After Party - Joe Burrow

Hello?!

In NYC for Bodyarmor

SUMMARY: Headcannons of Joe Burrow being your best friend, but he likes you much more then friends than you realize.

WARNINGS: Second person point of view, fluff, and painfully oblivious reader.

Since you and Joe are just friends you guys do everything together! Like let’s say shopping or even staying at each other’s house just for the night.

Almost every person who see you guys together they can’t help but ask, “Are you guys together?” but you’re always quick to cut that idea off. Unlike Joe who doesn’t say anything, slightly tensing when you say no.

You guys are always together, rather you standing next to him or you coming to every single one of his football games you’re able to make it too.

Anytime you complain to Joe about your relationship issues, it always goes something like: “I mean he just stopped talking to me as soon as I brought you up. This happens like every time!” And Joe would only respond in nods and murmuring ‘Sorry’. But it’s almost as if every guy wouldn’t want to date a girl with a 6’4 NFL Qb ‘bestfriend’.

He always buys you stuff, hating at the fact you even think to pay for your own things.

Every time you go to his games you give him a hug, not a short little side hug— no a longish proper hug while you’re telling him “good job” && “you got this”

Whenever you tell people how close you and Joe are, and all things you do together they just give you a weird look, but to your knowledge you think they don’t believe you

Anytime Joe subtly hints to you about even being more than “friends” you always say that “we are more than friends!” Which obviously is you not understanding what means, and he just laughs, not bothering to continue on with that conversation.

we never tell - joe burrow

summary whatever’s happening between you and Joe was always a bad idea—too tempting, too reckless, too addictive to stop. tahoe just made it impossible to hide.

content 18+, smut, angst, fluff, alcohol, language, all of the warnings

DAY ONE

Well… even if something did go catastrophically wrong this week, at least no parents would be around to witness the fallout.

Your dad got pulled into covering a partner’s trial at the last minute, and your mom had used it as an excuse to spend the week with her friends in the city. The only reason that worked out so conveniently was because Jimmy and Robin had somehow scored a Hawaii trip—Robin’s sister bailed and handed off the all-inclusive package like some benevolent tropical fairy godmother.

Whose bright idea it was to leave a cabin full of twenty-somethings alone with a liquor cabinet older than all of you… unclear. But they insisted you’d be fine. Dan and Carrie were technically around to “supervise,” and you’d promised your parents no injuries, no disappearances, and definitely no tequila-fueled hospital visits—before boarding your flight to Reno.

After landing, Dominic made a beeline for the rental lot and immediately picked out the most expensive SUV available, high off the thrill of having full credit card access for the first time in years. He hadn’t been trusted with it since the infamous boy’s trip to the Keys, an event so chaotic you still get silenced anytime you try to bring it up.

So, in a shiny new Rover (probably not the smartest pick for mountain roads, but at least it had all-wheel drive), you shared a gas station breakfast and made fun of each other’s playlists the entire drive. He made sure to grab a pack of powdered donuts (stale, of course, but sacred tradition), and some hot chocolate (lukewarm, but still a must), before you started the final stretch.

The drive was calm. Almost idyllic in that blurry, half-sweet way that made you feel fourteen again. Your knees ached from being curled up too long, your stomach from the processed sugar crash—but still, it felt familiar. So much so in the way that made you feel like something good might happen if you let it.

And then you pulled into the driveway and the feeling started to fade.

The house looked the same as ever with its vaulted peaks framed in snow and warm golden windows flickering behind tall pine trees, all seeming a little too much like a frozen memory waiting for you to step back in. 

You hadn’t been here the past two winters. First it was a senior trip to Europe—bouncing between hostels, starting in Rome and ending in Paris. Then Arizona with your new college friends, chasing desert sunsets and overpriced concert tickets. You didn’t regret either trip. But pulling up now, in the cold breath of early evening, you realized just how much had changed. Or maybe it was just you.

And the Joe thing didn’t help. Whatever it was. Whatever you two were.

You’d kept in touch… sort of. A few texts, scattered across the month. Some flirtier than others. A couple photos exchanged during finals week. One very late FaceTime you both quietly ignored the next morning. You weren’t dating. You weren’t a thing. But something lived in the quiet between those conversations. 

And now, you were about to spend a full week under the same roof.

Dominic cut the engine, glancing over as you stare at the house like it might swallow you whole.

“You good?” he asks with a lopsided grin. “C’mon, it’s gonna be a good time.”

You nod, fixing a smile on your face like it might just hold everything together. The last thing you needed—what no one needed—was for you to get tangled up in your feelings. He pats your arm in that same brotherly way he always does, trying to play it cool even though you know he clocks every shift in your mood.

Shoving the last of your nerves down deep, you step out into the cold, zipping your coat up to your chin as the mountain air sinks its teeth in.

“Cincy?” a voice calls out from somewhere near the garage. “That really you?”

With a Busch Light already in hand and that same boyish swagger in his step you remembered a little too well, Connor strolls toward the car like it hasn’t been years. He looked good—windswept and red-cheeked from the cold, hair messily tucked under a backwards hat, ski jacket half-zipped like the cold didn’t bother him. He stops long enough to dap up your brother, slipping easily into small talk.

While they caught up, you move around to the backseat and pop open the door, reaching for your weekender bag. “Thought you ditched us for good,” the voice came again, closer this time, just behind your shoulder.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, and by the time you turn, Connor is already reaching past and grabbing your bag with one arm like it weighed nothing. His fingers brush yours in the process but he doesn’t pull away instantly. His gaze flicks across you, lingering just a second too long before his grin is tugged back into place.

“Still pack like you're running away,” he teases, hoisting the bag easily onto his shoulder. “What do you have in here, bricks?”

You roll your eyes but felt the heat creep up your neck anyway. Some things never change.

Connor has been a fixture in Tahoe since you were kids—his parents owned one of the ski resorts up the road, and he’d practically grown up on the slopes. Your brother met him at a little skiing workshop when they were both eight and declared him his best friend within twenty-four hours. From that moment on, Connor was everywhere. Sitting across from you at pizza nights, rigging up makeshift ski jumps in the backyard while you made snowmen, tagging along for movie nights and always calling dibs on the beanbag chair you liked first.

He was also the one who used to chuck snowballs at you during your ski lessons, making dumb faces from the lift while you wobbled your way down the bunny hill. And when you were younger—maybe eleven or twelve—that teasing turned into something else. Something you couldn’t name at the time, but you felt it every time he ruffled your hair or called you “kid.” Something fluttery and stupid and way too intense for someone who barely looked at you twice once the older girls from his school showed up.

You zip your coat a little higher and try to ignore the way he still makes your stomach flip.

“You coming in,” he asks while glancing back at you with a grin, “or just gonna freeze out here?”

Then, with a playful edge, “Unless you still do plan on running away.”

At that exact moment, Dominic passes by, rolling his eyes as he hoists a duffel over one shoulder. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Connor, loud enough for both of you to hear. “She’s been one minor inconvenience away from bailing since we landed.”

Connor barks out a laugh, looking over his shoulder at you with a grin that only widened. “Noted,” he said, then winked. “Guess I better behave.”

You shook your head but your face was already warm and you hated that he could probably tell. Connor holds the door open and you mumble a quick thanks. The second you step inside, you’re instantly met with a flood of familiar faces.

Jamie and his fiancé, Emily, are curled up on the loveseat, waving with cheerful smiles. The last time you’d seen them was at the Fourth of July barbecue—one of those chaotic afternoons where you barely got more than a hug in before they were pulled away by someone bombarding them with questions about wedding plans.

By the fireplace sits Nate, another Tahoe local, and Caleb, whose family rents the place just down the mountain. Nate had become part of the group years ago after overhearing one of Dom, Joe, and Connor’s brilliant plans to sneak out and meet a group of out-of-towners. He tagged along, and somewhere in the chaos of the teens getting lost, they met Caleb—brother to one of the girls they were trying to find. 

Now, the five of them—Nate, Caleb, Dom, Connor, and Joe—are practically a package deal. Wherever one went, the others followed. Most of the time, anyway.

There’s always been a weird thing between Joe and Connor. Not outright fighting, but something just under the surface. A quiet competitiveness. Clipped comments. The occasional sideways glance that made everyone else fall awkwardly silent. No one ever explained it and no one dared ask—but the tension was always there.

You’d gotten used to it over the years, but that didn’t make it any less noticeable.

“We’re here! Nobody cry.” Dom shouts the moment you’re able to gather yourself.

“Speak for yourself. I’m already regretting this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving you off as he kicks snow off his boots. “You say that now, but give it two drinks and you’ll be sobbing about how much you missed me.”

“I never said I missed you.”

“That’s rude, considering I brought you here.”

“You brought me here because Mom made you.”

Dom gasps, “wow. Throw me under the bus in front of the boys.”

“Don’t worry,” Nate says from his spot. “She’s already doing great.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks warming as you shrug off your coat. The room was way too quiet with too many eyes looking your way.

“Okay but seriously,” Caleb adds, eyes flicking over you. “When did Dom’s little sister become an actual person?”

Dom turned so fast, you thought he might throw his bag at him. “Nope. Stop. Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Connor passes by then, beer still in hand, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You’re already losing control, bro.”

“Already regretting everything,” Dom sighs then jabs a finger at you. “Don’t even think about joining their side.”

You grin. “No promises.”

The group laughs, all descending into chaos as you reach to grab your bag from Connor, lugging it up the stairs.

Your room was exactly the same. Same patchy quilt. Same old Polaroids pinned to the corkboard, some faded beyond recognition, others showing unmistakable evidence of braces, bad bangs, and someone (likely one of the guys) photobombing in every other one.

You didn’t unpack so much as toss your things across the bed and pretend you felt fine. Voices could be heard faintly rising from below, laughs layered over old stories, the low thrum of a speaker someone connected to, the dull creak of floorboards that never stopped giving everyone away. For a moment, it felt like you’ve slipped back into something you’d aged out of. Like the walls were waiting to see who you were now, to figure out if you still fit. 

Right as you were considering whether anyone would notice if you just stayed up here for the rest of the night, you heard the front door open. And even from upstairs, even without seeing her, you knew.

By the time you (begrudgingly) made it halfway down the stairs, you could already feel the energy shift. Conversations hadn’t stopped, but they’d slowed—tilted in her direction. You see her first from the back, brushing snow from her coat sleeves with that same effortless grace that always made her seem way older than the rest of you even when she wasn’t. 

Bridget moved like she had somewhere more important to be and had just chosen to show up here anyway. Her dark hair was tucked into a sleek braid that rested against one shoulder and her gloves were shoved neatly into her pockets instead of tossed carelessly to the side like the others.

“Hey,” she says, gaze moving around the room like she was cataloging who made it this year and who didn’t. “Sorry I’m late. I came straight from practice.”

Of course she did.

Dom let out a low whistle from across the room. “Damn, look who finally decided we’re worth her time.”

Bridget rolls her eyes but her smirk gives her away. “I’m not the one who missed two years in a row.”

You step the rest of the way down, fighting the urge to bite back. Not that she said anything cruel—Bridget didn’t do cruel. She didn’t need to. Her silence said plenty. 

She’d never been unfriendly but there was something in the way she looked at you that always made you feel like she was waiting for you to grow into something you hadn’t quite become. She was all mountain air and early mornings and first-place medals.

You huff an exaggerated laugh, “nice to see you too, Bridget.” 

She doesn’t take the bait, instead giving a small, practiced smile alongside a nod that somehow still feels condescending even though it wasn’t. She wasn’t being cold. She wasn’t being anything, really. That was the thing about Bridget—she never needed to try hard to make her presence known. She was gracious, polite, perfectly warm in the right places, but always seemed to exist just slightly above the rest of the group. Not on purpose. Just naturally out of reach.

You use the moment to make your quiet exit from the edge of the living room, slipping past the group and heading towards the kitchen. You cross the floor to the counter, reaching for one of the unopened seltzers and cracking it open as you stand with your back to the chaos just beyond. The hum of the fridge kicks on. Someone laughs in the other room. You take a slow sip, breathing in through your nose, letting your shoulders drop for the first time all evening.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

​​The voice comes from just behind your shoulder, low and close enough that you jump—hard enough to almost spill your drink. You turn fast, already teetering between a laugh and a scowl.

“Jesus. People have got to stop doing that to me.”

Joe stands there, looking slightly amused, arms crossed like he’s been leaning there the whole time. And even though you’ve seen his name light up your phone more times than you could count, something about seeing him in person now made your heart stutter in your chest. 

It’s stupid how quickly it hits you.

He smiles, a little crooked. “Doing what?”

“Sneaking up on me,” you say, turning back toward the counter, fingers picking at the tab on your can. “Connor did it earlier and I nearly fell on my ass.”

You glance over your shoulder, expecting a laugh from him. Maybe a grin. What you don’t expect is the way his smile falters. It doesn’t come back. His jaw is tight, eyes a little harder than they were a second ago. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, then you turn away again, suddenly too aware of how exposed your back feels.

His footsteps don’t echo but you feel every one of them—the soft shift of the floorboards, the presence behind you pulling closer. You stay rooted where you are, frozen somewhere between wanting to say something and knowing better.

He stops behind you and you feel it before you process it. The shift in air. The slow pull of warmth at your back. The way your breath stutters like your body remembers this before your mind can catch up. His arm lifts above you, smooth and unhurried, and it’s not until it lowers again that you realize what he was reaching for.

A bottle of bourbon. Probably stashed from a past trip, maybe even the last one you skipped. His fingers curl around the neck, knuckles white against the dark glass, grip tight enough to draw your eyes without meaning to. The bottle hangs at his side as he lingers there, shoulders loose, weight tipped into one hip like he’s in no rush to go anywhere.

You feel him watching you.

His tongue clicks softly, the sound sharp in the quiet.

“Old habits die hard, huh.”

The words land behind you dryly. Almost bored. Like he’s amused with himself, or maybe with you. You turn your head again, slower, but just in time to catch the flick of his eyes as he rolls them.

And then he walks out, leaving you in the kitchen with the sting of all the things you didn’t get to say.

DAY TWO

If there’s such a thing as peace after tequila and half a bag of marshmallows, you’re pretty sure it looks something like this.

You’re not sure when the night started to blur. Maybe right after Dom and Caleb came barreling in from the garage, triumphantly holding up a dusty box of leftover fireworks like they’d just unearthed buried treasure. That part was actually kind of impressive. The problem, of course, was that no one could find a single lighter in the entire house. Dan (supposed chaperone) was storming through the kitchen like a man possessed, opening drawers, tossing aside old candles, muttering something like, “In a house that’s hosted teenagers and middle-aged moms for fifteen years, how the hell is there not a single lighter?” 

You’d finished your drink, still holding the empty can because it felt easier than figuring out how to escape unnoticed. Everyone was talking over each other, laughing too loud, spinning off into side quests about flammable household objects. You remember leaning against the wall, half-listening, half-hoping no one would pay attention when you finally slipped up the stairs silently.

Apparently, no one did.

It wasn’t the plan to end up skiing alongside Bridget. The group had naturally split on the last run and the two of you had found yourselves carving lazy paths through powdery snow. 

She could actually be kind of easy to talk to—when she was like this, anyway. You’d never had a problem with her. It was just that being around Bridget for too long felt like trying to keep up with someone who was always three steps ahead without ever looking back to see if you were still there.

Bridget coasts ahead a little, then drifts back to match your speed. She tilts her head like she’s considering something, and then says, “You’d like this guy I’ve been training with.”

You blink over at her. “Training?”

“Yeah, out in Utah. He’s been helping me with form drills. Super technical but like... laid-back about it. Kind of annoyingly perfect, honestly.” 

“Wait. Who is this?”

“This guy Max. Works up at Copper full time. He’s kind of a freak athlete.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

Bridget smiles. “He kind of is.” She slows and adds, “I almost wiped out last week trying to impress him. Took a jump I had no business touching.”

You laugh under your breath. The idea of Bridget trying to impress anyone didn’t quite compute. She was the one people chased after, not the other way around.

 “So is that a thing, or...?”

“What, me and Max?” She lets out a breath that was more of a laugh. “No. Definitely not. He’s, like, wildly older. And has a mullet.”

You grin. “That’s not necessarily a dealbreaker.”

“Maybe in the summer when I lose my standards.”

There was a second of quiet, just long enough for you to register the fact that she hadn’t mentioned Joe at all. Not that it was weird she hadn’t. But still. You’d spent the better part of your teenage years watching them share this unspoken bond. Joe and her always talked like they shared some secret competitive sport language that none of you quite understood. And even though neither of them were flirting, you’d spent years pretending not to notice how easily she made him laugh. How his shoulders relaxed around her in ways they didn’t around anyone else.

It had driven you a little insane.

You coast a bit further alongside her, snow brushing softly beneath your skis. It was impossible to not feel the question forming before she asked it.

“What about you? You seeing anyone?”

Your answer comes too fast.

“No.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That was definitive.”

“There’s just… not anyone. Not really.” You fix your gaze down as you say it. “No one important.”

Looking back down the slope, the others were already halfway into taking their skis off. It looks as if they’ve been waiting a minute or two, milling around near the trees, voices carrying faintly over the wind. You hadn’t realized how close you'd gotten.

The two of you glid the rest of the way down in silence, but right before you reach them, she nudges you with her elbow.

“No one important, huh?”

You don’t get the chance to answer—Dom turns toward you both with a smirk already forming.

“What’s that? Bridget talking about a boy?” He pops one ski off with the edge of the other and leans in like he’s ready to stir the pot. Caleb jumps in before you can deflect.

“Multiple boys,” he adds, eyebrows bouncing.

“I heard training with a guy and no one special,” Nate shares, which was absolutely not what had been said.

Bridget groans, stepping past them to unclip her bindings. “Jesus. You children are exhausting.”

“Max, was it?” Dom asks, twisting to look at her. “Can he come visit?”

“He has a mullet,” you say, deadpan, pulling your goggles off and resting them on your helmet.

That earns a full wave of groans and fake gags.

“Oh, so you are talking about guys,” Nate beams, pointing at you like he’s cracked a code.

Bridget doesn’t even blink as she peels off one glove. “I was talking about drills.”

“Same thing,” Nate mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Caleb to elbow him.

You’re unbuckling your helmet when Connor slides in beside you, catching just enough of the exchange to grin like he’d been listening the whole time.

“Wait, wait,” Connor says with a smirk. “You talking about guys too, Cincy?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, already starting toward the lodge with skis in hand. “Bridget was talking. I was listening.”

“Mmhmm,” Dom calls out. “That’s why your face is all red.”

“It’s the wind,” you sigh.

“Sure,” Joe says from in front, not looking at you. It’s the first thing he’s said since you got down the mountain, like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to make a dig.

You shake your head, not sure when everything started feeling off. Racking your skis next to Dom’s, you’re the first one inside the lodge. The windows are fogged over with steam, coats hung heavy on every hook, air thick with the scent of chili and burnt coffee. Someone’s boots squeak on the tile behind you.

There’s already a short line at the café counter, but no one seems stressed. Connor waves to the girl behind the register like he’s here every weekend. Which, you guess, he kind of is.

“Put it on the family tab,” he grins, throwing an arm around Dom’s shoulders.

Dom grins, overjoyed. “Must be nice to be ski royalty.”

Caleb clutches his chest dramatically. “God, the burden of generational wealth.”

“All that inherited trauma,” Nate adds with a grin.

“Shut up,” Connor laughs, nudging you forward in line. “You want anything, Cincy?”

You grab a water and something light. You know you won’t finish it but that doesn’t really matter to you right now.

The group shuffles toward a long table in the middle of the room, benches lining either side. You’re just settling into a seat between Dom and Bridget when Connor slides in beside you, nudging Bridget over without a word. He leans forward, grinning at something Dan’s saying from down the line.

But it’s not Dan you’re looking at.

Your eyes flick up, maybe out of habit. Maybe instinct.

Joe’s the one sitting across from you—elbows planted lightly on the table, fingers brushing the edge of a napkin he hasn’t touched. His food sits untouched too. Forgotten, possibly. Or never wanted in the first place.

And he doesn’t flinch when your gaze catches his. Doesn’t look away or pretend he wasn’t already watching. He just stays there, fixed and silent in that nerving way that makes it hard to tell if he’s calm or coiled tight beneath it all.

Like a shadow cast too cleanly. Too perfectly still to be natural.

You try to hold it, but it’s too much. There’s something about the way he tilts his head at you that makes your stomach turn.

Your fingers twitch around the edge of your water bottle, and you drop your gaze before he can see the heat climbing up your neck. Pretend you’re focused on the plastic, on the food, on anything other than the feeling of being seen and measured and maybe a little bit punished.

You pick up your fork with jerky fingers, trying not to look obvious about how your throat’s too tight to even swallow.

“So,” Connor starts, nudging your elbow gently with his own. “How’s Cincy?”

You blink at him, still caught up in your own mind. “Cincy?”

He grins. “School. You still call it that, right? Or have you sold out and started calling it UC?”

A smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “Still Cincy.”

Dom’s already halfway through his sandwich, talking with his mouth full. “Only person I know who’s ever actually wanted to go to Cincinnati.”

“Since she was, like, ten,” Connor adds in, looking oddly proud he remembers.

“Because she’s a psycho,” Dom adds.

“That’s not news,” Bridget mutters.

“Hey,” you say, pointing your finger at her. “You’re the one trying to impress a guy with a mullet.”

“Oh my God, we’re still on this?” Bridget drops her head into her hands dramatically.

“You’re the one who brought him up,” Caleb points out, reaching across the table to steal a fry from Dan’s plate.

If this were a few years ago, you would’ve been a mess.

Connor sitting next to you, talking to you like this? It would’ve short-circuited your teenage brain. You would’ve been red in the face, barely able to breathe, too caught up in every shift of his eyes, every word.

He was golden back then. Untouchable. Everything.

Now you barely register the way his knee bumps yours beneath the table.

​​Because across the table, Joe is watching you like he sees everything. And no matter how hard you try not to, that’s where your attention keeps drifting.

Connor leans a little closer, voice low. “I’m serious though. You still like it?”

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

“And classes are good? Professors not ruining your life yet?”

“Only two of them.”

He grins. “Name names. I’ll handle it.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh, about to say something back when Dan’s voice cuts in from further down the table.

“Hey,” he says, loud enough to pull everyone’s attention. “Do we wanna try to hit the far ridge after this? Or are we too lazy?”

“Too lazy,” Bridget answers immediately.

“I’m in,” Dom says, licking mayo off his thumb. “We’ve got like two hours of sun left.”

“I’m not hiking back,” Emily says, frowning. “Y’all can meet me at the lodge bar after.”

Carrie, from beside her, hums in agreement.

“Some team spirit,” Nate mutters. “What happened to unity?”

“It died with my motivation,” Emily shoots back, popping a fry in her mouth. “Bridget, you down?”

Bridget raises an eyebrow, considers. “If someone carries my poles.”

“I’ll carry your skis if you promise not to pass me next time,” Caleb says through a mouthful of sandwich. “My ego still hasn’t recovered.”

“You need to let that go,” Jamie chimes in. “It was one run.”

“One run too many,” Caleb mutters.

Connor’s shoulder brushes yours when he turns toward you again. His thigh presses against yours under the table, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He nods toward the others. “So, team far ridge?”

You give a soft shake of your head, fingers curling tighter around your water bottle as you lean back slightly. “I think I’m gonna skip it,” you say, voice just loud enough to carry across the table. “Got a bit of a headache.”

A few heads turn, mild concern flickering across their faces. “Probably from hanging out with us,” Nate says, tapping his temple like he’s discovered something. “We’re loud as hell.”

“That or altitude,” Jamie adds helpfully.

“Or the mullet talk,” Bridget mutters, and Connor snorts beside you. 

You smile politely, already reaching for your stuff. “I might just head back to the house for a bit.”

“You want a ride?” Connor asks, already shifting like he might stand.

“I have to head back anyway.”

Your head snaps up so fast it actually makes your vision blur for a second.

Joe’s voice cuts through the noise of the table so cleanly it leaves an echo. 

Oh God.

You pale instantly. You know it. Feel it. That slow, heavy drop in your stomach is like a missed step in the dark. Heat claws at your neck and then recedes just as fast, replaced by a tight, uncomfortable chill. 

“Team call,” he adds, not looking at anyone in particular.

Bullshit.

You don’t know how you know, but you know.

Dom jumps in to say, “Oh, that’s right. They moved it up for East Coast time.”

Joe stands, his chair scraping just slightly as he pushes it back. His eyes catch yours but he doesn’t say anything as he waits expectantly.

Your heart thuds once, too loud. You hesitate for a breath, then slowly stand too, ignoring the way your legs feel a little like water.

Dan looks up, already sliding his tray aside. “We’ll grab your skis for you guys.”

Jamie nods, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

Joe doesn’t say anything as he leads the way out.

The snow crunches beneath your boots in that slow, late-afternoon kind of hush, the parking lot half-shaded, frost settling heavier now that the sun’s started to dip. Dom’s Rover is exactly where they left it this morning, next to Connor’s Bronco—windows streaked with melt lines, black paint dulled under a fine dusting of powder. 

Joe tosses the keys in one hand, catches them in the other, then climbs into the driver’s seat without a word. You follow, tugging the passenger door shut with more force than necessary, the thunk of it feeling louder than it should.

The engine turns over. The heat kicks on. But neither of you speak.

You stare out the window, counting fence posts or pine trees or whatever flashes by fast enough to keep your thoughts from spiraling.

You're thankful the drive is short. And quiet. 

By the time he pulls into the driveway, you’re already reaching for the door handle. He hasn’t even shifted the car into park before you’re out, feet hitting the ground in one sharp step. Your hand fumbles with the passcode at the front door, thumb too cold and a little too shaky to press the numbers right on the first try. The keypad blinks red. You curse under your breath and try again.

You can hear his door close behind you.

God. You’d just wanted a few seconds of space with a clean escape. A quiet slip into the room, maybe the illusion of stillness long enough to breathe without the memory of his eyes on you. Watching. Unrelenting. Like he wanted you to choke on your silence.

The door beeps green. You grab the handle.

But then his hand wraps around your arm.

Low and close behind you, almost gentle: “Nuh uh.” The sound of it is soft, but it stops everything. Your pulse stutters. You freeze in place, body angled toward the stairs, one foot forward like you could still outrun this.

“I thought you had a call,” you say flatly, not bothering to mask the bitterness clinging to your throat.

Joe shakes his head once. “I lied.”

You turn slowly, chest tight. “Well, I have a hea—”

“No you don’t.” There’s a flicker in his jaw. He looks... tired. And tense. Like he’s been holding something back all day and it’s finally cracking through. “You were fine ten minutes ago,” he says. “And if it really was about a headache, you’d have gone with Connor.”

You blink. Heart picking up again. “That’s not—” He steps in before you can finish. Not touching, but close enough that the distance shrinks and your folded arms suddenly feel childish. Defensive. You drop them, and regret it instantly.

“I’m not trying to fight,” he murmurs, like it’s a line he’s rehearsed but still isn’t sure will work. “But I can’t do this fake shit.”

Your teeth find the inside of your cheek, holding down the rest. “Then what do you want, Joe?”

His eyes flash. There’s something angry there, but it’s not really at you. “I want to know what’s going on. With you. With Connor.”

You stare at him. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Then why does it feel like there is?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Shake your head once and look down. “There never has been. Never will be.”

His hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you but thinks better of it. “Okay,” he says, after a long pause. “Okay.”

“Why?” You finally glance up at him. “Are you seeing someone else?” ​​The question barely makes it out. It’s too thin, too careful, like it’s not supposed to be heard. But it is. And worse, it’s understood.

Joe doesn’t flinch, but you can see the answer in his eyes before he speaks. “No.”

It knocks something loose in your chest. “Oh.”

Small. Stupid. And way too late to hide the disappointment layered in it.

Joe exhales hard, like he’s been bracing for that exact reaction. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your jaw tightens. “I just—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He moves again. Two steps this time. Barely a breath between you. “Say what you’re thinking,” he says. “Because I’m standing here trying not to lose my fucking mind, and you’re looking at me like I’m a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” you say too fast. It sounds like a correction, doesn’t come out the way you meant it.

“I just don’t get it,” you say finally. “We were fine the other week. Texting. Talking. And then last night in the kitchen... it felt like a switch flipped.”

“You were talking about Connor.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down, then back at you, almost sheepish. “You’ve always liked him.”

Your mouth parts in disbelief. “Joe. That was years ago.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stare at him, stunned. And then, slowly, you blink again. A breath catches in your throat—and for the first time in hours, it isn’t from tension. “Oh my God,” you whisper, realization blooming too fast to contain. “You were jealous.”

