What Are Joe And Songbird Doing On This Beautiful Day?
what are joe and songbird doing on this beautiful day?
a/n: wrote this on the way home from the beach <3
they’re doing everything and nothing, again. wrapped in that honey-gold kind of day that stretches on forever, like time has softened just for them. everything slows in this pocket of the world, tucked into the sleepy rhythm of her home state’s coast. it’s the kind of place where the sea smells like memory—salt and driftwood and sunscreen—and the warm wind combs gently through her hair like an old friend. the beach house is perched just above the shore, all sun-bleached shingles and sea glass tones, with crisp white curtains fluttering in every window and wood floors warmed by the morning light. everything inside smells like coconut, linen, and a trace of her vanilla lotion—soft and familiar, like the inside of a hug.
they wake tangled up, limbs strewn carelessly, skin warm from shared body heat and yesterday’s sun. joe’s voice is gravel-soft as he murmurs a lazy good morning against her shoulder, breath fanning over her skin. he’s shirtless, golden shoulders touched by the sun, a pair of charcoal drawstring shorts slung low on his hips. his hair’s all fluffy from sleep, sticking up in tufts she immediately runs her fingers through. she’s wearing one of his old cotton t-shirts, so long it brushes the tops of her thighs when she pads barefoot into the kitchen. her legs are warm and tan, her lips still kiss-bitten from the night before.
breakfast is quiet and unhurried, bare toes brushing beneath the counter, sunlight pouring across the countertops. she makes toast with honey and soft scrambled eggs while he digs through the fridge for juice, drinking straight from the carton. an old playlist—summer anthems from their high school years—plays from her phone on the windowsill. they slow-dance barefoot on the cool tile, orange juice forgotten, his hands splayed on her lower back, hers looped loosely behind his neck. when her favorite summer song comes on, everybody wants to rule the world, he lifts her off the ground like it’s instinct, spinning her in slow, giggly circles until she’s breathless and flushed.
by late morning, they’re wandering down to the beach. the air is thick with salt and heat, the sand warm and soft beneath their feet. he’s carrying a speaker and their little red cooler, she’s tucked under his arm with a paperback novel in one hand and their striped beach towels over her shoulder. they set up beneath the wide umbrella—she sprawls on her stomach in a bikini with her sunglasses sliding down her nose, he stretches out beside her, head tilted toward the sound of her voice. they take turns reading aloud from her book, her cadence smooth and musical, his voice low and scratchy, a little shy at first until she nudges him with her foot and smiles.
when he gets hot, he drags her into the ocean with a laugh, the water biting at their ankles before soothing into something balmy and blue. she wraps her legs around his waist, arms looped behind his neck, squealing when he pretends to lose balance in the surf. he kisses her, deep and slow, the taste of salt clinging to their lips. then he dunks her, and she comes up shrieking, hair stuck to her face, swatting at him with all the strength of a seaweed-wrapped noodle. he swears he didn’t mean to. they make up with kisses and clumsy sand angels, their backs damp and sticky with sun and sea.
in the afternoon, they throw on easy clothes, her in denim shorts and a loose tank, him in a worn tee and flip-flops, and head to the boardwalk. the wood planks are hot beneath their feet, the scent of funnel cake and fried shrimp thick in the air. they stop for soft serve—chocolate-vanilla swirl with rainbow sprinkles, melting too fast under the heat—and take turns feeding each other, licking stray drops from fingers and grinning like they’re on their first date. they wander into little beach shops, trying on matching sunglasses, holding up cheesy t-shirts that read “i’m with him ➡️” and “i’m with her ⬅️,”. she ties a cheap woven bracelet around his wrist—bright blue and yellow—and he pretends it’s designer. he wins her a tiny stuffed dolphin at the ring toss, and she squeals like she’s never been given anything more precious.
as the sky begins to dim, they board a little rented boat just in time for the sunset. her legs are slung over his lap, head resting against his shoulder, hair tousled from the breeze. he’s one hand on the wheel, the other on her thigh, lazy and warm. she hums along to her favorite songs—her voice soft and sweet over the gentle lapping of the waves. the sky turns gold, then pink, then a deep lavender, like something straight out of an album cover she’d dreamed about, and she turns to catch his profile against it and swears she’s never loved him more than in that exact moment.
they eat dinner tucked into the back corner of a dockside restaurant, the scent of citrus and garlic in the air, the glow of string lights overhead. her legs are draped across his, her foot tracing idle patterns on his calf. he feeds her a bite of his seafood pasta and makes a face when she steals one of his fries. they split a slice of key lime pie, the crust buttery and the filling cold on their tongues. she wipes whipped cream from the corner of his mouth with her fingertip and kisses him soft and slow, just because.
when they’re home again, windows open to the lull of waves, they light a candle on the kitchen table and play cards with their shoulders bumping every time they laugh. she beats him at uno, twice, and talks so much shit he throws a pillow at her. they settle into the couch with mario kart and fuzzy blankets, legs tangled and heads tipped together. every time he loses, he turns to press a kiss to her temple, and she pretends it doesn’t melt her every time.
they fall asleep like that, blankets pooled at their feet, her hand splayed over his chest, the wind whispering through the open windows, and the ocean just beyond, steady and constant. a day full of heat and kisses and sugar and sand, the kind of day that stitches itself into their bones and stays there forever.
