iosivb9

[iosivb9]

smokin' out the window pt II . joe burrow

summary - A week before training camp, both you and Joe can’t help but prepare like your lives depend on it. In the back of your mind you know that the early mornings and long nights will provide no respite for puzzles, move nights or…other activities. You might as well make the most of your limited time… (Read part I here.) pairings - Fem!Reader x Bengals!Joe warnings - Language, fluff, SMUT 18+ (MINORS DNI!) like literally barley any plot LMAO don’t know what to tell ya, lowkey predator x prey dynamics if you squint rly hard, don't know how that happened a/n - Here’s part two to the original smokin’ out the window fic. Sorry it's not incredibly egregiously long. Joe’s wishes come true hehe 😛

Some songs if that’s your vibe (in chronological order):

Scorsese Baby Daddy - SZA Breakin’ Dishes - Rihanna

word count - 4.4k

YOU CAN FEEL it. Joe’s alarm blares earlier and earlier each morning, inching towards the time he’ll have to be risen and ready in just a week’s time. You took advantage of the select 50% off sale at Barnes & Noble, finding five new covers and synopses that looked interesting enough to preoccupy your mind on nights you’re bound to go sick with worry about every Sunday. A new Amazon order came in just yesterday for a brand new foldable iPad case, durable, sturdy, with a separate Apple Pen charging port, an AirTag, and a privacy screen. Two tabs for Aritzia and Abercombie’s fall line stays open on your computer, and you always seem to linger longer inspecting any item that’s black, white, or bright Bengal orange. 

You can feel it:  training camp is coming.

And once camp starts, nothing in your household will slow down until (hopefully) February. Not many words between you and Joe are exchanged about these things, almost like they’re automatic. It’s like it’s only natural for the both of you, suddenly becoming two bears stockpiling the necessities as high as you can before the cold front comes in, smacking you clean across the face with frigid gusts of wind, stinging at the tips of your ears, and a mouthful of numbing snow. Then, you’ll hibernate, gripping each other tight whispering, “Just get through the storm.”

The highs of football season are well worth the lows. But you’ve been here too many times to be unprepared–to be frostbitten. 

Ever since the fourth, Joe’s already started to go from tanned and relaxed to focused and introverted. He doesn’t like going outside in general, but even so, when the season approaches, he somehow manages to hermit even further. It makes him brooding and closed off to everyone else, but especially possessive and clingy towards you. He starts shifting his focus to the only two things he’ll care about during the season–football, and the love of his life. In the mornings, he’ll make you breakfast before hitting the gym, then comes home and watches film while you’re at work. And when you arrive back home, he’s on you. Relieving you of your heavy purse, helping you out of your heels, guiding you upstairs where a hot bath and a comfy sweat set are already waiting. Afterwards, dinner is served by Joe’s private chef, and the only time Joe lets you lift a finger the rest of the night is to type in the three digit security pin of his Black Amex on any online orders you make. 

It’s like he’s in the Olympics for extreme husbanding. 

That’s not the only way Joe’s dialed in on you, either. At every opportunity, he’s touching you. Rubbing, grabbing, holding, pressing, pulling…it doesn’t matter what you’re doing or where in the house you are. If you’re close by, he will have you as close as possible. And all of that usually leads to kissing, licking, groping, moaning, fucking, cumming…over, and over, and over. He just won’t stop. You’ll wake up with his head between your legs. Folding laundry turned into having to rewash some of said laundry. Every shower either of you take has doubled in duration. You tried to work remotely on Wednesday? Forget it. Slack messages went unanswered that day.

And it always starts with Joe. Touching. Attentive. Possessive. 

At first you thought you wouldn’t be able to keep up. You’ve always thought your libido was somewhat high, taking an especially large spike when you started dating Joe, but even so he’s just always on you. Quickly, you realized that this isn’t the case at all. If anything, the longer he acts like this, the more your body craves it. You’re becoming obsessed with sex, constantly catching yourself thinking about the next time he’ll pounce on you out of nowhere, lulling you into a pliant haze. It’s like a drug you can never get enough of, and Joe has you absolutely hooked.

It doesn’t help that you’re definitely ovulating…

This morning Joe was at it again, thank god. Wordlessly tugging you toward him by your calf, his mouth smothering you up and down your body while your eyelids are still halfway shut. How quickly he gets you so hot, chest heaving and face flushed until he finally splits you open with a low rumble in his chest. He kept you there with two big arms, sheets tangled, fucking you deep and slow until your mouth hung open and your eyes rolled back. Then he simply got up, cleaned the two of you up, and went downstairs to start on your usual breakfast, leaving you breathless and heated.

It’s a Friday, and your team just finished a huge project at work, so many of your coworkers took PTO to make a long weekend for themselves, and you did too. You thought it’d be good for training camp prep too, this way you’ll have all your ducks in a row by the time Joe disappears next week. So you take your time getting out of bed, still trying to shake off the lingering licks of arousal you feel from Joe’s new daily morning ritual. 

He just fucked me so good I saw stars. How am I still horny?

You hop in the shower, though that isn’t much help either considering how many recent memories the two of you have made in the space. As you rub your washcloth over yourself, your mind automatically drifts back to Joe, and how he’s typically the one gliding a towel around your skin. Sometimes he ditches it completely and just lathers the soap in his palms, working the suds over your bare body in slow, thorough circles. He always takes his time, going over some places multiple times until you’re leaning on him, letting out breathy sighs and chasing his overwhelming touch. The heat is inescapable, especially when he finally fully cups your breasts, massaging and kneading as if to rub in your body wash, but both of you know his true intentions. Especially when he keeps flicking his thumbs over your hard nipples, allowing you to hold on to whatever part of him you can reach to keep your knees from giving in. 

You snap out of your thoughts with a gasp, not even entirely sure how long you’ve been standing under the steaming water, or if your body is fully clean. Either way you shake your head, blinking rapidly as you shut off the water and wrap yourself in a fluffy towel. 

Just breathe. 

The rest of your getting ready process is spent falling in and out of your dirtiest thoughts, trying to combat your frustrations by preoccupying your mind to the maximum. Adding extra steps to your skincare routine, making a list of tasks to complete throughout the day, one of which being to get a head start on meal prep for next week. Joe’s private chef handles most of the cooking for lunches and dinner, but everything else is up to you and Joe, and a recent endeavor of yours has been to find healthy, protein packed dessert options Joe will eat during the season. Countless of times he’s told you not to bother, to make anything you want and ignore his strict regimen, but now you’re determined to find a delectable alternative. He’ll only eat so many slices of pumpkin pie before he restricts himself. 

You bound down the stairs, finally having distracted yourself long enough to not feel completely out of it, but the sight of Joe’s broad, 6’4 frame in the kitchen momentarily weakens you. He’s just standing there, clad in a white T shirt tucked into 5” inseam black shorts, but everything in your hormonal brain is screaming at you that he looks so…man. Buff and strong, even before his post-workout pump gives him an extra chiseled look. A plate of hot food waiting on the counter for you. A stoic, concentrated look in his eye as he stares you down on your apprehensive approach, gulping down half his water bottle in seconds. A single stray bead drips from the side of his mouth down his hard jaw and thick throat. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, up and down…

A light smile floats across his face when he sets the bottle down, both of you bidding each other good morning with a short, but firm kiss. Joe’s proximity lights you on fire, and a wave of heat floods your insides as he spreads a large hand across the small of your back to pull you in, making what’s supposed to be an innocent hello a dizzying torture. All he has to do is touch, and pull, and kiss.

My list. My grocery list. 

A small voice echoes in the back of your mind, the only sane part of you left, really. You pull back promptly, perhaps a little too quickly, and end up tripping over your own feet as you turn towards the fridge. Your heart leaps in slight embarrassment, your eyes darting around as you pull the fridge open and try to scan its contents for any ingredients you already have. The cool air from the large box hits you and you sigh in relief, starting to become annoyed with the fact that you’re already no better down here than you were in the shower, all because Joe’s right next to you with his heat and his hands and his mere presence. 

Joe stares at you, and you can feel it. His observant, attentive eyes deciphering what’s going on inside your head. Inside your body. 

“You okay?” he asks, a hint of a tease lingering on his tongue as he asks the question. He moves by the fridge door, bringing himself closer to you, letting his hand find a home on your lower back again. Your eyes flutter. He won’t stop touching. 

“I’m fine,” you sigh, sounding a little breathier than you’d hoped, so you clear your throat before speaking again, trying your best to avoid eye contact because if you look too long, you know you’re fucked. Joe simply stares at you blankly. “Think I’m going to head out to Kroger though. Do you need anything?” After another moment of watching you, Joe finally shakes his head, retreating to gather his things and head to The Black Sheep. “Eat your breakfast,” he comments on his way out, bidding you farewell and adding an I love you at the end. You finally release a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, still standing in front of the fridge, basking in the coolness a little while longer before starting to count your ingredients.

Kroger was notably empty, which is exactly what you were aiming for by going on a Friday morning.

Your items were easy to find, and you were so happy to be breathing fresh air that you picked up a couple other items along the way. Fresh fruit, and a matcha brand from the new coffee place next door. But before long, you had to race home to try to beat Joe coming back from his workout. You’re not sure how long either of you will be able to be abstinent from each other with you home all day, and you need to at least get things put away, dust off the pool room and get a few bedsheets changed before things get too heated.

When you pull into the driveway, Joe’s truck isn’t there, and you silently cheer as you grab all the bags from your trunk. Everything makes it inside in one trip, but your heart drops to the floor when you hear the garage door open just as you start unloading the groceries.

Two minutes, I just need two minutes.

You try to quickly sort everything out of the bags, but you’re unfocused. Joe will walk through the door at any moment, likely looking like sex on legs, grabbing, rubbing, touching. And that will be trouble. The anticipation is killing you, causing you to fumble over your items.

Only a few of the refrigerated items have gone into their proper place when Joe saunters into the kitchen, his post-workout pump doing wonders for his physique. His hair is only slightly damp from the shower that he took at the facility, but his clean, yet buff look is doing ridiculous things to your heartrate–and your heated core.

I can’t look at him.

His knowing bright blue eyes meet yours for a quick, burning second, and you quickly turn back to the milk carton you were about to transport.

You feel him coming before you see him coming. A calm, but dangerous presence radiating behind you, spiking your pulse and reminding you of the heat between your legs that only he can satisfy. The fresh scent of his clean, woody shampoo invades your senses as he steps closer, his front brushing your back. A light musk is there too, residue from his hard work in the weight room this morning. Did he hit arms today? You wonder, noticing the fresh veins bulging across his biceps and forearms when he walked in. Or he could’ve been at the squat rack, his thighs look especially sculpted in those short, tight bottoms. No matter, you know he’ll still be able to throw you around like he always does, never giving you time to catch your breath before he has his way with you. Unrelenting. No mercy.

And he’s right behind you. On the prowl. Luring you in.

Two hands appear on the counter on either side of you, trapping you helplessly between the granite and Joe’s body. Unwillingly, your hands shake as you put the carton of milk down, and a shaky sigh escapes you. You know exactly where this is headed.

Joe’s head falls into your shoulder, and he lets his hot breath fan over the exposed skin before planting hot, lazy open mouthed kisses to your neck and shoulder. Just this feels so good you could cry, the haze in your mind clouding your vision and causing you to dip your head back to rest on his shoulder. One warm palm comes up from the counter to flatten against the front of your hip, Joe’s long fingertips stretching all the way to the front of your pelvis. You grip the cold, condensing milk carton like a vice. It’s dripping. He pushes you back firmly, pressing your back flush to his front, and you feel all of him. The two of you slot together perfectly, a massive, scorching, solid man, and his melting, shaking girl who’s desperate to be fucked by him like he means it.

Oh, god.

“W- We have to get the food in the fridge Joe,” you utter, swallowing down a moan. “It’ll go bad.”

“I’m working on something,” Joe mutters between kisses, flattening his tongue against your throat before latching back on with his mouth. “Wanna take my time with you before camp.” He inches the hand on your hip dangerously lower, brushing his fingers over your clothed clit in a tease. Electricity shoots up your spine, and the combination of his invasive mouth smothering your neck and his brick-like body pressing against you causes your body to twitch.

“I know,” you gasp, sounding weak and whiny. “Two minutes, please.”

“Please?” Joe mocks, a short laugh bursting out. His left hand curls some of your hair behind your ear, and his right lingers over your heat again, squeezing every bit of your desperation to the surface. Such a fucking tease. And he knows I’m dying. “You really are a wreck today. I’ve barely touched you, baby, and you can’t say no?”

“I just need–”

“No, I know what you need,” Joe cuts you off, cupping your crotch fully and pushing you back until your ass digs into his hard on, and the heel of his palm digs into your clit. You’re seeing spots. “And lately you need it all fucking day.”

Condensation from the milk drips down your fingers, and you try to focus on that feeling to get yourself out of this very compromising situation. He’s right. You need this. But your stubborn mind is still dead set on the tasks at hand, and you’re not ready to give up. The pool room. I need to dust off the pool room. Maybe if you take a breather in there you can come back to handle groceries.

It physically pains you to duck and slide out of Joe’s grasp, but you manage. “I’ll be so quick Joe, I promise,” you call out shakily as you haphazardly stalk towards the pool room, feeling like you could fall over out of dizziness. You’re blinking, shaking your head as you hastily pick up random billiards sticks that are strewn about the space. You didn’t even remember to grab the damn duster.

You can hear Joe strolling up, but you can’t bear to face him yet. He’ll have you helpless in seconds. But just the thought of him reminds you of the Fourth of July, both of you high as kites and horny as ever while he taught you how to play…

You follow Joe’s push, feeling him bend over with you and move one hand from your hip to rest over yours on the table. His chest ghosts over your back, and you can feel his breath on your ear, sending waves of heat down to your core. His musky scent mixed with the smell of smoke and the airy feeling in your chest is intoxicating, overtaking your entire brain and making you dizzy, the balls on the table in front of you now feeling like they’re wobbling back and forth.

“Now concentrate,” Joe says lowly in your ear. You feel the vibration of his stomach on your back, and feel your chest start to rise and fall underneath him. “Focus.” He commands, letting his lips brush your ear. He’s everywhere, and you realize you want him to just pull both of your pants down and fuck you right now, over the pool table.

Your heart starts thudding against your ribcage again, and you shoot a hand out onto the wooden edge of the red carpeted table to steady yourself. Footsteps pad behind you, and all you’re thinking about is Joe’s skilled hands guiding yours over a slick wooden stick, his breath hot in your ear as he tells you to “Focus.”

A dark, calm rumbling comes from behind you. “Stop running from me,” Joe says, like it’s a command.

“I’m trying to be productive,” you counter, but your tone has no bite. A light scoff fills the air as Joe enters your peripheral for a short moment, a long, slender finger coming down towards the edge of the table. He has a bright, mischievous glint in his eye as you watch, hopelessly, as he drags that finger along the corner, his methodical movements causing your cunt to clench. Your thoughts are only heat. Skin on skin. Your stomach pressed into the soft carpet. Joe’s hand pressing against you like a tramp stamp. Joe slowly glides to be behind you, and you know you’ve lost.

“Remember last time we were in here together?” Joe asks thoughtfully, his voice right at the back of your neck. His left hand goes to your hip, while the other plants itself on that delicious spot on your back, and starts to push. You’re breathless, feeling like you’re seeing stars as you slowly sink down until you’re face down, ass up, completely folded over the table. Joe observes you for a tense moment, completely at his mercy, and a light chuckle echoes in the room before he crouches over you to bring his lips to your exposed cheek. “Think I had you just like this,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, feeling the friction of your cheek brushing against the soft fabric of the table. Every nerve ending is on fire, and you’re sure there’s a wet spot on your Skims cotton lounge shorts that Joe has an amazing view of. You feel so exposed to him. But you don’t care. You’ve been needing this all fucking day.

Joe retreats back to standing, and the hand on your back moves down to your ass, pulling your shorts and panties off in one go and letting them fall to the floor. Joe slides his cool middle finger over your slit, slowly stroking your clit with ease. With how wet you are, his fingers maneuver easily, pushing choked moans out of you as he rubs you. “It’s okay, baby. To feel like this. To need me all the time,” he consoles you softly, building you up for a few more strokes until he slides one long digit into your aching entrance. Every moment feels like exactly what you’ve been needing, and you already feel yourself trying to hold back. You bring a shaking hand up to cover your sobs, and Joe responds with a hearty laugh and a tsk. “Already? I did this on purpose, y’know? I mean, at first I just needed you, too. Gotta make up for all the time we’re gonna lose next month.”

Joe pushes in another finger, and the stretch just feels so good now, you can’t imagine how his cock is going to feel with you like this. Your choked moans start to turn into high pitched whines, so Joe takes his other hand and grabs your wrist for a moment, as a warning. He lets you go, but you know what he wants, and you’ll obey. You can’t tell which way is up and which way is down anymore from your position on the pool table, and the fact that Joe’s fingers are starting to curl faster. “But then I watched you get needier, and needier…you know I love you like that. So I kept going…” Curl. “...and going…” Shove. “...and going.” Thrust. “And now look at you. Bending over my pool table for me.”

He had planned this all along. Wanted to watch you suffer, find a way to make you absolutely obsessed with him. Needy, obedient and pliable. Joe removes his fingers completely, and you clench around nothing. You gasp, tears pricking your eyes at the loss of contact, until Joe leans forward again and asks a question in a simple, dark tone. “Do you want me to fuck you over my pool table?”

“Yes,” you moan. More than anything.

Before you can blink, you feel Joe’s tip at your entrance, and brace yourself. In one fell swoop he plows into you, filling you to the hilt. A loud yelp falls from your lips, but you don’t dare to cover your mouth again. Your hands are too busy flailing for something to hold onto anyways as Joe brings both hands to your hips and fucks you hard. “That’s all you have to do, baby. And don’t run from me,” he growls, using one hand to pull your hips up higher so he can get even deeper. “Holy shit you feel so good.”