Joe’s eyes snap to yours. “No—”

“Yes,” you laugh, breathy and stunned, almost too surprised to stop it. “You were.” He steps back like the sound stings, shaking his head, but it’s too late—you already see it. The crack in the armor. The flustered look. “You were jealous of Connor.”

“I wasn’t—” he starts, but the sentence crumbles before it’s finished, and the silence that follows says everything.

You watch him now with something softer beneath your expression, lips curving despite yourself. “That’s what this has been about?”

He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no, either. Just looks at you with that restless kind of guilt behind his eyes like maybe this whole time he thought you knew. And it’s worse somehow, that you didn’t.

His hand lets go of your arm for the first time since it was placed there and he runs it down his face. “Look,” he sighs, “can we just forget about this. Move on?”

You don’t say anything. Not because you’re angry—not anymore, but because you’re too tired to pretend it didn’t land a little sideways. The words are easy, clean, wrapped in that kind of practiced detachment people use when they’re trying to keep the water from rising any higher. 

Can we just move on. 

You know what he means. You know he’s not asking you to forget the last hour, or the way he treated you, or how much weight actions carried. He’s asking for a truce. For the part where this doesn’t spin out into something bigger than either of you can hold.

So you nod, almost imperceptibly. Just enough to let the tension drain without needing more than it already took.

“I’m gonna go lie down,” you say finally, softer now, your voice falling back into your chest where it feels safest. Your eyes flick up to his one last time, catching a shift in his stance like maybe he thought you’d say something else—invite him in, maybe.

But he doesn’t speak. He just nods once, and lets you go.

You head upstairs slowly, legs sore from the slope runs and muscles humming with a kind of tired that has nothing to do with skiing and everything to do with restraint. The stairs creak faintly under your weight, and when you get to your room, you close the door behind you without turning the light on.

The air inside is still, touched by the faint scent of the vanilla apricot lotion you’d used the night before and the eucalyptus from someone’s shampoo. You tug your base layers off one at a time—your fleece top, the long-sleeve thermal you’d worn beneath it, both damp around the cuffs and collar. The sports bra peels away last, cold against your skin from where it’s clung too long to your spine. You strip everything until you’re bare in the quiet, toes curling briefly against the wood floor as your body adjusts to the sudden chill.

You think, for a second, about the shower. You should rinse the sweat off your chest, the faint the smell of snow and fabric and old pine lodge air. But your legs ache, and the thought of standing makes your shoulders fold in on themselves.

So you don’t.

You pull on the first t-shirt you find at the top of your drawer, soft from too many washes, long enough to hang past the tops of your thighs—and crawl into bed without another thought. Your limbs fall limp against the mattress as you stretch out sideways, not even bothering to pull the comforter over you, the weight of the day collapsing all at once into your spine. Your cheek sinks into the pillow, the fabric still faintly cool from the draft near the window. You exhale through your nose, slow, and for the first time in hours, it doesn’t feel like something is sitting on your chest.

You’re just starting to drift, eyes still half-open, when you hear the soft creak of your door. No knock, just the low groan of the hinges and the sound of someone shifting their weight through the threshold. You don’t move or lift your head, you stay in that stillness like, maybe, if you breathe slow enough, the moment will tell you what it wants.

Then the bed dips behind you.

A hand, light and tentative, skims the curve of your thigh, just above the knee where your skin is bare. His fingers trail up slightly, barely there, before settling in place. You can feel the heat of his palm through the cotton of your shirt.

“Is this okay?” Joe asks, low. Not careful in a nervous way, but in a way that sounds like he means it. Like he knows you could still say no.

Your body reacts before your mouth does. You shift back slightly, enough for the warmth of him to press against the backs of your legs, for the weight of his hand to settle more firmly into your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s okay.”

You feel him nod against your shoulder, feel the way his breath fans against the back of your neck when he exhales. His hand doesn’t move again. It stays there, a quiet, steady anchor while the room fills with the hush of something finally letting go.

DAY THREE

At some point in the night, long after the air in your room had gone still, after the shadows had stretched across your walls and settled—something stirred you from sleep. You weren’t sure what pulled you from that heavy sleep. Maybe it was the way the temperature had dipped slightly, the faintest chill creeping beneath your blanket. Or maybe it was him.

You barely had time to register the warmth pressed into your side before you felt the first soft kiss pressed to the inside of your arm, just above the bend of your elbow. Another followed it, barely there, grazing the edge of your bicep, then trailing up toward your shoulder like he was mapping his way across skin he already knew by heart.

A third kiss landed just beneath the slope of your neck, lips brushing against your collarbone, then higher—along the side of your throat, against the curve of your jaw, right up to the corner of your mouth where he paused, hovering. You could feel the ghost of a smile on his lips, the quiet hesitation. “They’re pulling in now,” Joe murmured, the words warm against your skin.

You froze for half a second, piecing it together—headlights flashing against the walls, the distant crunch of tires over fresh snow. “Oh. You should probably go then,” you whispered so low the words almost got lost between you.

Joe exhaled a heavy breath against your skin like he hated the thought. His hand squeezed lightly at your thigh, and he stayed there just long enough to press one final kiss to the side of your mouth. Then the weight shifted, the bed lifted, and the room grew quiet again.

You didn’t fall back asleep right away.

You laid there, tucked into the same tangle of sheets, tracing the warmth he left behind. Eventually, sleep crept back in, heavier this time.

By the time you wake up again, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and coffee—warm and alive in that way only Tahoe mornings ever feel. You pad in quietly, still in socks and a fleece you pulled off the floor, sleeves shoved to your elbows, hair a mess. Your eyes sting from sleep, but the house is already wide awake. Chairs scrape. Music hums low from a speaker by the window. Half a stack of pancakes sits on a plate that’s definitely cooling, but no one’s claimed it yet.

Connor is the first to notice you. He glances up from the stove, spatula in hand, grinning like he hasn’t just cooked enough food for a small army. “There she is,” he says, raising his voice just enough to turn a few heads. “Thought we were gonna have to send search and rescue.”

You blink against the brightness of the kitchen and open the cabinet slowly. “For what, pancakes?”

“Rescuing you from your beauty sleep,” he fires back, somehow flipping a pancake with difficulty. “Though clearly you didn’t need it.”

That earns a chorus of “ooohs” from somewhere near the island. You smile against it, tucking your chin slightly as you reach for a mug, trying not to let your eyes flick too obviously toward Joe. Your fingers brush the handle of the coffee pot but Dom beats you to it, appearing out of nowhere to pour you a cup without asking.

“You’ve got like three minutes before Connor burns the last pancake out of spite,” he warns, handing you the mug.

“I’m letting them get crispy,” Connor calls defensively, already plating another with too much confidence. “Some of us have taste.”

“Or just ego problems,” Bridget murmurs, walking past with a plate and the world’s most casual eye-roll.

You slide into the stool beside Joe without even thinking, your leg brushing his beneath the table as you sit. He’s still in the same hoodie and sweats from last night, curls faintly dented from sleep. But he looks more present today. He works on peeling his clementine, knee not moving away from yours.

He’s not quite smiling, but close. His shoulders are more relaxed than they were yesterday, his eyes softer at the corners. You’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay, not to be weird,” Jamie says from across the counter, tilting his head like he’s squinting at a strange animal in a cage, “but you’ve been, like… shockingly normal today.”

Dom snorts. “That’s just cause no one’s brought up his fantasy team yet.”

Jamie keeps going, undeterred. “No, I mean mood-wise. You’re not giving cryptic rage goblin. It’s… unsettling. Like, should we be worried?”

Joe, still peeling a clementine with slow precision, doesn’t even glance up. “Guess I’m more in the vacation mood.”

Bridget lifts an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since the call.”

You sip your coffee to hide the way your lips want to tug into a smile.

Connor slides a pancake onto a plate with unnecessary ceremony. “This one’s yours. It’s shaped like a heart.”

You glance at the lopsided blob, head tilted. “Because you made it with love?”

“No,” he says, flashing a grin. “I just flipped it too soon.”

You smirk into your plate. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“I’m starting to think you’re ungrateful,” Connor says, mock wounded. “That’s fine. I’ll just save my next masterpiece for someone who appreciates culinary excellence.”

“Oh my God,” Bridget mutters. “It’s literally a pancake.”

Nate raises his hand. “Connor, I love your work. Got one that’s, you know… anatomically bold?”

“Already spoken for,” Connor says solemnly. “Joe called it first thing this morning.”

Joe just shakes his head, smiling into his clementine like he’s above it all—like his free hand isn’t slipping beneath the table to curl around your upper thigh, palm warm as it settles high, dangerously high, just shy of where you’d really feel it. His thumb strokes once, barely-there pressure against the soft skin inside your leg.

That he’s still able to touch you like this.

Still able to make you feel like this.

Still the one who does.

And he doesn’t need to look over to know you’ve gotten the message—clear as day, deep as the ache he already knows how to leave behind.

But of course he does.

That’s the whole point.

DAY FOUR

“Missed this,” Joe mumbles against your mouth, the words low and husky, nearly lost in the soft slide of his lips over yours. His hands are already on your waist, pulling you in close, his body warm and solid beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt. You don’t even remember reaching for him—just the sleepy shock of waking up to the weight of his palm dragging slowly up your body, the dip of the mattress under his knee, his mouth on yours before your brain could even register the time.

It’s still dark outside. The kind of deep, pre-dawn quiet that blankets the entire house, where even the floorboards seem hesitant to creak. No one else is awake yet—not Dom, not Jamie, not any of the couples still tangled up in shared beds across the hall. The only sounds are the faint rustling of blankets and the rhythmic hush of your breath catching every time Joe kisses you a little deeper, a little more certain. He must’ve snuck in through the hallway door while the others were still sleeping. You think you heard it open once, maybe twenty minutes ago, but you’d rolled over, assuming it was the wind or someone heading to the bathroom. Not him. Not like this.

His hands are firmer now, sliding up beneath your oversized tee—his, left at the cabin from a few winters ago, worn and soft, the hem rising with every graze of his knuckles. He shifts closer, one leg wedging between yours as he guides you back into the pillows, his mouth trailing from your lips to your jaw. Then lower. Hot breath brushing your collarbone. The tip of his nose nudging against your neck like he’s trying to remember how it all felt last time.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, voice just rough enough to make you shiver. You feel the words more than you hear them—right at your throat, where his tongue darts out to taste the spot just under your ear.

Your fingers twist in the back of his shirt. You should say something—ask what time it is, ask what he’s doing, ask if someone might hear—but your body reacts before your mind can form the words. Your hips arch into his, your leg wrapping around his waist to hold him there, to feel the heaviness of him pressing down. He groans softly at that, the sound barely contained, buried into the crook of your neck like he’s trying not to lose too much control this early.

“Locked the door,” he mutters, as if reading your mind, lips brushing your skin between each syllable. 

His fingers drift lower, teasing the waistband of your sleep shorts as he kisses his way down your chest—just soft grazes at first, until he pushes the shirt up high enough to find bare skin. His eyes flick up to meet yours then, even in the darkness, and you swear he can see everything. Every thought you’re trying to suppress, every ache that’s already started to bloom low in your stomach.

“Still so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Joe whispers, voice thick with that same need you remember from before—the kind that made you reckless last time. The kind that makes you reckless now.

And then his mouth is on you again, lower, slower, no space between his lips and your skin. And you don’t even care what time it is anymore.

His tongue moves in lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your ribs, pausing to suck lightly at the soft skin beneath your breast. He hums against you like he’s tasting something forbidden, something he’s missed dearly. Your breath stutters when his teeth graze your skin, enough to make you clench beneath him. His hand slides under the waistband of your sleep shorts, knuckles dragging up the inside of your thigh so slowly you feel it everywhere.

You gasp, hips twitching toward him, already too warm and too wound up to pretend this isn’t exactly what you wanted the second he walked in.

He glances up at you, fingers stilled just shy of your center. “You wet for me baby?” The question comes low but it’s not him teasing. He’s not smirking. He’s watching you like he’s starved.

“Yes,” you whisper, hand curling in the sheets beside you. “Joe—please.”

His mouth drops to your stomach, teeth skimming along the soft curve of it as his fingers finally touch where you need him. You suck in a breath when he brushes over your clit, gentle at first, like he’s reminding your body how to respond to him. But you remember. God, you remember. And your hips lift into his hand almost instinctively, thighs starting to tremble.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, slipping his hand lower. “It’s like you’ve just been waiting for me.”

You have.

Before you can say it, he’s tugging your shorts and panties down your legs in one motion, discarding them somewhere behind him. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open like he has every right to, like it’s muscle memory. He settles between them with that low, grounding exhale that lets you know he’s not in any rush.

When his mouth finally meets you, you almost cry out. His tongue is slow and deliberate, licking up the length of your folds before flattening against your clit. He hums again, content, and the vibrations make you whimper. Every flick is purposeful like he’s worshipping something. You try to stay still, try not to lose it so quickly—but he knows exactly what he’s doing.

One arm hooks under your thigh, holding you open as the other snakes up beneath you, palm lifting your hips off the bed so he can keep you right where he wants you. When your head tips back, mouth open in a silent moan, Joe groans into you and tightens his grip.

“Let me hear it,” he says, voice rough and muffled. “Let me hear what I do to you.”

“I missed you,” you whisper, breathless. “Missed this.”

That’s when he loses what little patience he was holding onto. His grip tightens. His mouth moves faster, more intense. And it only takes seconds before you’re unraveling for him, thighs clamping around his head as a sharp, staggering orgasm rips through you. You don’t even try to be quiet. He didn’t tell you to.

When it finally fades, you’re twitching against the mattress, breathing like you’ve just run a mile. Joe licks you once more, slow and possessive, before he pulls back, chin slick, eyes blown dark as he pushes himself up onto his knees.

But he doesn’t reach for you right away. Instead, he presses one large hand flat on your lower belly, right above where he was just inside you.

“Right here,” he mutters, almost to himself. His thumb strokes lazily over your skin. “Fuck, I’ve thought about this every night. Every time you sent some picture, every time you fucking called me like nothing was happening—this was what I wanted.”

“Joe…” you breathe, not sure what you’re asking for.

His hand stays there, firm against your belly. His other tugs his sweats low enough to free himself, cock already hard, flushed, aching. You look down at where he’s touching you like he’s imagining himself inside you already, feeling the outline of it before he’s even entered.

“You’re mine like this,” he murmurs. “You’ve always been. You just don’t wanna admit it.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

“I don’t wanna share you,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw. “Don’t want anyone else to even think they’ve seen you like this.”

Your mouth falls open but no words come out. You can’t think. Not when his cock slides through your folds, teasing the entrance, already soaking in your release.

“I wanna feel myself right here,” he breathes, pressing down on your stomach again, just above your pelvis. “Wanna watch you take every inch, feel how deep I am while you fall apart for me.”

Finding it hard to form any words, you tilt your hips up into him, eyes half-lidded as you slide a hand to the back of his neck and pull him down to you. 

And he takes it. All of it.

The first thrust is slow, agonizing, his hand never leaving your belly. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and locked on the place he’s disappearing into you, his breath catching when he feels your walls flutter tight around him. You let out a choked moan, back arching helplessly as he pushes deeper, deeper, until there’s nowhere left to go.

“God damn,” he groans, forehead falling to yours. “This pussy’s mine.”

You whimper at the filth of it, at the claim in his voice, at the way you know—deep down—it might actually be true.

He stills for a beat, thick and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him. The stretch. The heat. Your mouth falls open around a gasp, hips twitching involuntarily as your body tries to adjust. You’re full to the point of ache, dizzy from how careful he’s being. How much he’s giving you just by holding still.

But it’s when he leans back on his knees, still fully inside you, and plants one broad palm flat against your lower stomach—right over where he’s buried deep—that your whole body jolts.

“Right there,” he murmurs, pressing just a little, just enough to make you feel it. “Feel me, baby?”

You choke on a breath.

“Joe—oh my god.”

Your hands scramble to hold onto something—his wrist, the sheets, your own thighs—because the sensation is unlike anything else. It’s too much. His cock thick and throbbing inside you, his palm heavy on your belly, eyes dark as they watch the way your face falls apart under him.

He groans when he sees it. Like the sight alone might ruin him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, breathless and wrecked. “You feel that? That’s how deep I am.”

Your thighs try to close around him instinctively, too overwhelmed, too full, but he slides his hand down to your hips and pins you open again, shaking his head like he’s not done showing you.

“No, lemme have it. Been thinking about this every night, don’t get to run now,” the way his voice dips on the word now nearly makes you cry out again. “You let that stupid fuck talk to you like I’m not the one that gets to have you like this.”

He thrusts once, slow but hard, his hand never leaving your stomach, his thumb grazing across your skin again like he’s trying to brand you there. You cry out, hips twitching, back arching up off the bed.

“I can feel you—”

“I know you can.” He leans forward then, catching your face in his free hand, brushing his nose against yours. “No one else gets this.”

Another thrust—deeper, meaner, sending you gasping into his mouth.

“You feel so good,” you pant, barely able to form the words.

His lips part over yours, but he doesn’t kiss you. Mouth hovering over yours, breathing with you, losing it with you.

“You were made for me,” he whispers, drunk on it now. “Your body fuckin’ knows me. Look at you.”

Your eyes flutter open just in time to catch him looking down between you both, still pressing into your stomach while his cock rocks slow, devastating circles inside you.

And that’s what breaks you.

The orgasm rushes in without warning—hot and overwhelming and pulsing through every part of you. Your body locks down around him, helpless under the weight of his touch and his words and the filthy possessiveness still dripping off his voice.

“Jesus—there you go. Let me feel it, baby. That’s my girl.”

You cry out, clutching at him, every muscle tight and trembling as he fucks you through it. He drops his head to your shoulder, groaning against your neck as your release milks him, his rhythm stuttering.

“Fuck—” he chokes out. You wrap your legs around him tighter, nails digging into his back. He shudders, thrusts a final time, and then you feel it. His whole body tense above you as he spills inside with a low, broken groan.

When it’s over, he collapses half on top of you, chest heaving, skin damp. But his hand doesn’t leave your stomach. If anything, he presses a little harder, still circling with his thumb as if trying to feel it all settle.

“You should see how you look like this,” he murmurs into your neck. “Might lose my mind.”

You don’t answer because you’re still floating. Body limp, your legs spread open and shaking, your mouth parted like you forgot how to close it.

And he’s still inside you, holding you like the whole fucking house doesn’t exist beyond this bed.

The memory lingers longer than it should. Even after he’s gone you’re still floating somewhere between sleep and whatever this is.

When you finally peel yourself out of bed, the world outside your window is already blinding white, heavy with fresh snow. Just from one look you already know what the plan is for today.

It’s always been the same, ever since you were little—after a big storm, nobody needed to say anything. You’d all spill outside, wrapped in lumpy coats and mismatched mittens, throwing yourselves into the snow like it was your only job. Even the parents used to join in back then, when you were all still toddlers, chasing each other through the drifts, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Somewhere downstairs, the familiar thud of boots and shouts of laughter echo through the walls, pulling you back into the day whether you’re ready for it or not. You layer up slowly, thick socks and leggings and your warmest jacket, hiding Joe’s hoodie from this morning underneath because it's a secret you can’t quite part with yet. 

The cold hits you the second you step outside, biting at your nose and cheeks as you stumble down the front steps into chaos. Old toboggans scatter across the slope like wreckage from a lost battle. Shouts and laughter tear through the freezing air, ricocheting off the trees. 

Dom’s halfway down the hill already, somehow managing to sled backward while pumping his fists in the air like an idiot. Emily wipes out spectacularly near the bottom, her body flipping into the powder with a high-pitched scream, and Caleb’s patrolling the top with an armful of snowballs, throwing them indiscriminately at anyone who looks too happy.

You barely have a second to take it all in before a snowball whizzes past your head.

"Incoming!" Nate hollers, already loading up another.

You duck instinctively, laughing, and when you straighten up again, Joe’s there.

He’s tugging his gloves on tighter, cheeks red from the cold, a ridiculous wool hat jammed over his messy hair. He steps up beside you and nudges your shoulder with his own, "you're late."

You barely have a second to take it all in before one of Caleb’s missiles whizzes past your head, startling you into a squeaky laugh.

"Incoming!" Nate hollers, already loading up another.

You duck instinctively, heart pounding from the surprise and the cold, and when you straighten up again, Joe’s there. Tugging his gloves on tighter, cheeks flushed deep pink from the cold, a ridiculous wool hat jammed low over his messy hair. He steps up beside you without a word, bumping your shoulder with his like you’re already mid-conversation.

"You're late," he says, voice thick with that gravelly sleep-laced tone that makes your stomach flutter.

You roll your eyes, burying your smile in your scarf. "Slept in."

Joe just huffs a small laugh under his breath and starts down the hill. You watch him for half a second too long before forcing yourself to follow.

By the time you’re flying down the hill for the third—or maybe fourth—time, your gloves are soaked straight through, your cheeks are numb, and your ribs ache from laughing so hard you can barely breathe. The air feels even more frigid every time you trek back uphill, boots slipping on slick patches of churned-up snow, but nobody’s slowing down. Everyone's too busy throwing themselves onto sleds like kids, shrieking and tumbling and crashing with reckless abandon. Somewhere behind you, Dom’s yelling about how he “beat the course record," even though there’s absolutely no course. Emily and Carrie are rolling around in the snow near the bottom, cackling so hard you can hear them from halfway up.

You’re halfway through adjusting your scarf when Joe’s hand brushes yours, fingers grazing yours through the gloves in a touch that could be called an accident—if he wasn’t looking at you like that. Like the world could crash and burn around you, and he still wouldn’t look away. You blink hard, dragging your gaze down to your boots, pretending to kick the packed snow off, pretending your heart isn’t trying to beat a hole through your ribs.

You barely catch your breath before Connor jogs up beside you, cocky grin flashing bright as ever, “We’re going doubles," he announces. "Me and you, Cincy. Let’s show these amateurs how it’s done."

You open your mouth to object, something about not wanting to end up concussed, but he’s already grabbing your hand and dragging you up toward the ridge, laughing like this is all so easy. Like nothing’s changed.

You go along, heart pounding, casting one quick look over your shoulder where Joe still stands a few steps back. His face gives away nothing, but the way his gloved hands flex once at his sides says enough.

Connor shouts something about steering as you settle awkwardly behind him, barely managing to hook your arms around his waist before he kicks off. 

The sled shoots forward with a violent lurch, snow spraying up around you as you barrel down the hill at a reckless speed. Your laughter bubbles out of you unrestrained, half-pure joy, half-desperate adrenaline as you cling to the sides and try not to tip into the nearest drift.

When you finally crash into a snowbank at the bottom, you can barely breathe, your lungs burning from the laughter and the cold. Connor flops onto his back beside you, both of you wheezing and shaking snow out of your sleeves. You push yourself up, brushing powder from your leggings, your fingers still tingling from the ride.

You dust the snow off your leggings, still catching your breath, and when you glance toward the slope, Joe’s still there, standing a little ways up, watching you with a look you can’t quite read. Before you can even think deeper into it, Nate tackles him from behind, knocking him into the snow with a triumphant yell that has the whole hill erupting into laughter.

You force yourself to laugh with them, letting Connor haul you to your feet, heart still hammering painfully against your ribs.

The afternoon drifts in slower after that, like the mountain itself is exhaling.

The sun dips lower behind the peaks, bleeding gold and pink into the snow-covered world. The cold sharpens, biting harder at exposed skin, and boots start dragging heavier across the churned-up slope. You huddle into your jacket, arms wrapped tight across your chest, but you don’t think it’s the temperature making you shiver anymore.

Someone starts another half-assed snowball war, shrieks and shouts fill the air as bodies dive behind sleds and trees and piles of snow, everyone too exhausted to aim properly, too happy to care.

You’re mid-sprint, trying to dodge a flying iceball from Dominic, when a hand closes around your wrist and yanks you down behind a flipped sled. You land in a heap, boots tangling, Joe’s chest bumping against yours with a solid thud.

You gasp a breathless laugh, and so does he, both of you frozen there in the shadow of the sled, breath fogging between you. His hand lingers at your wrist, thumb brushing absently against the curve of your hand. You don’t pull away. You don’t even think about it.

"Told you," he murmurs, voice low and warm in your ear, "you’d be better off staying with me." Your mouth opens automatically, some sarcastic reply ready to fly—but the words die somewhere in your throat, because just over his shoulder, you see Bridget.

Sitting cross-legged on a snowbank, arms looped around her knees, watching. Not the hill, not at the chaos—at you.

At you and Joe.

Your stomach plunges so fast it makes you dizzy.

Joe must feel it, the way your body stiffens, feels the sudden snap of the moment because moves without hesitating, his body angling slightly to shield you from view, his hand squeezing yours once before standing.

You let him, not daring to look back at Bridget again.

Joe’s tugging you gently to your feet just a second later. You dust the snow from your jacket, trying to gather yourself, heart still rattling somewhere too high in your chest. "You good?" he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry. His eyes skim your face, reading it way too easily.

You force a small laugh, tucking your chin into your scarf like it’ll hide anything he might see. "Yeah," you lie, slipping into the smile you’ve worn a thousand times before. "Just cold."

Joe watches you for another second like he doesn’t quite buy it, but then his mouth tilts into a lazy smile. He leans in, crowding your space just enough that his shoulder brushes yours, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear when he whispers, "Keep your door unlocked tonight, yeah?"

DAY FIVE

The next morning passes in a kind of lazy sort of cozy haze, the whole house moving slower after the endless chaos of the last few days. Even Bridget decided to spend the day recovering at her own home. When you finally drag yourself out of bed, the kitchen’s a mess of platters of cinnamon rolls, mugs of coffee, and people slumped in chairs still wearing pajama pants.

Nobody seems in a rush to do anything, which honestly feels kind of perfect.

By late morning, a few of you pile into cars and head down to the frozen lake to skate, bundled up and carrying thermoses of hot chocolate and clunky old rental skates. It’s nothing like sledding yesterday—more scerne and less tumultuous. You skate in crooked loops with Emily and Carrie for a while, occasionally glancing across the rink to catch Joe tripping over his own skates and laughing like a little kid. He catches your eye once or twice and your stomach does that stupid swoop it’s been doing more and more lately.

Connor sticks close too, always finding ways to drift near you. It should feel simple. It should feel normal. But you catch Joe watching again once or twice, that same unreadable look flashing across his face before he turns away. Each time it happens, it leaves you feeling strange and unsettled in ways you can’t quite explain.

The rest of the afternoon is spent back at the cabin, sprawled out in front of the fire (because someone did eventually find a lighter), half the group napping, the others playing old board games someone found buried in a closet. 

You let yourself get pulled into a game of Monopoly, losing spectacularly to Dan within the first hour, and you spend the rest of the time curled into the corner of the couch, pretending not to notice the way Joe’s socked foot occasionally bumps yours under the blanket.

Further into the night you end up retreating to your room not long after Dan and Carrie disappear upstairs, Emily and Jamie trailing close behind them with lazy goodnights. The house is quieter now, the only real noise coming from the living room where Dom, Caleb, Nate, and Connor have planted themselves on the couches, arguing loudly over which video game to start next.

Joe stays downstairs with them, slouched low in one of the armchairs, a half-empty beer bottle dangling lazily from his fingers. You try not to pay too much attention as you pass through the kitchen, stacking a few stray mugs from this morning into the sink, pretending not to notice the way his eyes follow you across the room.

It’s only when you reach the bottom of the stairs, turning to glance back over your shoulder one last time, that you catch him sinking lower into his hoodie, tugging it up to hide the stupid, suggestive grin threatening to give him away completely. You bite down on a smile of your own, heat sparking low in your stomach as you turn quickly and slip upstairs before you can make it any worse.

You end up lying across your bed, room dimly lit, with a book in hand, trying to read like you promised yourself you would over break. Your legs are tucked under the blanket, your hair still a little damp from your quick shower, the air cool and crisp against your skin. You’re just starting to sink into the quiet, starting to believe you might actually get a few pages in, when you hear the faintest creak of the floorboard just outside your door. 

Joe slips inside your room earlier than expected, earlier than he promised. He closes the door behind him, ensuring to lock it before he turns back to you with his hair sticking up in messy, reckless tufts. The second your eyes meet, the little smile you tried so hard to bury earlier comes rushing back to the surface.

"Hi," you whisper, voice barely a breath.

Joe smiles back and reaches for the hem of his hoodie, dragging it up and over his head in one smooth pull. His hair sticks up in staticy tufts afterward, cheeks flushed, eyes already darkening in that way that makes your stomach flip.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you, closing the space between you in two long strides. His hands find your hips easily, and his mouth is slanting over yours, tasting, teasing, like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Your fingers find his t-shirt instinctively, clutching at the soft fabric just to have something to anchor yourself to, and when he deepens the kiss, you barely notice yourself shifting closer until he’s pulling you straight into his lap.