More Posts from Joeyshiesty0 and Others
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.
what are joe and songbird doing rn
a/n: im ovulating so here’s a smutty little blurb for everyone this fine evening
warnings: smut, hint of munch joe
───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────
his shoulders were pressed firm between her thighs, broad and warm and unwavering as he buried himself between them like a man starved. the room was dim—just the soft amber glow of the hallway light spilling in, casting a glow across the sheets—but everything about the way he touched her felt lit from within. like reverence. like worship.
she was already breathless, one hand gripping the comforter, the other buried in his curls, fingers curling instinctively every time his tongue flattened against her clit. slow, calculated licks that made her toes curl and her hips rise, only to be pressed back down again by those damn hands of his—one on her stomach, the other hooked under her thigh to keep her right where he wanted her.
“joe—,” her voice caught, high and airy, already dissolving into a moan.
he hummed in response—low, satisfied, the sound vibrating through her—then did it again, lips sealing around her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted. and maybe she was. because in the quiet of the off-season, with no film to study, no meetings to rush to, no weight of the world on his back—he could just have her. take his time with her. and god, did he ever.
he pulled back just enough to look at her—his mouth shiny with her arousal, jaw flexing as he dragged two fingers through her slick and pushed them in slow, curling just right. “this okay, baby?”.
she nodded, too breathless to speak, the answer written all over her face. pupils blown, lips parted, chest heaving like she couldn’t quite remember how to breathe unless he told her to. “good,” he murmured, kissing her thigh. “been thinking about this all damn day,”.
then he was back on her, tongue flicking over her clit while his fingers fucked into her slow and steady, coaxing her right to the edge. her thighs shook. her back arched. and he just kept going—murmuring sweet nothings against her, telling her how good she tasted, how pretty she looked like this, how much he loved making her fall apart for him.
his pace was patient, but purposeful. like he had nowhere to be but here. like every slick, shivery sound she made was carved into his ribs. his fingers curled just right inside her, slow and rhythmic, dragging pleasure from her in long, aching pulls. and his mouth—god, his mouth. open and warm and relentless, lapping at her like it grounded him.
when she finally came, it was with his name on her lips—long and trembling and sacred—and he didn’t stop. just held her through it, kissed her through it, licked her through every last wave until she was gasping, tugging at his hair, whispering, “too much, too much,” even as her hips chased after him.
“i’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing her inner thigh. his voice was thick with heat, with love. “you’re so good for me, sweetheart,”.
he didn’t pull away right away. no—he pressed slow kisses along her inner thighs, soft and worshipful, fingers still grazing her skin in lazy, grounding strokes. her body was still trembling beneath him, soft and undone, but when she finally opened her eyes, he was already looking up at her. flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark with affection and something much deeper.
and when he finally came up for air, chest rising with every breath, mouth still warm from her, he grinned. lazy and smug and in love. his hands smoothed up her sides, easing her into his chest as he kissed the sweat-damp skin at her temple. he nudged her leg open again with his thigh, voice rough as he muttered, “still thinking about the way you sounded when you came for me,”. his fingers trailed along the inside of her knee, then higher, “can i have you now?”.
she gave him a look—already dazed and cushy against his body, but still managing a soft, teasing smirk. “you already had me. but okay,”.
he just grinned, leaned down, and kissed her slow. a kiss that was tongue and heat and the kind of need that burned steady in the chest, sinking deep and winding tight. she melted under him, legs parting wider, fingers sliding back into his hair like it was instinct. his body pressed flush to hers, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
he reached between them, teasing her first—his fingertips slipping through the slick mess he’d made of her, gathering it on his fingers and bringing it up to circle her clit. slow. soft. just enough to make her whimper and arch, to make her eyes flutter open and lock on his like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. “that’s it,” he murmured, watching every shift in her face, every breath she stole. “just like that,”.
when he finally guided himself to her entrance, he didn’t rush. he rocked forward gently, dragging the thick head of his cock through her folds, back and forth, until she was gasping—hips twitching, hands clawing at his back like she couldn’t take another second of teasing. and he loved it. he loved the way she came undone beneath him, the way her body responded to his every move like it was made for him.
he pressed in slow. deep. inch by inch until he was fully settled, both of them gasping at the stretch, the closeness, the overwhelming rightness of it “fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing against hers, one hand braced beside her head, the other holding her hip tight. “you feel so good. always so good for me,”.
he held still for a beat, savoring the way she clenched around him, how warm and wet and perfect she felt. her nails scraped down his back, not to hurt—but to feel. to ground herself in him “please move,” she whispered, voice cracked and pleading.
he did, slowly at first, dragging his cock out until just the tip remained before pushing back in, groaning low as she fluttered around him. she moaned, head tipping back, exposing her throat—and he kissed it, again and again, as he built a rhythm. unhurried. deliberate. aching with intimacy.
he watched her like she was the only thing in the world, every flicker of pleasure, every shiver, every moan feeding something greedy and tender inside him. his hips moved with purpose, grinding deep, rolling into her like he wanted her to feel him for days.
his hands slid down to cup her ass, pulling her into him, making each thrust hit just right. she clung to him, body taut and trembling, mouth parted on soft cries he swallowed with his own. he murmured filth into her skin, love into her mouth, worship into her bones.
“mine,” he growled against her throat, fucking her through the steady build of her next climax. “you’re mine. all of you,”.
her body tightened around him as she came, mouth open in a silent cry, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as the pleasure rippled through her. he held her through it, cursed softly into her skin as he thrust through her release—and then he came too, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside her as he moaned her name like a prayer.
they stayed like that—locked together, slick and shaking and breathless—until the world stopped spinning. his fingers traced patterns along her side, soothing and slow, grounding her again.