“So-o good…” you trail off deliriously, your brows knitting together and mouth hanging open. Each thrust explodes inside you like a firecracker, overwhelming you until there’s nothing to think about but him.

“I’m always here to give it to you, baby,” Joe coos, his voice shaking with effort and pleasure. “Never forget that. Any time, any place, in every way. I’m yours, and you are mine.” He rams into you hard at the end causing you to whimper. “Aren’t you so glad I got you addicted? So used to being fucked by me every single time I need it? Every time you need it?” His voice is sweet, the contrast of his words and his brutal actions allowing you to swim in a beautiful cocktail of praise and degradation. You’re on the brink of exploding, panting out moans and nodding along to every word. He’s right. You’re always going to be a mess for him. “And now you’re always ready for me. Sensitive, dripping, and aching. So perfect.” You hear Joe’s voice start to crack, his vocal fry indicating he’s just as fucked out as you are. Just as addicted, just as desperate, just as helpless.

You’re both going to be fucked when camp starts.

“Fuck,” you cry out. “I’m always like this for you Joey. Only you.” Only ever him. “Make me feel so good–” You’re cut off by a particularly hard thrust that sends your hips digging into the edge of the table, pain and pleasure burning up your body.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry sweetheart,” Joe chokes out, but he just keeps rutting into you, trying to adjust the position of your hips. You end up gasping out, the combination of the sharp sensations lighting your body on fire. Drool pools in your parted mouth and drops onto the red carpet. “You just feel so good I can’t help myself,” he whines desperately, and the bruising on your hips turns into a vice you’re gripping onto to stay conscious.

“I’m gonna–”

“Cum with me angel.”

Your orgasm hits like a laser, every pleasure point in your body igniting and boiling your blood. You’re clamping down on Joe so hard you’re milking him, his hot ropes of cum in your cunt only intensifying the shivering satisfaction twitching in your chest. Neither of you let up for a solid minute, riding out wave after wave of the aftershocks until you’re left panting and delirious.

Your vision is still blurry when Joe cups a hand on your shoulder, gently pulling your body back upright with his. A light kiss is pressed on the cheek with a little rug burn, and your heart flutters as you start to cozy up against his back again. He slides his hand from your shoulder over your throat, and a new blush starts to fill your cheeks.

“Maybe that’ll hold you over til tonight,” Joe murmurs lowly, his lips brushing against your ear. You laugh breathlessly, even though your heart is already thudding again at his new hand placement.

“You think?”

“Well, I never know with you anymore.”

[iosivb9]

no thoughts head empty…

just what it would be like to sit on joes face for the first time 😩

THIS IS KILLING MEEEEEE. so yes, i WILL write a blurb 🙂‍↕️ (eventually I’ll write a full on fic just give me a second)

warnings: SMUTTTTT

Her thighs straddle his hips. She’s bent over him, kissing up and down the column of his neck. The room is thick, stale with the musk of their sex. Joe’s curls stick to his forehead, soft breaths leaving his puffy, pink lips.

His hands rest on her thighs, roaming her skin, feeling her quads under the callouses of his hands. He dares himself to travel higher, his thumbs gracing the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

It’s then that a thought hits him. It makes his breath catch, his cock twitch. It makes his mouth water.

“Baby,” he rasps, catching her attention. She pulls her head out of his neck, a glow on her face and a fog in her eyes. It only makes the ache worsen.

“Yeah?” she hums. She can see something churning behind his blue eyes, an idea, a thought. His fingers tell her before his mouth does, his touch inching closer to her pussy.

She knew what he wanted.

Her hands guide his body down. Her body shuffles upwards, and his eyes are blown with curiosity and arousal. The tension between them buzzes, electrifying them as she settles her hips right above his lips.

And he has perfect view of her slick, puffy pussy.

She eases her hips forwards, and Joe’s hands hold onto her waist. They’ve never done this before, but somehow, she knew he wanted it. Or maybe she’s dreamt of it too.

Joe’s lips connect with her folds, his tongue delicately flicking between the slick skin. His eyes never leave hers, his pupils blown with desire. He looks like an infant suckling on his mother’s breast, eating all that he could.

“That’s it,” she praises, digging her fingers into his damp curls. It eggs him on, keeps the fire inside him ignited. Her hips slowly grind against him, the slow, sensual friction sending fresh sparks up her spine. She watches him, watches how his eyelashes flutter, as his nose bumps her clit with every pass of his mouth.

“Mm fuck,” she curses, keeping her hips lowered onto his mouth. He’s growing desperate, his hands squeezing her waist as his tongue delves deeper. He closes his eyes, soft moans leaving his throat as his tongue swirls and tastes.

He doesn’t know what to feel. There aren’t any thoughts in his head. There aren’t any sounds in his ears other than the soft squish of her pussy against his tongue. He’s drunk, loose and placid with the taste of her running through his veins.

His lips close around her clit, massaging the bulb with his tongue. She’s still so sensitive, and every press of his tongue pulls sinful mewls from her lips. He presses on, he knows she’s close. He can feel it.

So when her orgasm hits her, he sees it. Her pussy convulses, hot, thick cum pouring down his throat and covering his lips. He laps her up, even as her thighs shake, even as her hands hold herself against the headboard.

When she finally calms, the remnants of her orgasm fading away, she looks down at him. He’s painted with her. Nose and lips sticky with her release, his eyes hazy and droopy from how drunk he was. He was a sight to behold.

“We’re doing that again,” he murmurs, voice raspy and thick. He brings her back down with shaking arms, slotting his lips against hers. She can taste herself; bittersweet. She moans, grinding herself against him.

“Fuck yes we are,” she murmurs into his mouth, her body charged with a new battery of adrenaline.

[iosivb9]

CASUAL, JOE BURROW

pairing: cocky!LSU!Joe Burrow x bestfriend!reader

summary: friends with benefits, jealousy, playful tension, emotional denial, +18 smut, dom!Joe, jealousy, possessiveness, rough language, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (fictional), undefined relationship.

description: you’re in Joe’s room, wearing one of his oversized shirts like a shield, while he rolls a blunt with the same cocky confidence that’s kept you both tangled in this messy, no-label relationship. When you drop a casual comment about smoking with someone else, Joe’s jealousy snaps to the surface, and suddenly, what was supposed to be a chill night turns into a game of reckless truths.

n/a: this goes to my girl @yelenasbraid with a 2nd person view 🥳🥳 hope you like babe!

The TV’s on, but muted. Some boring-ass documentary Joe isn’t even pretending to watch. Music drips from the Bluetooth speaker on the shelf, bass-heavy and lazy, and you’re stretched across his bed, wearing just one of his old LSU shirts and a thong. Legs bare, hair messy, body warm from whatever comfort being near him gives you. That soft, annoying haze that always comes from staying here too long.

He’s on the edge of the bed, shirtless in grey sweats, rolling a blunt like it’s a sacred art. Focused. Cocky. Unbothered.

You watch his hands move, slow and practiced, and smirk. “You always take this long, or is it just for show?”

Joe doesn’t look up. “You talk too much.”

“You roll too slow.”

His jaw twitches. “That’s ‘cause I actually know what I’m doing. This ain’t no freshman party blunt. You’ll thank me when you’re not coughing your lungs out.”

You roll to your side, grinning. “I won’t cough, silly.”

That makes him glance up, eyes narrowed. “You will, you don’t have the tricks.”

“I’ve done it before.”

That freezes him.

Fingers pause mid-roll. The paper’s still between his thumbs. He lifts his head and looks at you, slow and sharp. “…What?”

“I said I’ve done it before.”

Beat. Tension. Silence.

“You told me you hadn’t.”

You shrug, eyes on his hands.“ I told you anything, you just assumed.”

He sits back slightly, jaw clenching. “With who?”

You laugh. It’s forced. “Does it matter?” His gaze doesn’t budge. That arrogance? It’s pouring off him now like smoke. Cold, pissed, burning.

He licks the edge of the blunt, seals it clean, and flicks his lighter once. Flame. Silence. “Yeah,” he says low. “It matters.”

“You jealous?”

“No,” he snaps. Too fast. “Just wondering which dumbass I need to thank for teaching you how to lie.”

You groan, tossing your head back. “Jesus, it wasn’t that deep. It was one time, Joseph. With a guy at a party. A year ago. I didn’t even like it.”

Joe lights the blunt and leans back on one arm, eyes never leaving yours.”So why lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

He takes a drag. Exhales slowly. “You kept it to yourself. Same shit.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. You’re not sure what to say, and he clocks it.

His eyes narrow. “Let me guess. You were wearing some other guy’s hoodie, too, huh? Sitting in his lap, laughing all cute while he passed you the blunt like he owned your night?”

Your stomach twists. “What the fuck is your problem?”

His answer is immediate. “You. You’re my fucking problem.”

Your breath stutters.

He leans in closer, blunt still burning in his fingers.

“You come over here,” he says, “wearing my shirt, climbing in my bed like you belong to me — but apparently someone else already got the version of you I should’ve had first.”

“Joe, that’s bullshit.”

“No. Don’t ‘Joe’ me,” he snaps. “You think I like the idea of you high with some random asshole who probably couldn’t even roll right?”

You whisper, “I doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” His voice is rough, possessive. “You’re not my girl, but when you’re here? You’re mine. You fucking know that.”

Your pulse races. He can see it. You know he can.

He stubs the blunt out in the ashtray, climbs back onto the bed, and drags his eyes down your body like you’re something he’s deciding whether or not to ruin.

His hand hooks around your ankle, pulling you closer. You gasp. “You like playing that game with me? Pissing me off? Making me jealous?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper.

He smirks.“Bullshit.”

Joe leans in, lips brushing your jaw, hot and heavy. “You think he got you high like I do?” he breathes. “Think he got you this soft? This fucked out? This needy?”

“Joe—”

“Nah. He didn’t. I can promise you that.”

You stare at him, blinking hard, heartbeat too loud.

He kisses your neck, slow and deliberate. A threat. A promise.“I don’t like it when you do shit like that with other guys, Y/N,” he says again. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

Because you already know you like it.

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

Joe moves like the question was rhetorical — like your body already gave him the answer with the way you're breathing, legs parted under his shirt, thighs warm and tight like they’re hiding something he already owns.

He slides his hand up, rough palm dragging over your skin like a threat.

“Joe—”

“Nah,” he cuts you off, voice low and cold. “You don’t get to talk right now.”

He presses your thighs apart and kneels between them, his fingers wrapping around the inside of your leg — that same hand he throws touchdowns with, big and warm and confident.

You gasp as he drags your shirt up and sees that you’re not wearing anything underneath.

He freezes for half a second, jaw twitching. Then: “Of course you didn’t,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You came here ready to be fucked.”

You burn under his stare. But it’s not shame,it’s need. Bad, messy, greedy need.

His mouth drops to the inside of your thigh, and he kisses you there like it’s punishment. You twitch, breath catching as his teeth graze your skin.

He laughs under his breath, low and smug.

“You see what you’re doing?” he mutters, licking a stripe higher. “Making me jealous, Y/N. I don’t do Jealous.”

You try to speak, but your voice cracks. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t care.” He drags his lips higher, toward the ache between your thighs, and you gasp harder. “You’re gonna learn tonight that none of that shit matters anymore.”

Then he presses his tongue flat against you, slow, firm, devastating.

Your whole body arches.

Joe moans when you gasp. Like he needs to hear it. Like he’s been starved for it.

“That’s right,” he murmurs against your skin. “Be loud. I want you to feel this.”

His hands pin your hips down, fingers digging in as his mouth works you open. He’s messy with it — confident, cocky — like he knows no one else has ever made you fall apart this fast. He takes his time, licking you slow, then fast, then slow again, until you’re writhing under him and your fingers are locked in his hair.

You moan his name. Loud. Needy.

“Yeah,” he groans. “Say it again.”

You do.

Again and again, until your thighs shake and you can barely breathe.

“You gonna come already?” he asks, voice rough, eyes dark and wet and locked on yours. “So desperate for me you can’t hold back?”

You nod, whimpering. “Please—”

“Then give it to me.”

And you do.

You come hard, body clenching around nothing, your back arching off the bed as you cry out. You were trying to hold for when Joe fucked you, but keeping things for Joe Burrow; the narcissistic, toxic and cockiest person that you know for too long was almost impossible.

Joe stays there the whole time — tongue still working, hands still holding you down, dragging every ounce of pleasure from you until you’re trembling.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet, his jaw tight, and his smirk is unbearable.

“Fucking knew it,” he says. “Knew you couldn’t take it without falling apart.”

You try to catch your breath, but you don’t get long.

Joe climbs over you again, pressing his weight between your thighs. You feel how hard he is through his sweats, and your stomach tightens.

He pulls them down just enough to free himself — thick, hard, dripping at the tip.

“You want this?” he asks, dragging the head of his cock along your slit. You go crazy.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Tell me.”

“I want you, Joe.”

“That’s right.”

And then he pushes in.

You gasp. He’s big, and you’re still sensitive, and your nails dig into his shoulders as he fills you to the hilt.

“Jesus,” he groans, pausing once he’s fully inside. “You feel that? This is what happens when you lie to me. When you make me jealous. You get fucked like this.”

He starts to move. Hard. Deep. Every thrust timed to the pulse in your core. He grabs your jaw in one hand, the other braced beside your head.

“You gonna let anyone else touch you like this again?”

You shake your head.

“Say it.”

“No. Just you.”

“Good fucking girl.”

He fucks you harder — not for sweetness, not for love — but to prove a point. To own you. To erase any memory of any guy before him. He doesn’t need much. For years, the only guy in your mind was Joe. Your best friend, fuckbudy, the guy that pisses you of all the times. That’s Joe for you.

His hand wraps lightly around your throat. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to hold you still.

“You like that?” he growls.

“Yes—God, yes.”

“Then take it. Take all of me.”

You’re close again. You can feel it.

And he knows.

He watches you fall apart — watches your eyes roll, your legs tremble, your mouth fall open — and when you come around him a second time, he grits his teeth and fucks you through it.

“That’s my pussy,” he mutters. “Fucking made for me.”

It doesn’t take him long after that.

Joe groans deep in his chest, thrusts once more, and comes inside you hard. Warm, thick and full, his body pressed against yours like he wants to leave a mark.

When he pulls out, he grabs your thigh and gives it a possessive squeeze. Then he leans in and kisses you — not sweet, not gentle — but deep and consuming.

“You’re fucking made for me.” he breathes against your lips.

You nod, dazed. “I know.”

He smirks. “Good.”

Because that’s what this is.

No labels.

No rules.

Just Joe.

And the way he makes you feel like you belong to him, every time.

[iosivb9]

imagine giving joe a hickey.

author's note⠀⁎⠀requested by @lovelyburrow, some sub!joe undertones (my bad)

Joe was always very selective about PDA. He liked to keep his relationship with you private. It was something sacred to him, not to be shared with the prying eyes of the public or his even teammates. So, when he felt the warmth of your lips on his neck the night before, he didn't think much of it. He had no idea the kisses and nips to his neck would lead him to this.

He entered the hotel conference room, finding Ja'Marr sitting alone as players and coaches began to file in. Sam soon joined them, plopping down next to Joe with an smoothie in hand. The room filled with the low hum of male voices and the occasional burst of laughter as the Bearcats game from that afternoon replayed on the TV screens around the room.

Ja'Marr leaned over, peering at Joe's neck. "Yo, what's that on your neck?" He pointed to his neck, his eyes squinting at the sight before him.

Joe's hand shot up to cover the spot. "What are you talking about?"

"You've got a hickey the size of a quarter, bro," Sam said, his eyes wide as he brought a fist up to cover his mouth, his shoulders shaking with a deep laugh. Ja'Marr's laugh boomed through the room as Joe's eyebrows furrowed, a blush creeping up his neck. He glanced around, hoping no one else had noticed.

"What?" Joe murmured, self-consciously touching the spot.

"Come on, Joe, let's see," Ja'Marr prodded, reaching for his phone to snap a picture.

Joe slapped his hand away, "Fuck no. You're not putting that anywhere," he hissed, his cheeks burning.

Sam leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Looks like someone had a good night."

"Or a good morning," Ja'Marr piped up, still chuckling. "Did your girl sneak in before you came down?"

Joe sighed flipping his camera to selfie mode, dropping his hand, and turning his head to show the offending spot. It was definitely a hickey, a dark, round bruise that stood out against his skin. "No," he muttered, "It's from last night."

Sam leaned in to get a better look. "Damn, she wasn't playing around." He took a sip of his smoothie, pulling back with a smirk when Joe sent him a glare.

Ja'Marr chuckled. "You ain't have to stunt on us like this. Good for you, Joey B."

Joe silently thanked the heavens when Zac stood up at the front of the room, calling for the team's attention. The teasing subsided, but the guys couldn't resist throwing a few more jabs under their breath as they turned their focus to their coach. The meeting dragged on, Joe's thoughts consumed by the unwelcome brand on his neck.

Later that evening, Joe fell back against the crisp hotel sheets. His mind was racing with thoughts of how to cover the hickey before the game tomorrow. He picked up his phone and called you, hoping you would have some kind of ingenious solution. Your face filled the screen, your tired smile brightening at the sight of him.

"Hey, babe," you said, your voice warm and unassuming. "How's the hotel?"

"It's fine," Joe replied, his tone flat. He felt his annoyance rise as he thought about the hickey. "But I've got a problem." He turned his head slightly, showing you the reddish blemish that was beginning to purple around the outer edges.

Your eyes lit up with amusement. "Oh," you giggled. "Is that from last night?"

Joe rolled his eyes. "Yes, it is, and it's not funny."

You couldn't help but laugh, your eyes sparkling. "Well, you never told me to take it easy," you said, your voice teasing. "I got a little carried away. That's not a crime."

Joe felt his own smile tugging at his lips despite his embarrassment. "It's not funny," he said, trying to keep his tone serious, but failing. "What am I gonna do?"