His thighs bracket yours, wide beneath you, and his hands slip under the hem of your cami to find your waist, splaying wide like he wants to touch as much of you as he can at once. You kiss him harder, your chest brushing his with every ragged breath. When you try to pull back to catch your breath, Joe chases you, one hand sliding up your back, the other cradling your jaw, keeping you right where he wants you.

"Uh-uh," he murmurs against your mouth, the sound rough, almost pleading. His fingers press a little firmer, dragging you closer again. "Come back."

You laugh, breathless against him, a little overwhelmed in the best way—and then you push lightly at his chest, guiding him back until he lets you tip him onto the mattress without resistance. Joe falls back with a low grunt, head hitting your pillow, one arm lazily splayed out above his head, the other reaching for you without hesitation. His shirt rides up slightly with the movement, exposing a sliver of warm, toned skin that makes your mouth go dry.

There’s no hesitation as you swing your leg over him, straddling his hips, the look on his face enough to steal the last bit of air from your lungs. "Where you goin', huh?" he teases, voice low and lazy, but there’s a heat in his eyes that sharpens when you start crawling down the length of his body.

You settle between his knees, palms dragging up the strong lines of his thighs, your breath catching at the way he’s looking at you. Joe’s chest rises sharply, his jaw clenching once as your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants, and slowly, start to work them down. "You sure about this, baby?"

You just look up at him, feeling your cheeks heat, feeling the nervous excitement ripple through you in a way that somehow only makes you braver. And when you nod Joe lets out a broken, desperate noise that makes you feel like you could set the whole goddamn cabin on fire.

Joe’s hips lift slightly, almost like he can’t help it when you tug his sweatpants and boxers down, freeing him with a soft hiss of breath. His cock slaps up against his stomach, thick and flushed and already leaking precum, and you swear you feel yourself clench just at the sight of him.

Still perched on his lap, you lean back just enough to drag your fingers lightly down the center of his chest, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch. Joe watches you like he’s starving, blue eyes nearly black with how blown out his pupils are.

He props himself up on his elbows, breath catching audibly when you press your mouth against the sensitive head of his cock, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up the underside. "Jesus—fuck," he groans, hips twitching forward before he catches himself.

You hum softly, pleased, and wrap your hand around the base, stroking him lazily as you lick and tease and explore. You don’t rush, wanting him to feel every second of it. Joe lets out a wrecked sound and sinks back onto the bed completely, one hand dragging through his hair, the other blindly reaching for your shoulder, gripping lightly like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

When you finally sink your mouth properly down on him, taking as much as you can in one slow glide, Joe’s hand tightens. "Fuck, baby," he pants, his voice so raw it sends a fresh jolt of arousal straight through you. "Just like that. Don’t stop."

You don’t plan to. You build a rhythm, steady and deep, hollowing your cheeks and working your hand where your mouth can’t reach. Joe’s hips start to move without thinking, small, helpless thrusts you know he’s trying to control but can’t, not when you swirl your tongue on the way back up and suck gently at the tip.

"God, you’re gonna kill me," he rasps, the words punching out of him in a broken laugh.

You pull off for half a second, smirking against his skin. "Maybe."

Joe groans like you’ve physically hurt him, a laugh breaking through, but it dissolves quickly into a shudder when you take him deep again, until you feel the head of his cock brush the back of your throat. He bucks once, hard enough that you gag slightly, but you don't pull away, steadying yourself to let him feel it, let him hear the desperate, slick sounds filling the room.

"Shit—oh my god—fuck, baby, you’re—" Joe cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, hand fisting the sheets now, his thighs shaking under your palms. "You’re gonna make me—" You hum again, needy, encouraging, and that’s all it takes. Joe falls apart with a choked groan, thick ropes of cum spilling into your mouth, his hips jerking once, twice, before he forces himself still. You keep stroking him through it until he finally slumps back against the mattress, panting like he just ran a marathon.

You wipe at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, chest still rising and falling with the effort of everything you just did for him, and when you glance up—he’s already watching you like he’s starving all over again.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips and before you can process it, he’s sitting up, reaching for you. His hands find your waist easily, lifting you like you weigh nothing, and before you can even think about protesting, he’s placing you back into his lap, settling you so you’re straddling him.

You let out a soft, surprised sound, laughing under your breath as your hands come up to his shoulders. "Joe," you murmur, pressing your forehead lightly to his. "This was supposed to be about you."

Joe shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tilting up as he slides one big hand up the length of your thigh, over your hip, settling dangerously close to where you’re already soaking through your panties. "This is about me," he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You’re only wearing your little cami and panties yet the heat radiating off of him makes you feel practically bare. Your heart’s racing so fast you can barely hear yourself think, but none of it matters because Joe’s pulling you into another kiss—deep, possessive, and so full of something heavier that it nearly knocks you breathless.

You feel it immediately—the way he’s already hardening against you again, the warmth and thickness of himself insistent under the thin material separating you. Joe groans into your mouth when your hips rock down against his, the friction shooting straight through both of you. His hands drag down your back, gripping your ass firmly, pulling you tighter against him until you can’t move without feeling him everywhere.

And then, with almost no warning, you feel him tug the crotch of your panties to the side, rough and desperate, exposing you just enough—and before you can even gasp properly, he’s sliding into you in one slow, searing thrust.

Your breath catches violently in your chest.

The stretch is deep and overwhelming, the sudden fullness making your whole body tighten, but Joe’s there—his hands steady on your hips, his forehead pressing to yours, his mouth brushing your cheekbone like he’s trying to tether you through it.

"Fuck," he pants against your skin, voice cracked open with feeling. "God, you feel—"

You can’t answer. You can’t even breathe. You just move with him, rocking your hips slowly, clumsily at first, finding the rhythm together.

It’s soft. And rough.

Messy and urgent.

Kisses at the edge of bruising, hands everywhere at once, Joe’s mouth finding your throat, your collarbone, your jaw, like he can’t decide which part of you he needs more. And then, when your nails rake lightly up the back of his neck and his hips stutter hard into yours, he presses his face deeper into the crook of your neck, voice ragged against your skin. "I’ve always thought about this," he confesses hoarsely, like the words rip themselves free before he can catch them. "Always."

You barely manage a nod, your fingers tangling tighter in the hair at the base of his neck. "Me too," you whisper, so quietly it feels like a secret.

But Joe shakes his head slightly, the movement brushing his mouth against the side of your throat. "No, baby," he breathes. "Since before Thanksgiving."

You choke on a gasp, the sound swallowed by the overwhelming grind of his hips into yours, the drag of his cock hitting places inside you that make the whole world go fuzzy at the edges.

The words hang between you—too big, too fragile to touch again right now—and neither of you tries to. Instead, Joe kisses you again like he’s trying to apologize for all the time you wasted, like he’s trying to promise something without saying it out loud.

You cling to him, rocking into each other harder now, faster, chasing the high you both know is coming. Your forehead presses to his, your breathing tangled, the filthy, wet sounds of your bodies filling the room.

It hits you first—your orgasm sweeping up out of nowhere, sharp and searing, making your thighs clamp around his hips, your nails dig into his skin. Joe follows right after, a grunt ripping from his throat as he thrusts deep one last time, pulsing hot and thick inside you, his whole body going rigid underneath yours.

Slowly, carefully, Joe shifts his hands, still moving like he doesn’t quite want to let go yet. He glances down, and you feel the way his body tenses slightly when he sees his release already starting to slip out of you, slick and glistening between your thighs.

Joe mutters something low under his breath and then he reaches down, gently tugging your panties back into place. He covers you carefully, dragging the soft fabric up and over your sensitive skin—and then his palm presses firm against you, right over where you’re already soaked through, holding you there like he needs to feel it.

You jolt slightly at the pressure, hips twitching instinctively into his touch, and a shaky little sound slips out of you before you can catch it. Joe just hushes you softly, brushing his nose along your jaw, his hand staying there for a long, heavy moment like he’s trying to sear the memory into both your bodies.

When he finally moves it away he does it by pulling you tighter into his lap, wrapping both arms around you and burying his face against your neck, breathing you in like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

The room is warm and quiet, the only sound the slow, even drag of your breathing against each other. Joe’s fingers trace lazy, absentminded patterns on the small of your back, and you let your eyes flutter closed, soaking in the grounding weight of him under you, around you.

You don’t know how much time passes—minutes, maybe more—before Joe finally speaks, asking, "What were you reading?" 

You lift your head slightly, blinking down at him. It takes a second to remember, and then you glance over at the rumpled comforter where your book lies half-buried. "Pride and Prejudice," you say, your voice soft from how close you are.

Joe hums, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling like he’s trying to remember. "That’s the one where... they fall in love but like, hate each other the whole time, right?"

You snort, laughing into his chest. "Kind of," you grin, pulling back just enough to see his face. "They misunderstand each other a lot. Prejudice and pride getting in the way and all that. It’s actually a lot sweeter than it sounds."

Joe smiles too, "I dunno," he says, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "Sounds like our group trips."

You laugh again, curling further into his embrace. "You remember that one snow day when we were kids?" he says after a while, sounding almost like he’s thinking out loud. "The year it snowed like, two feet overnight?"

You smile against his chest, the memory surfacing easily. "Yeah. Dom tried to build that giant igloo and it almost collapsed on him."

Joe chuckles, his hand smoothing up your spine. "Not that. Before that. You—" He pulls back a little to look at you, a soft grin tugging at his mouth. "You got nailed right in the face with a snowball."

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against his shoulder. "Oh my god, yes. Right in the nose. I thought I was dying."

"You were," Joe laughs, the sound low and fond. "You looked like a horror movie. Blood everywhere. Dom freaked out, Jamie made it worse somehow—and me and Dan ended up carrying you back up to the house."

You lift your head just enough to give him a skeptical look. "You were laughing the whole time," you accuse.

Joe’s smile tilts crookedly again, but then he shrugs, and something flickers behind his eyes—something quieter. "I was," he admits. "But I was actually scared shitless."

"You were?"

He nods, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your waist . “Yeah," he says, voice softer now. "You were so little. And you were just... lying there, crying, not even fighting Dom about it. I didn’t know if you broke something. I don’t know." He laughs under his breath, like he’s laughing at himself now. "I just remember thinking, like... I couldn’t fix it. And I hated that."

You stare at him, the warmth blooming in your chest almost too much to hold.

"I didn’t know that," you say, your voice thinner than you mean for it to be.

Joe just shrugs again, looking a little sheepish now. "I didn’t want you to."

You nuzzle into his neck instinctively, breathing him in, and for a little while, neither of you says anything else. You stay there, talking about nothing and everything—the worst injuries you ever had, the dumbest dares Dominic ever made you do, the time you tried to snowboard and nearly dislocated your shoulder.

Joe laughs so hard he almost falls backward when you remind him about it, his head tilting back, his whole body shaking under you. You think you could stay like this forever. You know you can’t.

The moment’s too good, too easy. It can’t last.

And sure enough, a few minutes later, after your second yawn (one you can’t even pretend to hide), Joe catches it, a soft laugh rumbling low in his chest.

You shift a little on his lap, snuggling closer, but mumble against his shoulder, "M’getting tired."

It’s not even a suggestion but Joe hears it for what it is anyway. He squeezes your thigh gently like he’s reluctant to let go. "Alright," he says quietly, "I’ll let you get some sleep."

You press your forehead against his for a second longer, breathing him in, trying not to make it a big deal even though it feels like one. Joe shifts carefully beneath you, helping you settle back onto the bed. His hands linger at your waist for a moment longer before he finally pushes up.

You stay curled up against the pillows, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as he crouches to grab his clothes, tugging them back on.

Then he crosses back to the bed, leaning in, one knee pressing into the mattress. He kisses your forehead so light and careful it barely even counts as a kiss at all. "Goodnight, baby," he whispers against your skin.

You whisper it back without even thinking. "Night, Joey."

You let him go, having no idea that the second Joe eases your door closed behind him—hoodie rumpled, hair a mess, that wide, dorky smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth—he turns.

He turns and locks eyes with Connor, fresh out of the bathroom. Frozen, stunned, eyes narrowed slightly. Was it out of confusion? Jealousy?

Joe doesn’t stay long enough to find out. He just turns down the hall, disappearing into his own room without a word.

And you, tucked safe in oblivion inside your room, don’t see any of it.

DAY SIX

By the time you all pile into the hot tub this evening—drinks in hand, cheeks already pink from the cold and the cocktails—the whole day feels like one long, lazy laugh. Someone’s set up the same trusty speaker on the porch, muffled music carrying over the snow. Steam curls off the surface of the water into the night air, stars barely visible through the haze.

You wedge yourself between Dom and the edge of the tub, tucking your knees in close as you nurse your drink and try not to slide too much on the slick plastic seats. Joe’s stretched out across from you, arms slung wide along the back ledge of the tub like he owns the damn thing, his shoulders loose, head tipped lazily toward the sky, a tipsy smirk tugging at his mouth.

Bridget, next to him, bumps her leg against his accidentally, though he barely seems to notice. You, however, notice everything—including the way Bridget’s gaze slides briefly to you when it happens, something unreadable flickering across her face.

You drag your drink to your mouth and smile into it, playing dumb.

Dom’s mid-story about Caleb eating shit on the hill earlier, hamming it up with wild hand gestures and half-wrong details, and you’re laughing too hard to care when Connor practically spills his beer trying to one-up the chaos. His arm bumps yours with every exaggerated point he makes, and you just grin and shake your head.

It’s sloppy, harmless fun. Caleb's shouting half-formed jokes over the music, Bridget’s laughing into the rim of her drink, Dom’s slapping the surface of the water dramatically every time he gets worked up. At one point, Connor, still ragging it on, tries to reenact Caleb’s crash by standing half out of the tub to mimic the tumble. The drunk boy nearly busts his ass slipping on the slick plastic, sending another tidal wave of water over the edge. Everyone roars laughing, even Joe, who tips his head back against the ledge and watches it all unfold.

Your drink is sliding dangerously in your hand from laughing so hard, and when you look back across the tub to find your balance, your gaze catches Joe’s.

The second your eyes meet, something inside you stumbles; because without a word, without even a twitch of effort, Joe shifts spreading his legs a little wider beneath the surface, tilting his head slightly, his smirk curving into something darker. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been waiting for you to pay closer attention.

Heat rushes up your neck before you can stop it, your drink stalling halfway to your mouth. You should look away—someone could see—but your body forgets how to listen. You’re caught, helpless, your lips parting slightly in reflex when his gaze dips lower, the lazy weight of it making your skin prickle. 

Time sort of thins around you for a second, the outside noise fading into nothing except for the low churn of water between. You swear he’s about to smirk wider, about to pull you under completely, when his eyes flick past you.

You blink out of the trance, following his glance over your shoulder—and feel the pit drop straight out of your stomach. Connor’s still next to you, but he’s not paying attention to the chaos Caleb’s causing across the tub, not even half-listening to Dom’s drunken rapport. His focus is pinned on you. On Joe. His face is loose with alcohol but his eyes are sharp, mouth set in a way that feels wrong, almost territorial, like he’s just realizing something he can’t figure out how to name yet. 

You don’t know what to do, pinned there awkwardly between the weight of Connor’s staring and the buzz still ringing in your chest from Joe’s. You flick your eyes back on instinct—and find Joe looking at you again, already smirking, already dragging his tongue lazily over his bottom lip before rolling his eyes, all dry, unimpressed, like the whole thing isn’t even worth acknowledging.

You don’t get a chance to wonder what it all means before Dom slaps a hand over his mouth and lets out a strangled groan. "Ohhh no. No no no—bad—"

You jolt forward instinctively, half-rising out of the water, your drink sloshing dangerously onto the deck. 

"I’ve got it, Dom, come on—"

"No," he croaks out desperately, waving you off with both hands. "No, stay—you do not wanna see this."

Bridget’s already climbing after him, shaking her head with a grin as she loops an arm through his and hauls him toward the house. "You’re disgusting," she chirps, steadying him as they stumble toward the door.

Connor, suddenly snapped out of his own trance, drunkenly slaps Caleb’s shoulder as they go crashing in after them, shouting something about needing to "witness the carnage."

You barely have time to catch your breath before the water stirs behind you. You glance forward just in time to see Joe rising from where he’d been lounging, the movement languid, water dripping down the ridges of his chest and arms as steam curls up around him like smoke. His hair is damp and wild, sticking to his forehead, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he’s already decided exactly how this is going to go.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest as he prowls toward you, his body cutting through the steam, casual but predatory, like he’s stalking something he knows already belongs to him. Without a word, he reaches out and plucks the drink from your hand, his fingers grazing yours briefly, then sets it carefully on the ledge behind you. His touch, his gaze, his entire presence pins you to where you sit, and even though you know you should say something, should break the spell, you can’t seem to make yourself move.

Joe’s hand slides easily under the water, fingers tracing a slow path up your shin, your knee, the sensitive inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. You squirm instinctively, breath catching in your throat, but you don't pull away—you can’t—and that’s all the encouragement he needs. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, guiding you closer to where he wants you, his touch firm and possessive in a way that makes your blood simmer.

"Joe, someone could—" you whisper, the words barely making it out, half a warning, half a plea. Joe doesn’t pay much mind as he leans in closer, brushing his mouth against your ear in a way that makes your whole body tense with anticipation.

"I’ll be the lookout," he murmurs, like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

You barely have time to react before he’s kissing you like he’s got nowhere else in the world he needs to be. His lips press against yours with an intensity that steals every rational thought from your head, pulling you deeper, drawing you into him like gravity. His hand slips up your back under the water, dragging you closer until you’re practically molded against his chest, heat and need swirling dizzyingly between you.

You can feel the smirk tugging at his mouth when you gasp against him, feel the low hum of satisfaction rumbling through his chest when his other hand slips beneath the band of your bikini top, teasing, kneading, driving you out of your mind. His mouth trails down the line of your jaw to your throat, open-mouthed kisses marking a slow, devastating path along your skin. You tilt your head back instinctively, granting him better access, your body arching into every brush, every scrape, every insistent pull of his hands.

It’s almost too easy to lose yourself in it. In him. In the way every part of you seems to fit against him like you were made for this. You can feel him hard and heavy against your hip, the water sloshing quietly around you, the world narrowing to nothing but the desperate beat of your own heart.

So caught up in it all, you barely notice the moment he goes still.

At first, it’s just a pause, hesitation so small you could almost miss it, but the sudden tightness in the way his hands grip your hips gives him away. His mouth freezes against your throat. His whole body tenses.

And as quick as it happened, he continues on his path, except this time he’s rougher. Hungrier. His teeth scrape harsher against your throat, his hands dragging you into him like he's staking a claim, like he doesn't care who sees. His mouth finds yours again, rougher now, desperate in a way that makes your mind fuzzy.

Something’s wrong.

Breathless, you force your eyes open and turn your head blinking against the steam—and that’s when you see it. Through the glass door, barely visible through the fog, Connor stands frozen, his expression hollow, his eyes locked on you.

Panic invades your mind and you jerk instinctively, but Joe’s hand tightens around your waist, holding you against him like he doesn’t care, like it doesn’t matter who’s watching. 

"Joe," you whisper, your voice cracking on his name as your hands press lightly against his chest.

"It’s fine," he drags his mouth back to your jaw. You freeze for a second, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the pull of him, the way your body almost believes him even when your head is screaming otherwise.

But then the brutal reality of it all comes rushing back in.

"No—Joe," you breathe, quieter this time, shaking your head as your hands push against his chest again, firmer now but still not enough to move him—just enough to make him realize you're serious. "Stop."

Joe finally pulls back, his hands falling stiffly to his sides, but not before a laugh slips out of him. A sharp, bitter sound that slices through the heavy air between you.

It stings worse than anything else could have.

You blink hard against the burn rising in your throat and shove at him again, water sloshing up against the edges of the hot tub. It’s a desperate attempt to ease the unbearable pressure between you, a push you know won’t move him—he’s a solid wall of heat and muscle and frustration.

When you meet his eyes, you nearly flinch. There’s something simmering there, a little hard and angry. A little hurt. Something that makes you shrink back as the cold night air gnaws at your wet skin.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" you hiss. Even though there’s no one around anymore, it still feels like if you talk too loud, the whole house will hear.

Joe scoffs immediately and drags a wet hand through his already messy hair, stepping back from you like he can’t believe you’re the one asking. "What do you mean, what was I thinking?"

You stare at him, chest tight. "Joe, you can’t just—" You break off, throwing your hand toward the house, toward the dark shape of the sliding door. Toward the invisible imprint of Connor’s stunned face, still burned behind your eyelids. "He saw us. Connor saw us."

Joe snorts like he can’t even entertain your panic. "So what?" he fires back, voice growing louder, harsher. "What, you scared he’s gonna tell someone?"

You gape at him, stunned. "Are you serious right now? He’s drunk, Joe. You’re lucky if he’s not already running around telling everyone!"

Joe laughs another harsh sound that you feel all the way down your spine, and something twists so violently in your gut you have to physically brace your hand against the side of the hot tub to stay upright. "Yeah," he mutters under his breath, "you’re real mad it was him, huh?"

Your heart stutters like it’s tripping over itself. "What?"

"You heard me," Joe says, stepping closer again, chest rising and falling fast. "You’re mad it was him that saw. Not anyone else. Connor."

The accusation hits you like a slap, and you blink hard. Not from sadness, but fury. "That’s not—it’s not about him," you snap, forcing the words out before they get stuck. "It’s about you almost blowing everything. For what, Joe?"

Joe tips his head back with yet another disbelieving laugh. His hands brace on his hips like he’s physically trying to hold himself together. "Yeah. Sure," he bites out, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I’m the selfish one. Meanwhile you’ve been sitting here the whole fucking trip—acting like he doesn’t fucking matter to you."

You open your mouth to fire back, but nothing comes out. You’re rattled by the way he says it as if it’s been rotting inside him all week. "What are you even talking about?" 

"You know exactly what I’m talking about. You treat this like it’s some dirty fucking secret."

"Joe, that's not—" But he cuts you off, his voice sharp, words tumbling out like he can't stop them anymore.

"You’re so worried about what everyone else thinks. What, you just settling for me? Next best thing?"

The world tilts, his insult cutting deeper than you want to admit. "Joe," you emphasize, fighting for calm even though you can feel yourself unraveling, "where the hell is this coming from?"

But he’s already spiraled, far past rationalizing. "I mean, fuck. I see the way you still look at him."

"I don’t," you fight back immediately, stepping toward him. "I told you before—there’s nothing there. Nothing!"

Joe lets out a short, cold sound that sounds like it physically hurts him. "Yeah? You sure about that?" His mouth pulls into a twisted smirk, like he’s daring you to lie to his face again.

Exhausted, you throw your hands up. "Why are you twisting this into something it’s not? You’re mad because someone saw us—and you're blaming me for it."

Joe shakes his head like he pities you. "Mad? Blaming you?" he echoes. 

But then his voice sharpens even more, the real crack slipping through. "Y’know, actually, who even said this was a secret anyways?" Joe snaps. "Cause it sure as hell wasn’t me. Never once remember saying that. In fact—" he laughs, steel eyes pinning you in place, "you’re the one who ran off the first time. Remember?"

The air leaves your lungs so fast it feels like whiplash. You just stare at him, furious and wounded and so goddamn tired, the heat behind your eyes blurring your vision. "You’re so full of shit," you whisper, the words splintering in your throat.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the air crackling between you, so thick you could drown in it. Joe's chest heaves, and you can see the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

"You think I’m settling?" you snap suddenly, emotion boiling over. "You think this has been some second choice bullshit for me?"

Joe doesn’t answer you. "You’re the one who never asked me to stay," you pause, needing to catch your breath. "That night—you let me walk away like it didn’t mean anything. Like I didn’t mean shit beyond a quick fuck to you."

Something new crosses Joe’s face then but it’s gone almost as fast as it comes. He scoffs harshly, backing up a step like he needs the distance.

"You think I didn’t want you to stay?" he mutters sourly. "Maybe I was too busy fucking reeling over the fact that I finally got you."

The words hit harder than anything else could have. You freeze, the cold forgotten, the sting of biting wind on your skin meaningless compared to the ache splitting open somewhere inside your chest. Your hands tremble at your sides, the air burning in your lungs, but you can’t move, you can’t even think past the way he said it.

Finally got you.

Joe turns without another word, shoulders tight with something new you can't decipher, and makes his way to the house. His footsteps leave heavy, wet imprints across the slick deck, each one louder than it should be like they’re hammering into your skull.

You barely register the way he grabs the handle, yanks the sliding door open so violently it rattles on its track. The door slams shut behind him with a sharp, brutal crack that cuts through the night like a gunshot. It echoes once, then fades into the deafening silence.

DAY SEVEN

The kitchen is packed wall-to-wall, the music loud enough to rattle the floorboards, and you’re already some drinks deep, still painfully aware of yourself. You linger near the island with a couple of local girls you know well enough, but mostly, your attention keeps drifting—scanning the room before you even realize you’re doing it. 

The house had felt heavier this morning, like even the walls knew something was brewing.

Jamie and Emily, Dan and Carrie, had been the smart ones—ducking out early, treating themselves to a night at Connor’s family’s resort hotel down the road. You couldn't even blame them. If you could’ve rented a new life for the night, you would have.

The rest of the group spent the day nursing hangovers in various stages of death. Caleb hadn’t moved from the couch. Nate kept pestering him however he could. Connor vanished upstairs with a Gatorade and a hood pulled over his head. You took the opportunity to vanish too, holed up in your room under too many blankets, replaying last night in your head until the edges blurred.

At some point you must have dozed off, because the next thing you knew, Dom was kicking your door open, proudly announcing he'd invited “some friends” over. Which, translated from Dominic-speak, meant a full-blown rager by ten o’clock.

You hadn’t wanted to come down but somewhere deep inside you, you’d convinced yourself that if you looked better, felt put together, maybe the rest would follow. So you pulled on your best jeans, a black top that hugged just enough without trying too hard, tamed your hair, and put on just enough makeup to feel like a disguise for the night.

About an hour ago you caught sight of Joe for the first time since last night hovering around the beer pong table, a little tispy already. His sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, his drink tucked lazily in one hand, the other tossing a ping-pong ball back and forth between his fingers. He looked good. Too good.

The kind of good that made you painfully overthink for reasons you didn’t want to examine.

His cheeks were pink from the alcohol or maybe the cold, his hair a little messy, that cocky smile flashing every time Dom missed a shot. He looked...happy. Relaxed in a way that made your stomach twist up because you weren’t sure if you felt relief or jealousy.

Relief that he seemed okay, jealousy that he seemed okay without you.

You almost went to him, almost closed the distance without thinking, driven by some desperate, aching need to fix it, to fix everything. The words were already clawing their way up, the apology you hadn't even figured out yet ready to spill out. But before you could take a single step Leah spotted you from across the room. Her face lit up and within seconds her hand was wrapping around your arm, tugging you into a conversation you weren’t ready for.

She was so excited to see you, so eager to catch up, that it caught you completely off guard. By the time you glanced back over your shoulder—

Joe was gone.

And just like that, you’re stuck with the last people you intend to be around. You try your best to stay engaged as Leah and a few other girls from town chatter around you, but it’s a losing battle. You sip your drink idly, your eyes slipping over the crowd without any real direction, drifting through clusters of bodies and bursts of laughter, searching for a head of messy blonde 

You pretend to be present, but your mind’s already wandered too far. You barely register the music thumping low from the speakers, the sharp scent of jungle juice pungent in the air—because that’s when you see him.

Not Joe.

Connor.

He’s across the room near the fireplace, sitting on the arm of the couch and nursing a drink while laughing at something the girl next to him says. You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes catch on to him anyway. Maybe out of old habit.

Connor glances up, mid-laugh, and his gaze snags immediately on yours. You look down fast, heart thudding and heat rushing to your cheeks. You stare hard at your drink like it holds the secrets to life itself, willing yourself to act normal.

After a few seconds, you peek up again—just a quick, cowardly glance to see if he’s still looking. He is. Of course he is.

He’s not just looking, he’s already pushing off the chair and patting one of his friends lightly on the back, flashing some easy excuse you can’t hear but can imagine. His drink dangles from his hand as he starts making his way through the crowd toward you.

Every instinct screams at you to move, to slip deeper into the crowd and pretend you didn't notice—but it’s like your feet are cemented to the spot, the noise of the party dulling around the edges as you watch him weave closer. You force yourself to look normal, to laugh at something one of the girls beside you says even though you don’t hear a word of it. 

Your stomach flips sickly when you catch him closing the distance, the crowd parting naturally for him because he belongs here.

When he finally reaches you, he tips his head slightly, a silent suggestion you feel before you even register it. His mouth lifts at the corners, a ghost of a smile that might’ve fooled you once, back when you were younger and still thought you knew him inside and out.

