 

back arching, thighs trembling, colston’s name falling out like a sob, helplessly pulsing around him.

colston groans low, burying himself within you as he comes hard, his abdominal muscles flexing with every spill deep inside you with a guttural moan that vibrates through his chest.

in that moment the only sounds you could manage to make out was heavy breathing and the distant waves outside. (also, your speaker which shifted its rhythm to ‘sweetest taboo’ by sade. ironic isn’t it?)

and so, summer heat softens. a pearly moon hangs above with a disappointing look. and you pray your very-much asleep relatives did not hear a peep.

❛ all those years i put in for the american dream 

is it worth all the work if you can't be here with me? ❜

— the disappointed look on your lovely face, when being told you he’s going back to lake forest, il.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 “don’t talk to me.” weaponizing your dangerous pout and how it appears across those glossy, shiny lips he spent an evening tending to. brows furrowing. eyes squinting and staring into oblivion. 

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍓˚  he did this the previous summer, and the previous summer except he returned back down to ann arbor. 

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 colston is a bit dramatic when it comes to you. naturally. there’s some finely mastered and weird attunement you have from each other — like a symbiotic relationship.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 he swallows his pride, easily around the girl of his dreams, as you could pick apart any man’s ego with ease—he was no extremely hard feat. insanely attractive and thoughtful of not.

“imma make time for you and i swear it.” he starts, luckily your faith in him wasn’t measured by fickle promises—this, you could believe in. “after camp, i still got more than enough time for my girl. you know that.”

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍓˚ of course you knew that. the previous year, on a very amicable, friendly, totally not-romantic trip to the florida keys (you’d developed a knack of snorkeling, and he dragged you into one too many ceramics classes down there—leaving you with several pieces of art.).. and then down to the bahamas’s to visit your great grandmother who called him “darling” like no other.. and convinced you into kayaking. 

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 “you’re lucky i love you, loveland.”