Your laughter subsided, your expression turning thoughtful. "Makeup?" you suggested. "You can get some concealer to cover it up before the game."

"Makeup?" Joe echoed, his disbelief clear. "You want me to wear makeup?"

Your smile grew. "Well, not exactly. You don't have to go full glam. Just a little dab of concealer to even out the skin tone."

Joe groaned, rubbing a hand through his damp hair with a scowl. "Where am I gonna get makeup from? Won't it melt off from the sweat anyway?"

Your eyes danced with amusement. "Well, I guess you gotta own it, Burrow. Maybe it'll be your new good luck charm," you said, leaning closer to the camera to kiss the screen. "From me to you."

Joe couldn't argue with your logic, though the thought of walking onto the field with a glaring hickey didn't sit well with his image. He sighed, nodding. "Alright, I'll figure it out. Thanks for the support," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Anytime," you said, your laughter bubbling up again. "Good luck tomorrow. Love you."

Joe couldn't help but smile back. "Love you too." He ended the call, feeling a bit more at ease despite the looming embarrassment of tomorrow. He decided to take your advice and own the hickey. It was a small price to pay for how down bad he was for you. Plus, he had to admit, the idea of you leaving your mark on him was kind of hot.

His confidence lasted until the next afternoon, when Joe found himself in the locker room, surrounded by his teammates and their knowing glances. He felt like he had a neon sign pointing at his neck. The guys didn't let up, making hushed comments and sharing smirks every time he looked their way. It was clear that the news had spread through the team like wildfire. Joe tried to ignore them, focusing on his preparations for the game. But as he pulled on his jersey, the fabric brushed against the tender spot, a stark reminder of his predicament.

He stepped onto the field for warm-ups, the cool air hitting his bare neck. The stadium lights seemed to highlight the hickey even more. Joe felt his jaw clench and his face grow hot, but he forced a straight face as he threw the ball around. He had a game to play, a job to do, and he wasn't about to let a little thing like a hickey throw him off his game.

By the time he returned home that night, a win tucked under his belt, Joe was exhausted. He was looking forward to cuddling with you and forgetting about the long weekend. But the moment he walked through the door, you were trying to suppress your amusement, your eyes dancing every time you looked at him.

"Okay," Joe sighed, his chest deflating beneath your head as he exhaled deeply. "What are you smiling about?"

You couldn't hold it in any longer, bursting into a fit of giggles. "You looked so grumpy all game," you exclaimed, poking his chest playfully. "You were trending on Twitter again."

Joe groaned, his hand sliding from his neck to his face. "I know," he said, his voice muffled by his palm. "Couldn't believe it when Sam told me."

You sat up, your laughter fading into a gentle smile as you reached over to trace the hickey with your finger. "You looked like a spoiled toddler," you said, your eyes sparkling with affection. "It's kind of cute, you know."

Joe rolled his eyes, his irritation from the day melting away. "Cute is not the word I would've chosen," he muttered, but he couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I can't believe you did this to me. Destroyed my neck like a chew toy."

You leaned in to kiss him, your eyes gleaming with mischief. "Could've stopped me," you whispered, your breath warm against his skin. "But you didn't."

Joe chuckled despite his feigned annoyance. "I guess I was a little preoccupied," he admitted, his voice low.

"A little?" you teased, your eyes twinkling. "I think you liked being my chew toy."

Joe's cheeks flushed, and he couldn't help but laugh. "Okay," he conceded. "Maybe a little."

You leaned back, your expression satisfied. "So, you're not mad at me?"

Joe sighed, his annoyance giving way to a fond smile. "Mad? Nah, I can't be mad at you," he said, pulling you closer. "It's just, you know how I feel about PDA. It's all over the internet now."

You shrugged, kissing away his pout. "Well, at least your fangirls know you're taken," you said, planting another kiss on the bruised spot.

Joe grimaced, but couldn't help but feel a warmth spread through him at your touch. "Very funny," he said, his tone laced with affection.

"You have a pretty neck," you whispered playfully, your hand moving to his neck again as your eyes darted over his skin as if examining where you could stake your claim next. "You want another one?"

Joe rolled his eyes but didn't stop you. Your touch was gentle and loving, a welcome contrast from the rough teasing from his teammates. "Just don't make it any bigger," he said, his voice a mix of exasperation and resignation.

[iosivb9]

JOE BURROW / is it not obvious?

summary / ja’marr didn’t mean for his two best friends to actually get together, but he’d rather pull his own eyes out than watch them dance around each other.

warnings / fem!reader, oblivious!reader, best friends to lovers, fluff, some angst, suggestive themes

note / FOR MY BABES @irishmanwhore BC ITS HER BDAYYYY hope you like it <3

tags / @starsinthesky5 @hannahjessica113 @iosivb9 @softburrow @burrowdarling @jburrgf @joeyburrrow @joeyfranchise @joecoolburrow @justhereforthetea200 @hotburreaux @joeyb1989 @ebsmind @wickedfun9 @sportyphile @willowsnook (comment/send an ask if you want to be added!)

Fall 2019

The air was sticky. The breeze that blew over the Bayou came from the gulf, and it wasn’t the kind of breeze that people wished for. It was a hot breath, a wet lick from a dog that no one asked for.

It was September, so why the hell was it so hot?

“You comin’ tonight?” Ja’Marr Chase plopped down beside her at the library. She was always studying, always busying herself away with a pen. It was too hot to study outside like she wanted.

“Where?” she asked, flicking her eyes up to meet his. They’ve known each other for years, ever since they were in middle school. They moved up to high school together, and when Ja’Marr started acting like he was the shit, she was there to shut him down.

He needed that.

“There’s a party tonight,” he started, putting up both pointer fingers when she gave him a look, “and before you lose your shit, I’m only inviting you because I want you to meet someone,”

“Oh God, you’re not setting me up are you? I’m not dating one of your football bros,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. She knew of the guys Ja’Marr played with. Talented, but cocky. They got around. They were worshipped.

It rubbed her the wrong way.

“Bruh, like he’s not like that. Trust me. He’s different,” Ja’Marr swore up and down. He knew Joe wasn’t like what she pictured. He was nerdy. Quiet. But damn was he good at football.

Just her type.

“Whatever,” she groaned, “what time and where?”

“Are you serious?” Ja’Marr lit up, sitting up in his seat. He couldn’t believe it.

“Spit it out before I change my mind,” she sighed, “and I swear if you abandon me, I’m gonna tell the entire football team why you missed practice last week,”

“Okay okay I swear, I won’t abandon you,” he held up his pinky finger, a pinky swear. The two of them took them seriously. She hooked her pinky around his, giving a small squeeze.

“It’s at Josh’s place, 7pm,” He texted her the address. Ja’Marr knew parties weren’t her thing. They weren’t Joe’s either. Perfect.

“This better be good,”

Josh’s place

The music was loud. It shook the walls, vibrated through her chest. She clung to her shoulder bag, which held her keys, lip gloss, lotion, and a tampon. She was due any day.

Her eyes flicked across the venue. It reeked of sweat and alcohol, the occasional whiff of weed blasted her nostrils, making her curl in on herself. If they were gonna smoke at least make it the good shit.

“There she is!” Ja’Marr’s voice carried over the crowd, and a few eyes turned towards her. She couldn’t beat the dating allegations with Ja’Marr, even when he very clearly had a girl on his arm.

He walked over to her, the alcohol already pumping through his blood. She could smell it on his breath. She was already overstimulated and she’d just walked through the door.

“Aight down to business,” Ja’Marr slung an arm over her shoulders, walking her back towards his friends. She recognized a few of them, Justin Jefferson being one of them.

Joe Burrow being another.

“Y/N, you’ve met JJ,” Ja’Marr nodded to Justin, who gave a smile and a wave, “and this is Joe. Our fearless leader,”

The boy in question laughed. His cheeks were flushed, and a half-finished cup of beer sat between his fingers. He didn’t look drunk, then again, she wasn’t too good at deciphering that.

“Just Joe is fine,” Joe gave her an award-winning smile. He’d heard a lot about her. Smart. Witty. Stubborn as an ass. Ja’Marr didn’t mention beautiful. He didn’t mention how her eyes sparkled when they caught one of the strobe lights that Josh messily put up. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and suddenly his palms were sweaty.

He wasn’t that great with women.

“Alright Just Joe,” she grinned, “Y/N,”

He offered her his hand. She took it and gave it a firm shake. She didn’t know what that single handshake would do for their future.

Summer 2022

The sun was warm. It kissed the ground. It made the air thick and undesirable, but perfect for a pool day.

“Give me that!” Joe grunted, rounding around the island in his kitchen. He had his friends over, particularly his core four. Justin came up to visit them for the weekend, and she already lived in Ohio. Columbus, to be exact. They just wished that Justin hadn’t been drafted to the Vikings. To keep the gang together.

It felt better when it was the four of them.

“No! You’re being an asshole!” She accused him, holding onto his hoodie. One she stole, of course. It smelled like him, reminded her of how she got to see him every weekend since he got drafted. It made her heart race and her mind fill with dreams.

He didn’t know that.

“How am I being an asshole?” Joe lunged for her, only to have her dodge him. This game of cat and mouse had been happening for about 5 minutes while Ja’Marr and Justin made drinks.

“You finished our lego set, that you promised we’d do together, without me!” She tried to hold a laugh back. He’d gotten bigger, somehow. The muscles in his body were toned, making him look taller and wider. It sucked her in.

Joe was honed in on her. Her fingers clutched his hoodie like a lifeline, her eyes sparkling with a sense of mischief. Beautiful. Adorable. It made his heart skip a beat. She was his world and didn’t even know it. He’d bring the sun down to her just to see her face glow like this everyday.

“Oh come on,” he groaned, finally catching her, his arms wrapping around her middle, “you’re being dramatic,”

“Let go of me!” She laughed. He did the opposite. He picked her up, marched her towards his back door. She wiggled in his grasp, breathless giggles leaving her lips as he opened the door with one hand. The heat blasted them, but Joe didn’t care. He knew where he was going.

“Think you need a dunk,”

“No,” she squirmed, “no no no, Joseph, put me down,”

“No can do,” His voice is honey in her ears. For a moment, she focuses on his arms and how they’re secured around her. He’s strong, effortlessly carrying her around, even while she’s wiggling. It’s impressive, making her cheeks heat up. She can feel her heart rate increase in her chest.

Little does she know that Joe was also losing his damn mind. Every step he took he just wanted to keep her in his arms. Her skin was warm, and she was so close to him. Pressed against him like a perfect puzzle piece. He couldn’t help himself as he breathed against her neck, his nose brushing against the shell of her ear.

But before she could react, he tossed her into the pool. He grabbed the hoodie as she let it go, saving it from being soaked.

She, however, was soaked.

“Oh my God,” Justin laughed. She wiped the chlorine out of her eyes, ran her hands over her hair. She was freezing, and as much as she hated Joe for it, she couldn’t deny that his smile and laugh was contagious.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up, asshole,”

“You look like a soaked cat,” Joe laughed, his hands going over his stomach. She looked adorable, her hair soaked, her arms crossed over herself. He felt bad. He walked over, offering her his hand.

“Thanks,” she hummed, grabbing ahold of it. He knew something was up the moment she didn’t have a witty comeback. Her hand gripped his, but she tugged him into the pool with her.

He let her tug him into the pool.

He fell in, the cold water wrapping around him. His clothes uncomfortably stuck to his body as he surfaced, flicking his hair out of his face.

“Who’s the asshole now?” Joe splashed her, earning one of those award winning giggles from her. God she was beautiful. She held the sun in her skin and the stars in her eyes. She was his sun, and he orbited around her.

“Shut up,” she groaned, “now we’re both soaked. genius. That Master’s degree was for nothing,”

Joe only laughed. He knew she was joking. Not based off of words alone, but the way she looked at him. Like he was her towel to dry her off. The napkin to wipe her tears.

For a moment he believed that the world revolved around them. Around her. Maybe he had a shot with the girl who hated football players at first.

Ja’Marr got them towels, still relentlessly giggling over the fact that they both ended up in the pool fully clothed. What was even funnier was that Joe had obviously let her pull him in with her. Ja’Marr was shocked that she didn’t think Joe liked her.

Joe didn’t just like her. He’d fallen in love with her.

Joe wrapped a warm towel around her first. He wiped off her face, watched as she tucked herself into the soft fluff of the fabric. His fingers pushed her hair out of her face, lingering a millisecond longer on her cheek.

He wanted to take care of her. To make sure that even amidst the pranks, he’d still make her safety and her joy his priority. He didn’t know if he could survive without her smile or her presence.

They padded into his home, the cool AC brushing over her skin. She wrapped the towel tighter around her, following Joe up to his bedroom. He’d promised her with his expression that he’d make up for it. That he’d give her warm clothes and make sure she felt comfortable.

He opened his bedroom door, the familiar scent of his cologne filling her nostrils. She’s been in his bedroom plenty of times, taken naps on his soft, grey duvet. She’s worn his clothes and used his shower.

His home was as much hers as it was his. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Here,” he tugged at-shirt out of his luxury closet, flinging it at her. It’s an old LSU one. It smelled like him. The rustling of clothes fills the room, and he pulls out some boxers.

“So helpful,” she smirked, gently shaking her head.

“It’s no biggie,” he shrugged, “I just…do whatever I can to make you happy, and in this case it’s staying dry,” she might have been joking, but he wasn’t.

He’d do anything to see her smile.

The boxers were oddly intimate. Made his heart clench and his breath catch. He hesitated before he threw them at her, overwhelmed with the strength of his feelings for her. He closed his eyes, squeezing the fabric in his hands. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It was domestic. A wish for something he didn’t have.

Her.

“Joe? Am I just gonna walk around without pants on?” she called from his bedroom. He snapped back into it, tossing the boxers at her. The domestic image still stayed.

“Here,” he smirked, “you like that?”

“Weirdo,” she rolled her eyes. He laughed, shutting himself in his closet. He changed, stripping himself of his shirt and his shorts. He dried himself, changing into dry, comfy clothes.

“Didn’t say no,” he called from the closet.

“You’re a pervert,” she huffed as she started stripping, neatly keeping her clothes in the same pile.

“Only for you,” he called. He meant it, not the pervert part. But he was only anything for her. Happy. Smiling. A gentleman.

He stepped out, except she wasn’t done yet. She was still slipping the shirt over her body, her back to his eyes. Her skin was soft, glowing in soft sun of the room. He felt his breath catch, his teeth sinking into his lips.

No. He couldn’t look at her. He turned away from her, but his mind was still racing. His body ached to hold her, to touch her. His eyes locked in on the half-closed door of his closet. But he couldn’t stop thinking of her. She’d taken root. She’d sprouted a flower in his chest.

“Joe?” her voice cut through the air again. He squeezed his eyes shut. Then her hand touched his arm. Then she stood at his side, her eyes on his side profile. His skin twitched like he’d been shocked.

“I don’t think the closet door is that interesting,” she joked, her smile bright and warm. Joe snuck a look at her, her body dressed in his shirt and boxers. She looked like she was his.

And she wasn’t.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, gently moving out of her grasp so he didn’t make a stupid decision, “guess the door was a little too interesting,”

She chuckled, shaking her head at him. She didn’t notice how red his ears were. How the skin of his neck turned cherry red. She didn’t see how his pupils were so dilated he could get high off of just her presence.

So when she turned to go, he felt like a limb had been ripped from his body.

Winter 2023

It was cold. Snow was forecasted for that evening and into the next day. It was January, prime snow-time for Ohio.

Except Joe wouldn’t be playing in the snow.

He sat on his couch, watching as a game played on the screen. A game he was missing. He should be there. His heart ached to be with his team, to support them, to play. Jake was doing okay, doing stellar for picking up where Joe left off.

But Joe wanted to be playing. He wanted to be out there.

“Hey,” she hummed softly. She’d come over earlier that morning since he’d asked her to. He was lonely. He needed her.

“Here’s that gross, green drink you like,” she smiled softly, sitting next to him on his plush, grey couch. Joe smiled softly, taking the drink out of her hand with his left hand.

His right hand was still in a cast.

“Thanks,” he sighed, “it’s really not all that gross, you know,”

“It tastes like grass, Joey,” she smiled, sliding her body under the blanket he had across his body. He scooted closer to her, making sure she had enough blanket.

He leaned against her. Ever since his injury, he’s relied on her. She made the clouds disappear, she helped the sun come out when there wasn’t any in his head. He felt forgotten. Dejected.

But she never made him feel that way. He never felt alone with her. He didn’t feel lonely. She was all he needed.

“You should stay,” he murmured, “I may like being alone, but I feel lonely whenever you’re not here,”

She looked over at him. His eyes weren’t meeting hers. He stayed locked in on the screen. But she didn’t miss his words. She smiled softly, a blush forming on her cheeks.

“If it snows I’ll have to stay,”

“Then I’m praying it snows,”

Summer 2024

“Please tell me you’re joking,” she gaped at him. Joe was visiting her apartment, showing her photos from his fashion show in Paris. They were sat on her couch, her legs curled under her, eyes glued to his phone.

“What? Can’t believe I walked in a fashion show?” Joe smirked over at her. Her cheeks were flushed, the tips of her ears tinted the same shade of red. She was blushing.

“I just didn’t think you’d have your whole back out,” she told him. He looked good, really good. His hair was perfectly golden, his muscles rippling under his skin. She caught herself locking in on his muscles, on the way he held his fingers up. It was delicious, sparking unholy and intense images in her mind. She’d seen him shirtless before, but something about how much bigger he looked now made her pupils dilate.

“You’re drooling,” he pointed out, even though she wasn’t literally drooling. In her head? Yes, yes she was

“No, I’m astonished you’d wear those crusty bracelets,” she covered up. Joe didn’t believe her, not for one second. Maybe he showed her those pictures to her on purpose. Her reaction was priceless.