You hesitate long enough for the cool condensation of your drink to seep against your tightened knuckles, long enough for the pounding of the music and the rush of your own pulse to blur together in your ears. Still, somehow, you manage to nod, forcing your body to move even as every part of you braces for whatever comes next. He leads you away from the music and the crowd down a dim, narrow hallway where the air feels colder and thinner and the noise from the party fades into something faint and far away.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until he stops a few feet ahead of you, framed in the soft spill of light from the main room and blocking half the hallway. Connor’s figure cuts sharp against the dimness, all restless tension and unsettled energy, the kind of posture that makes it impossible to tell if he’s about to laugh or pick a fight. 

His fingers tap an uneven, distracted rhythm against the side of his plastic cup, and your eyes catch on the movement without meaning to, tracing the jittery beat like it might give you some clue about what he’s thinking. You force yourself to meet his gaze, lifting your chin even though it feels heavy, your shoulders stiff, the knot in your stomach pulling tighter until it feels like you can barely stand upright against it.

Connor’s the one who breaks first, his gaze dropping to your cup, a half-smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he can’t help himself. "You're a brave soldier for drinking that.” 

You huff under your breath, tilting the drink between your fingers just to have something to look at besides him. "Needed something strong," you mutter.

You feel him watching you like he's waiting for you to say more, like he’s measuring every second of hesitation that passes between your words. The weight of it prickles at the back of your neck but you keep your eyes down until his voice cuts through again, quieter now, less certain. "I haven’t said anything.”

You blink, caught off guard for a second longer than you should be, before lifting your gaze and giving a quick, sharp nod. The movement is jerky with all the words you don’t trust yourself to say.

"I know," you tell him, keeping your voice as even as you can even though you can feel your throat tightening. "I’d already know if you had."

His mouth presses into a tighter line, something complicated flickering in his expression. "I'm not going to, either.” Somehow that simple promise cuts even deeper, lodging inside you as something between gratitude and guilt. 

You nod again, the tension bleeding out of your shoulders just enough to breathe. "Thank you.”

For a moment it feels like maybe that’s it. Like maybe you can walk away from this with the fragile threads of your dignity still intact. But then Connor moves, just a fraction closer, enough that you feel a warning bell ringing low and dull in your gut. 

"Look," his voice is firm, no more hesitations softening the edges. "I'm not telling you what to do. It’s none of my business." You can hear the ‘but’ coming before he even says it, can feel the way his body tightens with the effort of holding it back, and still, you stand there, bracing for impact like a fool.

"But your brother is gonna lose his shit," Connor says, and the words land exactly where they’re meant to, digging in deep. 

You straighten your spine, meeting his eyes without flinching this time. Anger sparks under your skin, not because he's wrong, but because you are so fucking tired of everyone acting like your life is some delicate thing they have to protect from yourself. "Sure. But, my brother does not dictate my life," you hope to God your voice cold and clear, canceling out room for any questions. "And neither do you, Connor."

Connor’s mouth tightens, his expression shifting into something colder, something that almost dares you to take it back. For a second you think he might. That he might just shrug and let it drop, let you keep whatever scraps of pride you have left. But then he says it, aimed right where he knows it will hurt the most. "So what, Joe does?"

Your stomach twists sharply, a sickening coil that makes your knees threaten to give out. Heat flashes behind your eyes, anger and embarrassment tangling so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. "Go screw yourself," you snap before you can think better of it. Your hand tightens so hard around your cup you’re amazed the plastic doesn’t splinter in your grip.

Before you can shove past him, before you can storm away and leave the wreckage in your wake, a sharp click cuts through the hallway.

Your head turns instinctively toward the sound, your heart stuttering in your chest as the guest suite door swings open. Joe stumbles out into the hallway, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed, and for a moment, you forget everything. You forget Connor still standing there, forget the words you just flung like knives, forget how cold the house feels away from the party. You see him, and he sees you. 

His gaze locks onto yours across the hallway, and it’s like a tether snaps taut between you, pulling something urgent inside your chest. There’s a flash in his expression—something that looks dangerously close to regret, or guilt, or maybe something worse—and it roots you to the floor more effectively than any conversation with Connor previously could. 

You’ve been looking for him all night. Not for some confrontation, not for some dramatic outburst, just for a chance. A singular conversation to fix what had frayed without either of you wanting it to. And standing there, staring at him, you let yourself believe for the briefest, stupidest moment that this is what that could be. That maybe he’s been looking too. That maybe he’s just as lost as you are.

You hold onto it like a fool, that tiny, stubborn flicker of hope, even when every logical part of you knows better. You let it bloom reckless and bright and a little bit desperate in your chest, let it wrap around your heart and pull you up onto your toes like maybe if you just reached far enough, you'd find your way back to him.

But then Bridget stumbles out after him, her fingers fumbling clumsily. She mutters something under her breath, a slurred curse you barely catch, too busy with the button on her pants to notice the way everything just fell apart. She doesn't see you. She doesn't see Connor. She doesn’t see anything except her own drunken struggle, and somehow, that’s what makes it worse. That’s what drives the knife in clean.

HOT IN HERRE, JOE BURROW.

pairing⠀⁎⠀joe burrow x reader. word count⠀⁎⠀6.8k.

in the wise words of nelly, "looking for the right time to flash them keys. then, i'm leaving."

author's note⠀⁎⠀coming up with a summary actually almost ended me so pls excuse the lack thereof. inspired by wedding joey <3 warnings⠀⁎⠀18+ mdni, smut, 2nd person [she/her], semi-public sex, quickie, wall sex, both protected & unprotected sex lol, fingering, teeny tiny hint of exhibitionism, mirror sex, dom/sub dynamics but not really, language, praise.

She loved this part of weddings—the moment when the formalities gave way to the raw, unfiltered joy of coming together to celebrate. It was cheesy, finding meaning in the men loosening their ties and rolling up their sleeves, the women ridding themselves of their heels and dancing barefoot, but she couldn’t help it.

It certainly didn't hurt that both she and Joe were unconstrained by the responsibilities of being part of the wedding party. No unflattering bridesmaid dresses to wear or awkward groomsmen to coordinate with. No raging bridezillas to talk off the edge in the bridal suite. And most importantly, the freedom to leave whenever they pleased.

The open bar was a delightful sight, and Joe had already taken advantage of it a few times. His cheeks were flushed with the loss of his inhibition, pale blue eyes shining with the relief of being rid of the self-consciousness that often crept up his spine. The off-season had been good to him. Without an injury to rehab or games to train for, Joe had been able to indulge in the simple things—like drinking at a wedding without worrying about a laundry list of consequences.

The proof of the off-season's benevolence lay in Joe's relaxed posture, shoulders pressed back, one hand resting comfortably in the pocket of his well-tailored navy blue dress pants, the other loosely gripping an empty champagne flute. She watched him from a few feet away, sandy blonde locks perfectly styled and gelled into place, his tall frame a show of masculine grace amidst the sea of wedding guests.

"Here's your drinks, Miss," the bartender's voice cut through the buzz of the reception, handing her two highball glasses filled with fruity, dangerous drinks. She took the glasses with a grateful smile, the cool condensation leaving a light sheen on her fingers. One of the groomsmen was in the middle of a story, Joe's shoulders shaking with laughter, when she approached. The scent of his cologne mingled with the air, twisting in the air like invisible vines that wrapped around her senses and drew her closer.

"Thirsty?" she asked, her voice low and playful, sliding one of the drinks into Joe's waiting hand. His eyes lit up as he took a tentative sip, the alcohol playing a dance of sparks across his tongue.

"Thank you, beautiful," Joe murmured, setting the flute down on a table nearby, leaning over to kiss her cheek. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt his hand sneak around to her lower back, smoothing down the fabric of her dress before moving to rest gently on her hip. The music grew louder as the DJ switched to a more upbeat playlist, and the dance floor began to fill.

She took a sip of her own drink, watching the crowd sway and mingle. The lights cast a warm glow on everyone's faces, and the chatter of conversation filled the air like a symphony of laughter. She felt Joe's hand tighten on her hip as they conversed with the groomsmen, unconsciously bringing her closer. The open back of her floor-length laurel green dress revealed smooth, brown skin that ached to be touched. His palm was warm, his fingers firm as they danced just above the fabric, hinting at the desire that simmered beneath the surface.

Selfishly, she was relieved when the groomsmen were pulled away by another member of the wedding party, leaving Joe to her mercy. She turned into him, her body fitting against his like a puzzle piece that had been searching for its match. "Can barely taste the alcohol in this drink," Joe said, his voice low and gruff. "You tryin' to get me loose?"

Her grin grew wicked as she leaned closer, her breath tickling his ear. "Maybe." She whispered, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before trailing down to smooth over the fabric of his dress shirt. "You're pretty slutty when you're loose."

Joe's eyes widened for a moment before a smirk took hold of his lips. "I'm slutty?" He laughed, the sound a mix of surprise and delight. "I think you might have that backwards." His hand slipped from her hip to the small of her back, his thumb brushing against the bare skin.

"No, I don't think I do," she shot back with a tilt of her head. "You know exactly what I mean."

Joe took another sip of his drink, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "What do I do that's 'slutty'?" He challenged, his voice dropping to a teasing tone, an eyebrow cocked.

"The way you tousle your hair, you start rolling up your sleeves, these buttons," she said, her eyes sparkling as she gestured to his quarter undone shirt. "Everything about you screams 'slutty' when you let go."

Joe's smirk grew into a full-blown grin as he took another sip of his drink, eyes filled with that familiar intensity. "Is that so?" He took her hand and placed it over his heart, feeling the steady thump beneath her fingertips. "You're the one who brings it out of me." His lifted her fingertips to his mouth, kissing each one, holding her gaze. "I'm pretty sure it's your favorite version of me."

The music changed to a rhythmic beat that made her hips sway involuntarily. She took a step back, pulling Joe with her. "C'mon, let's get those hips moving." He attempted to resist, protests spilling from his lips, but she was insistent, her eyes alight with glee. So he followed suit, allowing her to lead him to the dance floor, the alcohol loosening his joints.

As they found a spot amidst the writhing bodies, Joe felt a rush of warmth spread through his chest. The way she moved was mesmerizing, her curves swaying to the music like a serpent charmed by a flute. His hands found their way to her waist, and he pulled her closer, their bodies fitting together like they had been yearning for this moment. She turned around, pressing herself against him, her back arching so that her ass rubbed against his crotch. The heat from her body was like a brand, searing his desire into his very soul.

Under the haze of the dim lights and the pulse of the music, she felt Joe's hands wander over her body, the fabric of her dress gliding and rising under his touch. She leaned back into him, feeling the hard wall of his chest and the rapid beat of his heart. His breath was hot on her neck, his whispers a sweet symphony of want. "You're drivin' me crazy," Joe murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "Gonna tear this dress off you later."

"Is that a promise?" She teased, breathless as Joe's hands slid down her sides. Her skin was hot to the touch, her breathing quickening with each caress. She leaned into him, her hips moving in time with the music, creating a delicious friction that had them both on the edge.

The air grew thick with desire as Joe's hands roamed, just ghosting over her chest. Not enough to draw any attention from the others nearby, but just enough that the message was clear. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut, the sensation making her core tighten. "You're so fuckin' sexy when you're like this," he whispered, his lips grazing her ear as his arms settled on locking around her waist.

Her laugh was light, the music drowning out any sound of impropriety. "Like what?" She asked, challenged, the words slipping out between her teeth as she leaned back against him. "Tell me."

Joe took a deep breath, his voice a harsh whisper in her ear. "The way you move, the way you look at me like you're about to devour me whole." His hand traveled up to find her underboob, squeezing gently. "Tryin' so hard not to bend you over right here and fuck you senseless."

"See? Slutty." She giggled.

The music shifted, the opening chords of "Hot in Herre" by Nelly blasting through the speakers as the DJ announced a special request. His grip on her hips tightened instinctively, and she felt Joe stiffen behind her. She knew that reaction. Joe didn't sing, swore he had the voice of a dying cat, but there were a handful of songs that got him moving, and this was one of them. She'd snuck it onto a playlist before and watched him let loose in their kitchen, shirtless and overjoyed, singing horribly but indisputably free. She turned to look over her shoulder, grinning at the mix of amusement and horror on his face.

"Did you have somethin' to do with this?" Joe's eyes narrowed playfully at her, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

She feigned innocence. "I don't remember." She shrugged, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against her neck as he murmured, "You're the devil, you know that?"

Her smile grew as she felt his body begin to sway to the music, the tension in his arms giving way to a playful grip. She couldn't help the burst of laughter that escaped her as she turned around, her arms looping around his neck.

"Caught," she conceded, her eyes lighting up as he swung her around to press his crotch against her ass. The beat grew heavier, and she felt her heart race in time with it. They danced, Joe's hands on her hips, guiding her movements, the heat from his body scalding her through their clothes. His mouth found her ear, echoing the lyrics of the early 2000s hit. She felt his teeth graze her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. "I've gotta get you out of here," he growled, turning her around, his hands moving lower to squeeze her ass.

She could feel the muscles tensing under his shirt, his body responding to the rhythm of the music and the proximity of hers. "Oh?" she breathed, playing coy, her voice syrupy.

Joe's grip tightened, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind against her. "You know what I mean," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

"But what about the wedding?" she wondered aloud, her breath hot and sweet with the scent of her drink.

"They won't miss us," Joe said, his voice gruff and commanding. "Gonna find us a bathroom, get a little taste of what's to come." His hand slipped down to the back of her thigh, giving it a firm squeeze before he took her hand and led her through the crowd.

The bathroom was tucked away in a quieter corner of the venue, impeccably clean and isolated from the noise of the celebrations. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the playfulness evaporated into the air. She felt Joe's hands on her again, but this time they were insistent, urgent. He pinned her against the wall as he kissed her, stealing her breath away with a fervor that was anything but innocent. His tongue danced with hers, his hands exploring her curves with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

What he wanted resulted in her dress pooled on the floor around her ankles, his hands on her hips as he hoisted her into his arms. The cold press of the wall against her bare back sent a shock through her body, making her gasp. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide with need. "Quiet," he murmured against her mouth, his teeth scraping her bottom lip as he kissed her again. His mouth moved to kiss the soft skin of her neck, her collarbone, his teeth grazing her sensitive flesh.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, the fabric of his pants rough against her skin. She could feel his erection pressing against her, the feeling of anticipation inevitably soaking through her panties. He kissed her neck, her jawline, his hands moving to cup her tits, squeezing them firmly before his thumbs rolled over her nipples. She moaned, her eyes closing in pleasure. The sound seemed to spur him on, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind that had her panting.

"You like that?" He whispered, his voice a dark promise.

She nodded, unable to form coherent words as Joe's thumbs continued their torturous dance over her sensitive peaks. Her breaths grew ragged, her body begging for more.

"Tell me what you want, baby," Joe murmured into her skin. Her breath hitched as she felt his hand slide down her stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties. With a quick tug, they were on the floor, joining her dress. He stepped closer, brandishing a condom before aligning himself with her, and she could feel the heat of him, thick and insistent, pressing against her.

"You," she managed to say, her voice a shaky whisper. "I want you."

Joe's smirk grew as he positioned himself, the tip of his cock teasing her slick folds. "Good," he breathed, taking in the way her eyebrows scrunched together as his tip slid through her wetness. "Always get what you want, huh?" He pushed in slowly, watching her face contort as he filled her. She was so tight around him, her muscles clenching and releasing, urging him deeper.

Her legs tightened around his waist as Joe pushed in to the hilt, a soft whine escaping her as her back arched. She threw her head back, exposing the line of her neck, and he took full advantage, his teeth scraping against her skin as he began to move. The sound of their hips slapping together filled the small room, mixing with their muffled moans and gasps. The mirror across from them reflected their image, her eyes locked onto her reflection, watching Joe's strong arms flex as he held her up, the muscles in his back rippling with each thrust.

Her nails dug into Joe's shoulders. His hips moved faster, the sound of their skin echoing in the tension-filled air. "So fuckin' tight, goddamn," he murmured, his voice strained. She moaned, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt the rush of pleasure building deep inside her.

Her walls clamped down on him, her pussy tightening around his cock. "Oh, fuck," she muttered, tensing as Joe hit a spot that made her eyes roll back. Her thighs were slung over his forearms, spreading her wide open for his mercy, but Joe showed her none of that. He pumped into her, relishing the way she bit her lip, trying to muffle her cries of pleasure.

"You like that?" He ground out. She nodded, unable to find the words as his cock slammed into her over and over. Her eyes glazed over with lust, and she felt a tremor in her core. "Say it," he ordered, his voice gruff. "Lemme hear you."

"Yes," she panted, her eyes snapping open to meet his in the mirror. The sight of Joe's blue eyes, dark with lust and focused solely on her, sent a jolt of desire through her body. The pleasure grew, each stroke bringing her closer to the edge, her walls pulsing around him. "I love it," she moaned, her voice a sweet surrender to his dominance.

"Fuckin' spoil you, don't I?" Joe whispered, his breath hot against her neck as he increased his tempo. Her legs tightened around him, her body moving in sync with his rhythm, a silent plea for more. "Can't get enough of this pussy," he murmured, his teeth sinking into the flesh of her shoulder. "Fuckin' made for me."

She threw her head back, her mouth opening in a silent scream as Joe slammed into her, hitting that perfect spot that sent her soaring over the edge. Her pussy clenched around him, a wave of pleasure washing over her, leaving her trembling in his arms. He held her up, her legs shaking, her breathing ragged as the orgasm ripped through her. She felt his cock thicken, his hips stuttering before he groaned and filled her with his release.

For a moment, they stayed like that, Joe's forehead resting against her shoulder, their chests heaving in unison. The world outside the bathroom faded away, leaving them in their own little bubble of passion. Then, with a final kiss, he set her down gently, his hands steadying her by the hips until she was stable on her feet. "Bathroom sex," she murmured, a hint of a laugh in her voice as she caught her breath. "We're so cliché."

Joe tucked himself back into his pants with a smug smile, zipping up as he stepped away from her. He bent down to pick up her panties, dangling them in front of her face before stuffing them into his pocket with a grin. "My trophy," he said, winking.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her own smile. "You're a caveman," she teased, her palms pressing into his shoulders to find her balanced as he helped her back into her dress. The fabric whispered against her skin as it slid back into place, the sensation heightening the post-orgasmic glow that washed over her. She stepped away from the wall, her legs wobbly from the intense release, and Joe couldn't help but admire the way she looked, her hair slightly disheveled, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen.

"Listen," Joe began, his own voice a little rough from their encounter. "You go touch up your makeup. I'll go tell the groom we gotta head out early, tell 'em you're not feelin' well." His eyes danced with excitement as he took her hand, leading her to the bathroom door. "I'll meet you by the elevator," he leaned down, brushing the strap of her dress aside to press his lips to her shoulder. "So I can fuck you properly before the night's over."

She nodded, biting her tongue as she watched him leave, closing the door behind him. Looking in the mirror, she smoothed down her hair, her breathing still uneven. Her makeup had held up well, just a slight smear of lipstick from their kisses. She swiped it away and washed her hands. Giving herself a stern look, she straightened her dress and left the bathroom, slipping back into the throng of the reception.

She weaved through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances thrown her way. When she reached the lobby, the cooler air was a shock to her flushed skin. She took a moment to compose herself, leaning against the grand staircase that led up to the hotel's upper levels.

Joe emerged from the reception hall, cheeks flushed and a smug smile playing on his lips. He made his way over to the groom, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. "Hey, man," he said, his voice as earnest as he could muster. "My girl's not feeling too hot. Think we're gonna head up to the room. It's been a long day for her." The groom, a friend of Joe's from college, looked at him with a knowing smirk, but Joe played the concerned boyfriend well. "Send our apologies to your wife, yeah?"

With a nod from his friend, Joe turned and headed straight for the lobby, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of her. He spotted her leaning against the grand staircase, her hand idly playing with the fabric of her dress. She looked up, their gazes locking, and a silent understanding passed between them. The air was thick with the promise of what was to come.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing an empty car, and they didn't waste a second. Joe stepped in and pulled her with him, pressing her against the mirrored wall before the doors had fully closed. His mouth found hers, his hands roamed over her body, rekindling the flames that had only just been extinguished in the bathroom.

"Mm, god, I need you," Joe murmured against her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as his hand slid down to cup her ass. The elevator chimed softly, signaling their ascent to their floor. She felt her core tighten in anticipation, her breaths coming in short gasps as his kisses grew more insistent.

When the doors slid open, Joe took her hand, leading her down the hallway. The plush carpet muffled their footsteps as they approached their suite. He shut the door firmly behind them, the sound of the lock clicking echoing through the room.

"Strip," he demanded, his hands already reaching for his belt.

Her eyes widened at his command, but she didn't argue. She stepped away from him, her movements slow and deliberate as she removed her dress. It fell to the floor with a soft whisper, leaving her in nothing but her bra and heels.

Joe's eyes roved over her body, his cock twitching in his pants. He stepped closer, his fingers tracing the line of her bra before unclipping it. It fell away, leaving her torso bare. He took one in his hand, kneading it gently before leaning down to suck on her nipple. She gasped, her hand coming up to his hair, her nails scraping his scalp.

"Bed," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. She nodded, leading the way. The room was bathed in a soft glow from the dimmed lights, the plush king-sized bed in the center of the room beckoning them closer.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she made her way over, Joe following closely behind, his eyes never leaving hers. When she reached the edge of the bed, she turned to face him, her heart hammering in her chest. He took a step closer, his hands reaching out to trace the lines of her collarbones. His thumbs brushed her breasts, sending a shiver down her spine as he pushed her back onto the mattress.

He climbed onto the bed, straddling her. His eyes searched hers for a moment, his pupils wide and dark. Then, with a predatory smile, he leaned down to kiss her, his teeth grazing her bottom lip. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, feeling his hardness pressing against her thigh.

He sat back on his heels, unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt, holding her gaze as the fabric parted further. She took a deep breath, her eyes drinking in the sight of him as he appeared before her, pants still on. He reached down to undo his belt, his movements slow and deliberate, watching her every reaction. Her thighs were splayed open, the point of her heels digging into the mattress as she anticipated his next move. Her lips parted, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as his shirt fell away, revealing his broad chest and his arms, corded with muscles and veins from years of training.

Joe reached down and tugged at his pants, his cock springing free, already hard and glistening at the tip. Her eyes went wide, and she sat up, reaching for him, but he stopped her, placing a hand on her thigh, squeezing gently.

"Patience," he whispered darkly. He slid down the bed, his mouth watering as he took in the sight of her bare center, still swollen from their bathroom encounter.

He leaned down and took a deep breath, the scent of her desire making his head spin. "So sweet," he murmured, his tongue darting out to taste her through the fabric of her panties.

Her hips bucked upwards, a moan escaping her as she felt him tease her through the thin barrier. She tried to wiggle them down, but Joe's hand on her lower stomach kept her in place. "Please," she begged, her voice a desperate whine.

"Need it that bad?" he questioned, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. she nodded frantically, her breaths coming in short gasps. With a chuckle, Joe slid her panties down her legs, taking his sweet time as he revealed her to him. He tossed them aside, the fabric landing on the floor silently. Then he sat back on his heels once more, pulling her toward him by her ankles, pushing her legs open, and moving to sit between her thighs.

"Go 'head, touch yourself," Joe murmured, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. "Let me see how bad you want it."

Her chest heaved as she hesitantly reached down to touch herself. Her fingertips glided over her folds, the slickness making her shiver. Joe watched, his own breathing growing more ragged as he watched, his left hand finding her left leg, his thumb digging into the muscles of her calf.

Her eyes never left his as she slid a finger inside herself, her hips lifting slightly to meet her own touch. His gaze darkened, his grip tightening on her leg. "That's it," he encouraged, his voice hoarse. "Make yourself feel good, baby."

Her hand moved slowly at first, exploring her own wetness, her thumb pressing against her clit. She whined softly, the sound low and needy. Joe's eyes were glued to the sight, watching as she grew bolder, her arousal sticky on her fingers. His hand tightened on her calf, his cock jutting upwards, pushing against the seam of his slacks, demanding attention. He shifted her leg, pulling it to rest over his shoulder, forcing her to open herself more fully to him.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "So fuckin' pretty." His right hand reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her slit, spreading her wetness, watching as her pupils dilated. He turned his head to kiss the calf that rested on his shoulder, his teeth nipping at the soft skin before his gaze returned to hers. "Keep goin', baby."

Her hand picked up the pace, her eyes fluttering as she watched him watch her. She felt the beginnings of another orgasm building, the heat spreading through her core. Joe's eyes never left hers, his breathing shallow and quick. His thumb brushed her clit, sending a jolt through her body, and she moaned, her hand moving faster.

"So fucking close, aren't you?" he murmured. She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers buried knuckle deep in her pussy as she chased the high of her second orgasm. Joe leaned over her, his breath hot against her cheek as he whispered, "Let me have it, baby. Let me see you come for me." His words were a command and a plea wrapped in one, and she felt her body responding, her walls clenching around her fingers as she approached the edge.

Her left leg slung over his shoulder pressed closer to her chest as he leaned over her, the heat from his breath on her skin making her quiver. His thumb circled her clit, the pressure increasing steadily. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she chanted, her body tightening as she felt the peak approaching. The stretch of her fingers inside her, the slickness of her arousal, and the firm pressure of his thumb on her most sensitive spot drove her to brink of insanity. Her hand was a blur, her eyes screwed shut, and her teeth dug into her bottom lip.

Joe pulled back, his left hand still holding her calf tightly, his fingers digging into her skin. With his right hand, he replaced her own, his thumb pressing harder into her clit, his index and middle fingers sliding into her pussy. Her eyes flew open, the sudden sensation of his larger, more demanding touch making her moan.

"Hmm, better?" Joe smirked, his fingers still working their magic on her clit. She nodded frantically. She swallowed shallowly, his voice low and husky as he whispered, "You're so fuckin' wet for me. I can't wait to feel you squeeze around my cock." His thumb didn't relent, the pressure unyielding, pushing her closer to the precipice.

Her eyes fluttered shut again, her body trembling with the effort to hold back her climax. "Don't get lost on me," he whispered, voicing a demand she couldn't ignore. His fingers danced over her clit, playing her body like a maestro conducting a symphony of pleasure. She felt the wave cresting, ready to crash down on her.

"Fuckin' perfect," Joe groaned as her orgasm washed over her, her body convulsing with pleasure. He watched as she rode the wave, her eyes screwed shut and her mouth open in a silent scream. He didn't stop, his thumb circling her clit even as she came down from the high. When she had recovered enough, he pulled away just enough to replace his fingers with the slide of his cock into her, filling her up in one smooth stroke.

"Joe- fuck," she cursed under her breath, her voice faltering and breaking as Joe began to thrust into her slowly. Her eyes shot open, locking with his intense gaze as he filled her completely. He pushed in deep, hitting that spot that had her seeing stars, making her toes curl and her legs quiver.

He paused to lift her right leg over his shoulder, changing the angle of his penetration. "Feel good?" he asked, checking to make sure she was still feeling it. She nodded, gasping low in her throat each time his hips pulled back. The drag of his cock was slow, deliberate, and maddening. "Good," he murmured, his eyes hooded as he watched her process the sensations.

His hands moved to her hips, holding her in place as his thrusts grew more forceful, his strokes deep and powerful. His hips rolled slowly into hers, drawing out her gasps of pleasure. The bed frame groaned in time with their rhythm, the soft slap of skin echoing in the quiet room. Her nails dug into the sheets as she arched her back, her breasts bouncing with every impact.

Their eyes remained locked, their breaths mingling as Joe leaned down to kiss her, his tongue delving deep into her mouth. The kiss was fierce, a silent declaration of ownership and desire. Her hands roamed his back, tracing the lines of his muscles as she tried to get closer, to feel every inch of him. His hands found hers, tangling their fingers together, pressing them into the mattress above her head.

He picked up the pace, his cock sliding in and out of her with a steadfast rhythm that had her moaning uncontrollably. She threw her head back, her eyes squeezed shut as she whispered his name. "Joe, Joe, Joe," the syllables falling from her lips as if that was all she were made to say.

He could feel her tightening around him, the walls of her pussy gripping his shaft in a vice-like embrace. He knew she was close, but he wasn't ready for it to end. He wanted to draw it out, to savor every second of her unraveling beneath him. He leaned down to kiss her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin as he considered his next move.

Then he saw it, the mirror to the right of the bed reflecting their entwined bodies: her brown skin glowing against the stark whiteness of the sheets, his tanned arms flexing with each thrust, their faces a blend of pleasure and determination. The sight of them together, captured in the reflection, was too much to resist. He pulled back, breaking their kiss, and ordered her onto her knees.