“you okay?” he murmured, voice gone rough from their activities.
she nodded, lips curling, eyes heavy with exhaustion and something sweeter. “more than okay,”.
he kissed her again—deeper this time, slower—and whispered against her mouth, “good. because i’m not done with you yet,”.
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.”
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.
Lines We Cross - Joe Burrow
Summary: A small lie in the heat of the moment leads to unforeseen consequences. Sometimes, pretending feels a little too real.
Warnings: fem!reader, fluff, mentions of injury
Author’s note: This fic was inspired by the events of Bengals vs Steelers game. This is only a work of fiction. Also not proofread.
The stadium buzzed with electric energy as you settled into your seat at the paycor stadium. The air was crisp, the perfect night for football, and the roar of Bengals fans clad in orange and black, on their feet, waving banners, faces painted with tiger stripes, echoed through the stands. The smell of beer, popcorn, and adrenaline hung heavy in the air. It was chaos, but it was also magic—the kind of energy that could make you believe anything was possible.
You couldn’t help but feel the excitement coursing through your veins as you watched Joe step onto the field, his usual confident swagger on full display. The crowd erupted, chanting his name, and you couldn’t help but feel proud of him. It was a big game, and the stakes were high.
It had been a wild ride for him since his LSU days, and you’d been there every step of the way. Watching him thrive in the NFL felt surreal.
To the rest of the world, Joe Burrow was the golden boy quarterback, the face of the Bengals. To you, though, he was just Joe—your best friend since elementary school, the guy who put glue in your hair as a prank, then spent the whole afternoon trying to fix it with water and paper towels.
You sat in the stands with your Bengals jersey pulled tight and your heart beating harder than it probably should. This wasn’t your first time at one of Joe’s games, but something about tonight felt different. Maybe it was because every time he threw a pass or took a hit, you felt it like it was happening to you.
Being Joe’s best friend was hard enough—being secretly in love with him was a whole other level of torture.
Not that you’d ever admit it to him.
The game was intense. Joe was in the zone, moving the ball downfield with precision, but the opposing team wasn’t letting up. You cheered with the rest of the crowd, your voice hoarse from shouting. The Bengals were up by three points in the third quarter when it happened.
The pocket collapsed in a split second, and before Joe could release the ball, he was hit. Hard. One defender wrapped him up around the waist while another came barreling in from the side, slamming him to the turf.
The stadium fell silent as he stayed on the ground longer than he should have.
Your stomach dropped.
The medical staff rushed onto the field, and your world narrowed. Without a second thought, you stood, your legs moving before your brain could catch up.
You wove through the stands, brushing past strangers who barely seemed to notice you, all their attention fixed on the field. You didn’t care about the looks you got, didn’t care about the rules. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a frantic rhythm driving you forward.
By the time you reached the tunnel, your breath was coming in short gasps, your pulse roaring in your ears. But just as you tried to push forward, two security guards stepped in front of you, hands raised to stop you.
“Sorry, miss, you can’t go through,” one of them said.
“I need to see him,” you said, voice trembling. “I need to know he’s okay.”
“I'm sorry but only medical personnel and team staff are allowed- ”
“I have to see him. I’m his girlfriend!” you blurted, the lie tumbling out faster than your brain could stop it.
Your heart pounded in your chest, and your palms grew clammy as you felt the weight of what you’d just said. The words felt foreign, wrong even, but they were out there now, hanging in the air like a challenge.
The staff exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of skepticism and uncertainty.
“Wait here,” one of them said curtly, before disappearing down the dimly lit tunnel.
You let out a shaky breath as he walked away, but the relief was short-lived. What were you going to say to Joe? That you’d panicked and lied to get back here? That you couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him? The lie had spilled out before you could stop it, but there was no taking it back now.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, wringing your hands, every nerve in your body wound tight. And then, at last, you heard footsteps echoing down the tunnel.
Joe emerged, limping slightly, his gait uneven but otherwise he looked fine. Relief crashed over you like a wave, and a shaky breath escaped your lips before you even realized you’d been holding it.
His gaze found yours instantly, locking onto you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken all over again. Even from a distance, you could see it—the faintest curve of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, equal parts mischief and reassurance.
“They told me my girlfriend was demanding to see me,” he said, his grin widening as he approached.
Your arms folded across your chest, more out of reflex than defiance. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your cheeks, but you ignored it.
“I had to say something,” you replied quickly, your tone defensive. “They weren’t going to let me through otherwise.”
He stopped a few feet in front of you, his head tilted to the side in mock curiosity, those blue eyes of his sparkling with mischief.
“So, you’re my girlfriend now?”
You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the upper hand despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach.
“Don’t get used to it, Burrow,” you shot back, your voice sharp, though the edge was dulled by the waver you couldn’t quite hide.
His laugh—soft, low, and undeniably boyish—filled the space between you, and your resolve nearly cracked. That grin, the one that had been the undoing of countless defenses, was aimed squarely at you. It made your heart ache in a way you’d never admit, not even to yourself.
“Well, girlfriend,” he teased, leaning slightly closer, “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. Just got the wind knocked out of me.”
You frowned, refusing to let him charm his way out of this.
“You didn’t look fine when those guys landed on you,” you muttered, your eyes darting to the trainers hovering just a few feet away. “You should’ve been more careful.”
His amusement softened into something gentler, and he took a step closer, closing the already small distance between you. His voice was quieter now, meant just for you.
“You were worried about me.”
“Of course I was worried.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you cursed yourself for how raw they sounded. Desperate to cover the slip, you stumbled over your next sentence.