It was also exactly what it dreamt it would be.

“Oh come on,” he teased, shoving her shoulder, “you don’t think I look good?”

“I’d be feeding your ego,” she quipped back. Her eyes met his, and for a second there was something between them. A spark. Electricity. He felt it, he leaned into it.

But she cleared her throat and shifted away. His heart sunk.

She stood up, grabbing her empty water tumblr and walked into her kitchen. He wouldn’t like her. There’s no way. Joe was well, Joe. Soft eyes and gentle smiles, muscles and gentle touches. Girls fawned over him. There was no way that he’d like her.

“I’m gonna buzz my hair,” he blurted, more to get her attention again than anything.

“Shut the fuck up,” she turned to face him, her eyes wild and wide. Joe smirked, leaning back against her couch.

“Nah, I’m serious,” he shrugged, “need a little spice,”

“Okay, spicing up your life might mean getting another car or wearing something crazy. Buzzing your head? No,” she argued, screwing on the cap of her water tumblr. Joe couldn’t help but smile, enjoying this banter with her.

“Oh come on,” he smirked, “don’t wanna see me bald?”

“If you go bald I’m blocking you on every platform known to mankind,” she replied, making Joe’s jaw drop. He laughed as she came back over, sitting back down next to him.

“You wouldn’t,” he groaned.

“Try me, Joey,” she challenged.

So he did.

He showed up a week later to a dinner with her and his parents, she let her jaw slack. His head literally glowed. The warm lights of the restaurant didn’t dim the brightness of his head. He sat down, laughing as she kept her bewildered look.

“You’re so insane,” she laughed, shaking her head. She ran her hand over the buzz cut, letting the soft prickles of his short hair prickle her skin. It sent shivers down his spine, making his fingers and toes tingle.

“You said to try you,” he smirked, leaning back, “I see I’m not blocked yet,”

“Yet, Joseph,” she teased. She’d never block him. Not really. She couldn’t. Joe just laughed, keeping his eyes on her. She looked beautiful in this light. Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed. There wasn’t anyone else like her. Nothing compared to her. The sun dimmed in her presence and the moon glowed brighter.

The night went on. Laughter and fond memories filled the table. Joe’s arm rested across the back of her chair, a familiar gesture. It looked intimate, like the two of them were finally an item. Robin’s smirk reflected her thoughts.

“You two together yet?” Robin asked, taking a sip of her wine. Jimmy and Joe gave Robin a look, but she just shrugged. She shook her head, her fingers tapping against her wine glass.

“No,” she felt her cheeks heat up, “don’t think that’ll happen,”

Joe looked over at her. He was shocked. His eyes widened, his heart stuttered in his chest. Was she serious? Had he not been obvious enough?

“Why not?” Robin asked, seeing the look on her son’s face. Y/N, clearly, didn’t see it.

“Don’t know,” she shrugged, “I think he likes someone else,”

“Yeah, you,” Joe told her, chuckling awkwardly. She chuckled along with him, completely missing it. Joe exchanged a look with his mom, who shrugged. He thought he’d been clear with how he felt. He thought he’d been so blatantly obvious with how she made his heart slam against his ribcage. How she made his world tilt.

Winter 2025

A marvel movie played in the background. The scent of popcorn filled the living room, buttery and warm. They were wrapped in a blanket, curled against one another. She’s focused on the original Avengers movie. His eyes are there, too.

But his mind is on her.

The season was hard. It brought him down so low. He played the best he’s ever played and they still didn’t make the playoffs. She was there for all of it. Not once did she make him feel like he’d failed her. She was at every home game, supporting him everywhere she could.

“Cap always looks so good in this movie,” she sighed, “what did that girl say? He looks like a glazed donut?”

“What?” He laughed, finally flicking his eyes to her. She was in his hoodie, curled under the blanket. She looked so soft, so warm. She smelled of cherries and vanilla; home.

“Can’t a girl thirst over a fictional character?” she hummed. She settled against him, earning a laugh. He slung an arm over her shoulders, keeping her close to him. His fingers drummed on her arm, a dull touch that sent matched the rapid fire rate of her heart.

And his heart was also pounding in his chest. He needed to say something. He needed to tell her how he felt because she clearly didn’t get it yet.

“Y/N?” he spoke up, softly. His tone was different than it had been in the past. His palms were sweaty, his skin hot under his hoodie. His eyes flicked over her face as she looked over at him.

“Yeah?” she asked. She could see it in his eyes. The tension. The intense emotions. Something weighed on him.

Joe gathered his thoughts. The movie still played, the scenes dancing in her eyes. His breath caught in his chest, and suddenly he felt nervous. She was a supernova, a once in a lifetime experience that he wanted to capture. She was the definition of beautiful, of a star being born.

“I’ve not made it clear enough, have I,” he stated plainly. She swallowed, her eyebrows knitting together.

“What?” She asked, turning her body to face him. Joe’s heart pounded in his chest, straining against his ribs. He swore he was going to pass out.

“I don’t just say the flirty things I say because they’re funny,” he started, “I say them because I mean them. I don’t just get bored and ask for you to come over because no one else can. I want you to come over. I don’t like anyone else. I don’t have eyes for anyone else,”

Her eyes widen with every word. Each syllable punctuates against her chest, drilling in the realization that Joe had feelings for her. Her chest tightens, her lips part with uneven breaths. She doesn��t speak. He’s not done yet.

“You…you’re the sun in my solar system. The stars in my night sky. There’s only you, Y/N. Only you. I’m in love with you, I have been for a long time,” his voice cracked, his hands shook. He awaited her response, his eyes flicking desperately over her features.

She was rendered speechless. No one had ever told her that before. No one’s ever told her that she was the center of their universe. It made her eyes prickle and her chest tighten. She wasn’t just wanted, she was needed. She wasn’t sure if she’s felt this needed before. She didn’t expect to hear it from Joe.

“You’re not joking,” she swallowed, her voice small. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that he liked her. That he chose her above every model, above every other girl that wanted him. She was normal. There wasn’t anything special about her. Yet to Joe, she was more precious and more beautiful than the Hope Diamond.

“No,” he shook his head, “I’d never joke about that,”

His hand lifted. He cupped her cheek softly at first, silently asking if it was okay. His eyes drunk her in, all warmth and vanilla waves. He took a deep breath, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone. Her skin was soft, as he’d imagined it. Her eyelashes twitched, her eyebrows were still knitted together.

But she looked at his lips first.

The air around them buzzed. The world held its breath, waiting for the moment that everyone seemed to be waiting for.

“Can I kiss you?” Joe whispered, inching closer, his breath fanning her face. She was nervous, but damn if she wanted him to kiss her.

“Yes,” she nodded. He leaned in, his lips gently brushing hers. A whisper. A hint of his affection for her. He pulled back, only to kiss her again. A little deeper. Her lips were warm and she tasted sweet. His hand slid to cup the back of her neck, his head tilting, his nose bumping against her cheek.

His stomach churned. His mind exploded. Colors danced in his brain as his lips moved in effortless sync with hers. He’d been needing this. Her lips. Her touch. Her.

She deepened the kiss. One of her hands threaded through his hair, forcing shivers down his spine. Her body thrummed, nothing but affection and a deep warmth filling her veins. It was if she took a deep breath, cool and fresh air filling her lungs.

He was her fresh air.

He gently leaned her back. His arms hooked under hers, hands keeping her hair out of her face. Her arms looped around his, fingers delving into the thickness of his curls.

He kissed her deeper. Desperately. His tongue nudged against her bottom lip, and as soon as her parted lips bid him welcome, he sighed. His muscles relaxed, his brain seemed to have one thought. Her. His stargirl.

He kissed her like his life depended on it. He held her like she’d disappear. His lips moved with hers like they’d done with dance before, a tango that only they knew. Soft lips and desperate kisses signed the bottom line of a contract that read the evidence of his love.

He pulled away and she chased his lips, kissing him one more time before their lips separated. His forehead rested against hers, his nose brushing hers. He couldn’t believe it. He was so overwhelmed, so filled that he swore he was going to cry.

He wouldn’t though.

“Wish you’d realized that earlier,” he croaked with a laugh. She shared in that laughter, nodding her head against his. She’d been stupid, oblivious even. She hadn’t seen the obvious signs staring her in the face. She missed all of it.

“I know,” she moved her hands to cup his face, “but I’m glad I see now,”

“Me too,” he hummed. He dipped his head once more, capturing her lips in a heated, desperate kiss. He finally had his girl, his universe. He’d never let her go.

[iosivb9]

I GOT EM YALL WE GOIN CINCYYYYY FOR MY 22ND EEEEEAAAAAA

ok im trying to go to the bengals ravens game on my birthday in cincy,, what section on the bengals sideline is best ????

[iosivb9]

[iosivb9]

we’re so back

[iosivb9]

throwback to slim shady at camp last year <3

[iosivb9]

Orbit

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 9.3k-ish words

Request: Hi, can you write about Joe being the first man in the reader's life (first love always hurts) But he doesn't want anything serious, he's dating another influencer, and he won't commit to the reader who's deeply in love with him, so she puts up with it.(May it have a lot of angst, be a bit spicy, and finally have a happy ending? 🙏🏻)

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

Content Advisory: This story contains lies about birthday plans, astronomical amounts of pining, and one very expensive lesson in why you shouldn't date people who keep you a secret. Proceed with tissues and low expectations for male behavior.

Author’s Note: This one did not come easy, y’all. I’ve been chipping away at it for at least a month and honestly it feels like longer. I really wanted it to feel different from BTL and anything else I’ve written, and it was hard as hell to get there. Writing Joe in such a messy, kind of toxic way? Not really my usual vibe but this story just demanded it.

I hope it shows how much care I put into it. Huge thanks to my beta @crazytheoriststrawberry for helping.

Hope you love it. ✨

You'd coordinated events for athletes before, but The Joe Burrow Foundation's golf tournament felt different from the moment you walked into Top Golf Cincinnati. Maybe it was the way he'd insisted on reviewing every detail personally instead of sending an assistant, or how he'd actually listened when you explained why the silent auction would work better positioned near the bar. Most clients nodded along and trusted you to handle it. Joe asked questions that showed he was actually thinking about the answers.

"The sponsors want visibility," he'd said during your planning meeting three weeks ago, "but I don't want it to feel like a corporate showcase. How do we balance that?"

It wasn't something most people would think about. You'd suggested integrating sponsor recognition into the competition format itself—branded hole challenges, custom scorecards, a food truck, photo ops that felt natural rather than forced. The way his face had lit up told you everything about why this mattered to him.

Now, watching him move through the crowd of old college teammates, NFL colleagues, and Cincinnati business leaders, you felt that same flutter of professional pride mixed with something more. He wasn't just working the room—he was connecting. Laughing with teammates, asking questions about sponsors' businesses, making everyone feel like they were the most important person there.

"Ms. Y/L/N." His voice appeared at your shoulder as you checked your tablet, making sure the auction timing stayed on track. "How are we doing?"

You turned, finding him closer than expected, close enough to catch the expensive scent of his cologne. "Ahead of schedule, which in my world means perfectly on time. Silent auction's tracking twenty percent higher than what we initally expected."

"Good." His smile was easy, genuinely pleased. "And how are our guests doing?"

"Having the time of their lives. The sponsors are already asking about next year, and I think your guys are trying to outdo each other with their swing techniques.

Joe's laugh was genuine, the kind that reached his eyes. "Good. That's what we want." He glanced around the space, taking in the mix of people enjoying themselves, then looked back at you. "This is perfect. It's exactly what I asked for."

The compliment hit differently than the usual client praise. There was something personal in it, like he actually saw the thought you'd put into every detail.

"Thank you," you said, trying to keep your voice professional despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "It helps when the client knows what they want."

"I had ideas. You made them actually work."

Before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room. A sponsor, probably, based on the eager wave and the way they were already walking over with purpose. Joe's expression shifted slightly—not annoyed, but resigned.

"Will you stick around after? I owe you a drink."

It wasn't a professional invitation. The way his eyes lingered on yours when he said it made that clear.

"Of course," you heard yourself say. "I'll need to oversee cleanup anyway."

"Perfect." His smile was different now—less public, more personal. Then he was moving away, back into host mode, leaving you standing there with your tablet and the distinct feeling that something had just shifted.

The rest of the event passed in a blur of logistics and small victories. The auction exceeded projections, the food service went off without a hitch, and you managed to coordinate the group photos without anyone looking awkward. Professional success, the kind that left you satisfied and ready to move on to the next project.

But as the crowd began to thin and the staff started breaking down equipment, you found yourself hyperaware of where Joe was in the room, who he was talking to, how often his gaze found yours across the space.

By nine-thirty, Top Golf had mostly emptied out. The last of the sponsors had left with their gift bags and business cards, the guys had moved their reunion to whatever bar would tolerate their volume, and your cleanup crew was finishing the final breakdown of auction displays.

You were double-checking the donation receipts when Joe reappeared. He looked more relaxed than he had all evening.

"How'd we do?" he asked, settling into the chair across from your makeshift office setup.

"Better than we expected." You turned your laptop screen toward him, showing the final numbers. "Auction brought in four hundred and twenty thousand, entry fees another hundred and thirty. After expenses, you're looking at about five hundred and fifty thousand for the foundation."

He let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's really good."

"Your Bengals guys bid on everything. I think they were trying to one-up each other."

"Sounds about right." His smile was easy, genuine. "Those fuckers are competitive about everything."

You saved the spreadsheet and closed your laptop, suddenly aware that the space around you had gone quiet. The cleanup crew had finished and left without you noticing, and the Top Golf staff had dimmed most of the lights. It was just the two of you now.

"So," Joe said, leaning back in his chair. "That drink I owe you."

You glanced toward the bar area. A few staff members were still cleaning up, but the lights were on and you could see a bartender wiping down glasses.

"What do you drink?" he asked, already standing. "I'll grab us something."

"Bourbon's fine. Whatever they have that's decent."

He nodded and headed toward the bar, leaving you alone with your laptop and the realization that the professional part of your evening was officially over. Whatever came next was something else entirely.

When he returned a few minutes later with two glasses of amber liquid, he'd gotten them the good stuff.

"Buffalo Trace," he said, setting your glass down.

You took a sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. "Good choice."

He just nodded and settled back into his chair, glass in hand. "So tell me something."

"What?"

"How'd you end up coordinating events? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing people stumble into."

It was a genuine question, not small talk. The way he asked it—direct, interested—made you want to give him a real answer.

"I started in college," you said. "With the student activities board. I was good at making things happen, keeping all the moving pieces organized. Turns out there's decent money in making rich people's parties look effortless."

Joe laughed. "Is that what tonight was? Making rich people look effortless?"

"Tonight was different," you admitted. "Most of my clients want to be seen being charitable. You actually care about the cause."

"How can you tell?"

"The way you talked about the kids in the program during planning. You knew their names, their stories. That doesn't come from a PR brief."

He was quiet for a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "You planning on sticking around Cincinnati for a while?"

The question caught you off guard - direct, personal, nothing to do with foundation work or tonight's event.

"That depends," you said. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to see you again. Outside of work."

The words hung between you, and you felt your pulse quicken.

“I’d like that too,” you said.

“Good.” He finished his bourbon and set the glass down. “I know a place. Nothing fancy.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow? If you’re free.”

* * *

Eight Months Later

That dinner had led to another, and another, until Tuesday nights became yours and Joe’s standing date. Eight months of stolen moments between his schedule and yours, of late-night texts that had nothing to do with work, of learning that he liked his matcha and read physics articles to fall asleep.

Eight months of being his secret.

It hadn’t started that way. At first, the privacy felt intentional—getting to know each other away from the noise, building something real before letting the world in. You’d started sleeping together after the third date, and the chemistry had been undeniable from the first time he’d shown up at your apartment after a loss to the Chiefs, shoulders tight with frustration.

“Rough night?” you’d asked, letting him in.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He dropped his keys on the table without looking, then reached for you like you were the only person in the world who could fix him. He kissed you hard, like breathing you was the only way to quiet the noise inside him.

Then he pulled back, not far, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders like he was fighting something inside himself.

"I just needed to be here," he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. "With you."

It wasn't an explanation or an apology. Just honesty, which was more than he usually gave you after bad games. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing against your hip bones through your shirt.

You didn't push for more. Just reached up to touch the back of his neck, feeling some of the tension ease out of him as he leaned into the contact.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, then pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head. You did the same with his sweatshirt, both of you moving with the kind of urgent efficiency that came from wanting each other and not wanting to overthink it.

The rest happened fast—clothes hitting the floor, him pulling you down onto the couch, the familiar weight of him settling between your legs. He didn't say much, just breathed hard against your neck as he pushed into you, both of you finding that rhythm that worked.

You let him take what he needed, let him lose himself completely. Your fingers traced his back, catching the tremor in his muscles as he chased relief — not just physical but something deeper, something he didn’t know how to ask for out loud`

And when he finally came, it wasn’t with bravado or noise, but a rough, broken gasp against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like he was trying to stay tethered.

After, he didn’t move far. Just gathered you into his chest, skin damp and heartbeat still racing. He kissed the top of your head — soft, almost absent — and held you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Wrapped around each other in the quiet, neither of you asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer, comfort given without condition.

He fell asleep with his head on your chest, and you traced patterns on his back until morning, thinking this was what real intimacy looked like.

But as weeks turned to months, the secrecy had calcified into something else entirely. You were the woman he called when he needed to talk through a bad game, the one who knew he got quiet when he was stressed, who understood that his confidence was as much armor as it was truth.

Maddie was the woman he was photographed with.

“She knows what this is,” he’d said the first time you’d seen them together in a gossip blog photo, her hand on his arm at some charity auction. “We’re just having fun. No pressure.”

You’d believed him because you wanted to, because you were twenty-six and he was your first everything that mattered. Your first love, your first heartbreak-in-waiting, your first lesson in how little you actually knew about what you deserved.