He tapped her ass gently—once, twice—as he angled her body, positioning her just right for his view. Her breath hitched, her eyes meeting his in the mirror as she settled onto her elbows and knees, her back arching as she pushed her ass up towards him. Joe took a moment to appreciate the sight: her ass in the air, the way her thighs glistened with their combined juices, the way she looked at him with a deceiving mix of innocence and lust.

"Beautiful," Joe murmured, his voice thick with lust as he took in the view of her on all fours, her back arched, presenting herself to him. He palmed her ass, giving it a firm squeeze before he lined up the head of his cock with her entrance. With a single, powerful thrust, he filled her, watching in the mirror as she took all of him in, her eyebrows furrowing in pleasure.

She moaned weakly, her chest falling forward as he held her hips firmly, his grip unyielding. The mirror reflected the way Joe's body moved over hers, the power and control in each stroke. He watched her face, her eyes screwed shut in ecstasy, as he pumped into her from behind. The sound of their flesh colliding filled the air, his hands squeezing and releasing her hips in time with his thrusts.

"Look at yourself," he whispered, his voice gruff and demanding. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. She saw the passion etched on her features, the way Joe's eyes devoured her body as he claimed her. She watched as she pushed her ass back to meet his hips, gasps and sighs leaving her lips with each deep, possessive stroke.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Joe growled as he pumped in and out of her. She moaned, feeling his eyes on her, feeling his cock stretch and fill her. It was an exquisite mix of pleasure and vulnerability, knowing that he could see every part of her, that he had complete control over her body.

"Love your cock," she whimpered, the words spilling out of her unbidden. The sound of Joe's skin slapping against her ass grew louder, his movements more urgent. He leaned over her, pressing her down into the bed as he slammed into her, his fingers digging into her hips.

"Yeah?" Joe grunted, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched her squirm under his touch. "You like how it feels, baby?" He knew she did. The way she was pushing back against him, the little sounds of pleasure she made, the way she tightened around him—it was all clear as day. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low rumble in her ear. "Tell me how much you love it."

Her face heated as she stared into the mirror. Her eyes were half-lidded with pleasure, her mouth parted in a silent moan. "I love it, babe," she managed to say, her voice strained. "I love it so much. Feels so good."

"That's my girl," Joe murmured, his strokes becoming faster, harder. The headboard of the bed thumped rhythmically against the wall, each impact sending a shockwave through her body. Her eyes grew wider as she watched Joe's face in the mirror, his jaw clenched and his cheeks flushed with arousal. "Fuckin' yourself back onto me like that," he groaned. "So hot. So fuckin' hot."

Her movements began to falter, her hands digging into the bedsheets in frustration as she fought to stay upright. "Baby," she whined, "I can't... I- fuck, it's too much."

Joe's response was a low, dark chuckle. "You can," he assured her, his voice a gentle rumble. "You can take it, baby. You want my help?" He reached around her, pulling her body upright until her back pressed against his chest. The shift in position drew a long, desperate moan from her throat as his cock hit a new angle, rubbing against her g-spot with each thrust.

"That's better," he hummed, his breath warm against her neck as he wrapped his arm around her waist. With her back against his chest, Joe's cock remained buried deep within her, his thrusts now shorter but no less intense. He nuzzled her neck, his nose nudging against her earlobe. "Need my hands too?"

With a nod, she leaned into him, her hips stuttering against him. He chuckled, his right hand creeping up to squeeze at the sides of her throat. She gasped, her head falling back to rest against his shoulder, and he took the opportunity to kiss her, his tongue demanding entry to her mouth. His left hand found its way between her lips, sliding two fingers into her mouth, coating them with her saliva.

Suddenly, she felt those same fingers slide down her body, tracing a wet path to her clit. She moaned, her eyes flying open to meet his in the mirror again. He watched her face as he began to rub slow, torturous circles around her swollen bud. She reached down to grip his wrist, silently begging for more, for harder, faster, anything to get her over the edge again.

"Not yet," he murmured, his teeth scraping against her earlobe. "We're gonna make this last." He pinched her clit lightly, making her jolt and whimper. She could feel him smiling against her skin, his breath hot and ragged in her ear.

Their eyes locked in the mirror, his fingers working her clit in time with his thrusts. The pleasure was unbearable, a delicious torment that had her squirming and bucking her hips back against him. He groaned, his eyes dark with desire, and she realized he was just as lost in it as she was.

Joe's grip tightened on her throat, not enough to cut off her air, but enough to remind her of his control. It was a heady feeling, one that sent a fresh wave of arousal through her body. "Gonna come inside, baby," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Gonna fill you up. Get you all warm. Sound alright?"

She nodded frantically, her eyes glazed over with need. She felt Joe's cock swell, knew he was close, and she met his every thrust with an eager push of her hips. His fingers worked her clit in a relentless rhythm, the pressure building until she thought she would burst. "Do it," she choked out, the words barely audible. "Please, Joe."

"Beggin' so sweetly," Joe chuckled, the sound vibrating through her as he thrust into her with a new urgency. His fingers circled her clit faster, the pressure building until she was teetering on the edge of release. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she bit down on her lower lip to muffle her cries. The room spun with pleasure, the mirrored image of their joined bodies blurring as she felt herself climbing towards ecstasy. "Can't wait until it's our wedding night. Gonna fuck my pretty little wife right outta your wedding dress, just like you deserve."

And then, it hit her—a powerful, shattering orgasm that ripped through her body. She stuttered his name, her back arching and her muscles tightening around his cock. The pressure on her throat increased just enough to make her gasp for air, which only served to heighten the sensations flooding through her.

In the mirror, she watched Joe's face contort in pleasure, his eyes squeezed shut as he felt her pussy convulse around him. He grunted, his own climax following swiftly. With a final, deep thrust, he came inside her, filling her up with his warmth. His grip on her throat loosened, and she took a deep, shaky breath, her body going limp against him before falling forward onto the bed, Joe's cock still buried deep within her.

They stayed like that for a moment, their breathing ragged and mingling. Then Joe leaned down, kissing the back of her neck, his tongue tracing the line of her spine. "Fuck," he whispered, his voice still thick with desire. "We should do that more often."

She laughed, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. "Ditch parties to go fuck?" she teased, turning her head to look up at him, wincing when his cock slipped out of her.

He reached a greedy hand forward, squeezing the soft flesh of her ass, hypnotized by the sight of his spend leaking out of her, painting a warm trail on her inner thigh. "Every fuckin' time we get a chance," he murmured, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. "Could get used to this."

She flipped onto her back, yawning and stretching out, her body boneless with satisfaction. "What was that about 'our wedding night'?" She asked, her eyes half-closed. She smiled when she felt his head find her chest, his cheek pressing into the softness of her breast.

Joe lifted his head, blue eyes tracing over her features. "Just planning ahead," he said with a happy sigh. "I meant it. If that's what you're asking."

Her hand found the crown of his head, fingers threading through his hair as she considered his words. "I want that too." The admission was soft, but it filled the space between them, full and warm.

Joe pulled away slightly, looking at her with a sudden seriousness. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

She nodded, her hand stroking his cheek. "More than anything," she said, her voice strong and clear.

The smile that spread across Joe's face was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. He tilted his head up to kiss her, a gentle press of his lips that spoke volumes. When he pulled back, he whispered, "Good to know."

WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW I NEED THE NEXT PART NEOW!! also JALEN!!!! HELLO. that confession was everything i needed

this was amazing

we never tell - joe burrow

summary turns out joe burrow doesn't take kindly to being treated like a stranger

content 18+, smut, angst, language, alcohol

part five

You’re getting flashbacks. Stuck in some hole-in-the-wall bar that smells like spilled beer and victory. The sort of place that's seen a thousand celebrations and will see a thousand more.

You're pressed between bodies that reek of adrenaline, trying to make yourself small in a corner booth while Dom argues with someone about LSU's defensive line. The noise is overwhelming, too many voices layered over bad music, the kind of chaos that makes your skull feel too tight.

You shouldn't be here.

Especially not when Joe keeps drifting closer to your end of the table, finding excuses to lean over Dom's shoulder, to grab napkins from the dispenser next to you, to brush past you under the pretense of squeezing through the crowded space. 

Each time, you find a reason to move: bathroom, bar, outside for air. Anything to avoid being in his orbit for too long.

"You want another drink?" Dom's voice cuts through your spiral, and you realize you've been staring at the same spot on the table for who knows how long.

"I'm fine," you lie, even though your vodka soda has been empty for twenty minutes.

He gives you that look, the one that says he's not buying it but won't push. "I'm getting one anyway."

You have to scoot out of the booth to let him pass, the awkward shuffle making you want to melt. When you slide back in Dom's absence leaves a gaping space between you and Joe. You perch on the very edge of the seat, as far from him as possible while still technically sitting down.

"I'll come help you carry," someone whose name you didn’t catch says, pushing back from the table and following him.

Dom walks towards the bar, his jersey already stained with something that could either be beer or barbecue sauce. He looks happy, loose in a way you haven't seen him in months. This is his element—celebrating with friends that weren’t his but suddenly are. Basking in reflected glory, being part of something bigger than himself.

Everyone here looks the same, drunk on victory and possibility, wearing their colors like badges of honor. You feel like an imposter in your simple black top, like everyone can see that you don't belong.

"Come on, just for a little bit," Dom had pleaded outside the Mercedes-Benz stadium, still buzzing from the win. "The guys are celebrating. It'll be fun."

You should be at dinner with your parents right now, somewhere quiet with cloth stitched napkins and muted conversations. Somewhere safe. Instead, you're trapped in this testosterone-fueled victory lap because Dom wouldn't take no for an answer.

Fun. Right.

Your mom had looked disappointed when you chose the bar over dinner, her hand lingering on your arm like she wanted to pull you back. "You sure, honey? We could all go together. Have a nice meal."

But here you are, nursing regret in liquid form, trying not to think about the last time you talked to Joe. And definitely not thinking about the last time you saw Joe face to face.

You smell his cologne and your body goes traitor, remembering what your mind has spent months trying to forget. The urge to run wars with the urge to lean closer, and both options feel like jumping off a cliff.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and your stomach does a familiar flip before you even check the screen.

Holy shit you saw that game?? 👀

you: sooo when were you gonna tell me you're some star qb 

You feel eyes on you and look over to catch Joe staring at your screen. His jaw is tight, and there's something unreadable in his expression as he takes in what you've written.

You tilt your phone away instinctively, but he doesn't look away. For a long moment, you're locked in this stare, heart hammering as his eyes search yours like he's trying to make sense of something. 

Then, maybe out of spite—or desperation—you adjust your grip, angling the phone just enough for him to see Jalen’s name lighting up your screen as another message comes through.

You hate that you want him to care. Hate that you’re performing for an audience of one, using someone else’s attention like a weapon. But when his mouth tenses and steel flashes behind his eyes, a sick satisfaction curls in your stomach.

From across the table, Ja’marr calls out a question to Joe and his attention reluctantly shifts. You exhale a breath you didn't realize you were holding, angling your phone away this time as another response comes through.

jalen: Ain’t noo way you saw the game

you: saw you get your ass kicked

jalen: Ouch. And here I thought you were sweet

you: you thought wrong

you: :)

You're smiling despite yourself, the first real smile you've managed all day. Something about texting Jalen feels easy, like you can be the version of yourself that doesn't carry the weight of all this drama.

you: seriously though how did you not mention you’re oklahoma’s qb 

jalen: How did you not mention you're apparently an LSU fan

Your mind drifts back to your initial message to him towards the beginning of the game. You'd been half-watching, half-scrolling through your phone, when the big screen lit up with Oklahoma's starting lineup. One by one, they announced the players, each name echoing through the Superdome as the camera followed them onto the field.

And then: "At quarterback, number one, Jalen Hurts!"

Your phone had nearly slipped from your hands.

There he was, larger than life on the jumbotron—the same honey-brown eyes, the same easy smile, but dressed in Oklahoma crimson instead of the casual clothes you'd seen him in back home. Stats flashed across the screen: 32 passing touchdowns, 20 rushing touchdowns, 3,851 passing yards. Numbers that meant he was really, really good.

Before the screen could flash on to the next player, you quickly snapped a photo and sent it to him along with a string of question marks. What you didn’t notice was how blaringly obvious the pool of purple and gold that you were swimming in looked in the picture.

You: touche

"Oh my god, no way!"

The voice is bright and excited, cutting through the noise of the bar clearly. You look up to see her weaving through the crowd, face lit up with genuine delight. Behind her, Nate follows with the kind of resigned expression that suggests this wasn't his idea.

Your stomach drops.

Dom appears at your side, fresh drinks in hand, wearing a grin that looks suspiciously planned. "Surprise!" he announces, like it's Christmas morning.

You paste on a smile, one that might’ve been genuine if not for everything that happened a year ago. "Wow," you manage, standing to greet them both. "I had no idea you were coming."

Even as you're going through the motions, your attention keeps drifting to Joe's reaction. He's gone very still, that careful mask slipping into place as Bridget gets closer.

She reaches you first, practically buzzing, her cheeks flushed with excitement and probably alcohol. She's wearing LSU colors, a purple top that brings out her eyes, gold jewelry that catches the light. She looks perfect, like she belongs. 

Part of you wants to hate her—for her posts, for being here, for the way she fits into Joe's world. But she's warm and genuine, and that makes it worse somehow. Because it would be easier if she were awful. Easier to justify the sickening jealousy that crawls about when you see her.

"I've missed you," she pulls back to look at your face. "When Dom called however many weeks ago and said he could get us here for tonight, I've been excited since."

"Weeks?" The word slips out before you can stop it, and you catch the guilty flicker in your brother's expression as he sets drinks down on the table.

"Right after we found out your family was coming to the game," Nate confirms, reaching over to dap up the other guys. "Dom said we had to be here for the game. Make it a proper reunion since no Tahoe trip for you this year."

The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. 

Your brother orchestrated this. Set you up like pieces on a chessboard, and you walked right into it. The betrayal tastes metallic, makes your hands shake as you realize how naive you've been. Does he know? About your encounters, about the phone calls, about how you've been walking around with Joe's name carved into you like scar tissue? The thought makes you want to disappear into the floor.

But Bridget doesn't seem to notice your stillness, too focused on turning her attention to Joe.

"Hey," she speaks to him. It’s almost personal the way she looks at him, not desperate or clingy, but like she has every right to be here, in this moment, celebrating his victory alongside all of you.

Joe stands from the booth to greet her properly, and you're suddenly standing beside each other, close enough that you can feel the tension radiating off him. 

Before he can react, Bridget's leaning in for a hug. It's brief but intimate, her hands resting against his shoulders. The awkward pat on her arm he gives her seems more obligatory than friendly.

When Joe pulls back, he steps away too quickly and his shoulder knocks into you, sending you stumbling back against the edge of the booth. His hand darts out instinctively, curling around your arm to steady you before you can fully lose balance. 

The contact lingers for a second longer than it should. His touch is careful, but you can feel the way his fingers flex like he doesn’t really want to let go.

His skin against yours is muscle memory, your body recognizing his touch before your brain can build its defenses. For one terrifying second, you want to melt into it. Your pulse skitters like a trapped bird, and you jerk away because staying means drowning. 

You lean away as far as the limited space allows and his face briefly twitches. You tear your gaze away from him only to lock eyes with Ja'Marr, who's been watching the two of you with barely concealed interest. 

There's recognition in his expression that makes heat crawl up your neck. You wonder what he sees, whether the careful distance you've maintained looks as desperate as it feels. Whether everyone in this space can read the story written in the space between you and Joe.

"Sorry," Joe mutters beside you. The first words he’s spoken to you since the messages stopped coming. It had been a couple days after his birthday with no reply from you, when he finally took the hint.

For what? You want to bite back.

"It's fine," you opt for instead.

You tear your gaze away from Ja'Marr and scan the faces around you. Nate is settling into conversation with one of Joe's teammates, the others are making room for everyone, and Dom is watching you.

When your eyes meet his, you raise your eyebrows slightly—that silent sibling language you've perfected over the years. What?

He shakes his head once and looks away, but not before you catch an unfamiliar edge to him. 

There's a shuffle as people start sliding into the booth, Bridget claiming the spot next to where Joe was sitting, Nate squeezing in beside her, Dom and one of the teammates on the other side. You make sure to slide in last, again perching on the very edge of the seat where you can bolt if you need to.

Joe is seated beside you, and you're hyper-aware of the space between you… or lack thereof. The booth that felt too small before now feels suffocating with everyone new crammed in.

Bridget is talking about the flight, about how excited she was to surprise everyone, and you nod along. Nate is talking about the game, how he and Bridget made friends with some random people near the student section, and you smile at his jokes. 

Your phone buzzes again, probably Jalen responding to your last message, but you don't check it. Can't, really, not with Joe sitting right there, not with the memory of his face when he saw you texting someone about being a "star QB."

More people keep filtering into the bar, LSU students still riding the high of victory, Oklahoma fans drowning their sorrows, the energy getting louder and more chaotic by the minute. 

You're ready to jump out of your own skin. The noise of the bar fades to white static as your nervous system floods with the need to escape. Anything but sitting here, drowning in the space between what you want and what you can't have, between who you're trying to be and who you become when he's near.

"—right?" Bridget's voice is directed at you, and you realize she's looking at you expectantly.

"Sorry, what?"

"I was saying how crazy it is that we're all here together. Like old times again."

"Yeah," you manage, forcing a smile. "Crazy."

But it doesn't feel like old times. It feels like wearing clothes that used to fit but now pinch in all the wrong places. Joe takes a sip of his drink, and you catch the movement in your peripheral vision, dialed into everything he does.

You start thinking of excuses. Headache. Stomach ache. Parents expecting you back. Anything to get out of here, away from the weight of Joe's presence and prying eyes.

That's when you spot him.

At first, you're not sure—it’s gotten so crowded, bodies shifting and blocking your view. But there's familiarity within the figure near the main bar area, the way he carries himself. You crane your neck slightly, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it.

Oklahoma crimson. The right height. Could it be—?

One of the guys he's with notices you staring and nudges him, pointing in your direction. When Jalen turns and looks, his face breaks into a smile you remember.

Heat crawls up your neck once again tonight, embarrassed at being caught staring, but also relieved beyond measure that it's actually him instead of some stranger. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips in response.

Jalen raises his hand and waves you over, tilting his head toward where he's standing. You slide out of the booth during a natural lull in conversation, your heart hammering so hard you're sure everyone can hear it over the noise.

Your legs feel unsteady as you navigate through the crowd, not from alcohol but from the sheer effort of holding yourself together for so long. You can still feel the phantom heat of Joe's body next to yours, the way your skin buzzed every time he shifted in his seat, the careful choreography of making sure no part of you accidentally touched any part of him.

By the time you reach Jalen, you’re full of something that feels dangerously close to gratitude. He represents everything that booth didn't—ease, simplicity, the possibility of a conversation that doesn't require you to search every word for hidden meanings.

"Look who decided to join the losing side."

"Someone had to check on you," you say, surprised by how normal your voice sounds when everything inside you feels like it's vibrating at the wrong frequency.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Check on me? I'm not the one who looks like I'd rather be anywhere else."

Before you can respond, he glances over your shoulder toward the booth, his expression shifting slightly. "So," he says, taking a sip of his drink, "you know half the LSU team or something?"

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your voice light. "Family friend."

"Ah." He nods along, smiling again.

"Speaking of," you say quickly, "when exactly were you planning to mention that you're apparently some hotshot quarterback? I had to find out by seeing your face on a jumbotron."

Jalen grins, the deflection working exactly as you'd hoped. "Hey, I told you I played football at a different school. Not my fault you never bothered to ask which one."

"You said you played football! You didn't say you were..." you gesture vaguely at the TV screens around the bar, where highlights from the game are still playing on loop, "...that."

"What, good?" His grin widens. "I definitely told you I was good."

"There's good, and then there's..." You trail off, shaking your head. "Okay, fine. I should have asked more questions."

"Should've googled me," he teases. "Very first result would've told you everything you needed to know."

"Who googles people anymore?" You. You do.

"Smart people who want to know if they're texting Heisman candidates."

You laugh despite yourself, and it feels good. "Heisman candidate? Aren't you humble." His eyes are dancing with amusement, and you realize you're smiling too much, laughing too easily. You feel like you can finally breathe.

Which is, of course, exactly when everything goes to hell.

"SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!"

The chanting is loud enough to cut through every other conversation in the place, and you don't need to look to know where it's coming from. Joe's voice rises above the rest, commanding and celebratory. It draws nearly every eye in the room. 

"Sounds like your crew's getting started," Jalen observes out loud.

Before you can respond, the entire group is moving like a tide toward the bar and then they're there, surrounding you and Jalen like a wave crashing over a quiet shore. The careful distance you'd put between yourself and all of this evaporates in seconds.

"There she is!" Dom shouts, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Joe's buying everyone drinks!"

You're suddenly pressed between bodies again, the peace you'd found with Jalen shattered as LSU purple and gold invades your space. But it's not Dom you're watching, it's Joe, whose attention is fixed on Jalen with an intensity that makes you waver.

There's a moment of recognition, though the two have never met. Joe's jaw tightens subtly, and something cold flickers before the mask slides back into place.

"Well, well," Joe extends a hand toward Jalen and suddenly sports a smile that doesn’t quite touch the rest of him. "Jalen Hurts. Hell of a game tonight."

"Joe Burrow," Jalen responds, taking the offered hand. His smile genuine. "Appreciate it, man. Y'all played lights out."

The handshake lasts longer than expected, and you can feel the tension crackling between them. Two quarterbacks, two different worlds, sizing each other up with the kind of professional courtesy that barely conceals something sharper underneath.

"This is Jalen," you say quickly, turning to the others, desperate to diffuse whatever this is becoming. "Jalen, this is…" You rattle off introductions, watching as the guys exchange pleasantries, everyone playing their parts in this strange theater of sportsmanship.

But you can feel Joe watching you the entire time, tracking every interaction, every smile you give Jalen, every moment of ease between you two. There's possessiveness in the way he stalks, something that makes your skin feel too hot and too tight.

"So you two know each other?" Bridget asks, genuine curiosity in her voice as she looks between you and Jalen.

"We met back home," you say carefully, overly focused on Joe's attention. "Few months ago."

"Small world," Joe says, and there's an edge to his voice that only you seem to catch. "Amazing how people just... turn up places."

Jalen's eyes flick between you and Joe, and you see the moment he picks up on the undercurrent. His expression doesn't change, but something does in his posture, a subtle straightening that suggests he's reading the room just fine.

"Actually," you say, taking a small step toward Jalen, "we were just going to—"

"Oh no, no, no," Joe interrupts, his hand shooting out to catch your arm before you can move any farther. His grip is firm, his smile still mockingly wide and friendly. "Come on, we're just getting started here. Stay and celebrate with us."

You want to pull away, but doing so would draw attention you can't afford. Instead, you freeze, caught between the warmth of his hand and the weight of everyone's expectant gazes.

"Yeah, absolutely," Jalen says after a moment, his voice easy and accommodating. "I'm in no rush."

Joe orders another round of beers for him and the guys, shots for everyone else who wants because even he's not stupid enough to risk getting caught drinking hard liquor in public during playoff season.

The rest of the night unfolds in fragments, each moment feeling both too long and too brief.

Jalen somehow manages to secure two seats a little ways away, further from the main ruckus but still close enough to the others where it isn’t anything too intimate. You find yourself leaning into simple conversations with him, the kind that flows without effort despite everything swirling around you.

Somewhere along the way, you’d found out that when he left Alabama, Ohio State had actually been one of the schools he looked at. He spent some time there, met a few people, and now pops back whenever he gets the chance.

"So what's your New Year's looking like?" he asks, twirling his beer bottle between his hands. "Seems like I will now be free."

You laugh, "I don't know yet. Probably something lowkey. What about you?"

"Depends," he says, voice tilting just enough to make you look up. "Maybe I'll find myself back in Ohio for a bit. Check on some of those connections I mentioned."

The suggestion hangs between you, loaded with possibility. "That could be nice," you say, trying to keep your voice casual even as warmth spreads through your chest.

"Could be," he agrees, his eyes holding yours a beat longer than necessary.

Behind you, Dom tells some elaborate story about nearly getting kicked out of the Superdome for sneaking into the wrong section, complete with exaggerated reenactments that have half the group in stitches. When Jalen makes a dry comment about Dom's "criminal mastermind" skills, it makes you laugh.

And then, unmistakably, you feel Joe's shoulder pressing against your back. His presence is domineering. You freeze, once again caught between the urge to lean into it and the knowledge that you absolutely cannot.

The moment you stop laughing, he steps away as if nothing happened.

It happens again twenty minutes later when Jalen tells you about the time his teammate accidentally ordered twenty pizzas to the wrong address. Your laugh bubbles up, and there Joe is again, a wall of heat at your back, close enough to make your skin buzz with awareness.

You start to wonder if it's intentional. If he's testing something, pushing boundaries just to see what you'll do.

Later, when the conversation splits into smaller groups, you find yourself inadvertently eavesdropping on Bridget and Joe. She's gotten progressively more animated as the night has worn on, her cheeks flushed, movements a little looser.

"So what are you doing for New Year's?" she asks, leaning closer to Joe. "Please tell me you're not just going to sit at home alone."

Joe shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. "Haven't decided."

"Come on," she presses, her hand finding his arm. "We should do something fun."

"Maybe," Joe says, but his voice is flat.

You watch this exchange with a strange mix of emotions. Part of you wants to feel vindicated—see, he's not interested in her. But mostly you feel something else entirely as you observe him throughout the rest of the night.

The way he throws his head back when Justin tells a story about his rookie year. How Joe genuinely lights up talking about the game, about plays that worked, about the feeling of everything clicking into place. It’s a side of Joe that you don't get to see often anymore. And, despite everything between you, watching him happy makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

He deserves this. This joy, this success, this moment of pure celebration.

The thought surprises you with its sincerity.

As the night wears on, the bar begins to thin out. The post-game high starts to fade into exhaustion, and you realize your head is actually starting to pound—whether from the noise, the alcohol, or the emotional whiplash of the evening, you're not sure.

You're rubbing your temples when you hear one of Jalen's teammates call out, "Hurts! We're heading back. You coming?"

Jalen glances at you, then back at his friend. "Yeah, probably should."

"Actually," you say, seizing the opening, "I think I'm ready to head back too."

"Oh, well let me give you a ride," Jalen offers immediately. "Uber prices are probably insane right now, especially with the game traffic."

It's such a reasonable offer, such a normal thing to suggest, that you're already nodding when Joe's voice cuts through the conversation.

"Oh, nah man, that's good of you but we were probably heading back soon anyway—"

"No!" Bridget interrupts, her voice a little too loud for you right now. "You promised me darts last year, remember? We never got to play. Come on, just one game?"

Your face twists before you can control it, and when you look at Joe, his expression has gone completely pale. There's something almost panicked in his eyes as they dart between you and Bridget, like he's trying to figure out how to navigate this without making everything worse.

But the damage is already done. The reminder of the past year, of all the reasons you spent months learning how to forget sits among you.

"It's fine," you say quickly. "Jalen, if you don't mind..."

"Of course not," he’s already standing, eyes moving to Joe, before back to you. "Ready when you are."

You gather your things with shaking hands, say your goodbyes with a smile that feels like it might crack your face. Joe doesn't say anything as you leave, but you feel his eyes on you until the bar door swings shut behind you.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, save for whatever music Jalen has playing and the distant sounds of nightlife filtering through the car. You lean your head against the cool glass, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon colors and shadows.

When he pulls up to the hotel, he puts the car in park but doesn't immediately say goodbye. "Hey," he says, turning to face you. "I don't know what all that was back there, but… just want to make sure you’re good."

Your throat tightens. "Yeah, I am."

"Just take care of yourself, alright? And if you ever need someone to talk to, or if you feel like letting me buy you a drink next time I’m up there…" He trails off, letting the offer hang in the air.

"Thank you," you mean it more than he probably realizes. "Who knows, might take you up on that offer." You muster up a grin, watching as a smile covers his face at the sight.

"I’ll be waiting.”

You lean over and give him a quick hug, friendly enough to remind yourself that there are still people in the world who make things easier instead of harder.

The hotel lobby is mercifully quiet when you walk in, just the soft ding of the elevator and the muted conversations of a few late-night stragglers by the bar. You'd splurged on your own room for this trip, separate from your parents and Dom, telling yourself you needed the space to decompress after finals. It was the one luxury you'd allowed yourself, and right now you're grateful for the foresight.

Your room is on the fourteenth floor with a view of the city that you barely glance at as you drop your purse on the desk and kick off your shoes. Your feet ache, your head pounds, and an exhaustion settles into your bones that goes deeper than just physical tiredness.