“You’re my—” You hesitated, your heart thudding in your chest. “You’re my best friend.”
Joe raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. He didn’t look convinced in the slightest. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
Your frustration flared, partly at him but mostly at yourself. “Don’t read into it, Joe. It’s not a big deal.”
“Oh, I won’t,” he said smoothly, though his tone told you he already had. “But for the record, you’re a pretty convincing girlfriend. Might have to keep you around for emergencies.”
You scoffed, but the way his eyes softened when he looked at you made it hard to stay mad.
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, turning slightly to hide your face and the heat you knew was there.
“And you care more than you want to admit,” he countered, his voice following you.
Before you could muster a response, one of the trainers called Joe’s name from the sidelines, motioning for him to return. His head turned in their direction, but he didn’t move right away. Instead, he lingered, eyes still on you like he wasn’t quite ready to let the moment go.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low enough that it felt like it was meant for you and you alone. “Since you’re my girlfriend now, I think it’s only fair you give me a good luck kiss before I go back out there.”
Your heart lurched, a sudden fluttering that stole your breath and left you momentarily stunned. You narrowed your eyes, hoping to mask the way his words sent a thrill through you.
“Don’t push your luck, Burrow,” you shot back, your voice steadier than you expected.
“Come on,” he teased, his tone as smooth as silk. “Just a little one. For good luck. You don’t want me going out there unlucky, do you?”
For a second, you hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment hung between you and then, without thinking any further, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
The second your lips made contact, Joe froze, his body stiffening slightly as if your touch had short-circuited his usual easy confidence. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he didn’t move, the surprise in his expression almost comical.
You pulled back quickly, your pulse racing in the quiet that followed.
“There. Happy now?” you said, your voice slightly breathless, hoping to deflect the sudden wave of uncertainty washing over you.
Joe blinked a few times, as if trying to recalibrate, before his lips curved into a slow, dazed smile.
“Yeah,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m more than happy.”
Before you could let yourself process the way his words sent a fresh wave of heat through you—the trainer called his name again, more insistent this time.
Joe sighed dramatically, throwing one last glance your way. “Duty calls,” he said.
“Try not to get sacked again, Joe.”
“I’ll do my best, girlfriend,” laughter in his voice.
As he jogged back leaving you standing there, you caught the way he glanced over his shoulder, that grin still firmly in place.
As you made your way back to your seat, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything—that it was just Joe being Joe. But deep down, you knew better.
And from the way he’d looked at you, you couldn’t help but wonder if he knew it too.
Hello?!
In NYC for Bodyarmor
im still here
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.
i need more 😫
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates and Ice Packs
Eighth instalment of the forbidden au - lsu!joe x oc
Full AU masterlist here -> ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden
Summary: Daisy is finally forced into Bella's blind date, and Daisy and Joe's arrangement changes even further following the highly anticipated game against Ole Miss.
⋆｡˚ word count: 5.4k
A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out, I've been crazy busy but hoping to get some more parts up in the next few weeks:) Next part may be a big one!
18+ Content. MDNI :). Mentions of drinking, drug use, smoking and sex. ⋆｡˚
The conversation the morning after halloween was a simple one. The rules of the arrangements had been mutually agreed to change, only slightly.
Rule One - It remained the same, no strings and no attachments.
Rule Two - This had been abandoned, they weren't exactly doing a great job of hiding the thing between them anymore. The news of what had happened in the bathroom of the halloween party was the juiciest piece of campus gossip all year and by the following evening it had spread everywhere. Daisy was getting dirty looks from practically every girl on campus, some out of conservative disgust but most out of jealousy. The boy's had also changed the way they looked at her, she didn't like that. They would gawk, and she would shrink into her own skin once again. It made her hide away from the world, spending more time in Joe's room than on campus.
Rule Three - Daisy was still not allowed to wear the 'i'm horny' longhorns t-shirt.
Rule Four - A new one, and the most important. No physical intimacy with other people. The arrangement had become an exclusive one, it felt simpler that way. Joe wasn't bothered about having sex with other women, not when Daisy was available for him whenever he needed her. Daisy wasn't exactly wanting to pursue any other boys either. The whole agreement just felt easier if they kept it between them, and it wasn't because they were developing a forbidden attachment to each other. No. Absolutely not. This was just the best thing for them at this current moment. If they wanted to stop, they could at any time and nothing--no feelings or swelling of the heart would occur.
They lazily shook hands on it as Joe had his heavy hungover arm draped across her bare shoulder as she lay wrapped in his navy duvet. Afterwards, an awkward silence filled the room. Neither of them knowing what to say as the relationship between them went a step beyond what they ever imagined on the first night they met.
Daisy's hushed, raspy voice broke it.
'What now?' She said with her sage eyes looking so deeply in Joe's blue stare. His lips curled only minutely, a sign that he was fighting a bigger grin beneath it.
'We fuck'
-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-
daisyymoore
autumn into winter
Liked by jjettas2, lahjay_10 and 739 others
@.cassdaviess: sweet angel girl
-> @.daisyymoore: oh i love you so
@.lahjay_10: loved that pussy!
-> @.daisyymoore: WHAT?!
-> @.lahjay_10: the pumpkin daisy jeez.
5th November 2019
It's a typical midday at the start of a Louisiana, the sun still burns in the sky but a breeze bites at Joe's skin. He sat slouched on the greyish brown wood of the campus quad picnic benches, Justin next to him and Ja'marr opposite. His foot tapped aimlessly against the concrete beneath him, his phone tilted just low enough that he was the only one who could see it. His thumb hovers over the black mirror. He's stuck on her instagram, he always is.