But tonight felt different. Tonight was his birthday, and you’d spent weeks planning something perfect.

* * *

The dinner was ready—his favorite pasta dish you’d learned to make after watching him devour it at that little Italian place you’d gone to in September. The bourbon was breathing on the counter, the good bottle you’d been saving. And tucked inside the card on your coffee table were two first-class tickets to Washington DC for February, along with confirmation details for a private after-hours tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

It had taken three weeks of phone calls, emails, and a significant chunk of your savings to arrange. But the thought of seeing his face when he realized you were giving him the stars—literally—made every bit of effort worth it. You’d even coordinated with his assistant to make sure the February date worked with his off-season schedule.

You checked your phone. 7:30 PM. He’d said he’d be over by eight, that he was looking forward to a quiet night in. Just the two of you, no cameras, no expectations. The kind of evening that had become your specialty.

That’s when the notification popped up on your screen.

TMZ: Joe Burrow & Maddie Thompson Celebrate His Birthday in Aspen!

Your heart stopped. The photo loaded, revealing Joe and Maddie laughing in the snow, both bundled in expensive ski gear, looking genuinely happy. Not posed, not staged—just two people enjoying themselves. The timestamp showed it was taken this afternoon.

Your hands shook as you read the caption: “The Bengals quarterback and lifestyle influencer are spending a romantic birthday getaway in Aspen, looking more loved-up than ever!”

Your phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table next to the card with the plane tickets.

He was in Aspen. On his birthday. During the team's bye week, when he'd told you he just wanted to stay in and relax. The birthday he'd said he wanted to spend quietly, just the two of you.

You stared at the photo until your eyes blurred. They looked happy. Like a couple who actually got to be a couple, instead of whatever the hell you'd been doing for eight months.

The pasta was getting cold on the stove. The bourbon sat untouched. The museum confirmation email was still open on your laptop, detailing the private tour you’d arranged for February—his off-season, when he’d said he wanted to travel somewhere meaningful.

Apparently, he’d already made those plans. With someone else.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Joe.

"Hey, something came up last minute. My parents wanted to take me out for my birthday. Can we raincheck tonight? I wish I was with you instead. Sorry."

The laugh that escaped your throat was bitter, almost hysterical. Wish he was with you instead? He could be with you. He was choosing not to be.

You picked up your phone with shaking hands and typed back:

“I know you’re in Aspen. I made your favorite dinner. Bought you bourbon. Had a gift waiting. I’m done.”

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately turned your phone face down on the table. You couldn’t look at it anymore.

The apartment felt suffocating suddenly. All this effort, all this hope, all these months of accepting less than you deserved because you thought—what? That eventually he’d choose you? That love would be enough?

You walked to the kitchen and turned off the burner, staring at the pasta you’d spent an hour perfecting. In the living room, the bourbon caught the light, amber and expensive and pointless. The plane tickets might as well have been confetti.

Eight months of being his secret. Eight months of believing his lies about Maddie. Eight months of thinking you were building toward something real.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again.

You didn’t look.

* * *

You woke up on your couch at 6 AM with mascara streaked down your cheeks and your phone battery dead. The bourbon bottle sat exactly where you'd left it, the pasta had congealed in the pot, and the card with the plane tickets lay open on the coffee table like evidence of your own stupidity.

Your phone had seventeen missed calls and twenty-three unread messages when you plugged it in. All from Joe.

You almost deleted them without reading, but morbid curiosity won.

11:47 PM: “What do you mean you’re done? Call me back.”

11:52 PM: “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

12:15 AM: "How did you know I was in Aspen?"

12:16 AM: "I lied about my parents. I'm sorry. I can explain."

12:45 AM: "Baby please call me back. This is crazy."

1:23 AM: “I’m sorry. I know you planned something. I’ll make it up to you.”

1:24 AM: “We can celebrate when I get back.”

2:18 AM: “Don’t do this. Don’t throw us away over a misunderstanding.”

3:01 AM: “I care about you. You know that.”

3:02 AM: “This is different and you know it.”

And on and on. Twenty-three messages that cycled between confusion, dismissal, and damage control. He apologized for lying, but not one message said he'd choose you.

Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them:

“I arranged a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum for February. Bought first-class tickets. Spent my savings so you could see the stars without cameras. While you were booking a trip to Aspen with your girlfriend.”

“Do NOT contact me again.”

You hit send, then immediately blocked his number.

Then you sat on your kitchen floor and cried until you had nothing left.

* * *

Joe spent the flight back to Cincinnati drafting and deleting messages he couldn’t send. Every approach felt inadequate. How do you apologize for eight months of lies? How do you explain that you didn’t realize what you had until you’d destroyed it?

He tried calling from different numbers. When she found out it was him she’d blocked those too.

He showed up at her apartment building on December 15th with flowers and an apology speech he’d rehearsed twenty times. The doorman—a guy Joe recognized from previous visits—took one look at him and shook his head.

“She left specific instructions, Mr. Burrow. You’re not on the list anymore.”

So he waited. Four hours in his car across the street until she came home from work, grocery bags in hand. When she saw him getting out of his car, her entire body went rigid.

“Don’t,” she said, not stopping her walk toward the building.

“Please. Just five minutes.”

“No.” She didn’t even look at him. “I meant what I said.”

“I ended things with Maddie.”

That made her stop. Turn around. For a moment, hope flared in his chest.

“Good for you,” she said, her voice flat. “That doesn’t change what you did to me.”

“I know. I know I fucked up—”

“You didn’t fuck up, Joe. You made choices. For eight months, you made the same choice over and over again.” She shifted the grocery bags, and he could see how tired she looked. How much weight she’d lost in just five days. “You chose her every time it mattered.”

“That’s not true—”

“Your birthday mattered. And you chose her.”

The simple statement hit like a physical blow. Because she was right.

“I was scared,” he said, the words coming out raw. “I was scared of what this was, what you meant to me—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was steady, but he could see her hands shaking. “I don’t care why you did it. I only care that you did.”

She turned back toward the building.

“I love you,” he called after her.

She stopped again, but didn’t turn around.

“You love the idea of me,” she said quietly. “You love having someone who accepts scraps and calls it enough. But you don’t love me, Joe. If you did, you would have chosen me.”

* * *

February 14th - Valentine's Day

You stared at your phone screen, watching another Venmo notification light up. $2,999 from Joe Burrow. Memo: "I know it's Valentine's Day and this is pathetic but I miss you."

It had been two months since you’d blocked him. Two months of returned gifts, ignored letters, and apparently daily Venmo transfers that were slowly driving you insane. Your bank account was looking healthier than it ever had, but every notification felt like a fresh wound.

This had to stop.

You unblocked his number long enough to send one text:

“Stop sending me money. I’m serious. It’s not helping anything and it’s borderline harassment at this point.”

Your finger hovered over the block button again, but his response came faster than expected.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

That was it. No arguing, no desperate pleas, no “but can we talk.” Just acknowledgment and agreement.

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting for the follow-up that didn’t come. Where was the Joe who had waited outside your building for four hours? Who had sent flowers to your office every day for a week? Who had somehow found your work email and sent you a twenty-paragraph explanation of his feelings?

“Thank you,” you typed back, then immediately blocked him again.

But something about his response sat differently than all his other attempts. For the first time in two months, he’d listened to what you asked for instead of trying to negotiate around it.

You checked your Venmo. No new notifications.

It was such a small thing—just stopping when you asked him to stop. But after months of him refusing to respect any of your boundaries, the basic act of compliance felt… surprising.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were reading too much into a simple text exchange. But that night, for the first time since December, you didn’t fall asleep angry.

* * *

April 15th

The new Italian place in Over-the-Rhine was buzzing with Cincinnati’s elite—business leaders, local celebrities, and apparently half the Bengals roster. You’d been coordinating launch events long enough to read a room within minutes, and this one was going well. The chef was happy, the investors were mingling, and the servers were keeping up with the cocktail orders.

You were adjusting the lighting for the chef’s welcome speech when you saw him.

Joe stood near the bar, nursing what looked like a bourbon and listening to whatever story a local business owner was telling him. When the man finished speaking, Joe nodded and leaned in slightly, clearly engaged in the conversation.

Your breath caught. He’d come. To an event you were coordinating.

In eight months of dating, you’d probably coordinated a dozen events he’d been invited to. Gallery openings, charity auctions, restaurant launches—Cincinnati wasn’t that big, and athletes were always on VIP lists. But Joe had never shown up to a single one. “Not really my scene,” he’d always said, preferring quiet nights in to schmoozing with strangers.

Seeing him here now, in his least favorite type of environment, you knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

He looked different. Bigger, maybe, and there was something quieter about the way he carried himself. When someone tried to take a selfie with him, he politely declined and redirected the conversation back to the restaurant.

For the next two hours, you found yourself stealing glances while managing the event. Joe worked the room, engaging with guests throughout the night. When the local news crew asked for an interview, he kept it short and focused on the restaurant and community rather than himself.

You watched him nurse the same bourbon all night. In the eight months you'd dated, you'd learned he wasn't much of a drinker at events—too careful about his image, too controlled. But this felt different. Like he was actually trying to enjoy himself instead of just getting through it.

By ten PM, the crowd had thinned and you were overseeing the breakdown. Your staff was handling the heavy lifting, leaving you to do final checks and coordinate with the restaurant management. You were reviewing the evening’s photos with the owner when you sensed someone behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turned around, and there he was.

“Hi,” you said, professional instincts kicking in. “Did you enjoy the event?”

“I did.” He glanced around at your staff efficiently packing up equipment. “You did an incredible job. The whole thing felt… authentic. Not like a show.”

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence stretched between you. The owner had diplomatically moved away, giving you space.

“I know you’re working,” Joe said. “I just wanted to say—I stopped the Venmo thing. Like you asked.”

“I noticed.”

“And I wanted to apologize. Not for the relationship stuff, I know you don’t want to hear that. But for not respecting your boundaries. For making you ask me to stop instead of just… stopping and for…everything else.”

You studied his face, looking for the catch, the angle, the thing he wanted from you. But his expression was straightforward, almost resigned.

“Okay,” you said carefully.

“That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” He took a small step back. “I hope you have a good rest of your evening.”

He started to turn away, and something in your chest twisted.

“Joe.”

He stopped, turned back.

“Are you…” You paused, unsure why you were asking. “Are you doing okay?”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief. “Yeah. Actually, I am. Finally.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing in the middle of a half-dismantled event space, wondering why you felt like you’d just seen a ghost of someone you used to know.

* * *

April 20th - 11:47 PM

You’d had exactly one and a half glasses of wine. You weren't drunk, just… relaxed enough to make questionable decisions. Like unblocking Joe Burrow on Instagram at nearly midnight on a Friday.

It had been almost a week since the restaurant opening, and his words kept replaying in your head. 

You told yourself you were just curious. Just wanted to see if the changes you’d observed were real or if you’d been projecting. His Instagram had always been pretty standard athlete fare—workout posts, game highlights, the occasional brand partnership.

You scrolled through his recent posts. A photo from training camp. A story about some charity work. A picture of him reading a book (which was new—he’d never posted about reading before). You found yourself pausing on each one, looking for clues about who he was becoming.

Then you saw it.

Posted eight hours ago: Joe post-workout, shirtless, drinking a Body Armor. Clearly a sponsored post, but he looked good—really good. The caption was simple: "Friday grind complete. @bodyarmor"

Your thumb hovered over the image as you studied it. He looked good. Really good. Broader through the shoulders than you remembered, and there was something different about his expression. Less posed, more natural. Like he wasn’t trying to look perfect for the camera.

Before you could stop yourself, you double-tapped.

The little red heart appeared instantly, and your stomach dropped to your feet.

“No, no, no,” you whispered to your empty apartment, staring at the screen in horror. You’d just liked a shirtless thirst trap posted by your ex-situationship at 11:47 PM on a Friday night. After unblocking him. After months of radio silence.

You could unlike it, but he’d already get the notification. You could block him again, but that would look absolutely unhinged—unblock him just to like his shirtless photo and then immediately block him again?

Your phone was practically burning in your hand. You set it face-down on your coffee table and put your head in your hands.

This was worse than the Venmo situation. At least that had been his pathetic desperation. This was your pathetic desperation, immortalized in Instagram notifications.

Your phone buzzed against the table.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Against every instinct for self-preservation, you flipped it over.

Not a text. Just Instagram notifications.

Joeyb_9 liked your photo.

The photo was from three weeks ago—you at a client event, you looked good. He’d liked it approximately thirty seconds after you’d liked his shirtless post.

You stared at the notification, wine-fuzzy brain trying to decode the meaning. Was he letting you know he’d seen your like? Was he being petty? Or was this his equally awkward way of saying… what?

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

This one from a month ago. Then another. And another.

He was going through your recent posts and systematically liking them. Not in a rapid-fire, manic way. Just… methodically. Like he was taking his time, actually looking at them.

You sat there in your pajamas, wine glass forgotten, watching notifications pop up every few minutes as Joe Burrow liked his way through six weeks of your Instagram posts at midnight on a Friday.

When it stopped, you waited. For a text, a DM, a follow request. Something.

Nothing came.

Just the strange knowledge that somewhere across Cincinnati, Joe was awake and thinking about you enough to scroll through weeks of your life. And you were awake and thinking about him enough to have started this whole mortifying chain of events.

You set your phone aside and went to bed, but sleep was impossible. Because despite the embarrassment, despite everything that had happened between you, something warm had unfurled in your chest.

* * *

April 21st - 9:23 AM

You woke up with a wine headache and the immediate, mortifying memory of what you’d done the night before. The shirtless photo. The accidental like. Joe’s methodical response of liking six weeks worth of your posts.

You grabbed your phone, hoping maybe you’d dreamed the whole thing.

Nope. The evidence was right there in your notifications.

You scrolled back to his profile, telling yourself you were just checking to see if he’d posted anything new. He hadn’t. The shirtless photo still sat there with your little red heart under it, announcing to the world that you’d been thirsty on main at midnight.

But as you scrolled through his feed, you found yourself looking at the posts he’d liked on your page. The fundraiser event you’d coordinated where you looked proud and professional. The coffee shop photo where you were laughing at something off-camera. The sunset from your apartment balcony with the caption about grateful moments.

He’d skipped the selfies and the group shots. Only liked the ones where you looked genuinely happy or where you were talking about work you were proud of. Like he was seeing the real parts of your life and… appreciating them.

Before you could overthink it, you scrolled back through his recent posts and liked the one about the charity work. Then the book photo. Then one from two weeks ago of him at what looked like a coffee shop, no caption, just him looking thoughtful.

Your thumb hovered over a post from a month ago—him with some of his teammates at a community event, genuinely smiling. You liked it.

Then you kept going.

The post about finishing a difficult workout. Like.

A sunset photo from his backyard with a caption about finding peace in quiet moments. Like.

A picture of him reading (again—when had Joe become someone who posted about books?). Like.

You realized you were now three months deep in his Instagram, systematically liking posts the same way he’d done to you, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a notification.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

The coffee shop photo from yesterday morning that you’d posted an hour ago. He was awake. He was seeing your likes in real time.

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

A different recent post.

You were now in some sort of bizarre Instagram standoff, both of you awake on a Saturday morning, liking each other’s posts like teenagers. It was absurd. It was embarrassing.

It was also the most you’d communicated in four months.

Your phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a like notification.

Joeyb_9: “I’m unblocked. Is this okay?”

You stared at the DM. No pretending he hadn’t noticed. No casual small talk to test the waters. Just a direct question asking for consent to be in your digital space again.

The old Joe would have either not acknowledged it or used it as an opening to launch into some speech about missing you. This Joe was just… checking in. Making sure he wasn’t overstepping.

“It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

That was it. No follow-up, no pushing for more. Just gratitude for the permission to exist in your notifications again.

You found yourself staring at the simple exchange, surprised by how much those two words meant to you. Thank you. Like your boundaries actually mattered to him now.

Fifteen minutes passed before he sent another message.

“For what it’s worth, I noticed you liked the workout photo at 11:47 PM on a Friday. Interesting timing.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he’d noticed the timestamp.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not judging. I liked six weeks of your posts at midnight. We’re both fucked up.”

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling at your phone.

“The worst part is it was the shirtless one.”

“I know. I was there when I posted it.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Little bit. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes questionable late-night social media decisions.”

You could practically hear the smile in his message, and something warm unfurled in your chest.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. My ego has been fully restored by your thirst trap engagement.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He was right. You didn’t. 

* * *

April 25th

Joeyb_9: “Saw your story about the charity auction. That venue looks incredible.”

“Thanks. The client wanted something different from the usual hotel ballroom.”

“You delivered. That lighting setup must have taken forever.”

You stared at the message, surprised he’d noticed the technical details.

“6 hours. But worth it for the photos.”

“Definitely worth it.”

-----

April 30th

Joeyb_9: “Random question - do you still make that pasta dish? The one with the pancetta?”

“Why?”

“Been craving it for months. Tried to recreate it and failed miserably.”

“You burned the pancetta, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Because you have no patience with cooking. I bet you turned the heat too high.”

“Guilty. Any chance you’d be willing to share the recipe?”

You hesitated before responding. It felt intimate, sharing something you’d made for him during your relationship.

“I’ll think about it.”

-----

May 3rd

“You were right about that book recommendation.”

Joeyb_9: “Which one?”

“The one about astrophysics you mentioned months ago. Finally picked it up.”

“And?”

“And I understand maybe 30% of it, but the parts I get are fascinating.”

“That’s 30% more than most people. What’s your favorite part so far?”

You found yourself genuinely excited to discuss it with him.

-----

May 8th

Joeyb_9: “Therapy was rough today.”

The message came out of nowhere at 3 PM on a Wednesday.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Just wanted to tell someone who’d understand why I’m sitting in my car outside the stadium questioning everything.”

“That sounds normal for therapy.”

“Is it supposed to feel like emotional surgery without anesthesia?”