The shower you take is scalding, the kind of hot that turns your skin pink and makes the small bathroom fill with steam. You stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the smell of the bar and the remaining confusion from the entire night.

When you finally finish, you change into your pajamas. The hotel's terry cloth robe goes over your hair as you pad around the bathroom to start your nighttime routine.

You're working cleanser into your skin, the familiar motions almost meditative, when there's a knock at your door. You freeze, foam still covering your cheeks, your heart immediately jumping to your throat. It's after midnight. Your parents wouldn't come by this late, and Dom would text first.

There’s another knock, softer this time but more insistent.

You rinse your face quickly, not bothering to dry it properly before padding to the door. Through the peephole, you can make out two distinct figures.

Frowning, you unlock the door and open it to find your brother swaying slightly in the hallway, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Behind him, looking tired and more than a little tense, stands Joe.

"Dom?" You look between them, confused. "What—how are you this drunk? I just left like an hour ago." 

Your brother pushes past you into the room without invitation, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Had to—had to talk to you," he slurs, gesturing vaguely as he stumbles through.

You look back at Joe, who's still standing in the doorway, for some kind of explanation. He runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "I don't know," he says with a shrug. "He just kept saying he had to talk to you. Wouldn't let it go."

Dom has somehow made it to your desk chair and is now attempting to sit down, missing it slightly before correcting himself. "Close the door," he mumbles, waving his hand. "This is important."

You reluctantly shut the door, crossing your arms over yourself. "Dom, what the hell is going on? You're completely wasted."

He looks up at you with that serious expression drunk people get when they think they're about to say the dumbest thing. "I gotta ask you something," he says, pointing an unsteady finger in your direction. "And I need... I need you to be honest with me."

Your heart drops to your stomach. This is it. Somehow, he knows. Your mouth goes dry as you wait for him to continue.

"Is there..." he pauses, swaying slightly even while sitting, "is there anything going on? Like, anything I should know about?"

The question hangs in the air, deliberately vague but loaded with its implication. You can feel the blood draining from your face as you stare at him, your mind racing. He knows. He has to know. 

But then you really look at him, seeing the way his eyelids are drooping, how he's having trouble focusing on your face, at the sloppy way he's moving about. 

He's absolutely obliterated. The kind of drunk where he probably won't remember his own name tomorrow, let alone this conversation. If you can just deny everything, play dumb, he'll wake up tomorrow with a massive hangover and no memory of whatever suspicions brought him here tonight.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, your voice coming out higher than normal. "Dom, I'm tired. It's been a long day and I just want to go to sleep."

But Dominic isn't deterred. He's rambling now, words tumbling over each other. "Because like... I see things, you know? And tonight was just... there was all this weird energy and I don't know what's happening but—"

"Dom." You move toward the door, desperate to end this conversation before it goes anywhere you can't come back from. "Seriously. There's nothing going on. You're drunk and you're not making sense."

You pull the door open, gesturing for him to leave. "Come on. Let's get you back to your room."

Dom looks like he wants to protest, at one point saying he’ll be back to talk more, but you're already moving toward him. Your hands are on his shoulders, guiding him up from his chair and toward the doorway. He stumbles a bit as you push him into the hall and that's when Joe steps forward, catching Dom's other arm to steady him.

"Alright, man," Joe says, his voice gentle but firm. "Let's go."

Joe gets Dom about halfway down the hall before your brother decides he needs to sit down right there on the carpet. While Joe's trying to convince him to keep moving, he keeps looking over his shoulder at you.

Joe’s eyes meet yours for the third time, and that's when you've had enough.

"What?" you snap, your voice cutting through the hallway. "Do you need something?"

His head whips back around, drawing back slightly like he wasn't expecting the bite in your tone. He stares at you, your brother momentarily forgotten at his feet, mouth slightly ajar.

You slam the door before he can say anything else, the sound echoing down the hall. Your hands shake as you turn the deadbolt, heart pounding against your chest.

So startled, you can't even finish what you were doing. The towel wrapped around your hair feels too heavy, so you yank it off and let it fall to the bathroom floor in a damp heap. Your skincare products sit abandoned on the counter as you stumble to the bed, crawling under the covers.

Your phone becomes your new best friend, something to focus on that isn't the chaos in your head. You scroll mindlessly through Instagram, TikTok, anything that might quiet the noise. The blue light burns your eyes but you keep going, thumb moving on autopilot.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen. You're deep in some random cooking video when a loud knock reverberates through the room.

Your stomach drops. Dominic. He probably got away from Joe, sobered up just enough to remember he wasn't finished interrogating you. The anger that's been simmering all night finally boils over.

You throw off the covers and storm to the door, fury making your movements sharp and reckless. "Fuck off, Dominic!" you seethe as you yank the door open. "I already told you—"

But it's not Dom.

Joe stands in the doorway, one arm braced against the frame, and his face is hard in a way that makes you take an involuntary step back. There's something dangerous in his expression that you've never seen before.

"The fuck is your problem?" he asks, his voice low and sharp.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Your brain shorts out completely, every angry word you had ready for Dom evaporating in the face of Joe's presence. You try to close the door, instinct taking over, but his hand shoots out to stop it, palm flat against the wood.

"Don't," he says, and there's warning in his tone.

"Don't what?" you snap, finding your voice again. "Don't close my own door? Get your hand off it."

"Not until you tell me what the hell that was about," Joe says, pushing the door wider instead of letting go. "What was that shit in the hallway?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." You try to push the door closed again but he's stronger, and the door doesn't budge.

"Bullshit." He steps into your room, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small. "You ignore me for how long. Won't even look at me. And then tonight you're all over Jalen fucking Hurts."

Dread fills your body—embarrassment, anger, the sick realization that he doesn’t care he'd been watching you all night, just like you felt. "I wasn't all over—"

"Acting like he hung the fucking moon, jumping at the chance to leave with him, making little plans." Joe's voice is getting louder. "Real cute how you can be yourself with him but you treat me like I've got the plague."

"That's not—"

"What? That's not what happened?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I watched you!"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Don't I?" Joe steps closer, and you can see the hurt beneath the anger now. "Because it looked like you were having a great fucking time with Oklahoma's golden boy. Really moving on, huh?"

"So what if I am?" The words come out defensive, meaner than you intended. "So what if I'm talking to someone who actually treats me like I matter?"

Joe rears back for a second. "Someone who treats you like you matter? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Your chest tightens. You've said too much, revealed too much of the hurt you've been carrying. "It means," you say, your voice shaking with anger, "that he doesn't sleep with other people and then act like I'm the problem."

The silence that follows is deafening. Joe stares at you, his expression shifting from anger to something that looks almost like panic.

"Is that what you think happened?" he asks quietly.

"I don't think it, Joe. I know it." Your voice breaks. "I saw you. Both of you." At the mention of it, the memory floods your mind once again like how it's haunted you for months. Bridget’s smudged makeup, fumbling with her pants. Joe’s unkempt appearance, his eyes locked with your own hopeful ones. Your stomach churns with the same sick feeling you felt that night.

"Jesus Christ." Joe runs both hands down his face. "You think I—you’re thinking about it wrong."

"What else am I supposed to think?" Tears are burning behind your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. "You had your hands all over me one minute, and the next you're fucking Bridget."

"It wasn't—" Joe stops, his jaw working like he's trying to find the right words. "That's not how it happened."

"Then how did it happen, Joe? Because from where I was standing, it looked pretty fucking clear."

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor. "I was angry," he says quietly. "I was hurt and pissed off and I did something stupid."

"Stupid?" You laugh, but it comes out cracked. "Is that what you call it?"

"I call it the biggest fucking mistake," Joe says, his voice raw. "I call it something I've regretted every single day since it happened."

"Oh, well that makes it better," you say, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You regret it. Great. That totally fixes everything."

"It meant nothing," Joe says suddenly. "It was just—I was angry and hurt and I wanted to hurt you back."

His words do nothing but draw up more of the memories you’ve been trying to run from. "Don't."

"I'm serious. It felt wrong the entire time because it wasn't you. Because you're the only one I wanted and I was too fucking scared to admit it."

"Stop talking." Your voice is barely a whisper.

"You want to know the truth?" Joe's voice is getting louder again, more desperate. "The truth is I've been crazy about you since that first night together. The truth is I've spent the last year hating myself for fucking up the one thing I actually wanted to keep."

Your world tilts sideways. Every wall you've built, every reason you've given yourself for staying away from him, starts to crumble. This is what you wanted to hear for so long, but now that he's saying it, you don't know if you can believe it.

"You're lying."

"I'm not." Joe takes a step toward you, and you can see tears in his eyes now. "I'm not lying. I really fucking like you. And I fucked it up because I was scared and stupid and I didn't know how to tell you."

"I wanted to believe it didn't mean anything," you whisper, your voice cracking. "All of it. I wanted to believe you didn't care because it was easier than thinking you chose her over me."

Joe's face crumples. "I never chose her. Not for a single second. I was just—I was so fucking scared of how much I needed you that I did the one thing guaranteed to push you away."

"Why?" The word comes out broken. "Why were you scared?"

He pauses for a second, looking lost. "Because you're you. Dom's smart, gorgeous, sister who was—is too good for me. I knew that if I let myself fall for you completely, there'd be no coming back from it."

"And now?"

"Now I've spent a year trying to come back from it anyway," he admits. "And I can’t. I can't shut it off. You're in my head all the fucking time.” 

Joe sighs, "I miss it even when I know I shouldn’t." He cuts himself off before he rambles even more, but you can see it in his eyes, the same need that's been eating you alive for months. 

"Miss what?"

"You," he breathes. "All of you. Not just—not just the physical stuff. I want to wake up next to you. I want to know how your day was. I want to be the person you call when something good happens, or when something shitty happens, or when nothing happens at all."

Your breath hitches, throat closing. "Joe..."

"I know I fucked it up. I know I don’t deserve you. But if there’s any part of you that still wants to even try—" his voice breaks there, unsteady, "just give me that.”

You stare at him, at the tears on his cheeks, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing keeping his heart beating, and suddenly, you can't remember why you've been fighting this so hard.

"I never stopped," you confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I tried to hate you, tried to move on, but I never stopped wanting you."

The second the words leave your mouth, something in him snaps.

Joe surges forward, hands finding your face with a desperation that makes your breath catch. His mouth is on yours before you can take another breath, tasting of months of regret and every unsaid word. You gasp into him, fingers clutching at the front of his shirt.

His lips move against yours with an urgency that feels almost painful. His hands drop from your face, skimming down your sides, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him like he needs you closer, needs to feel you everywhere at once.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper his name, breathless, before he’s chasing your mouth again, hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingertips drag along your bare skin, drawing a cold shiver from you as you lean into him instinctively, craving more, needing him.

"I missed you," he repeats against your lips, voice shaking as his hands slide higher, up your ribs, thumbs brushing the curve of your breasts. "I fucking missed you."

"Then show me," you whisper back.

Joe groans and the next time he kisses you it's messier, deeper, all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up need exploding between you. He walks you backwards blindly, until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall back with a breathless gasp, pulling him down with you.

His hands never stop moving, like he's terrified this is all some dream he’ll wake up from. His lips trace a hot path down your throat, over your collarbone, his breath shaky against your skin as he murmurs, "need you so bad."

Your fingers thread through his hair to pull him impossibly closer. Everything else fades away—the fights, the hurt, the miscommunication. Your back arches off the bed as his mouth moves lower, and you can feel the desperation in every touch, every kiss.

His mouth finds the soft dip beneath your ribs, warm breath ghosting across your skin as he pauses. His fingers tighten around your waist, composing himself there before sliding up again, dragging your shirt with his hands.

You lift your arms wordlessly, letting him peel it over your head and toss it somewhere behind him, forgotten. The second your skin is bare, his eyes dart around like he doesn’t know where to look first.

“My god,” he exhales, face breaking into a sly grin. His thumb traces over your sternum, then up to the hollow of your throat. “Don’t even know what you do to me.”

You do. You feel it in the tremble of his hands, in the heat of his breath, in the way his pupils have blown wide, swallowing the blue. But you don’t say so, just enjoy the fact that you do.

His lips follow his hands—over your chest, down your stomach, each kiss burning hotter than the last, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. He pauses there, breathing hard, his forehead dipping against your hip like he’s on the edge of breaking again.

“Say it’s okay,” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes lifting to meet yours.

You can barely get the words out, “’s okay.” His fingers hook beneath the fabric, sliding it down. The cool air hits your skin, making you shudder as the last of the fabric clears your ankles, tossed aside somewhere neither of you care to look.

Joe stays knelt between your legs for a moment, eyes roaming over you. His breath is shaky as his gaze drags up the length of your bare body. You wait for his next move, but instead of leaning back in, he moves suddenly.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping tight, and with one smooth motion, he flips both of you over, shifting his weight until his back settles against the headboard, pulling you up to straddle him.

You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you land in his lap, the rough denim beneath you a delicious contrast to your bare core. The unexpected motion knocks a breathless laugh from your throat, and for a second, the heat between you softens.

Joe’s mouth curves into a crooked grin at the sound of your laughter, his eyes never leaving your face. “There she is,” he murmurs, eyes flickering between your mouth and your swollen lips.

His hands trace up and down your sides, over the curve of your waist, up your bare back, thumbs gliding across your skin like he’s mapping you out. The touch sends goosebumps chasing after his fingertips, your breath catching again as your body settles fully against him.

When your laughter fades and your gaze finds his, you’re both a little dazed. For a long second, neither of you say much of anything as you take each other in.

His hand drifts higher, fingers curling lightly under your jaw, tilting your face toward his as his thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Then his other hand slides into your hair, threading through gently, pulling you closer until his lips hover right over yours.

The tension between you thickens with every slow pass of his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, pulling a soft whimper from your chest as your hands fist into his shirt, clinging to him.

Your kiss deepens, messy and open, heat pooling low in your stomach as you shift in his lap, grinding down instinctively against the hard length of him still trapped beneath thick denim. The friction makes both of you groan, his grip on your hips tightening as his head falls back against the headboard for a second, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You roll your hips again, slower this time, dragging yourself over him tauntingly, loving the reaction you draw from him.

“Good,” you whisper against his mouth, lips brushing his as you speak. “Deserve it.”

Joe huffs out a breath against your mouth—something between a laugh and a groan—but his hands never leave you. His fingers adjust, digging in just a little harder.

Still breathless, you tug at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling under the fabric, desperate to get it off. “Take this off.”

He leans back just enough for you to yank it up, his hands helping as the material drags over his head and lands behind you. Your eyes drop, taking in the stretch of his bare chest, the rise and fall of it as he breathes hard beneath you.

You’re already leaning in again, mouth dragging along the sharp line of his jaw, down his throat, lips parting against the soft skin there before he gets a chance to fully settle. His head tips back instinctively, giving you more space to work. 

Joe’s breath catches as your tongue flicks just beneath his ear. “Fuck, baby.” Your hips hover as he shifts beneath you, fumbling at the waistband of his jeans. His fingers work fast as he undoes the button and drags the zipper down. You stay pressed close to him, lips never leaving his skin.

Lifting his hips, he shoves both his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, breath hissing between his teeth as he finally frees himself. You feel the hard weight of him press up against you, hot and heavy, and it knocks a small gasp from your lips as your hips instinctively roll forward again.

The sensation makes his hands fly to your hips first, then lower, gripping handfuls of your ass as he holds you there. You rock your hips again, slower this time, dragging yourself over him to feel the slick heat of him sliding against you.

His breath punches out of him, head tipping back with a dull thud, his throat working as he swallows hard. “Jesus,” he grits, voice strangled. “You feel that?”

You nod, breath hitching and hands spreading wide across his chest, digging into the warm flex of his muscles. You can feel how hard he is, how thick, sliding perfectly against your swollen center every time you move. The friction alone is enough to make your thighs tremble, your core clenching around nothing, desperate for him.

“Joe,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of what’s to come, “can I?”

That does it. His hands slide down, one moving to grip the base of himself, lining up with you, while the other holds you tight, steadying you.

“C’mere, baby.” He guides you, “nice and slow.”

You hover for half a second, mind clouded with lust as you feel the blunt head of him catch at your entrance. Even after everything, the stretch makes your breath stutter when you finally start to sink down onto him.

His mouth drops open, a sharp exhale leaving him as his fingers dig into you, sure to leave bruises for the morning. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it. Just like that.”

The burn is sharp at first, that perfect edge of too much and not enough, and you brace your hands on his shoulders, panting softly as you take him inch by inch. His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every single reaction play out across your face like he can’t look away.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice barely audible. “You’re goddamn perfect.”

When you finally bottom out, fully seated in his lap, you both pause for a moment. You’re panting and overwhelmed, completely full all at once. You swear you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat inside you, throbbing in time with your own.

His hands slide up your back again, one threading into your hair as he pulls your face back down to his, kissing you hard. The first slow roll of your hips pulls a broken groan from both of you, your nails scraping lightly over his chest as you start to move, grinding down into him.

The friction is dangerous now—your bare skin dragging over him, every tiny shift making his breath stutter against your mouth. With each drop of your hips, your clit catches against the base of him, sending sharp little sparks skittering through your stomach, dragging you closer every time you fall into him.

“Missed you so fucking much.”

At his words, you whimper into his mouth, grinding harder, chasing that spark curling low in your belly with every drag of his cock inside you. His head drops again, forehead resting against yours as you ride him, the tension building tight between you.

Every roll of your hips sends another pulse of pleasure through both of you, until neither of you can keep your breathing steady, until you feel his grip start to falter, desperate to fuck up into you.

You feel his control slowly begin to fray, his need urging to take over. His voice breaks, as he stutters your name out. “I—fuck—I need—”

In the next breath, he shifts beneath you, planting his feet flat against the bed, using the leverage to thrust up into you hard, deep, dragging a sharp cry from your throat as your body jolts.

“Oh my god.” your voice shatters on a breathless gasp, your hands scrambling at his shoulders.

“That what you needed?” His voice is mean against your ear. “That what you’ve been thinking about at night? Riding my cock just like this?”

And yes, you had. More than you wanted to admit. Some nights, no matter how hard you tried, the only thing that could pull you close enough to release was the thought of him like this, buried deep, your body moving over his just like now.

He thrusts up again, your body lifting slightly with the force of it before dropping back down onto him, fully seated. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his bare skin, head falling forward.

He kisses you again, swallowing your broken sounds, tongue sliding against yours like he can’t get enough of you—like he’s trying to breathe you in, steal every sound you make and keep it for himself

Your hips start to move with him, finding a perfect rhythm together. You grind down as he drives up into you, his cock dragging deep with every stroke, the friction catching exactly where you need it, making your head spin.

The wet slap of skin fills the air, the sound of your gasps and his low curses blending into something obscene. Your body is trembling now, the coil low in your belly tightening to the point of snapping, every roll of your hips dragging you closer, every thrust sending a sharp jolt of heat through your veins.

“Joe—” you choke out, barely breathing. “I—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he pants, his hands moving around, one threading into your hair again as he pulls your mouth back to his once more. “Let me feel you.”

And when it hits, when you finally snap—you fall apart in his lap, a sob ripping from you as you clamp down around him, the waves of it crashing hard and fast. Your whole body jerks against him, muscles locking up as your orgasm blooms through you.

“Fuck—fuck—” Joe groans, his own hips stuttering as he feels you clench around him, and with a last broken thrust, he follows, spilling into you with a sound that vibrates against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move, bodies locked together, his arms wrapped tight around you. Your breathing slowly evens out, the frantic desperation giving way to something softer. Joe's hand traces lazy circles on your back, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder, your neck, wherever he can reach.

The exhaustion hits you both at once—emotional and physical, everything finally catching up. You clean up quietly, moving around each other with a careful tenderness, like you're both afraid to break whatever fragile thing has reformed between you.

When you finally crawl under the hotel sheets together, you fit against him like you never left. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and for the first time in a year, the knot in your stomach finally loosens.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing evening out behind you, his face buried in your hair, his body solid against yours. Your mind drifts with questions you can't answer—whether this changes anything or if morning will bring back the same careful distance, whether he'll pretend this never happened, or how you even begin to navigate whatever this is when you're not hidden away anymore.

im still here

---

all good things - joe burrow

summary in the morning light, where all good things come to an end

content 18+, smut, angst, language

You met Joe the spring he got drafted.

It was a fluke, one of those nights that wasn’t supposed to be anything special. You were bartending part-time at a rooftop lounge downtown, working your third double in a row, already dreaming about the frozen pizza in your freezer and the bath you’d promised yourself if you made it through the night. 

Despite it being late, past midnight, the Louisiana air was still hot and thick with it’s signature humidity. Your first sign something was different should’ve been the way the crowd didn’t thin out like it usually did.

He was sitting in the corner booth when you finally noticed him. Shoulders raised, baseball cap low, head bent toward the guy across from him. 

You wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the table of college girls at the other end of the bar whispering about it, zooming in with their phones, giggling behind drink menus.

You’d heard the name before of course (everyone in the city had), but you didn’t follow football and you didn’t really care. You were too busy trying to make rent, finish school, survive.

He tipped well. That was the first thing you liked about him.

He also didn’t stare at your ass when you walked away, which already made him better than 90% of the guys who came through there.

The second time he showed up, it was just him. He sat at the bar and asked if you remembered his order. You did. And when he left, he asked for your name.

By the end of the summer, he knew the shape of your bedroom window and you knew how he liked his eggs in the morning.

It was never supposed to last. You both knew that. He told you from the beginning there wasn’t room for anything serious—he was leaving in a couple months, and you weren’t the type to follow anyone across the country.

You told him you never would, like you were proud of it. Like you weren’t already half in love with the way he smiled when he was trying not to.

That was over a year ago.

Now you’re sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in a city you don’t live in, wearing one of his shirts and trying not to let your makeup smudge from the tears that won’t stop welling up behind your eyes. 

You shouldn’t have come. You told yourself that on the flight over and again when he met you in the lobby without a kiss or at minimum a hello.

The sex was good. It always is. Good enough to make you forget, for a minute, that none of this means anything. That you’re not his girlfriend. That you’ve never met his friends. That he only calls you when he knows you’re alone.

And the worst part is—you answer every time.

You let him push your hair back and call you “baby” in the dark even though he never says it in the daylight. You let him whisper things into your neck that sound too much like maybes, even though you both know they’ll never turn into anything more.

And then you get dressed and go back to your real life, pretending none of it matters to you.

You used to think you were good at pretending.

Lately, not so much.

You hear him moving around in the bathroom. Nothing purposeful, just the soft shuffle of routine. You stare down at the comforter, absently smoothing the wrinkles beneath your thighs, and try not to read too far into the fact that he hasn’t said a word since he pulled out of you twenty minutes ago.

That’s always how it goes.

You touch, and then you don’t talk.

Or you talk, and then you don’t touch.

But rarely both.

He comes back out with a towel in his hand, wiping his face like he’s hoping it’ll hide him. The glow of the city hits his shoulders just right—he looks good. Tired, but good. 

His hair is damp from sweat, flushed along the collarbone, a few faded scratches visible on his ribs. You left those. He hasn’t looked at you since he stepped into the bathroom, but he tosses the towel onto the chair by the window.

The tension between you and Joe is thick enough to chew on. His back is to you as he grabs a bottle of water from the counter and drinks half of it without stopping, his throat working in tight swallows. You watch him from your place on the bed and try not to say what you’re thinking. Try not to say anything at all.

“You leave tomorrow morning?”

You nod even though he’s not looking. “Early flight,” you say, your voice scratchy.

He hums in acknowledgment, and you can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. You don’t think he knows, either.

Joe walks over to the foot of the bed and stops like he’s not sure if he wants to sit. You think maybe he’ll say something else—ask you to stay, tell you this feels different this time, something dramatic and stupid and out of character—but he just stretches one arm across his chest and winces at the tightness there.

“Are you okay?”

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

It’s not what you meant and you think he knows that, but you let it go.

The silence stretches between you. You let your head fall back against the pillows, sighing softly as your legs shift beneath the sheet. Your body’s sore in the places he touched you. Your heart feels worse.

You stare up at the ceiling.

“You know this isn’t working, right?” you ask.

It’s not a question, really. You say it too calmly for it to be a fight, too softly for it to sound like an accusation.

Still, Joe flinches.

He finally looks at you then, brows tight, mouth a little open like he’s about to say something but doesn’t know where to start.

You sit up slowly and cross your legs under you, pulling the sheet higher even though he’s already seen all of you. You hate that you feel like you need to cover up now. Hate that you always feel that way after.

You swallow. “I know we said this would be easy. That we could do this—long distance, no pressure, just when we feel like it…”

He nods, watching you carefully. You hate how good he looks to you even in this moment.

You let out a humorless laugh. “But I don’t feel like it anymore.”

His expression doesn’t change, not at first. But you see it in the way his jaw ticks. The way his shoulders roll back. The way he sets the water down on the nightstand like it’s something delicate, even though his hands are anything but.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” he says eventually, voice low.

You stare at him, blinking.

“You didn’t ask me to stay either,” you shoot back, and it sounds sharper than you meant it to.

He closes his eyes, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you say, and your voice cracks just a little. “What’s not fair is pretending like this is still nothing. Like it hasn’t been months, Joe.”

He exhales hard through his nose and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to you now. His elbows rest on his knees, hands laced together like he’s bracing for something.

You don’t know why you keep going, but you do.

“I don’t want to feel like some layover between everything else in your life. I don’t want to keep flying across the country just to fuck you in a hotel room and go home pretending like we’re strangers.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flinch and you feel your heart fold in on itself.

“I know you’re busy,” you whisper. “I know this isn’t the right time. But it’s never going to be the right time with you, is it?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, finally, he says, “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

You freeze.

Joe turns around, meets your eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe days—he looks like the version of him you almost let yourself fall in love with. Tired and a little lost, like he knows he’s fucked it all up but doesn’t know how to fix it.

You could say something. You could forgive him. You could slide closer and touch his jaw and kiss him like it’s a promise and not a mistake.

Instead, you sit there, staring at each other across the bed, letting the weight of the moment crush everything that used to feel easy and careless. 

It’s hard to say how long you two are caught like that. Long enough for the air in the room to shift. Long enough for the space between you to start feeling like something tangible.

Joe lifts his body from the edge of the bed to sit beside you. His thigh brushes yours, just barely, but it's enough to make your breath catch. He doesn’t reach for you, or touch your hand, leg, or the small of your back like he would if this were still just about sex. He sits there, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them, eyes on the carpet.

You’re quiet for a while, thinking that maybe this is where he apologizes. Where he says it’s been hard, that he didn’t mean to make you feel like this. That he missed you. That he doesn’t want it to end.

But that’s not who he is. Joe doesn’t talk when things are hard. He shuts down. Retreats inward. You’ve seen him do it on TV after a bad game—answering questions like they don’t matter, smiling without humor, eyes heavy with something that never makes it to his mouth. You should’ve known that if he couldn’t say it then, he wouldn’t say it now.

Still, you wait.

Because part of you wants to believe he’ll surprise you. That this version of him—vulnerable and two inches from the edge—might actually say something this time.

But all he says is, “I don’t know how to do this.”

His voice is low and quiet enough that you almost miss it. You lift your head slowly. His thumbs are rubbing over the calluses in small, distracted circles. “Do what?” you ask, even though you already know.

His jaw flexes. “Be something.”

You blink. “Is that what this is?”

He doesn’t answer.

You let out a breath through your nose and look away. Your throat feels tight again.

“I didn’t come here to trick you into a relationship,” you say. “I just… wanted to know if this thing we’ve been doing meant something. If it was ever going to be more than… than this.”

Joe nods like he hears you, but doesn’t say anything else. And that hurts more than if he had just said no.

You stand up, knees wobbling slightly from how long you’ve been sitting. Joe’s t-shirt hangs low on your frame and you hate how much you’ve come to think of it as yours. You open the closet, pulling your suitcase out.

“I’ll grab a ride to the airport early,” you say, more to the wall than to him. “There’s no point in staying.”

You expect him to let you go. He always has. That’s been the thing about Joe—he takes and takes and takes, but he never asks you not to leave.

Which is why it nearly undoes you when he says, “Don’t.” He exhales, long and uneven. “You don’t have to go tonight.”

Your hands hover over the suitcase, trembling just a little.

“I don’t want to wake up in the morning and feel like you’re already gone.”

You close your eyes.

It’s the first real thing he’s said all night. And that should be enough. Maybe it should feel like progress.

But it’s not a promise. It’s not even clarity. It’s just another thread in the tangle you’ve both been pulling at since last April—sweet, sincere, and ultimately useless.

You turn slowly, meeting his eyes across the room.

“I don’t want to stay because you’re lonely,” you say.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Joe’s mouth opens and closes once. He looks up at you like he wants to say something even bigger, something even truer, but it dies on his tongue.