It was a new one, a collection of images from the past few weeks. They felt personal. Handcrafted slides that made his mind run with the idea she might have posted them just for him. The first image he had taken of her when they were in the backyard of his fraternity, a picture he snapped because the wind was dancing through her pretty hair and making her look ethereal. The second image was the pumpkin she had carved across the table from him, a post sex activity which he hadn't been able to stop thinking about. Maybe she couldn't stop thinking about it either? Joe shook away the thoughts, he didn't want to find himself getting carried away in teenage daydreams. The fourth was his fraternity on the night of Halloween, the night the agreement swapped between them. The night the air around him shifted to something heavier, something denser--a tangible emotion that he could feel pulsing against his skin.
It was the fifth image that captured his attention the most.
Her in the LSU campus gym. Flesh bare, stomach tensed, hips cocked. She knew what she was doing, and it pissed him off. He couldn't help but scroll through the list of likers and there was a lot of them. A lot of boys, a lot of college athletes. None of them would be winning the Heisman in just over a months time though, Joe still had that little confidence boost to stop his ego from denting too much. He also had the knowledge that as of almost a week ago, she was his. Just his woman to bed.
He sent her a DM--half joking, half not.
Take this down.
She replied almost instantly.
daisyymoore
Why? a lot of people liked it ;)
Joe closed his eyes and breathed in a slow breathe. She was enjoying this new exclusive thing, she liked the power it gave her to get under his skin. Daisy was aware Joe didn't like her like that, but she knew he didn't like to lose or be second place either. It was fun to toy with him.
Joe locked his phone and placed it face down on the wooden bench and tuned back into the conversation between Justin and Ja'marr. They were talking about the upcoming game against Ole Miss, a big one on the season calendar and a challenge to their undefeated streak. Wind brushed through their hair as orange leaves began to prance across the grey concrete as a symbol of November's quiet arrival and the quickness of time flying by. He heard the clicking and clacking of some heeled shoes and he braced for who it could be. Three college football players sitting at a bench, one woman approaching--it could be a shit show for any of them. Ex lover? One night hook up? No. Thank God.
Cassie slid into the seat beside Ja'marr with a bright grin.
'Hey guys' Her voice was high pitched, full of bubbly energy which the boys failed to match after an intense morning practise. A grumbled mesh of greetings tumbled from their mouths but Cassie didn't let it discourage her.
'How's everyones day going?' Her brights eyes flickered between the three players that slouched on the bench.
'Good, Cass' Ja'marr smiled.
'You never speak to us alone, what do you want?' Justin cuts in straight after, reading his friend like an open book. Cassie's face falters at his bold words but once again she doesn't let it faze her. She was here for a reason and she had spent the past few days building up the confidence to ask them.
'Okay--Okay' She picked at her baby pink acrylic nails, nerves clearly danced, itching at her gentle skin.
'It's Daisy's birthday in two weeks and we're going to Miami--just for a weekend--and I was wondering, if--if maybe you guys wanted to come?' Her words are shy, like halfway through she realised it may not have been the smartest idea. But once the words were out it was too late, and she enjoyed spending time with Justin and Ja'marr, plus Daisy was now exclusive with Joe and she needed to get birthday sex somehow.
'It's her birthday' Joe let's his shocked words slip from his lips. She had never mentioned. That seemed like something she would have mentioned if she wanted him to be there.
'I'm in' Justin says.
'Yeah, fuck it, I'll go to Miami' Ja'marr also agreed.
Cassie beamed a smile, showing off her perfect white teeth. Then waited for Joe to say something, but he was still processing the fact that Daisy hadn't told him about her birthday.
'It's a surprise. She doesn't know. She doesn't like celebrating her birthday really' She tried to reassure him, tried to manipulate him into saying yes.
'Yeah, I guess if i'm free' Joe says cooly. Cassie excitedly claps her hands together at the fact her idea was coming together.
'Can you tell her to come over tonight' Joe cut her celebrations short. His words not a request but a command, his voice stern like Cassie didn't have the option to say no. Daisy hadn't been to Joe's in the past two nights, and his bed was beginning to feel the sweet pain of withdrawal symptoms. She was too busy studying and writing politics essays too come over for even a quickie, even when Joe was borderline begging over the phone last night.
'Ermmm--ha, she can't tonight' Cassie sounded almost scared and that made Joe nervous. The blonde lifted up her hand and scratched the back of her neck as a feeling of awkwardness hung thickly over the picnic table.
'Why?' Joe's voice was low and rough.
Cassie knew she shouldn't break, she knew she was under strict instructions to not let any of the three boys at the table know but under the intense heat of their pointed stares she founder her self crumbling like a poorly baked chocolate chip cookie.
'I ca-can't' She choked out, her throat all of a sudden drying up.
'What is it, Cass?' Ja'marr joined in, his own voice low and intimidating but a playful look on his sculpted face.
'Bella set her up on a blind date. She's meeting him tonight'
Her voice was small. Her lips pushing out a secret she shouldn't have spilled. Once again, she couldn't bring them back into her mind and they had to sit lingering like a storm cloud in the space around Joe's head.
'Whose him?' His words almost come out like a growl, but it's clear he has made some effort to refrain himself. His blonde brows furrow across his strong brow bone. His blue eyes dark and icy. It makes a chill crawl up Cassie's back and her cheeks flush red. She never liked feeling in trouble, and that's how she felt right now. She shrunk back in the bench, her shoulder folding in as she made herself look as small as she felt under the quarterbacks spat question.