“Pretty much. But the healing part comes later.”

“When?”

“When you stop bleeding.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

“It gets easier. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re different than you were four months ago. Different than you were four weeks ago.”

There was a long pause before he responded.

“Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

-----

May 15th

“Okay, I’m sending you the pasta recipe. But you have to promise to actually follow it.”

Joeyb_9: “Yes ma’am.”

“Medium heat. Not medium-high. Not ‘close enough.’ MEDIUM.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t skip the wine step. The alcohol cooks off, but the flavor doesn’t.”

“I would never skip a wine step.”

“You better send me proof you didn’t burn it.”

“Deal.”

Three hours later, he sent a photo of a perfectly executed plate of pasta.

“I’m impressed.”

“I had a good teacher.”

-----

May 20th

Joeyb_9: “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can actually change? Like, fundamentally?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out if I’m actually becoming a better person or just learning to fake it better.”

The vulnerability in the message made your chest tight.

“I think the fact that you’re questioning it means you’re not faking it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the old you would have been sure you were right about everything.”

“Ouch. But fair.”

“Change is possible, Joe. But it has to be for you, not for anyone else.”

“What if it started for someone else but became for me?”

You stared at that message for a long time.

“Then I guess that’s still change.”

-----

May 28th

Joeyb_9: “I have something to ask you, and you can absolutely say no.”

“That’s ominous.”

“I arranged a private tour of the Cincinnati Museum Center. Next Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come with me?”

Your heart did something complicated.

“You arranged a private tour?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you planned for my birthday. About the National Air and Space Museum. I can’t take that back, but I thought maybe… this could be a start.”

“When did you arrange this?”

“Two weeks ago. I wanted to ask you sooner, but I didn’t want you to think I was rushing things.”

“And you’re asking me because?”

“Because I want to see if we can spend time together without it ending in disaster. And because I think you’d actually enjoy it.”

You found yourself smiling at your phone.

“What time Saturday?”

* * *

You spotted Joe before he saw you, standing outside the Cincinnati Museum Center looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was early—something he’d never been during your relationship—and kept checking his phone like he was worried you’d changed your mind.

“Hey,” you said, walking up behind him.

He turned, and his face relaxed into a genuine smile. “Hey. You came.”

“I said I would.”

“I know, but…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”

The honesty was still jarring. The old Joe would have played it cool, acted like he’d never doubted you’d show up.

“So,” you said, gesturing toward the building. “Private tour?”

“Yeah. The curator is a friend of a friend. Apparently, they don’t usually do this, but I may have mentioned it was for someone who appreciates the educational value.” His smile turned slightly sheepish. “I also may have made a donation.”

“Of course you did.”

The curator met you inside, a enthusiastic woman in her fifties who clearly knew her stuff. “Mr. Burrow, Ms. Y/L/N, welcome! I understand you’re particularly interested in the space and natural history exhibits?”

Joe glanced at you. “That’s right.”

“Wonderful. We’ll start with the Neil Armstrong Space Exploration Gallery, then move through natural history, and finish in the planetarium if you’d like.”

As you walked through the first exhibit, you found yourself watching Joe more than the displays. He was different here than he’d been at public events during your relationship. More engaged, asking questions instead of just nodding politely. When the curator explained the mechanics of lunar landing, Joe leaned in, genuinely curious.

“I never understood how they calculated the fuel ratios,” he said. “With all the variables in space.”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” the curator replied. “The precision required was extraordinary. One miscalculation and…”

“And you’re floating in space forever,” Joe finished. “The ultimate consequence for poor planning.”

You caught his eye and he smiled—a real smile, not the polished one he used to wear like armor.

In the natural history section, you found yourself relaxing. This felt like the conversations you’d had during your relationship, the late-night talks about curiosity and discovery. But better, because Joe wasn’t holding back parts of himself.

“I used to love this place as a kid,” you mentioned as you stood in front of a display about ocean exploration.

“Yeah?”

“My mom would bring me here on rainy Saturdays. I thought I was going to be a marine biologist for exactly three weeks when I was eight.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Realized I get seasick on boats.” You laughed. “Hard to study the ocean when you can’t get on it.”

“So you went into event planning instead.”

“Eventually. Turns out I like organizing chaos more than I like fish.”

Joe was quiet for a moment, studying your face. “I should have asked you more questions like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“About what you wanted to be as a kid. About your mom bringing you here. About… you.” He looked down at his hands. “I was so focused on not giving up too much about myself that I never learned enough about you.”

“Joe…”

“I know we’re not… I know this isn’t about getting back together,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I see that now. How selfish I was.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and kept walking.

The planetarium was the last stop, and as the lights dimmed and the dome filled with stars, you felt something shift in the space between you. You were sitting close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, the same one he’d worn when you were together.

“This is what you were trying to give me,” he said quietly as constellations moved across the artificial sky. “Wasn’t it? Not just the museum, but… this. Wonder without performance.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I would have loved it.” His voice was rough. “I would have loved all of it.”

When the show ended and the lights came up, you both sat in the quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” Joe said finally. “For coming today. For giving me the chance to do this right.”

“It was nice,” you admitted. “Seeing you actually excited about something instead of just going through the motions.”

“I’m trying to live more like that. Present instead of performing.”

You studied his face in the dim planetarium lighting. “How’s that working out?”

“It’s terrifying,” he said with a laugh. “But better. Everything feels more real.”

As you walked back toward the entrance, you found yourself not wanting the afternoon to end. For three hours, you’d forgotten about the hurt and the lies and the months of silence. You’d just enjoyed spending time with someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him.

“Can I ask you something?” you said as you reached the parking lot.

“Yeah.”

“Are you doing this—therapy, the museum, all of it—because you want me back? Or because you actually want to change?”

Joe stopped walking and turned to face you fully. “Six months ago, I would have said both and thought that was an acceptable answer.”

“And now?”

“Now I know that if I’m only changing to get you back, then I’m not really changing at all. I’m just learning new ways to manipulate the situation.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I started therapy because I lost you. But I kept going because I realized I didn’t like who I was even when I thought I was happy.”

The honesty was overwhelming. This was what you’d wanted from him for eight months—the truth.

“I want to keep seeing you,” he continued. “Talking, spending time together, whatever this is. But not because I’m trying to earn my way back into a relationship. Because I like who I am when I’m around you now. I like who you are. I like… this.”

He gestured between you, and you knew what he meant. The ease of conversation, the shared curiosity, the lack of pretense.

“I like this too,” you admitted.

“So maybe we can keep doing this? Museums, hanging out, terrible Instagram interactions?”

Despite everything, you laughed. “I can’t promise not to accidentally like more of your thirst traps.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said with a grin. “My ego needs the boost.”

As you walked toward your car, you felt something you hadn’t experienced in months: hope. Not for getting back together—that felt too big, too complicated still. But hope that maybe you could build something new. Something honest.

Something real.

* * *

June - August

It started slowly. Coffee dates that lasted three hours because you kept forgetting to leave. Texts that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with wanting to share random thoughts. Joe sending you photos of books he was reading, you sending him behind-the-scenes shots from events you were coordinating.

The first time he kissed you was in July, outside a bookstore in Northside after you’d spent two hours arguing about whether sci-fi authors accurately portrayed space travel. It was soft, tentative, nothing like the confident way he used to kiss you. Like he was asking permission instead of taking what he wanted.

“Is this okay?” he asked afterward, foreheads touching.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

But you took things slow. Glacially slow. He didn’t push, didn’t ask why you needed space or time or whatever this careful rebuilding process was. He just followed your lead, showing up when you asked him to, giving you room when you needed it.

The first time you stayed over at his place again was a Tuesday in August. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because you’d fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up with a blanket draped over you and Joe reading in the chair across the room.

“You could have woken me up,” you said, stretching.

“You looked peaceful.” He set his book aside.

It was so domestic, so normal, that it made your chest tight. This was what you’d wanted during your relationship—quiet evenings, comfortable silences, the feeling that you belonged in each other’s spaces.

“What are you reading?” you asked, settling next to him on the couch.

“That astrophysics book you recommended." He looked at you, something soft in his expression. “I like this. Us. Whatever we’re calling it.”

“What would you call it?”

“Hopeful,” he said simply.

-----

September

The first fight you had was about Maddie.

Not because Joe brought her up, but because you saw a photo of them together on social media—some mutual friend’s wedding where they’d apparently both been guests. They weren’t together in the photo, just happened to be in the same group shot, but seeing her face brought everything flooding back.

“Did you know she was going to be there?” you asked when Joe came over that night.

“Yeah.” He didn’t try to deflect or minimize it. “I almost didn’t go because of it.”

“But you did.”

“I did. Because I’m tired of letting awkward situations control my life.” He sat across from you, not trying to close the distance. “We talked for maybe five minutes. She asked how I was doing, I said I was good, she said she was glad. That was it.”

“How is she?”

“She seemed okay. Happy.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “I owed her an apology too, you know. For letting her think we were building toward something when I was never really present.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Not at the wedding. But I called her a few months ago. Had an actual conversation about how I handled things.”

You felt something ease in your chest. Not jealousy exactly, but the tight knot of unfinished business.

“How did that go?”

“Better than I expected. She said she’d figured out pretty quickly that my heart wasn’t in it, but she’d hoped if she just tried harder…” He shook his head. “Sound familiar?”

It did. The willingness to accept less than you deserved, hoping the other person would eventually see what was right in front of them.

“I’m glad you talked to her,” you said, and meant it.

“Are we okay?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. We’re okay.”

-----

October

The first time you said “I love you” again was anticlimactic and perfect.

You were at Joe's place, attempting to teach him how to make your grandmother's apple pie. He'd insisted he could handle the crust, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“It’s not supposed to look like that,” you said, watching him wrestle with dough that had clearly been overworked.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks like concrete.”

“Edible concrete.”

“That’s generous.”

Joe laughed, flour in his hair and on his shirt, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. “Okay, fine. Show me what I did wrong.”

You moved behind him, covering his hands with yours to guide his movements. “Gentle,” you said. “You’re not trying to conquer it.”

“I’m not good at gentle.”

“You’re learning.”

As you worked together, fixing his mangled pie crust, you felt overwhelmed by how right this felt. How easy. How much you’d missed not just Joe, but this version of Joe—unguarded, willing to fail at something, content to let you take the lead.

“I love you,” you said without thinking.

Joe went still under your hands. “What?”

“I love you,” you repeated, realizing you meant it. Not the desperate, grasping love you’d felt during your relationship, but something steadier. More sure.

He turned in your arms, search your face. “I love you too. I never stopped.”

“I know.” You reached up to brush flour from his cheek. “But this feels different.”

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like apple and possibility.

-----

November

The first event you attended together as a couple was a charity gala you'd coordinated—your choice, your comfort zone, your rules. Joe wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and stayed by your side the entire evening, introducing himself to your colleagues, asking thoughtful questions about your work, never once making the night about him.

When a photographer asked for a picture, Joe looked to you first.

"It's your call," he said quietly.

You thought about it—about being public for the first time, about what it would mean, about whether you were ready for that kind of exposure.

"Okay," you said. "But just one."

The photo that ran in the society pages the next day showed you laughing at something Joe had whispered in your ear, his hand on the small of your back, both of you looking genuinely happy.

It was the first time you'd ever been photographed together. The first time the world knew you existed in his life.

December 9th

The night before Joe's birthday, you found yourself nervous. Not because you thought he'd leave—you were past that fear now—but because this felt like a test of how far you'd both come.

"I have something for you," you said as you curled up next to him on his couch.

"My birthday's not until tomorrow."

"I know. But I wanted to give this to you tonight."

You handed him an envelope. Inside were two tickets to Washington DC and a confirmation for a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

"The same dates as before," you said. "I never canceled it, just kept pushing it back."

Joe stared at the tickets for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What changed?"

You thought about it, about the months of rebuilding, about learning to trust again.

"I'm not trying to give you the stars anymore," you said. "I'm trying to share them with you."

Joe's smile was radiant. "That's even better."

He set the tickets carefully on the coffee table, then turned back toward you, his expression soft in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Thank you,” he said, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the gift.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward, like he was holding something back. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize it. The way he was looking at you, like he was seeing something new. The quiet between you felt different now. Not empty, but full of everything you hadn't said yet.

He didn't rush. Joe hardly ever rushed. His hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, fingers trailing along your jaw. When he brushed the hollow of your throat, you found yourself leaning into the touch without thinking about it.

Neither of you spoke.

His other hand moved to your hip, drawing you closer. You were suddenly aware of how much clothing was between you.

You tilted your head slightly and he kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, like he'd been waiting for permission.

Joe kissed the way he did everything else focused, and sure of himself. He didn't hesitate, but he wasn't rushing either. Just confident in a way that always turned you on.

His mouth moved against yours, coaxing you to open for him. You melted into it immediately, into the heat of him.

His hand slid back into your hair, thumb brushing your jaw like he was holding you exactly where he wanted you. And you wanted to be held there.

When he pulled back, you could still feel the press of his mouth on yours.

He looked at you with that half-smile that always undid you completely.

"Come here," he said, guiding you into his lap.

You moved to straddle him, settling against him naturally. His sweatshirt was soft under your hands as you pressed them to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

You didn't rush either.

Your fingers slipped under his sweatshirt, palms finding warm skin. You felt his breath catch, his hands tightening at your waist.

Joe's head dipped, lips brushing your jaw, then lower to that spot below your ear that always made you shiver. His mouth moved down your neck, breath warm against your skin.

You shifted slightly in his lap and felt him respond, his breath catching.

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tracing along the edge of your dress. He took his time, just touching like he was memorizing you.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands in his hair, guiding him where you wanted him. When he made a quiet sound against your mouth, it felt like everything you'd both worked for had led to this moment.

His lips were at your ear, fingers pressing into your hip as he pulled you closer until there was nothing between you.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, already breathless.

He kissed you again, and when you made a quiet sound against his mouth, his hands tightened at your waist.

You moved against him slowly, and he let you set the pace, his hands steady at your waist.

"Say you'll be mine," he whispered against your lips.

"Yes," you whispered back.

His hands slipped beneath your dress as he tugged you in closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the last layers between you.

Your fingers slid under the hem of his sweatshirt again, pushing it up slowly. He helped without a word, peeling it over his head and tossing it aside. His skin was warm, and you traced your hands over his chest, down the line of his ribs.

His breath stuttered when you shifted against him again, grinding just enough to feel him fully, already hard and heavy beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, head tipping back slightly.

You leaned in, kissing along the edge of his jaw, your hands steady as they mapped familiar territory. His hands slid up your thighs, dragging the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your hips.

His fingers slipped under the edge of your underwear, pushing them aside.

“Jesus,” he murmured, thumb brushing over you again, steady this time. “You’re already…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice catching.

His hand tightened at your hip as he kept touching you; slow, careful. Just reading every shift in your breathing, every quiet gasp, adjusting to it.

Your forehead pressed to his, your hips already moving instinctively into the rhythm of his hand.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling tight into his shoulders. He caught it right away, mouth brushing yours before he moved again.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on, baby.”

His voice sent you over the edge faster than you expected. You came quietly, breath stuttering against his lips, your whole body tightening around his hand.

He kissed you through it, his mouth soft but sure, catching every shaky breath.

And when you finally stilled, breath shallow and heartbeat loud in your ears, he was already reaching down, tugging at his sweatpants with one hand while the other stayed firm at your hip.

You shifted to help him, lifting just enough so he could free himself, and then he was there—pressed hot and heavy against you, one hand wrapped around himself, steadying, teasing, just brushing.

Then he guided you down onto him, slow, steady, his breath catching hard when he finally sank in deep.

You both stilled—just breathing, just feeling.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, one hand gripping your thigh as he held you there. “You feel… God.”

You didn’t answer—just curled your fingers around the back of his neck and started to move, slow at first. Testing. Learning this new version of each other.

His hands traced your waist, your hips, guiding you but letting you set the pace. When you ground down a little harder, a quiet groan slipped from his lips, and you felt it everywhere—his breath at your throat, his fingers flexing at your sides.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rougher now.

You did.

His gaze held yours as you moved together and when he finally lost a bit of that careful control—when his hips pushed up into yours a little harder, breath coming ragged—you welcomed it. Matched it. Took it.

He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing just under your lip, and kissed you hard as you came again—hard and fast, your body tightening around him.

He followed right after, muttering your name against your mouth, hips snapping up once, twice, before he stilled completely.

Neither of you moved for a while. Just breathing. His forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven, his hand slipping back to your face, thumb dragging slow along your cheekbone.

When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Rough. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it at the right time, but he needed to anyway.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You froze, just for a second, but he kept going—like he’d been holding it in so long he couldn’t stop now.

“I’m sorry it took me so fucking long.”

Your throat felt tight. You didn't say anything at first, just let your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

"I know," you whispered. "I know you do."

"I love you too."

He exhaled shakily, like he'd been holding his breath. His arms tightened around you, pulling you against him, forehead still pressed to yours.

You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, hearts still racing. Everything felt different now. Better. Like you'd finally found your way back to where you were supposed to be.

[iosivb9]

Rares for your feed :)

[iosivb9]

so who wants to start a podcast w me where we talk about anything and everything and have joe burrow / nfl specials every week on like friday or smth ? u cant be maga or conservative tho .

[iosivb9]

[iosivb9]

(x)

[iosivb9]

yes gawd 😣🙏

Orbit

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 9.3k-ish words

Request: Hi, can you write about Joe being the first man in the reader's life (first love always hurts) But he doesn't want anything serious, he's dating another influencer, and he won't commit to the reader who's deeply in love with him, so she puts up with it.(May it have a lot of angst, be a bit spicy, and finally have a happy ending? 🙏🏻)

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

Content Advisory: This story contains lies about birthday plans, astronomical amounts of pining, and one very expensive lesson in why you shouldn't date people who keep you a secret. Proceed with tissues and low expectations for male behavior.