You cross your arms over your chest, heart thudding so loud it’s hard to breathe. “I’m not asking for you to give me something you don’t have. I just—I need to know if there’s something here. Something worth staying for.”

Joe doesn’t say anything at first. He looks at you like he’s trying to find something in your face that he’s never been brave enough to name. Like he’s measuring the quiet, trying to decide if it’s safe to speak into it. When he finally does, his voice barely carries.

“There’s everything here.”

It’s not a dramatic confession but the weight of it settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected, like maybe it took more out of him than he’ll ever admit. You don’t move because you don’t trust yourself to, but you watch him, caught in the space between wanting to believe it and knowing how long it took to hear.

“I just don’t know how to let it in,” he adds, and this time the words sound smaller. Less certain.

Your throat tightens. You blink, hard and fast, but one tear slips through anyway, trailing hot and slow down your cheek. He sees it. You know he does.

He stands carefully, like even his own body might betray him if he’s not gentle with it. When he steps in front of you, he pauses. His hand lifts to your face, it’s cautious, thumb catching the tear before it can fall any further. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And you believe him.

You always do.

But it doesn’t change the room you’re standing in. Doesn’t change the months you spent pretending that crumbs were enough, that touches without words didn’t leave marks. 

The hotel is still unfamiliar and your heart still aches in the same places. But when he leans in and kisses you with a certain tenderness you haven’t felt from him in weeks—you let him. Because for now, this is what you have.

At some point, the shirt comes off. You think he takes it off you, though it’s hard to remember. It’s all hands and shifting weight and his mouth brushing the side of your neck like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. 

The sheets pull around you as he guides you backward, one hand braced near your shoulder, the other skating down your body like he needs to relearn what he’s spent the last year forgetting. His forehead rests against yours for a breath longer than it needs to. His eyes stay closed the whole time.

Later, when the lights are out and the room has settled into a deeper kind of quiet, his body curves around yours like it always has. One arm drapes over your waist, bare legs tangled beneath the sheet, your cheek pressed into the crook of his bicep. His thumb traces a slow, absent path across your stomach, like he’s touching you just to make sure you’re still there. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

His breathing evens out eventually. Yours doesn’t.

And still, you stay curled into the shape of him long after sleep should’ve taken you both.

By the time dawn cracks through and the sounds of the morning begin to crawl in under the door, you’ve already been awake for hours.

There was a softness to the room that morning, the kind that made you move quieter than usual, as if anything louder than a breath might rupture whatever peace had settled into the corners overnight.

You’d already showered and dried your hair, fingers pulling slowly through the damp strands as the sky outside changed from gray to something even paler—washed-out and undecided. The kind of light that didn’t reveal much, only dulled the edges of what it touched. 

It never quite sharpened into morning, just hovered across the room casting everything in a glow that made things look softer than they were. It slid over the floorboards, caught faintly on the edge of the mirror, and never reached far enough to feel like a reason to stay.

Standing in the bathroom in a tank top and underwear, you dab moisturizer beneath your eyes with your ring finger, watching your own reflection like she might say something first. Your skin was still flushed in certain places, warm to the touch where his hands had pressed down too hard without realizing it. You didn’t bother covering it up. You weren’t sure why, but it felt like erasing the evidence would’ve been dishonest.

Somewhere behind you, the low creak of the mattress echoed softly. Sheets shifting. A familiar breath pulling in through his nose as he stretched somewhere just beyond the bathroom door. You kept your eyes on your reflection and reached for your mascara.

When he appeared in the mirror a moment later, he moved with the kind of unhurried weight that only came after a full night’s sleep—when the body was still heavy with it, slow to catch up to the present. 

His hair stuck up slightly at the back, his jaw shadowed, shoulders broad and relaxed in the way you never got to see during the day. He crossed to the sink beside you without saying anything, brushing past your arm with the kind of easy closeness that felt instinctive now.

He reached for his toothbrush while you leaned over to sweep mascara through your lashes, your hip nudging his absently when you adjusted your stance in front of the counter. There was something oddly domestic in the way you both moved around each other, even if this was only your second morning waking up together in this hotel, this city, this version of whatever it was you kept doing.

After spitting, he rinsed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and didn’t say a word. You weren’t in a hurry to break the silence either.

You were still smoothing your fingers along your collarbone, checking for any trace of product left behind, when his hand reached for yours. His thumb brushed lightly over the curve of your arm, and in a voice low enough to get lost in the silence, he murmured, “Come here.”

You let him guide you, stepping back without protest as he pulled you gently in front of him. You stopped when your back hit his chest and your eyes met his in the mirror.

His hands settled at your hips first, palms spreading slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hold you still or simply remind himself that you were there. One hand traveled higher, skimming beneath the hem of your tank, grazing the edge of your ribs before settling just beneath the swell of your breast. You could feel his breath shift behind you and his lips hovered near your neck without touching.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

He watched you in the mirror while you watched yourself, jaw set slightly, chest rising slower than usual. Every part of your skin felt lit up under his hands, like you were waiting for something you knew you shouldn’t be.

A brush of his thumb across the underside of your breast made your mouth part on instinct. He pressed closer, his body curving around yours like the thousand times before. You could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton of your underwear, his hips steady against your own.

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmured. His hands continued their path, easing your tank up and over your breasts, bunching the fabric just beneath your arms before his hands returned to your skin. 

He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t gentle either. His touch landed somewhere in between confident, like he knew what you liked, but thoughtful enough to make you feel like this wasn’t just a reaction. Like it wasn’t just about getting off this time.

Your head tilted back slightly when his fingers rolled over your nipple. He breathed in at the same time you did. You could feel the tightness building already, low in your stomach, the kind that came not from what he was doing but how he was doing it. Less like a transaction, more like an answer to your questions.

There was something quiet in the way his hands slid lower, how he dipped his fingers past the waistband of your underwear without looking down, just watching your reaction in the mirror. Two fingers moved through the wet heat between your legs, the motion of his wrist barely visible, but enough to make you shift back into him without meaning to.

His free hand flattened across your stomach, thumb anchoring just above your navel. That steady weight kept you grounded while he circled your clit in slow, purposeful strokes—just the edge of pressure, just enough to make your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

The tempo never changed. Not when his fingers slipped inside you, not even when your hips started moving in rhythm. Your eyes fluttered half-shut and your mouth fell open, the softest sounds slipping out before you could swallow them down. He held you against his chest with one hand and fucked you with the other, and all of it felt impossibly close—like there was no part of you he wasn’t inside of.

“I think about you more than I should,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Even when I try not to.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. It felt too close, too exposed. But he held you with his body flush to yours, breath uneven now as he whispered, “You feel so good like this. Always do.”

You came with a soft, broken sound, his name catching somewhere between your tongue and the back of your throat. The orgasm moved through you slowly, one long, rolling wave that left your legs shaking and your body slack against his. He didn’t stop, one arm tightening around your waist while the other stayed between your thighs, still moving, coaxing you through every last aftershock. Your head dropped back onto his shoulder, breath catching, muscles quivering, skin hot where it touched his.

He didn’t say anything but you could feel his eyes on you in the mirror, watching the way your body responded to him, the way you unraveled without a word. Like he needed to memorize it, maybe if he studied you closely enough, he might be able to hold onto something this time.

You weren’t sure what made your chest ache more—that, or the fact that you wanted him to.

He stepped back just long enough to drag your underwear down your legs, hands moving slow, fingers grazing the backs of your thighs like he couldn’t stand losing contact for even a second. Rising behind you, he pressed his chest close, his hand slipping to rest low on your stomach.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the counter, spine arching instinctively when his hips aligned with yours. When he pushed in, it was one long, aching glide that left no part of you untouched. 

He filled you like he was made for it, like his body already knew the way yours would take him. Your breath hitched on the exhale, mouth falling open, fingers curling tight around the countertop. He stayed buried to the hilt, not moving yet, just letting you take in every inch, one hand planted beside yours for balance and the other tight at your hip.

Every inch of him was inside you, and it now didn’t feel close enough.

He started to move—shallow at first, then deeper, the pace measured, like every thrust was something he’d been trying not to ask for. You clenched around him, the burn twisting into something heavier and needier, the kind of pressure that lives beneath the skin.

His grip shifted, fingers threading through yours on the counter. The other arm wrapped tighter around your waist as he drove into you again, harder, more certain, holding you open as you shuddered beneath the weight of it all. Each thrust pulled something out of you, soft and silent and old. Like the months had carved a space in you that only he could reach, and now he was trying to fill it all at once.

Through the mirror, you watched the flush spread across your chest, the way your mouth parted, how your eyes fluttered like you were trying to stay inside your body and outside of it at the same time. His hand dragged up your side, fingertips skimmed over your ribs, settling on your breast.

His thumb circled over your nipple with a pressure that felt more like a question than anything else. Not asking for permission. Just wondering if you’d still let him have it—your softness, your silence, the parts of you he doesn’t deserve.

His mouth dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing the edge of your neck.

“I don’t say shit the right way,” he whispered. “But I’m better when you’re here. You know that, don’t you?”

It would’ve hurt less if he’d stayed silent. Tears started to pool, but you blinked them back, not wanting to break the moment—not wanting him to see.

Still, you didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. Your body kept reaching for his, falling back into the rhythm like you’d never left it. His pace stayed steady, every movement felt heavier than the one before. He slid his hand down to your stomach again, pulling you back into him with each thrust, guiding your hips as if he needed the friction just to breathe.

He pressed his forehead to the side of your head, breath spilling into the curve of your jaw. There were no more words. Just the desperate sounds that tumbled out between you. Your name on his lips, his name on yours, softer and softer until you gave in to it completely.

You came again with your hands gripping the counter, voice breaking, thighs trembling as you pulsed around him, hips locking back into his. He followed seconds later, groaning into your skin, hands tightening and hips pressing in one final time as he spilled into you, holding there like he never wanted to leave.

Neither of you looked away from the mirror.

His eyes were on you. Yours were on him.

And for a second, it almost felt like enough.

One of his hands caressed your skin, the other lifted to your face, fingers curling beneath your jaw. His thumb brushed away the single tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded and let him believe it.

He kissed your cheek, then your temple, then once more just beneath your jaw.

From the bedroom, his phone rang. The sound broke the stillness in a way that felt almost nauseating.

He sighed. “Give me a second.”

The hotel room door clicked softly behind him, and you were alone again.

Your hand was still resting lightly on the edge of the counter, your other arm limp at your side. The silence felt different now. Not empty, exactly—but momentary. A pause you had to move through.

Then came the buzz of your own phone, faint against the marble behind you.

You turned your head slowly, eyes drifting to where it sat beside the sink, screen lighting up once before fading back to black.

Your driver has arrived.

No sound left your mouth, but something in your chest cinched tight. You moved before you could talk yourself out of it—pulling on a pair of jeans, not bothering with socks as you slipped into your shoes. 

The sweater you’d laid across the chair went over your tank. A charger still tangled on the nightstand was shoved into your bag. You tucked your earrings into the side pocket without much care. Everything felt half-packed and hastily folded, but in the moment, it didn’t matter to you. You weren’t planning to look back.

The suitcase handle made a soft sound as you lifted it off the floor.

And that’s when the door opened.

Joe walked in, still rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, phone no longer in sight. At first, his expression was neutral. But then he saw you, and everything changed in an instant.

He stopped short in the doorway, brow creasing as his eyes dropped to the bag at your feet.

“…What are you doing?”

You froze.

“I—I just got a text,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “My ride’s downstairs.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. “Wait. You’re— You’re actually leaving?”

“You knew I had a flight.”

“That was before.”

He took a step forward. Then another. His voice picked up—still low, but sharper now. “I thought we were good. I thought we figured it out.”

“I didn’t—” you started, then stopped. “I just… it’s already been booked. It’s done.”

“So cancel it,” he said, motioning toward your phone. “Who gives a fuck? I’ll get you another one. I’ll buy you five. Just—why now?”

The hurt was there now, pressed into the edges of his words. You saw it in the way his mouth moved, in the way his hands hung stiff at his sides. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I have to leave,” you said, forcing yourself to keep your voice level. “This is what we said we were doing. No pressure, no expectations. Just this.”

“Right. But last night wasn’t just that,” he snapped. “You know it wasn’t.”

You stared at him.

“I told you how I felt,” he said, voice breaking in places he tried to hold steady. “I showed you. I don’t say that shit to just anyone.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But you didn’t say it in time.”

His breath hitched and his eyes twitched.

“Oh,” he said, voice going flat. “Right. So there was a deadline.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He laughed once—cold, quick. “Sure it is. That’s exactly what you meant.”

You looked down, fingers tightening around the handle of your suitcase.

“You made up your mind before I even woke up,” he said, and this time his voice cracked for real. “Didn’t you?”

“I had to.”

“Bullshit.”

“I did, Joe.”

He stepped back like your words had physically hit him, hands now clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was locked, the muscles in his neck twitching with effort as he tried to hold himself together.

And then his eyes—red around the edges, shining just enough to betray him—finally lifted back to yours.

“I thought you were gonna stay.”

“I know.”

“I thought—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I thought this meant something to you.”

“It does,” you said, barely audible.

“Then why the fuck are you leaving?”

You didn’t answer.

That was when something in him gave out. His chest rose hard with a breath that didn’t sound like breathing at all, and he turned halfway toward the door, like he couldn’t stand to look at you but couldn’t walk away either.

“Fine,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Go.”

You teetered back on the heels of your feet.

“Joe—”

His hand was already on the door. “You wanna leave?” The knob turned fast under his palm. “Then leave.”

The door swung open with more force than it needed, catching the wall with a soft thud that echoed into the hallway. He didn’t look at you, standing there with his hand still on the handle like that counted as letting you go.

With your grip impossibly tight around your suitcase handle, you took a step and rolled it toward the threshold without a word.

As you passed him, the space between your bodies didn’t close—not even by accident this time. Your shoulder didn’t brush his. Your hand didn’t graze his arm. You didn’t move around each other the way you had moments ago, when it was quiet but not like this. And when your foot crossed the doorway, he didn’t move.

The hallway stretched quiet ahead of you. The undecided light from the windows had settled against the walls, clearer now—no longer undecided. It didn’t reach for you. It didn’t soften anything. It just watched as you walked past. Your footsteps landed too softly to interrupt the silence. Not loud enough to be final. Not loud enough to be forgiven.

You didn’t look back. Not once. And when the door slammed, somewhere down the hall, it didn’t startle you.

You’d been waiting for it.

And still, you kept walking.

Because last night, for the first time, he let something real slip through—words he’d never said before, touches that felt like they meant something more. And part of you wanted to believe it could finally be different. That maybe this was where the shape of things changed. But then the sun came up, the silence set in, and you remembered how many times you’d already convinced yourself that wanting was the same as having. 

He meant what he said, you believe that now. But belief isn’t the same as trust, and it’s not the same as timing. You didn’t leave because you stopped feeling anything. You left because you finally did. And this time, you knew better than to wait around hoping he’d catch up before it faded.

Rich Uncle

Operations series Father’s Day special!

Admittedly, he loved the title at first. Uncle Joe. All the perks, none of the responsibility. He could rile the kids up with sugar and loud toys, earn a few giggles and “you’re the coolest” points, and then hand them back over without a second thought. To this day, he could proudly say he’d never changed a diaper. And if he was being honest, he wasn’t even sure where to start if he had to.

Kids made sense when Jamie had them. He was barely a senior in high school when he became an uncle for the first time. That was different. His brothers are way older, they were fully settled—the kind of adults who knew what “sleep training” meant. That phase of life belonged to them.

But then all his guys started having kids. Ja’Marr, somehow even more grounded now that Little Uno was around. Ted was always bringing his kids to team events, wearing soggy Cheerios like a badge of honor. Cam and Mike, chasing toddlers around the family room at the stadium, pausing mid-conversation to dish out high fives and open juice boxes like pros. Joe would play along, drop a few Christmas presents when it mattered, and then head home. To peace. To quiet. To clean furniture and uninterrupted sleep.

Your lives were yours. No diaper bags or nap schedules. You could book a flight on a whim, sleep in whenever you wanted to, eat late dinners without cutting someone’s food into tiny pieces first. And during the season, especially, Joe needed that. Sleep, structure, his routine—non-negotiables. Kids were cute, but they weren’t in the equation.

Until maybe they were.

That afternoon, drained and sore, he came home to an empty house. You were still at work, so he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, cold enough to make his hand ache, and padded upstairs. The AC hummed low through the vents, and the tiles were cool under his bare feet as he stepped into the bathroom. Steam curled up around him as the hot water hit his back in the shower, loosening the tension in his shoulders.

He barely remembered lying down afterward. Just a flash of pulling the comforter up, his body sinking into the mattress.

The nap wasn’t supposed to be long.

Joe had only meant to close his eyes for a minute or two. Just enough to recharge after practice, maybe before you got home. But somewhere between the quiet hum of the ceiling fan and the weight of the comforter pressing him deeper into the mattress, sleep hit hard.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard it: a soft, high-pitched wail, muffled at first, like it was coming from behind a closed door.

A baby.

Still half-asleep, Joe barely cracked one eye open. His brain sluggishly pieced together possibilities, someone visiting you, probably. He sighed and rolled over, pulling the blanket higher. It wasn’t his problem. Not his kid.

But the crying didn’t stop. If anything, it got sharper. Closer.

Joe groaned, face smushed against the pillow. “Babe?” he called out, voice hoarse and half-hearted. “You home?”

No answer. Just that cry again—piercing, rhythmic, insistent. Like it was meant for just him to hear.

He blinked a few times, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and dragged himself out of bed. The floor was cold under his feet. The house felt quiet otherwise, still and golden in the late afternoon light. That kind of eerie calm that didn’t make sense with the sound of a crying baby echoing through the hallway.

The sound led him to the room closest to the master,the one that had always been a catch-all guest room. Only… it wasn’t anymore.

He stepped inside, slow and confused.

The walls were a soft sage green now. There was a rocking chair in the corner, one of those cream-colored ones you’d pointed out at that baby store once. A mobile dangled above a white crib, casting gentle shadows as it turned. And inside—angry-faced, squirming, and real—was a baby.

Joe froze. His mouth went dry. His heart slammed into his ribs.

What the hell is going on?

He took a step forward. Then another.

The baby blinked up at him, tears clinging to their lashes. Their tiny fists opened and closed like they were reaching for something or…someone.

And then he saw it.

Your eyes.

Wide and glassy and unmistakably you.

Every thought emptied from his head in an instant. He didn’t know how or why this baby was here, didn’t know what he was supposed to do, but his body moved before his brain could catch up. He leaned down, arms trembling slightly, and scooped the baby into his chest.

They fit there like they belonged.

The crying stopped on contact. Instantly. Like someone had cut the sound from the room.

A soft exhale puffed against his collarbone. The baby’s cheek pressed into his chest, warm and damp. Their tiny fingers tangled into the front of his shirt like they’d done it a hundred times.

Joe didn’t breathe.

His arms closed instinctively around the small body. His heart felt like it might tear open from the inside. Something about the weight, the heat, the smell, faintly powdery and sweet, cracked him wide open.

He started to rock, not even thinking about it. Back and forth. Back and forth. The motion was awkward at first, but then…natural. Soothing.

Like this was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do.

His throat tightened. There was a burn behind his eyes as the baby’s tiny fingers clutched his shirt like they knew they were safe. Somehow, in that impossible moment, Joe felt like he knew them too.

Not just in a dream. But in his bones.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” he whispered, voice cracking as he looked down at the baby in his arms.

But they didn’t care. They were safe. Warm.

Joe jolted awake.

His eyes snapped open, chest heaving. The bedroom was back, soft gray walls, the ceiling fan still turning lazily overhead. He ran his fingers through his hair with the sheets twisted at his waist and his heart pounding in his ears.

The house was still.

No crying. No crib. No baby.

Just him.

He sat up slowly, pressing his hands to his face, trying to piece himself back together. His arms still tingled. His chest still ached. The feeling, that strange, aching warmth, lingered.

It didn’t scare him. It didn’t make him want to run.

It made him want.

Not just a baby in theory, not just a distant someday, but a real, warm, squirmy little person with your eyes and his lopsided grin. A world that wasn’t just the two of you anymore.

Joe exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle.

Maybe this wasn’t just some weird dream.

Maybe it was the universe, finally telling him out loud what he’d been quietly thinking for weeks now.

He wanted to be a dad.

And he wanted it to be with you.

Joe knew he couldn’t deliver earth-shattering news like he was calling out a play. Not this time.

Two days had passed since the dream, and he was still reeling, not from fear or doubt, but from how right it had all felt. He’d been trying to make sense of it, tracing the way it had his heart pounding out of his chest. He definitely wasn’t the signs-and-symbols type, but since that afternoon, it was like the universe had grabbed him by the collar.

Everywhere he looked there were baby reminders.

A diaper commercial as soon as he turned on the tv. A buybuy Baby billboard he’d probably passed for weeks without noticing, now felt like it was practically winking at him. Even his Instagram algorithm had turned against him. Every third ad was for strollers, pacifiers, or sleep sacks.

And every time, his chest would tug just a little bit.

It wasn’t a coincidence. He didn’t believe in those anymore.

When you got home from work that night, he was on the couch in a hoodie and shorts, legs stretched out, iPad balanced on his knee, scrolling through camp film with laser focus. At least, pretending to be.

You dropped your bag and toed off your shoes, already grinning. “Hey sunshine. Still locked in? Even on your day off?”

Joe barely looked up. “Can’t go to sleep with everyone acting like Dax is the second coming of corner Jesus.”

You snorted and plopped down next to him, thigh brushing his. “God forbid you throw a couple offseason picks, Mr. Perfectionist.”

“Perfection in June could mean orange confetti in February. I’m willing to sacrifice my sanity for that.”

“Okay well, between your football-induced psychosis,” you teased, kicking your feet up onto the coffee table, “we should go somewhere. Maybe…Greece?”

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “Greece? Babe, you say that like it’s down the street.”

You shrugged. “It’d be so fun. I feel like we need something big. Jess called this morning, and she was covered in baby puke. It was horrifying.”

Joe swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. There it was, the opening.

“How’s she doing? With, y’know…”

“The baby?” You chuckled, twisting to face him. “She’s actually really happy. Tired, yeah, but she said it’s the best thing she’s ever done.”

He nodded, quietly. “Sam’s over the moon. He always wanted to be a girl dad, and now he’s basically in baby heaven.”

There was a pause. He looked back down at his screen, then slowly locked it and set it aside.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked, voice lower now.

You looked up. “About what?”

He hesitated. “Having a baby.”

You blinked. “Sorry. I don’t think I heard that right,” you squint at him, “the last time your mom mentioned kids, you practically gagged into your mashed potatoes.”

Joe laughed under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I know. I know, okay? But something…shifted.”

You leaned in a little, curious. “Shifted how? What happened?”

“I had a dream,” he said quietly.

“Alright MLK…what was this dream?” You laugh.

He gives you a deadpan look and shakes his head. “It was a weird one. A good one. We had a baby, like, a real baby. And it was just me and them in this room, and I was holding them and…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands like he could still feel the weight there.

“It—I don’t know—it felt natural. It felt like they were already mine. And they looked just like you, and I didn’t want to put them down.”

He paused, breathing through it.

“I know it was just a dream. But I woke up, and I swear, I missed them. Like I was grieving someone who hadn’t even been born yet.”

You sat quietly, your amusement fading into a puddle of emotion.

“I’m not saying we need to have a baby tomorrow,” he added, his voice gentle. “Or ever, if you don’t want to. But I think…I think I’m ready. Not just to be a dad. But to do it with you.”

His hand found your knee, thumb brushing lightly back and forth. “You’re my person. I love you more than anything in the world. And the idea of creating someone who’s half you, half me, that’s been in my head nonstop. But like I said, no pressure. Just…honesty.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, a little overwhelmed. “That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said. In your entire life.”

Joe smiled sheepishly, but you weren’t done.

“And since we’re being honest,” you said, eyes sparkling now, “I have always wanted to make you a DILF.”

He burst out laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners, the tension in his shoulders easing like a thread had finally been cut. “Guess we have to go to Greece now.”

You nodded, curling into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. The room was quiet except for the soft tick of the clock and the low hum of the fridge down the hall. And the constant wheels turning in your head as you tried to come to a decision.

The night before your trip, Joe padded upstairs expecting to find you half-packed, maybe wrestling with a suitcase or tearing apart your closet looking for that one sundress he loved. Instead, the bedroom was lit softly by the bedside lamp, and you were kneeling on the floor, surrounded by papers, planners, and a very intense-looking ovulation tracker open on your phone.

Sticky notes, highlighters, and three different pens scattered around like you were preparing for finals all over again. A calendar had dates circled in red, little hearts scribbled in some corners, and numbers counted out in weeks.

Joe leaned on the doorframe, blinking. “Um… hey,” he said slowly. “As much as I want to understand what all this is…you’re making me nervous.”

You looked up at him, a little sheepish but mostly proud. “Don’t be. Come here.”

He stepped in, and you stood to meet him, taking his hand and guiding him to the floor like you were unveiling some master plan.

“This,” you said, gesturing to the colorful chaos, “is the baby board. Target due dates, best time to start trying, timelines, everything.”

He looked down, eyes wide, and then back up at you. “You’ve got, like…phases and windows and strategies.”

“Exactly. Because the last thing I need,” you said, poking his chest lightly, “is to be taking care of a newborn by myself while you’re in your office breaking down coverages and watching Ja’Marr run a go route for the millionth time.”

Joe winced like he’d been caught. “I can’t help myself. It never gets old.”

“When we do this,” you continue, folding your arms with mock authority, “it’s gonna be during the offseason. When you’re home. And you…” you raised a brow, “…will be changing every single diaper.”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “Every one?”

“Yes. Until I feel like lifting a finger. I’m not birthing an entire baby just so you can swoop in for the fun cuddly stuff and peace out when it smells weird.”

He laughed, stepping closer, slipping his hands around your waist. “So—does this mean…”

You smiled up at him, soft and sure. “Yes, Joe. I want to have a baby with you.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything, just stared at you like he’s still wrapping his mind around the fact that this is real. Then he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, his hands warm on your back.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s do this. Uncle Joe is getting promoted.”

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Championship Tears.

Tenth instalment of the forbidden au - lsu!joe x oc

Full AU masterlist here -> ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden

Summary: Joe plays in the SEC Championship game while Daisy watches on from the stands in his jersey, and Joe plucks up the courage to ask her a question that has been dancing on his mind.

⋆｡˚ word count: 7.0k

18+ Content. MDNI :). Mentions of drinking, drug use, smoking and sex. ⋆｡˚

Since getting back from Miami everything seemed to be falling into place. Daisy and Joe were closer than ever before, starting to do things outside the realm of their beds and going out into the baton rouge streets. They were going out for dinner, going to the movie theatre, she would sit in the stands during his training sessions while doing some studying simply because the thought of not being close to him was unbearable. And the sex...the sex had become something so much more. Something gentle and hungry, passionate and loving, fiery and timid. It became something meaningful.

Never did she think they would become like this. Not when she met him in that fraternity kitchen drunk and moody, when he couldn't stand her and she couldn't stand him, that they would turn out this way. Their lives so intertwined and so deeply connected thinking of the time he wasn't in her life was difficult--and painful.

Two weeks.

That's how long they had lived in this blissful paradise where only the two of them seemed to exist.

But right now, that paradise was a state away.

Today was the SEC championship game between LSU and Georgia, and for the first time this season Daisy had made the commute to an away game. She couldn't not be here, and Joe wanted her in the stands more than he wanted to win. In his birthday present, Burrow written in bold across her back like she belonged to him because she did.

The dome was alive.

Mercedes-Benz Stadium pulsed with light and noise, a pressure cooker of anxious fans and family waiting for the coin toss to begin. The noise bounced off the walls like a thunder that never quite faded. Purple and gold flags rippled through the LSU fan section where Daisy sat beside Cassie and Bella. All three of them in the famous baton rouge colours. The night was biting in the early December temperature, but under the stadium lights the air felt hot and humid. Daisy sat a few rows back from the front in the oversized white jersey she had been gifted. The front of it tucked lightly into her distressed denim miniskirt and a thick oversized leather bomber jacket across her shoulders to shield her from any frost in the air. Her hair was half up, half down and slicked back into a purple bow at the back of his head, like she had done when she was cheerleader.

She had been thinking about returning to it in junior year, auditioning in the spring. Jada wouldn't be on the team anymore next year but she would be picking her replacement and team leaders so Daisy knew there was a good chance she could be taken back, especially since she owed her a favour from homecoming.