'Just a guy Bella knows--I'm really not sure Joe. It's a blind date'
Joe stretched out his neck with a clenched jaw. This wasn't explicitly against the rules, as long as there was no physical intimacy Daisy wouldn't be doing anything wrong. Did he trust that she wouldn't? He wasn't sure. He hadn't had to put his trust in a girl for a very long time, so long he forgot how intense the feeling was. Trust was a fickle thing in the hands of the wrong person.
'She doesn't want to go, if-, if that makes it sting less' Cassie said with a tight lipped smile, a look of sympathy on her face.
'It doesn't sting' His words come out too quick, too sharp. Completely unbelievable to those around him, but Joe believed them. He believed the subtle numbness that clawed at his beating heart was because of his desire to always be number one, his hatred for feeling second best. He still thought he was in control, but slowly he was beginning to realise that when it came to Daisy Moore control didn't exist.
She doesn't want to go. Joe repeated it over and over in his head but if that was the truth why was she going. He didn't believe it. Daisy was too strong of a woman to go somewhere she didn't truly want too. five days. five days since the agreement between them changed and she was going on a date. Was five days all it took for her too realise she made a mistake with him?
Joe got up from the table, not saying another word. Leaving his friends behind as he made hast for the bed sheets that still smelt of her. Sweet peonies and jasmine. Always the same perfume and it lingered in room like gentle pecks of his plump lips.
Tonight, she would wear that scent for another man.
and Joe couldn't do anything to stop her. Or could he?
-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-
Daisy wasn't the type to do blind dates. She had avoided them at all costs, but Bella had given her no choice--springing the date on her on the same day it was happening. The boy, Matthew, had already planned the whole thing and had been telling her how excited he was to go on the date. Daisy couldn't stand him up, she thought about it, but every time the image of a lonely boy sat eating alone in an overpriced restaurant would cloud her mind. A pang of sadness would rattle through her ribs and she knew she couldn't do it.
So here she sat across from a nice boy with sweeping brunette curls and kind hazel eyes, eating her main course in a restaurant just outside of Baton Rouge that tried to hard to look like it wasn't trying at all. The lighting around them was dim in a deliberately warming way -- cream candles with an amber flame flickered in the centre, filling the space between them. The walls were a deep red colour filled with black and white framed portraits of people who had visited, or perhaps they were just stock images taken from the internet. Daisy didn't pay enough attention to them to know the definite answer. The bar behind them was stretched long and brass-trimmed, almost industrial looking. A low humble jazz beat played out quietly around them and the other filled tables.
The blind date was going quite pleasantly. Daisy even found herself laughing a couple of times. Matthew's company wasn't something she hated and as much as it pained her to admit, Bella had picked someone who matched her pretty well. She could see them being friends. Nothing more. She was already in a complicated enough situation with Joe and she didn't need to bring a guy like Matthew into something like that. Matthew knew it too, the date was going well but they lacked the initial spark all future lovers have. But, they could still have a good time.
Daisy listened to Matthew's stories as she tapped her fingers against the drink in her hand when she felt a buzz vibrate on the table. Her phone. Not Matthew's. She let out a hushed sorry before quickly glancing at it.
Joe
how's that date going
Daisy rolled her eyes, she knew he knew because Cassie came back to the dorm in a frantic state and acting as if she had just committed the greatest betrayal in the history of the universe. Daisy was expecting these messages, she just assumed they would start halfway through the first course rather than the second. He outlasted her expectations.
She gave a quick reply before putting her phone face down on the table.
Daisy
it's fine
It was five minutes later when her phone buzzed again and this time she was thankful Matthew had just gotten up to go to the bathroom so she could respond without feeling guilty.
Joe
that bad?
Daisy
it isn't bad, he's sweet.
Joe
if you wanted sweet you wouldn't be fucking me.
speaking of,
you coming straight over to me after it's over?
Daisy scoffed. Joe's arrogance was hiding his insecurity and she knew that, but she was in no mood to argue. She also wanted to be back in his bed sheets. It had been a few days now and her body missed him. It missed the way he made her body feel. All that pleasure. She breathed away the heat that pricked over skin, she shouldn't be thinking about Joe and the thing he could do while waiting for another man to come back to the table.
Daisy
yes joey.
Joe
then end it. quickly.
Daisy couldn't reply as Matthew entered her peripheral vision. A cheery grin on his almost golden skin. She hated that he was so nice. It was going to make what she had to do next so much more painful. Once he sat, she got right to it. then end it quickly, Joe's message was all she could think about.
'I'm so sorry, I'm feeling quite faint. I think it's something I ate' She began, then gave the acting performance of her life. Within ten minutes she was out the restaurant and in an uber to Joe's place. She didn't tell him that, she didn't send Joe a text that she was on her way over. Did she want to surprise him? No. Did she want to see the light in his eyes as he locked his eyes on her, the way his cheeks bunched up and the corners of his eyes crinkled? No, of course not. Did she want the feel the rush of warmth that pooled in her stomach and rushed over every muscle in her body? Maybe she did.
She rushed out the Uber, slamming the door and borderline running to the heavy set doors of the fraternity. It was Wednesday night and that meant there was a chance all the fraternity brothers would be lingering around, they would see her as she dashed up the stairs and too his room. She didn't care. She didn't even think about that.
She pushed her way through, ignoring everyone she past. She was being quick, just like he had instructed.
She didn't bother to knock.
She spent so much time there, the room almost felt like her own these days.