Author’s Note: This one did not come easy, y’all. I’ve been chipping away at it for at least a month and honestly it feels like longer. I really wanted it to feel different from BTL and anything else I’ve written, and it was hard as hell to get there. Writing Joe in such a messy, kind of toxic way? Not really my usual vibe but this story just demanded it.

I hope it shows how much care I put into it. Huge thanks to my beta @crazytheoriststrawberry for helping.

Hope you love it. ✨

You'd coordinated events for athletes before, but The Joe Burrow Foundation's golf tournament felt different from the moment you walked into Top Golf Cincinnati. Maybe it was the way he'd insisted on reviewing every detail personally instead of sending an assistant, or how he'd actually listened when you explained why the silent auction would work better positioned near the bar. Most clients nodded along and trusted you to handle it. Joe asked questions that showed he was actually thinking about the answers.

"The sponsors want visibility," he'd said during your planning meeting three weeks ago, "but I don't want it to feel like a corporate showcase. How do we balance that?"

It wasn't something most people would think about. You'd suggested integrating sponsor recognition into the competition format itself—branded hole challenges, custom scorecards, a food truck, photo ops that felt natural rather than forced. The way his face had lit up told you everything about why this mattered to him.

Now, watching him move through the crowd of old college teammates, NFL colleagues, and Cincinnati business leaders, you felt that same flutter of professional pride mixed with something more. He wasn't just working the room—he was connecting. Laughing with teammates, asking questions about sponsors' businesses, making everyone feel like they were the most important person there.

"Ms. Y/L/N." His voice appeared at your shoulder as you checked your tablet, making sure the auction timing stayed on track. "How are we doing?"

You turned, finding him closer than expected, close enough to catch the expensive scent of his cologne. "Ahead of schedule, which in my world means perfectly on time. Silent auction's tracking twenty percent higher than what we initally expected."

"Good." His smile was easy, genuinely pleased. "And how are our guests doing?"

"Having the time of their lives. The sponsors are already asking about next year, and I think your guys are trying to outdo each other with their swing techniques.

Joe's laugh was genuine, the kind that reached his eyes. "Good. That's what we want." He glanced around the space, taking in the mix of people enjoying themselves, then looked back at you. "This is perfect. It's exactly what I asked for."

The compliment hit differently than the usual client praise. There was something personal in it, like he actually saw the thought you'd put into every detail.

"Thank you," you said, trying to keep your voice professional despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "It helps when the client knows what they want."

"I had ideas. You made them actually work."

Before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room. A sponsor, probably, based on the eager wave and the way they were already walking over with purpose. Joe's expression shifted slightly—not annoyed, but resigned.

"Will you stick around after? I owe you a drink."

It wasn't a professional invitation. The way his eyes lingered on yours when he said it made that clear.

"Of course," you heard yourself say. "I'll need to oversee cleanup anyway."

"Perfect." His smile was different now—less public, more personal. Then he was moving away, back into host mode, leaving you standing there with your tablet and the distinct feeling that something had just shifted.

The rest of the event passed in a blur of logistics and small victories. The auction exceeded projections, the food service went off without a hitch, and you managed to coordinate the group photos without anyone looking awkward. Professional success, the kind that left you satisfied and ready to move on to the next project.

But as the crowd began to thin and the staff started breaking down equipment, you found yourself hyperaware of where Joe was in the room, who he was talking to, how often his gaze found yours across the space.

By nine-thirty, Top Golf had mostly emptied out. The last of the sponsors had left with their gift bags and business cards, the guys had moved their reunion to whatever bar would tolerate their volume, and your cleanup crew was finishing the final breakdown of auction displays.

You were double-checking the donation receipts when Joe reappeared. He looked more relaxed than he had all evening.

"How'd we do?" he asked, settling into the chair across from your makeshift office setup.

"Better than we expected." You turned your laptop screen toward him, showing the final numbers. "Auction brought in four hundred and twenty thousand, entry fees another hundred and thirty. After expenses, you're looking at about five hundred and fifty thousand for the foundation."

He let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's really good."

"Your Bengals guys bid on everything. I think they were trying to one-up each other."

"Sounds about right." His smile was easy, genuine. "Those fuckers are competitive about everything."

You saved the spreadsheet and closed your laptop, suddenly aware that the space around you had gone quiet. The cleanup crew had finished and left without you noticing, and the Top Golf staff had dimmed most of the lights. It was just the two of you now.

"So," Joe said, leaning back in his chair. "That drink I owe you."

You glanced toward the bar area. A few staff members were still cleaning up, but the lights were on and you could see a bartender wiping down glasses.

"What do you drink?" he asked, already standing. "I'll grab us something."

"Bourbon's fine. Whatever they have that's decent."

He nodded and headed toward the bar, leaving you alone with your laptop and the realization that the professional part of your evening was officially over. Whatever came next was something else entirely.

When he returned a few minutes later with two glasses of amber liquid, he'd gotten them the good stuff.

"Buffalo Trace," he said, setting your glass down.

You took a sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. "Good choice."

He just nodded and settled back into his chair, glass in hand. "So tell me something."

"What?"

"How'd you end up coordinating events? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing people stumble into."

It was a genuine question, not small talk. The way he asked it—direct, interested—made you want to give him a real answer.

"I started in college," you said. "With the student activities board. I was good at making things happen, keeping all the moving pieces organized. Turns out there's decent money in making rich people's parties look effortless."

Joe laughed. "Is that what tonight was? Making rich people look effortless?"

"Tonight was different," you admitted. "Most of my clients want to be seen being charitable. You actually care about the cause."

"How can you tell?"

"The way you talked about the kids in the program during planning. You knew their names, their stories. That doesn't come from a PR brief."

He was quiet for a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "You planning on sticking around Cincinnati for a while?"

The question caught you off guard - direct, personal, nothing to do with foundation work or tonight's event.

"That depends," you said. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to see you again. Outside of work."

The words hung between you, and you felt your pulse quicken.

“I’d like that too,” you said.

“Good.” He finished his bourbon and set the glass down. “I know a place. Nothing fancy.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow? If you’re free.”

* * *

Eight Months Later

That dinner had led to another, and another, until Tuesday nights became yours and Joe’s standing date. Eight months of stolen moments between his schedule and yours, of late-night texts that had nothing to do with work, of learning that he liked his matcha and read physics articles to fall asleep.

Eight months of being his secret.

It hadn’t started that way. At first, the privacy felt intentional—getting to know each other away from the noise, building something real before letting the world in. You’d started sleeping together after the third date, and the chemistry had been undeniable from the first time he’d shown up at your apartment after a loss to the Chiefs, shoulders tight with frustration.

“Rough night?” you’d asked, letting him in.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He dropped his keys on the table without looking, then reached for you like you were the only person in the world who could fix him. He kissed you hard, like breathing you was the only way to quiet the noise inside him.

Then he pulled back, not far, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders like he was fighting something inside himself.

"I just needed to be here," he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. "With you."

It wasn't an explanation or an apology. Just honesty, which was more than he usually gave you after bad games. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing against your hip bones through your shirt.

You didn't push for more. Just reached up to touch the back of his neck, feeling some of the tension ease out of him as he leaned into the contact.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, then pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head. You did the same with his sweatshirt, both of you moving with the kind of urgent efficiency that came from wanting each other and not wanting to overthink it.

The rest happened fast—clothes hitting the floor, him pulling you down onto the couch, the familiar weight of him settling between your legs. He didn't say much, just breathed hard against your neck as he pushed into you, both of you finding that rhythm that worked.

You let him take what he needed, let him lose himself completely. Your fingers traced his back, catching the tremor in his muscles as he chased relief — not just physical but something deeper, something he didn’t know how to ask for out loud`

And when he finally came, it wasn’t with bravado or noise, but a rough, broken gasp against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like he was trying to stay tethered.

After, he didn’t move far. Just gathered you into his chest, skin damp and heartbeat still racing. He kissed the top of your head — soft, almost absent — and held you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Wrapped around each other in the quiet, neither of you asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer, comfort given without condition.

He fell asleep with his head on your chest, and you traced patterns on his back until morning, thinking this was what real intimacy looked like.

But as weeks turned to months, the secrecy had calcified into something else entirely. You were the woman he called when he needed to talk through a bad game, the one who knew he got quiet when he was stressed, who understood that his confidence was as much armor as it was truth.

Maddie was the woman he was photographed with.

“She knows what this is,” he’d said the first time you’d seen them together in a gossip blog photo, her hand on his arm at some charity auction. “We’re just having fun. No pressure.”

You’d believed him because you wanted to, because you were twenty-six and he was your first everything that mattered. Your first love, your first heartbreak-in-waiting, your first lesson in how little you actually knew about what you deserved.

But tonight felt different. Tonight was his birthday, and you’d spent weeks planning something perfect.

* * *

The dinner was ready—his favorite pasta dish you’d learned to make after watching him devour it at that little Italian place you’d gone to in September. The bourbon was breathing on the counter, the good bottle you’d been saving. And tucked inside the card on your coffee table were two first-class tickets to Washington DC for February, along with confirmation details for a private after-hours tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

It had taken three weeks of phone calls, emails, and a significant chunk of your savings to arrange. But the thought of seeing his face when he realized you were giving him the stars—literally—made every bit of effort worth it. You’d even coordinated with his assistant to make sure the February date worked with his off-season schedule.

You checked your phone. 7:30 PM. He’d said he’d be over by eight, that he was looking forward to a quiet night in. Just the two of you, no cameras, no expectations. The kind of evening that had become your specialty.

That’s when the notification popped up on your screen.

TMZ: Joe Burrow & Maddie Thompson Celebrate His Birthday in Aspen!

Your heart stopped. The photo loaded, revealing Joe and Maddie laughing in the snow, both bundled in expensive ski gear, looking genuinely happy. Not posed, not staged—just two people enjoying themselves. The timestamp showed it was taken this afternoon.

Your hands shook as you read the caption: “The Bengals quarterback and lifestyle influencer are spending a romantic birthday getaway in Aspen, looking more loved-up than ever!”

Your phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table next to the card with the plane tickets.

He was in Aspen. On his birthday. During the team's bye week, when he'd told you he just wanted to stay in and relax. The birthday he'd said he wanted to spend quietly, just the two of you.

You stared at the photo until your eyes blurred. They looked happy. Like a couple who actually got to be a couple, instead of whatever the hell you'd been doing for eight months.

The pasta was getting cold on the stove. The bourbon sat untouched. The museum confirmation email was still open on your laptop, detailing the private tour you’d arranged for February—his off-season, when he’d said he wanted to travel somewhere meaningful.

Apparently, he’d already made those plans. With someone else.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Joe.

"Hey, something came up last minute. My parents wanted to take me out for my birthday. Can we raincheck tonight? I wish I was with you instead. Sorry."

The laugh that escaped your throat was bitter, almost hysterical. Wish he was with you instead? He could be with you. He was choosing not to be.

You picked up your phone with shaking hands and typed back:

“I know you’re in Aspen. I made your favorite dinner. Bought you bourbon. Had a gift waiting. I’m done.”

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately turned your phone face down on the table. You couldn’t look at it anymore.

The apartment felt suffocating suddenly. All this effort, all this hope, all these months of accepting less than you deserved because you thought—what? That eventually he’d choose you? That love would be enough?

You walked to the kitchen and turned off the burner, staring at the pasta you’d spent an hour perfecting. In the living room, the bourbon caught the light, amber and expensive and pointless. The plane tickets might as well have been confetti.

Eight months of being his secret. Eight months of believing his lies about Maddie. Eight months of thinking you were building toward something real.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again.

You didn’t look.

* * *

You woke up on your couch at 6 AM with mascara streaked down your cheeks and your phone battery dead. The bourbon bottle sat exactly where you'd left it, the pasta had congealed in the pot, and the card with the plane tickets lay open on the coffee table like evidence of your own stupidity.

Your phone had seventeen missed calls and twenty-three unread messages when you plugged it in. All from Joe.

You almost deleted them without reading, but morbid curiosity won.

11:47 PM: “What do you mean you’re done? Call me back.”

11:52 PM: “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

12:15 AM: "How did you know I was in Aspen?"

12:16 AM: "I lied about my parents. I'm sorry. I can explain."

12:45 AM: "Baby please call me back. This is crazy."

1:23 AM: “I’m sorry. I know you planned something. I’ll make it up to you.”

1:24 AM: “We can celebrate when I get back.”

2:18 AM: “Don’t do this. Don’t throw us away over a misunderstanding.”

3:01 AM: “I care about you. You know that.”

3:02 AM: “This is different and you know it.”

And on and on. Twenty-three messages that cycled between confusion, dismissal, and damage control. He apologized for lying, but not one message said he'd choose you.

Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them:

“I arranged a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum for February. Bought first-class tickets. Spent my savings so you could see the stars without cameras. While you were booking a trip to Aspen with your girlfriend.”

“Do NOT contact me again.”

You hit send, then immediately blocked his number.

Then you sat on your kitchen floor and cried until you had nothing left.

* * *

Joe spent the flight back to Cincinnati drafting and deleting messages he couldn’t send. Every approach felt inadequate. How do you apologize for eight months of lies? How do you explain that you didn’t realize what you had until you’d destroyed it?

He tried calling from different numbers. When she found out it was him she’d blocked those too.

He showed up at her apartment building on December 15th with flowers and an apology speech he’d rehearsed twenty times. The doorman—a guy Joe recognized from previous visits—took one look at him and shook his head.

“She left specific instructions, Mr. Burrow. You’re not on the list anymore.”

So he waited. Four hours in his car across the street until she came home from work, grocery bags in hand. When she saw him getting out of his car, her entire body went rigid.

“Don’t,” she said, not stopping her walk toward the building.

“Please. Just five minutes.”

“No.” She didn’t even look at him. “I meant what I said.”

“I ended things with Maddie.”

That made her stop. Turn around. For a moment, hope flared in his chest.

“Good for you,” she said, her voice flat. “That doesn’t change what you did to me.”

“I know. I know I fucked up—”

“You didn’t fuck up, Joe. You made choices. For eight months, you made the same choice over and over again.” She shifted the grocery bags, and he could see how tired she looked. How much weight she’d lost in just five days. “You chose her every time it mattered.”

“That’s not true—”

“Your birthday mattered. And you chose her.”

The simple statement hit like a physical blow. Because she was right.

“I was scared,” he said, the words coming out raw. “I was scared of what this was, what you meant to me—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was steady, but he could see her hands shaking. “I don’t care why you did it. I only care that you did.”

She turned back toward the building.

“I love you,” he called after her.

She stopped again, but didn’t turn around.

“You love the idea of me,” she said quietly. “You love having someone who accepts scraps and calls it enough. But you don’t love me, Joe. If you did, you would have chosen me.”

* * *

February 14th - Valentine's Day

You stared at your phone screen, watching another Venmo notification light up. $2,999 from Joe Burrow. Memo: "I know it's Valentine's Day and this is pathetic but I miss you."

It had been two months since you’d blocked him. Two months of returned gifts, ignored letters, and apparently daily Venmo transfers that were slowly driving you insane. Your bank account was looking healthier than it ever had, but every notification felt like a fresh wound.

This had to stop.

You unblocked his number long enough to send one text:

“Stop sending me money. I’m serious. It’s not helping anything and it’s borderline harassment at this point.”

Your finger hovered over the block button again, but his response came faster than expected.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

That was it. No arguing, no desperate pleas, no “but can we talk.” Just acknowledgment and agreement.

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting for the follow-up that didn’t come. Where was the Joe who had waited outside your building for four hours? Who had sent flowers to your office every day for a week? Who had somehow found your work email and sent you a twenty-paragraph explanation of his feelings?

“Thank you,” you typed back, then immediately blocked him again.

But something about his response sat differently than all his other attempts. For the first time in two months, he’d listened to what you asked for instead of trying to negotiate around it.

You checked your Venmo. No new notifications.

It was such a small thing—just stopping when you asked him to stop. But after months of him refusing to respect any of your boundaries, the basic act of compliance felt… surprising.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were reading too much into a simple text exchange. But that night, for the first time since December, you didn’t fall asleep angry.

* * *

April 15th

The new Italian place in Over-the-Rhine was buzzing with Cincinnati’s elite—business leaders, local celebrities, and apparently half the Bengals roster. You’d been coordinating launch events long enough to read a room within minutes, and this one was going well. The chef was happy, the investors were mingling, and the servers were keeping up with the cocktail orders.

You were adjusting the lighting for the chef’s welcome speech when you saw him.

Joe stood near the bar, nursing what looked like a bourbon and listening to whatever story a local business owner was telling him. When the man finished speaking, Joe nodded and leaned in slightly, clearly engaged in the conversation.

Your breath caught. He’d come. To an event you were coordinating.

In eight months of dating, you’d probably coordinated a dozen events he’d been invited to. Gallery openings, charity auctions, restaurant launches—Cincinnati wasn’t that big, and athletes were always on VIP lists. But Joe had never shown up to a single one. “Not really my scene,” he’d always said, preferring quiet nights in to schmoozing with strangers.

Seeing him here now, in his least favorite type of environment, you knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

He looked different. Bigger, maybe, and there was something quieter about the way he carried himself. When someone tried to take a selfie with him, he politely declined and redirected the conversation back to the restaurant.

For the next two hours, you found yourself stealing glances while managing the event. Joe worked the room, engaging with guests throughout the night. When the local news crew asked for an interview, he kept it short and focused on the restaurant and community rather than himself.

You watched him nurse the same bourbon all night. In the eight months you'd dated, you'd learned he wasn't much of a drinker at events—too careful about his image, too controlled. But this felt different. Like he was actually trying to enjoy himself instead of just getting through it.

By ten PM, the crowd had thinned and you were overseeing the breakdown. Your staff was handling the heavy lifting, leaving you to do final checks and coordinate with the restaurant management. You were reviewing the evening’s photos with the owner when you sensed someone behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turned around, and there he was.