A coors light can was lodged between her fingers and she took light sips from it to try and calm her anxiety. The journey here she had been a ball of nerves, constantly picking away at the skin around her freshly done purple acrylic nails. Her pinky nail had a small number nine drawn on the tip in white, Joe had told her to do it. He thought it was going to bring him luck for the game but Daisy knew he didn't need it, nevertheless it was on there.

Georgia was a good team, a valiant threat but the tigers hadn't lost all season and they couldn't start tonight--not when it meant to so much. The sea of red in the opposite stands was like a breathing fire, loud and relentless, inextinguishable. Heavy marching bands and drums pounded out like war songs.

There was not an empty seat within the stadium by the time the coin toss took place. Everyone was on their feet, Daisy stood both proudly and nervously in her deep brown cowboy boots as she watched.

Please God, I know i'm not your greatest servant, but let him win.

She prayed. Her sage eyes glancing briefly at the sky above. Please.

The white jersey stuck to him, number 9 on his chest like it was his armour. His white helmet reflected the lights as he called out his his offensive line, his voice sharp and steady as he prepared for the opening snap of the game.

Daisy's heart rose.

Joe hunched over waiting.

The air in the stadium paused. Every thing hanging in a frozen limbo for three seconds. Sucked in breaths held in the chests of thousands.

Then he had the ball in his hands.

The game began.

The field surged around him--Georgia's line breaking through like wolves, closing in on him and fast. Joe didn't flinch. He stepped up into the pockets of free space he had been gifted, his shoulder dipping as he avoided being hit by the opposing players. Pressure snapped at his ankles but he kept his focus downfield, on what he had spent the whole season practicing. He saw his man and he let the cannon fire. A spiral so clean it, cutting through the air like a knife through butter. It was the kind of pass that hung in the sky for a heartbeat too long, too perfect as it dropped straight into the hands of Justin with a precision that caused the LSU stand to erupt in ecstasy. The sideline too. The coaches threw there arms in the air and teammates swarmed. An opening touchdown from an incredible throw but it was Joe Burrow, could anyone expect anything less.

But to Daisy, it wasn't Joe Burrow. It was the boy she knew. The one who slouched lazily in her dorm room playing uno with her roommate while she studied, the one who had let her ice his bruises in a small bathroom. The one who had taken her to Mcdonald's at one am after the worst performance of his life just because she hadn't eaten that day. It was her Joe, who had just done that.

Pride swelled him her chest as she cheered up and down, arm and arm with Cassie and Bella.

Joe tugged his helmet off as the play reset, his jaw tight and ticking, tanned face flushing under the lights. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, neck gleaming but he lifted up his chin. He was looking for her. Through the thousands in the sea of purple and gold, he looked for her. Camera's flashed off to the side, capturing him from all angles. Coaches shouted for him, but he couldn't pay any attention to that--not until he saw her in his jersey, saw that she was actually here and safe, watching him.

As the seconds trailed on he began to feel his heartbeat quicken, still his blue eyes hadn't landed on her face.

But then they did and of course she was already looking at him.

They met. Just for a moment no longer than a breath.

A smile curled at his lips. He held up his hand and tapped at this nail of his pinky finger. A quick symbol. A quick thank you from him to her. She had caused that throw. She was bringing him all the luck in the world and Joe knew, with her in the stands that there was no way he would lose this game.

Daisy smiled back at him. Rubbing the pinky nail he was referring too in between the thumb and index finger of her other hand as if it was a genies lamp capable of granting three wishes. If it was she knew what she would wish for.

Joe's victory.

Joe's lips.

Joe's heart.

Although, she knew she wouldn't need a wish for the first two. The third one, she was still undecided on. He seemed to like her, but he was a frat boy--you never truly know with them.

The game kept going. Noise surged back flooding into her ears. It never quietened to anyone else but Daisy.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The final minutes of the game ticked down like they were being dragged against gravity. So painfully slow. The whole stadium holding there breathe as if the history hadn't already been made.

LSU was winning.

Winning big.

The scoreboard showed it off in bold red lines. 37 - 10.

When the final whistle blew. The stadium erupted. Grown men in golden body paint screamed and cried, beer was tossed in the skies above them like rice at a wedding. Such untouchable happiness that would never die.

Daisy felt numb. Her legs paralysed as she watched Joe collapse the his knees on the field. Sure, she had watched him win before but this was different, this was heavier. Tears of joy welled in her eyes, she hadn't been expecting herself to find it so emotional. Everyone else around her was cheering but she couldn't cheer, she could only watch.

Joe was walking the field, helmet held firmly under his tense bicep. He was surrounded by a sea of plays and coaches and tv camera, microphones being shoved into his face. He spoke to them with sweat laced blonde curls and a strong voice, he was being played on the big screens. And she watched. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

Purple, cold and white confetti poured from the skies. It stuck in his hair and to the sheen on his skin, his mouth curled as he tried to pull it off. He was so happy. Daisy was so happy watching him be so happy. Warmth swan in the centre of her chest. Flutters radiated through her stomach.

Joe pulled away from the reporters around, cameras still following him and he looked for her. He nodded his way through the slaps on his back and handed off his helmet to a member of the training staff. He couldn't see her in the seats where she had been.

No. She wasn't there.

He moved fast across the green grass.

She was moving too.

She slipped out of Justin's hug on the field and moved past him. Her heartbeat was louder in her chest than the music blaring around the stadium.

They met in the end zone--breathless, flushed, her hands shaking from the cold or was it from him.

Joe looked at her with wide eyes, his jersey grass stained, his face covered in a glow of hard work. The real trophy of tonight was in front of him.

'Congratulations, Joe' Her voice was so sweet it almost hurt him to hear because the ache it caused was so intense. He couldn't handle it, so he did the only thing that would ease the ache. He did the only thing he needed to do.

He cupped her cheeks and brought her lips to his. He didn't even think it through, but when he felt the white flash of a camera through his closed eyes he pulled back.

He shouldn't have done it. Not here. But he hadn't been thinking about anything but her.

'Fuck--I'm sorr-' He began.

'It's okay, really' She soothed.

For the first time that evening, Joe let the grin break fully across his face. A grin which was boyish, tired and full of every emotion he had carried with him to Atlanta, Georgia.

He threw his arm over her shoulder and guided her through the sea of people and towards the tunnel.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

'Wait, no Daisy you look so good' Bella teased as she held up the photo's the journalists had taken two days ago in Georgia on her phone screen. Specifically the one of her and Joe walking through the sea of people.

She groaned as she covered her face with her hoodie covered palms as she lay sprawled across the soft white couch of Bella's off campus apartment. Cassie giggled from beside her and Aalia, Bella's roommate laughed as well. They never really spent time here, and Aalia had a completely separate group of friends so nights like this were a rare, but special, occasion. A complete girls night in the comfort of a plush modern apartment rather than a tight and humid dorm room.

'Can you not, this isn't a good thing. I've had to private my fucking instagram' Daisy huffed. It was true, since the photo's got published she had gained a few hundred new followers and received a few DMs from Joe's fans. It was strange, and felt invasive. She had to shut it down before anything more could happen.

'Your instagram. How ever will you cope?' Aalia jibed sarcastically from the fluffy pink bean bag in the centre of the living room floor. Daisy just rolled her eyes.

'Are you guys dating now or what?'

'What?' Daisy looked at Bella like she had grown two heads and a tail. 'No. Of course not'

'I'm sorry. Is it not reasonable to ask if you're dating a boy who just publicly kissed you on national television?'

Daisy covered her face again, hiding the redness and embarrassment that swept beneath it.

'She had a point, Dais' Cassie spoke softly.

'It's not that its unreasonable, it's just--uhh' Daisy struggled to put it into words what she was feeling.

'Do you have feelings for him?' Aalia asked.

'Yes' Daisy quietly responded, just loud enough so everyone could hear but not loud enough that it felt like a real admission.

'Does he have feeling for you?' Bella asked.

'I don't know' Daisy shrugged honestly. She though he did, he acted like he did but how could she know for certain.

'He does, Ja'marr told me Joe always talks about you. Ja'marr thinks he could be in love with you' Cassie said as she picked at her nails from beside Daisy on the couch.

The air was sucked from Daisy's lungs.

'When are you speaking with Ja'marr?' Bella looked at Cassie with a scowled brow and a squinted look.

'We text' Cassie shrugged.

'Since when' Bella tossed her head to the side in shock.

'Since we were thrown into a dysfunctional friend group of six where you fucked Justin then developed some weird awkward sibling relationship, where Daisy and Joe are so clearly fucking in love but won't ever do anything about it because he's leaving to god knows where in four months and Justin is realising that he might actually be in love with Daisy as well but--' Cassie slapped her hand over her mouth and paled. Her ferocious rambling coming to an abrupt stop as everyone in the rooms mouths dropped.

Daisy's head snapped to her. So much information to take in.

In love. Leaving.

Daisy never spent much time thinking about was was going to happen in a few months when Joe up and left college for the NFL draft and then embarked on a brutal pre-season training regime. She'd never let her mind wander to that far in the future but now it was here on her doorstep, banging on the wood trying to get into her mind.

Her heart thrummed against her caged chest with a rapid pace.

Justin.

'What' Daisy croaked out through her now dry lips. Her throat clogged with a lump.

'I wasn't--shit--I was told not to say anything' Cassie winced at herself. 'Justin told Ja'marr that, that he thinks he cares about you more than a friend should'

Joe could never find out. Never. That would destroy everything. This had to be kept quiet just until they were no longer teammates, until the season was done and the national title had been won. Everything was temporary now. The whole friendship between the six of them, it was all destined to crumble to the ground and turn to an ash they would simply mourn.

'Welp. Sucks to be you guys' Aalia said with an awkward chuckle, rubbing the palms of her hands on her knees and then standing up, walking in the direction of the kitchen to grab a bottle of dark cherry red liquid.

Daisy bit at her nails. Her mind still running wild with...well, with everything.

'You can't tell Joe' Cassie grumbled. 'Not now, not yet'

'I know, Cass' and Daisy did, more than Cassie even knew.

'This is so beyond fucked' Bella huffed, sinking back into her seat.

Daisy couldn't stop thinking about all the small moments between her and Justin, that she hadn't even bothered to dwell on before. It was like a third eye was opening in the centre of her forehead and she was seeing everything in a clear light.

Them moments, like when he helped her on the field after the SEC championship and pulled her into a warm embrace, or when he dropped by her dormitory with game tickets and a Jefferson jersey. When he jumped up off the couch first in Miami when she asked if they were coming to the beach. Maybe the most obvious sign she missed was when he would text her late at night asking what she was doing, or if they could hang out. Most of the time she said no, but there were times when she said yes. And he would come over, freshly showered near drowning in sandalwood scented cologne and sitting on her bed with her talking and talking and talking about anything.

All them times Joe had been jealous of Justin, and she had so valiantly defended him. How had she missed it? All them signs seemed clear as day now in the hindsight that was 20/20.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Daisy was spread out under the soft covers of Joe's bed. Her head pounding and her throat dry. Yesterday had been his birthday party, and a combined championship celebration at the fraternity which meant thing had gotten pretty out of control. So much alcohol. So much spilt beer. So much grinding against each other. Half of the night was a blur, a black void of forgotten moments that both her and Joe were paying the price for this morning.

'Happy birthday' Daisy turned over and placed a delicate kiss on his cheek. Joe groaned and stirred, his own head pulsing with a harsh and painful beating. His lazy eyes looked over her messy hair and clean skin, a breath of fresh air in the musk of his fraternity bedroom. He would never get used to the sight of her in the morning, when she woke up all disheveled from being roughly fucked only hours earlier. Her smile so sweet and sickly, her eyes so bright yet tired. He ran his hand through her hair, playing with the lightly curled ends as he looked at her with adoration.

'thank you, cub'

She beamed at the nickname that seemed to stick.

'I got you a present' Daisy bit her bottom lip to hide her smile. 'Give me one second and it will be ready' then she ran off into the bathroom leaving the underneath of Joe's arm cold from her quick departure.

After a couple minutes, Daisy called out from the bathroom through a slit in the door.

'Close your eyes'

'No. Dais- what are yo-'

'Close your eyes' She said more sternly, and then he shut them.

He heard her bare feet walk out onto the bedroom floor, he heard the creak and then the click of the bathroom door. Then, she cleared her throat giving a signal that he could open his eyes. and he did. and then he closed them again. Multiple times at a quick pace. He tried to blink away the vision in front of him because there was no way it could be real. Heaven could not be stood in his room.

but it was.

She was.

Daisy was stood in black lace lingerie, the bralette see through. The thong connected to guarders wrapped around her soft thighs. Lace stockings landing just beneath them. Her puffy lips bitten between her white teeth. Her sage eyes glossed over in a hungry nervousness and suddenly his hangover was cured. He had been touched by a miracle in the form of the pretty flower in front of him.

'holy shit'

'You like it' Daisy twirled, lingering a second longer on the behind view so Joe could see her ass in the thong.

'Come'ere' Joe egged her over with a flick of his head. He was already hard beneath his boxers and he yearned to feel her skin pressed against him.

It hadn't even been six hours since they last had sex, but that amount of time still felt too long.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The sound of slapping skin and passionate moans hung in the dense air around them. Joe took Daisy from behind, pulling on her hair as she arched for him. One hand guiding her every movement down his stiff length. He left the stocking and guarders on, but he ripped off the bra and thong only moments after she had put them on. He liked the stockings. He liked the stockings a lot.

'Mmm, Joey' She moaned, her eyes fluttering closed.

'That's it, baby. You like getting fucked like this?'

'Mmhmm' She moaned again as Joe upped the pace of his thrusts. Sweat beading on his forehead and a warm glow shining across Daisy's back.

'That's my girl. No one else will ever make you feel like this y'know. Just me, cub, just me'

Joe brought his hand to her dripping core, touching her sensitive area. The stimulation made Daisy's legs shake and lock in unfathomable pleasure. She knew he was right. Know one else could make her feel like this because Joe was one of one in every capacity.

It was only moments later she felt the intensity of her climax while she screamed out into the pillow beneath her face. Joe came around two minutes later. He moaned her name. He always did when he came, and Daisy still couldn't get used to such a sweet sound.

When they came down from the highs of their orgasms, they lay beside each other, their legs intertwined and tangled. Naked flesh against naked flesh. The room was dim, washed in the golden light of winter sun which made everything around them look like a dream. The soft sheets were messy at their waists, the air still warm with the smell of sex and the faint hint of salt on their warm skin. Joe had one arm beside his head while the other wrapped around her petite frame and traced absent-minded love hearts on her shoulder. Daisy's hair fell softly against his arm, her lashes low but her eyes not quite closed as she embraced his soothing touch. Joe stared at her like he was trying to memorise ever small detail on her perfect skin, and maybe he was or maybe he had done that already.

He swallowed once, his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth and a lump of nerves forming in his throat. He had been thinking about asking her something the past few days and now, in this light, on this morning he had decided it was time to be a man and do it.

'Cub' He said softly, a voice in the back of his clouded head yelling at him to stop before he couldn't take what he was about to say back.

Daisy turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his. Her expression was open, sleepy and a small bit curious.

'I want you to come with me' He murmured, like it was hard for him to say and it was. 'To the Heisman'

Daisy's brows lifted in both surprise and awe. She had never expected this, never in a million years did she think these words would fall out of his mouth.

'You want me there?' She whispered, her voice so low and breathy like she his invite was so fragile she was scared she may break it.

Joe looked at her--he really looked at her.

'I want you with me, not just there'

The words came out more vulnerable than he had planned. Daisy stared at him and something moved behind her eyes -- an echo of every moment they'd held back from saying what this really was between them. This was as close as Joe would ever come to telling her that this was something more than what it had started out as. His family would be there, and she would sit beside them. He would win the trophy and she would watch from the audience. Then he would give a speech, and maybe he would mention her. Finally, he would make his way back to her and place a kiss on her cheek, invite her beside him to take a photo with the most prized possession of his career so far. This meant something. This meant more than anything.

'Are you sure?' Daisy gave him another chance to take this all back, maybe it was the post sex euphoria that was making him feel this way and as soon as he came down from it, he would change his mind.

'I'm sure' Joe stuck by his word.

'People will talk' Daisy spoke the plain truth, one which Joe was already aware of. Media would be there and they would print it in the press that she was his girlfriend. She would be publicly claimed for all of America to see, and he would be seen as off the market.

'Let em'

Joe didn't care about what anyone else had to say, he just cared to make sure that Daisy would be there by his side on the greatest night of his life. Both of their pulses drummed against their necks. The gravity of Joe's words pulling at Daisy, the world around her seemed to tilt.

This was Joe telling her--i'm happy to be known as yours.

This was Joe asking her--are you happy to be known as mine?

Daisy let out a trembled breath, just a little one.

'Okay, I'll come'

Joe didn't smile, not fully but the corners of his lips curled. His eyes softened in a way that felt so much deeper. Grateful. A little bit relieved that she had said yes. He didn't know what he would have done if she had said no. He leaned forwards and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Then they stayed in that moment for a short while, in the warmth of his words and the cover of his duvet. Their bodied curved into each other like a perfect puzzle.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The rest of the week Daisy's excitement built and built. She went dress shopping with Bella and Cassie in New Orleans, and she managed to find the perfect skin tight deep silver dress that was equal parts sexy and classy, elegant and sultry. Joe had begged to see it while she straddled him in his bedroom when she got back but she refused to let him, she wanted it to be a surprise for the ceremony in just over a few days time.

Them few days seemed to be lingering on for too long.

The classroom buzzed softly -- the bright fluorescent white lights overhead, the occasional rustle of snuck in snacks and the turning of notebook pages. The professors voice faded into the background, monotone against Daisy's thoughts as she sat beside a bored and uncomfortable Bella who still had her sunglasses on due to the rager she went to last night.

Daisy sat beside her, her back straight against the uncomfortable blue plastic chairs. One hand curled around her pen as she tapped lightly against the table. Her eyes focusses on the clock in the centre of the blank white wall. It ticked in a slow cruelty. Every second stretching so longingly. She bounced her leg under the desk. Only five minutes of class left before she can race across campus back into Joe's bed.

When class ended, she scrambled to pack away her belongings as rows of students exited from the back of the hall. But then--she was interrupted.

'Hey, you're Daisy Moore right?' The words came out the thin red lips of a stunning red headed girl. Freckles spreading all across her cheeks and piercing blue eyes. She was petite and pale. Her striking hair wafted over her shoulder in waves that were too perfect to be accidental. She smiled, but behind it there was a secret. Daisy could see it, but she didn't know what it was and her stomach churned with a fear she may be about to find out.

Daisy's brows pulled together with caution while Bella too turned her head to the red head in curiosity. 'Yeah' Daisy breathed.

The girl nodded like she had known the answer already, her gaze shifted to one of guilt and sympathy. She shifted, looking at Daisy's notebook, then back to her.

'You're dating Joe Burrow?'

Daisy for a beat froze, then she shook her head.

'No.' She croaked out as the cold, villainous hands of anxiety wrapped around her throat. 'We're--we're um friends'

For a moment, it seemed like relief washed across the red head's face and she debated her next decision through her mind. Daisy watched, she could see the cogs in her head turning.

Don't tell me. Please. Don't tell me. Daisy thought because she knew there was only one thing that could be coming in a conversation like this. Bella grabbed her friends hand reassuringly because she too knew what bomb was about to land in the middle of the lecture hall.

'Right. Well. Just in case' The red head readied up the weapon in her mouth.

'It's just, I saw him kiss you after the Georgia game and I just thought you should know that a few--' She hesitated like it was painful to say. 'A few weeks back, he had been messaging me--you know, late at night, um sexting me and I replied because I had no idea about you. I'm sorry, I really am, I just--even if you're not together I though you should know'

'How long ago?' Bella asked because Daisy could not speak. The world around her came tumbling and crashing, burning it's way to the ground.

'When he was out of state--for the game against Arkansas'

That made the world simply explode into grey ash that could never be put back together. He had done this after Miami. A few days after. Was it the second he left the state, was that when he was on the phone to another girl begging her for nude images and then tugging himself away to her. Bile rose up in Daisy's throat. She was going to throw up at the thought of him.

'Cunt' Bella spat from beside Daisy.

'Thank you, for telling me' Daisy could only whisper her words to the red head who had just destroyed her. It wasn't her fault but she still couldn't bring herself to look at her. The pain was too fresh and too raw for her to stare at.

When the girl had left, and so had pretty much all of the other students -- Daisy opened up the flood gates. The tears spilled over her waterline and cascaded down her cheeks. Bella pulled her into a warm hug, one which she so desperately needed and she sobbed against the cotton fabric of her friends t-shirt. Bella held her like she was paper, fragile and crushable all at once. She held her like she was scared to let her go. How could Joe have done this? She thought but she knew how, because he was a frat boy with only half a cold dead heart. Lucas was the same, they were all the fucking same. Joe had Daisy fooled, he had everyone fooled because even Bella had believed that there was something special between them. But this. This act of down right nastiness had shown otherwise. And from this, Joe could never come back--not for Bella.

'I'm so stupid' Daisy sobbed heart wrenchingly into the crook on Bella's neck. Her words breaking apart just like the heart that pounded in her chest. 'How could I be so stupid--again?' Daisy cursed herself, and this blow, this heartbreak was twice as painful as the last because it brought everything back. All the times girls had told her stories of Lucas' cheating, all the messages and photographs of hard proof flickered through her mind. And now Joe. He hadn't cheated. How could it be cheating when they weren't together? He hadn't even gone against their arrangement. Sexting and exchanging nudes wasn't physical intimacy so he could be spared of this betrayal on a thin technicality but it still hurt. God, did it hurt. It hurt more than anything. The pain in Daisy's chest made her feel like she was going to die. She couldn't catch her breathe and everything seemed to be fading to black.

Her tears came harder -- hot, aching and bitter -- the kind of cry you can only let out when your in a deep state of mourning.

'You're not stupid, Daisy' Bella wrapped a caring hand around her friends head as she held her in the crook of her neck, lightly stroking her hair. 'He invited you to meet his family, he gave you birthday presents, he showered you in kisses and affection. You fell for him, like every woman would fall for a man that did that'

Daisy shook her head into Bella's shoulder like she couldn't believe what she was saying.

The classroom around them stayed quiet, the professor had gone as soon as the class went so it was just the two of them in the wreckage of the bomb site. Overhead lights blinked and hummed in a way that felt almost taunting because they reminded Daisy of the lights in Joe's bathroom. She didn't know why she was crying anymore. She couldn't tell if it was because of Joe or her own stupidity. Bella let her friend fall apart never once asking her to speak or tell her how she was feeling, she just let the emotions flood through her and out into her arms.

Then, the phone on the desk buzzed.

Daisy pulled back and looked at it with mascara smudged all around her eyes and a sniffling red nose.

Joe

His name flashed up on the screen because she was late to meet him. She hadn't even realised she had been sat crying into Bella for close to forty five minutes.

She winced as she watched it ring away. She winced as she watched his name fade from the screen. She couldn't speak to him, not now -- probably not for a while. Not until she figured out what was happening in her head and her heart.

'We should get back to your dorm, Dais. A class is gonna be in here next period'

All Daisy could muster was a nod in agreement, then she turned off her phone as he rang it again. She couldn't even handle the pain of seeing his name.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Joe paced in his room. Daisy was over an hour and a half late. Her phone was going straight to voicemail and he could feel it deep in his bones that something was wrong. A feeling of dread clawed at his stomach. The air felt different in a way it had never felt before.

He sent her another text. Then he sent Cassie one. He just wanted to know where she was, he just wanted to know that she was safe.

He didn't even hear the heavy footsteps of someone running up the stairs to his bedroom, but he did hear his door slam open.

'Tell me you fucking didn't'

Justin was seething with anger. His eyes so pointed and full of hatred. His chest puffing and panting from the intensity of his emotions rather than the run to Joe's room.

Joe looked at him startled.

'TELL ME YOU FUCKIN DIDN'T' Justin commanded with a harsh shout Joe had never heard before. It sounded like it came from the depths of his teammates stomach. It sounded like a beast had been unleashed from it's cage.

'Didn't what' Joe could only shoot back a cocky response, he didn't want Justin to see that he was rattled by him. But Joe made the wrong choice, he made a fatal error.

Justin ran at him, grabbing him by the colour of his black training shirt and shoved him hard against the bedroom walls. Joe was taller than him, and usually stronger but Justin's adrenaline gave him an uncharacteristic advantage against his quarterback.

Ja'marr stood in the doorway, he heard the noise and came rushing to see what was happening.

'Did you fucking sext some bitch in Arkansas? Huh?'

Justin knew the answer the second the blood drained from Joe's face. Bella had texted him about what had occurred in the classroom, instructing him to figure out if it was true but he already knew it was because he knew exactly what Joe was capable of doing. Joe wasn't a good guy, not for Daisy. He knew it from the moment they started hooking up that something like this would happen.

'You're a fucking dick, Joe' Justin looked at his teammate dead in the eyes, wanting him to really take in the words he was saying. He wanted him to feel it, every bit of shame he could for what he had done to Daisy.

'Does she know?' It was all Joe cared to ask. He could deal with Justin later.

'Does she know?' Justin scoffed. 'Yeah, Joe, she fucking knows'

With that, Joe shoved Justin off him and ran out of his bedroom refusing to acknowledge the winced and shy look of shame his best friend Ja'marr gave him as he darted past. He could feel all that later, but right now he needed to get to her, get to Daisy. He needed to explain it. Not that he could.

He had sexted that red haired girl. Macy. Late at night, after drinking at a club in Arkansas, when he was bored and alone in his hotel room and Daisy wasn't picking up the phone because she must have been asleep. It wasn't even extensive, just two nudes of a Macy's breasts and some half assed flirting before he got bored and snapped out of it. He never even saved the photos, in fact he deleted them and blocked the girl on everything. He, even drunkenly, realised the monumental fuck up he had made. It was like for a brief moment he slipped back into his old self, like Daisy didn't exist. He never thought anyone would find out. He never though this would happen.

Joe sprinted across campus. Across the quad. Across the green grass. Ignoring everyone who looked at him as he passed. He had blinkers on, his mind only focussed on getting to her. His breath was so ragged, his own heart beginning to crack at the fact that he knew deep down that after this, he and Daisy would never be the same. His lungs burned. Or maybe it was his heart. He couldn't stop to find out.

He thought about how Daisy would be hurting. How she would be thinking that he had fooled her. How she would be thinking that she didn't matter to him at all. That spurred him on. He ran even faster. The wind hitting against his skin like icy daggers. His hair blown back. Never had he ran like this on the field because despite his love of football Daisy meant more, he realised that now, in the moment when he knew he was losing her -- he realised that she meant more to him than it all, than everything. The Heisman wouldn't mean anything if she wasn't their to watch him win it. The national championship wouldn't mean anything if she wasn't their in the stands.

He hit the steps up to the entrance of her dorm building, he took them two at a time. The halls inside were busy, and warm, lit by the soft sleepy light of sunset through the vast windows. His hand clung to the walls as he rounded the sharp corners. He knocked into people and didn't stop as they shouted curse words behind him.

When he finally saw her dorm room door at the end of the hallway. He hesitated for a second. Only a second. He had no clue what he was going to say, but he had to try. His chest clenched in regret. He didn't even understand why he responded to Macy's message in the pale moonlight. Why couldn't he have just gone to sleep?.

He knocked on the door with a shaking fist.

No answer.

He knocked on it harder, with purpose and pain.

'Please' He begged.

When he heard the handle twist he braced himself to see her. To see her red eyes and hear her pain stricken sobs.

but as the door opened they never came.

Cassie stood there with a look of pure, truthful hate. He didn't even know a girl like Cassie was capable of hatred. But she was, because she hated him and he could feel it.

'I need to see her'

'You can't.' Cassie held her chin high, and her voice strong.

'Please. Cassie. Let me explain to her'

'You can't' She spat at him, venom dripping off each word.

'Cass--'

'She's gone, Joe' She told him coldly. She wasn't happy that he had dragged her best friend away from her.

The coldness of her words looped through his mind like static, unravelling the world he had build around him. Gone.

'Where?' Maybe he could go to her, maybe he could find her. If she was in Austin he would travel there with no question. If it was New York or California, he would get on a plane and follow her there.

'London'

Too far. She was going somewhere too far away from him. A place he wouldn't be able to touch her. He had the Heisman ceremony, the end of season games, Christmas with his family. London was too far from him.

Daisy knew that.

That's why she went. She took the earliest flight to her father.

She always spent winter break there.

What difference did going a few weeks earlier make?

Especially when it meant she would be away from every reminder of him.

The boy who had just shattered her barely mended heart.

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a/n: i'm sorry. (many years of angst coming)

Also, I listened to the bridge of I know the End by Pheobe Bridgers when writing Joe running across campus. Highly recommend.