She walked in, casually. Not wanting him to know how much effort she had put into getting here. The light panting of her ragged breath let him know though. And he loved that.
Joe was laying on his bed shirtless, his blonde hair messy and a muscular arm behind his bed as he scrolled on his phone, but he dropped it when the door of his bedroom opened and closed.
and there she was.
His Daisy.
He couldn't help but like the way that sounded in his head, even though he knew he shouldn't.
His eyes watched her. Her cheeks were tinted pink from the cold night, or maybe the wine she had drank. He could tell it was red because her lips were stained like cherries. Her long hair was wavy and windswept, small strands lay around her face messily like they always did when she stopped caring about what it looked like. Her heels were held in her hand beside her. Her dress was short but not too tight, a simple sleek navy colour and made of a silk material. Silver jewellery decorated her bare arms and a strange pang his Joe's chest. She had made an effort for the guy. He could see that. Daisy always makes an effort. Joe's own voice of reason reassured him.
'You wore that for another guy' Joe can't help but make a childish jab, but it makes Daisy smile. It makes her feel comfortable. She placed her shoes down in the corner of the room, next to his training back like she usually did. Joe didn't even realise he started leaving a space there for her. Then she crawled into his bed, taking her place under the arm he had behind his head. Her bare shoulders touching his bare chest. The connection is stinging them both, but neither of them realise it.
Joe looked over her face. Her eyeliner was smudged ever so slightly at the corners, her lip liner was worn off and there were crease lines under her eyes. The guy had made her laugh--many times. Joe could tell. He knew the worn lip liner was from the food and not the guys lips. It was unspoken, and he didn't have to ask. Trust. Not such a fickle thing this evening. He relaxed and let his arm drop around her shoulders, not too tightly, just lazily. His thumb lightly brushed her skin in little circles. She moved closer.
Then she told him all about it, and Joe didn't even mind. In fact, he quite enjoyed hearing about her night and how she had actually had a pretty good time. The guy, Matthew, had treated her well but there was nothing more. Joe felt relieved at that.
Then as the night went on, she stripped down and so did he. Gentle, lazy and tired sex consumed them before them found themselves asleep next to each other like usual.
Daisy didn't leave Joe's place much for the next nine days, only ever to go to class or grab some clothes from her dorm. She liked it there, and Joe liked having her around. They weren't friends, but they were something.
She still never mentioned her birthday to him. and that, for some unexplainable reason, made him feel like shit.
-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-
Ole Miss.
It was a big game.
and since finding out that Justin was leaving college after this year, Daisy realised she needed to start watching him play. So here she was, alongside Cassie and Bella in the packed stands of Death Valley. A white jersey with Jefferson across the back sat across her torso. Joe might flip. At least Bella had said he would. Cassie said he might. Daisy wasn't really even thinking about it. Justin is Joe's friend, surely his jealousy wasn't so shallow.
But when he spotted her in the crowd, sitting where she had told him she was going to sit and he saw that the number on the jersey was not his, all he could do was shake his head. His featured freezing over with a coldness she wasn't used to seeing from him. She almost ripped the cloth from her skin and threw it in the bin. Guilt clawing at her throat. If they lose tonight it's my fault, she told herself over and over. She didn't pray often, but she did in that moment. Her hand clasped together in front of her.
'Please God, let him win' She whispered so that Bella and Cassie couldn't hear her. Not that they would be able to over the noise of the student crowd.
The air was electric, thick with a humid southern heat and the kind of noise that made your bones hum deep beneath your flesh. Purple and white lights lit up the stadium, pockets of red clashing against them as the Ole Miss supporters filled in some seats. Daisy liked it, inside stadiums. She had many years of practice.
When the game began, her eyes could only focus on Joe. She tried to keep glancing at Justin but it was like they were magnetised on number nine. He looked unreal from where she stood, not just talented--but almost mythical. The white of his jersey clung to him in sharp creases and sweat. His long fingers flexed around the laces of the ball like it was part of him, a simple extension of his arm. A biological piece of his body. Every moment was like he was firing a dart at a board and hitting bullseye every time. Such poise even under the pressure.
She couldn't help herself. Somewhere in the middle of the noise around them, she joined in on the constant screaming of his name with the strangers who didn't know him the way she did. This all felt familiar, she had done this with Lucas but them thoughts didn't control her mind the way she thought they would have. He was merely a passing thought like came and went within seconds. Then Joe would replace them. Was that good or bad? She couldn't tell, but she didn't let herself dwell on it.
He scored his own touchdown at one point. He didn't look for her though. Of course he didn't. He was so beyond pissed, but at least they weren't losing. At least that wouldn't be her fault.
After halftime, something happened.
The play only took seconds, but to Daisy, it was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Joe was going down, but the Ole Miss linebacker didn't care. A cheap shot. A wrecking ball with a grudge, helmet low, and his padded shoulders square with a raging tension.
The hit was bone deep, the noise of it seemed to silence the stadium or maybe that was just in Daisy's head. People around her gasped, and outrage began to pour in from the LSU fans. Joe met the hard ground with a terrifying force, his body bouncing almost limply. His helmet bouncing against the floor.
Was he moving?
Daisy's blood ran cold. She clutched at her chest with an open jaw. Shock overtook every fibre of her being. She stood on her tiptoes trying to get the best view of what was happening. They weren't showing him on the screen. That was a bad sign.
Tiptoes wasn't enough.
She pushed through the crowd and made her way the front of the stands. Her usually delicate fingers gripped onto the cold white railing with a terror filled force. She could see him, he was writhing around on the floor in pain, but at least he was moving. Medics rushed over to him. Ole Miss and LSU players clashed against each other, she saw Ja'marr getting in one of the red jersey's faces but she couldn't pay that much attention. She, in this moment, only cared about Joe.
She watched as a medic helped him sit up. His movements more careful and slow than she was used to seeing, like every inch of his body hurt. Like air was stripped away from his lungs and his ribs filled with a excruciating pain as he tried to pull himself together. She watched his slow breaths in and out. She wished she could gift him more oxygen.
Joe pulled his helmet off. His red flushed face and messy hair exposed for the crowd to see. No blood. That was a good sign. Daisy let out the faintest breath, like it was too soon for her to fully relax. Joe looked around, taking sips of water as he gained some of the strength that had been knocked out of him back.
and then--somehow--he found her.
Daisy didn't know if he was trying too. She wasn't in the original spot he knew she was sitting at, and yet somehow, even a hundred yards away, he still found her. The stands around her were a blur of purple and gold, thousands of people clapping and chanting his name. When they met each others eyes, it felt like that all faded away.
Joe saw her there, gripping onto the railing like it was her only lifeline. The concern on her face rattled him more than the tackle had. It was enough to make him forgive her for the stupid fucking jersey she was wearing. stupid. fucking. jersey. He shook away that jealousy, and instead he clenched his jaw but softened his gaze. He gave Daisy a nod, the reassurance she needed that he was okay.
a silent don't worry about me across a green football field.
Daisy let her breathes free, and the grip on the railing loosen. She watched from that spot for a few more minutes, then she went back to her seat. Joe went back to the huddle like nothing had happened.
But something had.
Something between them.
After they won the game, Daisy had still been expecting Joe to ice her out so it was surprising when he swaggered over to where she had been standing by the railing during the match. It surprised her even more when he waved her to come down and speak to him.
'You scared me' She told him. She had to get it off her chest. Joe held his hands hooked on the front of his padding making his biceps look oh so deliciously big. His hair was a mess but Daisy liked that, it made him look manly. He cocked his head back with an air of arrogance and looked into her big green eyes, ones which seemed to glow even brighter under the stadium lights. His skin was glowy and sticky with sweat and effort.
'Payback for that stupid fuckin' jersey' He chirped, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. For the first time, it really seemed like Joe didn't care who was watching. Media was here, fans were listening in but he wasn't paying them any attention. All his focus was on Daisy.
'Justin's just a friend you know' Daisy's response wasn't joking, it was serious. Like she needed to make sure Joe understood that, to put an end to this weird tension that seemed to be brewing between the teammates.
'I know, doesn't mean I like it though' Joe shrugged with an unapologetic truth slipping through his cracked lips. Daisy could only nod, stumped as to how she could reply to his honesty. Joe didn't give her the chance too.
'You coming back with me, I need someone to ice my ribs' That smug smirk drew back across his face. Daisy laughed, like an actual laugh before nodding her head with her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. A subtle blush rising onto her cheeks.
-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-
The bathroom light buzzed overhead, casting a dull yellow glow that made everything around them seem so warm and comforting--even the chipped tile and toothbrush stains on the mirror. Joe's boxers and dirty clothes laid out on the floor from when he hasn't put them in the laundry basket.
Joe stood shirtless in front of the skin, his sweatpants dangerously low on his hips and his arms stretched up as he assessed the damage of the forming bruises that scattered all across his back and torso. It was the hardest hit he had ever taken. Some light swelling surrounded his ribs, the medic said he needed rest but he should be okay for the next game in two weeks.
Daisy quietly came in the door behind him, carrying a ziploc bag filled with ice and a weary look on her face as she took in his bruising. Joe met her weary eyes in the stained mirror. She was in his LSU hoodie that was three sized too big, her face bare and her hair pulled back from her face in a low bun. She was unfairly beautiful, and very tired.
'I can do it' Joe told her.
She shook him off. 'I want too.'
She took a step closer, moving to be in front of him. The air between them was so quiet. She gently grazed her fingers over the bruising, Joe jolted -- not in pain, just at the feeling of her caress. When she carefully pushed the ice pack to his skin, he winced.
'Stay still.' She told him.
This was the most intimate thing they had done. Joe knew it. Daisy knew it. The air around them knew it too. Both of their hearts pounding in their chests as they did something so close. Both their guards fully lowered to the ground, they never did that. They never let each other in this much.
Joe looked down to her -- at the way she was chewing on her plump baby pink lips in a deep concentration, like she was scared she was going to break him. Her hands were steady, but he could feel just how tense she was. She was trying to tell herself this didn't mean anything, but they both knew it did.
'I'll be okay' Joe's words come out quieter than he wants, so soft and endearing unintentionally.
'I didn't like watching that happen to you.' Her own words came out in a stark rawness.
He reached out and brushed a stray hair behind her ear before he could realised the intimacy of the action, Daisy froze moving the ice pack back from his torso in shock. Joe committed to his action, letting his hand cup the soft cheeks of her face.
'I imagine you felt the way I felt when I got that call from you in the bathroom stall'
'I don't know, you'd have to tell me how that made you feel Joe' Her response startled him, she was asking him to tell her how he felt. What are we? but in a different font and that scared him. He dropped his hand from her cheek and looked away back into the mirror. Daisy placed the ice back on his bare skin. She knew he wouldn't answer her. She wouldn't have answered him either.
Some things were best left lingering in blissful ignorance.
A decent pic! 🖤🤍
Posted by Matt Siegel on IG
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