“Hi,” you said, professional instincts kicking in. “Did you enjoy the event?”

“I did.” He glanced around at your staff efficiently packing up equipment. “You did an incredible job. The whole thing felt… authentic. Not like a show.”

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence stretched between you. The owner had diplomatically moved away, giving you space.

“I know you’re working,” Joe said. “I just wanted to say—I stopped the Venmo thing. Like you asked.”

“I noticed.”

“And I wanted to apologize. Not for the relationship stuff, I know you don’t want to hear that. But for not respecting your boundaries. For making you ask me to stop instead of just… stopping and for…everything else.”

You studied his face, looking for the catch, the angle, the thing he wanted from you. But his expression was straightforward, almost resigned.

“Okay,” you said carefully.

“That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” He took a small step back. “I hope you have a good rest of your evening.”

He started to turn away, and something in your chest twisted.

“Joe.”

He stopped, turned back.

“Are you…” You paused, unsure why you were asking. “Are you doing okay?”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief. “Yeah. Actually, I am. Finally.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing in the middle of a half-dismantled event space, wondering why you felt like you’d just seen a ghost of someone you used to know.

* * *

April 20th - 11:47 PM

You’d had exactly one and a half glasses of wine. You weren't drunk, just… relaxed enough to make questionable decisions. Like unblocking Joe Burrow on Instagram at nearly midnight on a Friday.

It had been almost a week since the restaurant opening, and his words kept replaying in your head. 

You told yourself you were just curious. Just wanted to see if the changes you’d observed were real or if you’d been projecting. His Instagram had always been pretty standard athlete fare—workout posts, game highlights, the occasional brand partnership.

You scrolled through his recent posts. A photo from training camp. A story about some charity work. A picture of him reading a book (which was new—he’d never posted about reading before). You found yourself pausing on each one, looking for clues about who he was becoming.

Then you saw it.

Posted eight hours ago: Joe post-workout, shirtless, drinking a Body Armor. Clearly a sponsored post, but he looked good—really good. The caption was simple: "Friday grind complete. @bodyarmor"

Your thumb hovered over the image as you studied it. He looked good. Really good. Broader through the shoulders than you remembered, and there was something different about his expression. Less posed, more natural. Like he wasn’t trying to look perfect for the camera.

Before you could stop yourself, you double-tapped.

The little red heart appeared instantly, and your stomach dropped to your feet.

“No, no, no,” you whispered to your empty apartment, staring at the screen in horror. You’d just liked a shirtless thirst trap posted by your ex-situationship at 11:47 PM on a Friday night. After unblocking him. After months of radio silence.

You could unlike it, but he’d already get the notification. You could block him again, but that would look absolutely unhinged—unblock him just to like his shirtless photo and then immediately block him again?

Your phone was practically burning in your hand. You set it face-down on your coffee table and put your head in your hands.

This was worse than the Venmo situation. At least that had been his pathetic desperation. This was your pathetic desperation, immortalized in Instagram notifications.

Your phone buzzed against the table.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Against every instinct for self-preservation, you flipped it over.

Not a text. Just Instagram notifications.

Joeyb_9 liked your photo.

The photo was from three weeks ago—you at a client event, you looked good. He’d liked it approximately thirty seconds after you’d liked his shirtless post.

You stared at the notification, wine-fuzzy brain trying to decode the meaning. Was he letting you know he’d seen your like? Was he being petty? Or was this his equally awkward way of saying… what?

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

This one from a month ago. Then another. And another.

He was going through your recent posts and systematically liking them. Not in a rapid-fire, manic way. Just… methodically. Like he was taking his time, actually looking at them.

You sat there in your pajamas, wine glass forgotten, watching notifications pop up every few minutes as Joe Burrow liked his way through six weeks of your Instagram posts at midnight on a Friday.

When it stopped, you waited. For a text, a DM, a follow request. Something.

Nothing came.

Just the strange knowledge that somewhere across Cincinnati, Joe was awake and thinking about you enough to scroll through weeks of your life. And you were awake and thinking about him enough to have started this whole mortifying chain of events.

You set your phone aside and went to bed, but sleep was impossible. Because despite the embarrassment, despite everything that had happened between you, something warm had unfurled in your chest.

* * *

April 21st - 9:23 AM

You woke up with a wine headache and the immediate, mortifying memory of what you’d done the night before. The shirtless photo. The accidental like. Joe’s methodical response of liking six weeks worth of your posts.

You grabbed your phone, hoping maybe you’d dreamed the whole thing.

Nope. The evidence was right there in your notifications.

You scrolled back to his profile, telling yourself you were just checking to see if he’d posted anything new. He hadn’t. The shirtless photo still sat there with your little red heart under it, announcing to the world that you’d been thirsty on main at midnight.

But as you scrolled through his feed, you found yourself looking at the posts he’d liked on your page. The fundraiser event you’d coordinated where you looked proud and professional. The coffee shop photo where you were laughing at something off-camera. The sunset from your apartment balcony with the caption about grateful moments.

He’d skipped the selfies and the group shots. Only liked the ones where you looked genuinely happy or where you were talking about work you were proud of. Like he was seeing the real parts of your life and… appreciating them.

Before you could overthink it, you scrolled back through his recent posts and liked the one about the charity work. Then the book photo. Then one from two weeks ago of him at what looked like a coffee shop, no caption, just him looking thoughtful.

Your thumb hovered over a post from a month ago—him with some of his teammates at a community event, genuinely smiling. You liked it.

Then you kept going.

The post about finishing a difficult workout. Like.

A sunset photo from his backyard with a caption about finding peace in quiet moments. Like.

A picture of him reading (again—when had Joe become someone who posted about books?). Like.

You realized you were now three months deep in his Instagram, systematically liking posts the same way he’d done to you, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a notification.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

The coffee shop photo from yesterday morning that you’d posted an hour ago. He was awake. He was seeing your likes in real time.

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

A different recent post.

You were now in some sort of bizarre Instagram standoff, both of you awake on a Saturday morning, liking each other’s posts like teenagers. It was absurd. It was embarrassing.

It was also the most you’d communicated in four months.

Your phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a like notification.

Joeyb_9: “I’m unblocked. Is this okay?”

You stared at the DM. No pretending he hadn’t noticed. No casual small talk to test the waters. Just a direct question asking for consent to be in your digital space again.

The old Joe would have either not acknowledged it or used it as an opening to launch into some speech about missing you. This Joe was just… checking in. Making sure he wasn’t overstepping.

“It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

That was it. No follow-up, no pushing for more. Just gratitude for the permission to exist in your notifications again.

You found yourself staring at the simple exchange, surprised by how much those two words meant to you. Thank you. Like your boundaries actually mattered to him now.

Fifteen minutes passed before he sent another message.

“For what it’s worth, I noticed you liked the workout photo at 11:47 PM on a Friday. Interesting timing.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he’d noticed the timestamp.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not judging. I liked six weeks of your posts at midnight. We’re both fucked up.”

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling at your phone.

“The worst part is it was the shirtless one.”

“I know. I was there when I posted it.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Little bit. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes questionable late-night social media decisions.”

You could practically hear the smile in his message, and something warm unfurled in your chest.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. My ego has been fully restored by your thirst trap engagement.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He was right. You didn’t. 

* * *

April 25th

Joeyb_9: “Saw your story about the charity auction. That venue looks incredible.”

“Thanks. The client wanted something different from the usual hotel ballroom.”

“You delivered. That lighting setup must have taken forever.”

You stared at the message, surprised he’d noticed the technical details.

“6 hours. But worth it for the photos.”

“Definitely worth it.”

-----

April 30th

Joeyb_9: “Random question - do you still make that pasta dish? The one with the pancetta?”

“Why?”

“Been craving it for months. Tried to recreate it and failed miserably.”

“You burned the pancetta, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Because you have no patience with cooking. I bet you turned the heat too high.”

“Guilty. Any chance you’d be willing to share the recipe?”

You hesitated before responding. It felt intimate, sharing something you’d made for him during your relationship.

“I’ll think about it.”

-----

May 3rd

“You were right about that book recommendation.”

Joeyb_9: “Which one?”

“The one about astrophysics you mentioned months ago. Finally picked it up.”

“And?”

“And I understand maybe 30% of it, but the parts I get are fascinating.”

“That’s 30% more than most people. What’s your favorite part so far?”

You found yourself genuinely excited to discuss it with him.

-----

May 8th

Joeyb_9: “Therapy was rough today.”

The message came out of nowhere at 3 PM on a Wednesday.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Just wanted to tell someone who’d understand why I’m sitting in my car outside the stadium questioning everything.”

“That sounds normal for therapy.”

“Is it supposed to feel like emotional surgery without anesthesia?”

“Pretty much. But the healing part comes later.”

“When?”

“When you stop bleeding.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

“It gets easier. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re different than you were four months ago. Different than you were four weeks ago.”

There was a long pause before he responded.

“Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

-----

May 15th

“Okay, I’m sending you the pasta recipe. But you have to promise to actually follow it.”

Joeyb_9: “Yes ma’am.”

“Medium heat. Not medium-high. Not ‘close enough.’ MEDIUM.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t skip the wine step. The alcohol cooks off, but the flavor doesn’t.”

“I would never skip a wine step.”

“You better send me proof you didn’t burn it.”

“Deal.”

Three hours later, he sent a photo of a perfectly executed plate of pasta.

“I’m impressed.”

“I had a good teacher.”

-----

May 20th

Joeyb_9: “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can actually change? Like, fundamentally?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out if I’m actually becoming a better person or just learning to fake it better.”

The vulnerability in the message made your chest tight.

“I think the fact that you’re questioning it means you’re not faking it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the old you would have been sure you were right about everything.”

“Ouch. But fair.”

“Change is possible, Joe. But it has to be for you, not for anyone else.”

“What if it started for someone else but became for me?”

You stared at that message for a long time.

“Then I guess that’s still change.”

-----

May 28th

Joeyb_9: “I have something to ask you, and you can absolutely say no.”

“That’s ominous.”

“I arranged a private tour of the Cincinnati Museum Center. Next Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come with me?”

Your heart did something complicated.

“You arranged a private tour?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you planned for my birthday. About the National Air and Space Museum. I can’t take that back, but I thought maybe… this could be a start.”

“When did you arrange this?”

“Two weeks ago. I wanted to ask you sooner, but I didn’t want you to think I was rushing things.”

“And you’re asking me because?”

“Because I want to see if we can spend time together without it ending in disaster. And because I think you’d actually enjoy it.”

You found yourself smiling at your phone.

“What time Saturday?”

* * *

You spotted Joe before he saw you, standing outside the Cincinnati Museum Center looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was early—something he’d never been during your relationship—and kept checking his phone like he was worried you’d changed your mind.

“Hey,” you said, walking up behind him.

He turned, and his face relaxed into a genuine smile. “Hey. You came.”

“I said I would.”

“I know, but…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”

The honesty was still jarring. The old Joe would have played it cool, acted like he’d never doubted you’d show up.

“So,” you said, gesturing toward the building. “Private tour?”

“Yeah. The curator is a friend of a friend. Apparently, they don’t usually do this, but I may have mentioned it was for someone who appreciates the educational value.” His smile turned slightly sheepish. “I also may have made a donation.”

“Of course you did.”

The curator met you inside, a enthusiastic woman in her fifties who clearly knew her stuff. “Mr. Burrow, Ms. Y/L/N, welcome! I understand you’re particularly interested in the space and natural history exhibits?”

Joe glanced at you. “That’s right.”

“Wonderful. We’ll start with the Neil Armstrong Space Exploration Gallery, then move through natural history, and finish in the planetarium if you’d like.”

As you walked through the first exhibit, you found yourself watching Joe more than the displays. He was different here than he’d been at public events during your relationship. More engaged, asking questions instead of just nodding politely. When the curator explained the mechanics of lunar landing, Joe leaned in, genuinely curious.

“I never understood how they calculated the fuel ratios,” he said. “With all the variables in space.”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” the curator replied. “The precision required was extraordinary. One miscalculation and…”

“And you’re floating in space forever,” Joe finished. “The ultimate consequence for poor planning.”

You caught his eye and he smiled—a real smile, not the polished one he used to wear like armor.

In the natural history section, you found yourself relaxing. This felt like the conversations you’d had during your relationship, the late-night talks about curiosity and discovery. But better, because Joe wasn’t holding back parts of himself.

“I used to love this place as a kid,” you mentioned as you stood in front of a display about ocean exploration.

“Yeah?”

“My mom would bring me here on rainy Saturdays. I thought I was going to be a marine biologist for exactly three weeks when I was eight.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Realized I get seasick on boats.” You laughed. “Hard to study the ocean when you can’t get on it.”

“So you went into event planning instead.”

“Eventually. Turns out I like organizing chaos more than I like fish.”

Joe was quiet for a moment, studying your face. “I should have asked you more questions like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“About what you wanted to be as a kid. About your mom bringing you here. About… you.” He looked down at his hands. “I was so focused on not giving up too much about myself that I never learned enough about you.”

“Joe…”

“I know we’re not… I know this isn’t about getting back together,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I see that now. How selfish I was.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and kept walking.

The planetarium was the last stop, and as the lights dimmed and the dome filled with stars, you felt something shift in the space between you. You were sitting close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, the same one he’d worn when you were together.

“This is what you were trying to give me,” he said quietly as constellations moved across the artificial sky. “Wasn’t it? Not just the museum, but… this. Wonder without performance.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I would have loved it.” His voice was rough. “I would have loved all of it.”

When the show ended and the lights came up, you both sat in the quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” Joe said finally. “For coming today. For giving me the chance to do this right.”

“It was nice,” you admitted. “Seeing you actually excited about something instead of just going through the motions.”

“I’m trying to live more like that. Present instead of performing.”

You studied his face in the dim planetarium lighting. “How’s that working out?”

“It’s terrifying,” he said with a laugh. “But better. Everything feels more real.”

As you walked back toward the entrance, you found yourself not wanting the afternoon to end. For three hours, you’d forgotten about the hurt and the lies and the months of silence. You’d just enjoyed spending time with someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him.

“Can I ask you something?” you said as you reached the parking lot.

“Yeah.”

“Are you doing this—therapy, the museum, all of it—because you want me back? Or because you actually want to change?”

Joe stopped walking and turned to face you fully. “Six months ago, I would have said both and thought that was an acceptable answer.”

“And now?”

“Now I know that if I’m only changing to get you back, then I’m not really changing at all. I’m just learning new ways to manipulate the situation.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I started therapy because I lost you. But I kept going because I realized I didn’t like who I was even when I thought I was happy.”

The honesty was overwhelming. This was what you’d wanted from him for eight months—the truth.

“I want to keep seeing you,” he continued. “Talking, spending time together, whatever this is. But not because I’m trying to earn my way back into a relationship. Because I like who I am when I’m around you now. I like who you are. I like… this.”

He gestured between you, and you knew what he meant. The ease of conversation, the shared curiosity, the lack of pretense.

“I like this too,” you admitted.

“So maybe we can keep doing this? Museums, hanging out, terrible Instagram interactions?”

Despite everything, you laughed. “I can’t promise not to accidentally like more of your thirst traps.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said with a grin. “My ego needs the boost.”

As you walked toward your car, you felt something you hadn’t experienced in months: hope. Not for getting back together—that felt too big, too complicated still. But hope that maybe you could build something new. Something honest.

Something real.

* * *

June - August

It started slowly. Coffee dates that lasted three hours because you kept forgetting to leave. Texts that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with wanting to share random thoughts. Joe sending you photos of books he was reading, you sending him behind-the-scenes shots from events you were coordinating.

The first time he kissed you was in July, outside a bookstore in Northside after you’d spent two hours arguing about whether sci-fi authors accurately portrayed space travel. It was soft, tentative, nothing like the confident way he used to kiss you. Like he was asking permission instead of taking what he wanted.

“Is this okay?” he asked afterward, foreheads touching.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

But you took things slow. Glacially slow. He didn’t push, didn’t ask why you needed space or time or whatever this careful rebuilding process was. He just followed your lead, showing up when you asked him to, giving you room when you needed it.

The first time you stayed over at his place again was a Tuesday in August. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because you’d fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up with a blanket draped over you and Joe reading in the chair across the room.

“You could have woken me up,” you said, stretching.

“You looked peaceful.” He set his book aside.

It was so domestic, so normal, that it made your chest tight. This was what you’d wanted during your relationship—quiet evenings, comfortable silences, the feeling that you belonged in each other’s spaces.

“What are you reading?” you asked, settling next to him on the couch.

“That astrophysics book you recommended." He looked at you, something soft in his expression. “I like this. Us. Whatever we’re calling it.”

“What would you call it?”

“Hopeful,” he said simply.

-----

September

The first fight you had was about Maddie.

Not because Joe brought her up, but because you saw a photo of them together on social media—some mutual friend’s wedding where they’d apparently both been guests. They weren’t together in the photo, just happened to be in the same group shot, but seeing her face brought everything flooding back.

“Did you know she was going to be there?” you asked when Joe came over that night.

“Yeah.” He didn’t try to deflect or minimize it. “I almost didn’t go because of it.”

“But you did.”

“I did. Because I’m tired of letting awkward situations control my life.” He sat across from you, not trying to close the distance. “We talked for maybe five minutes. She asked how I was doing, I said I was good, she said she was glad. That was it.”

“How is she?”

“She seemed okay. Happy.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “I owed her an apology too, you know. For letting her think we were building toward something when I was never really present.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Not at the wedding. But I called her a few months ago. Had an actual conversation about how I handled things.”

You felt something ease in your chest. Not jealousy exactly, but the tight knot of unfinished business.

“How did that go?”

“Better than I expected. She said she’d figured out pretty quickly that my heart wasn’t in it, but she’d hoped if she just tried harder…” He shook his head. “Sound familiar?”

It did. The willingness to accept less than you deserved, hoping the other person would eventually see what was right in front of them.

“I’m glad you talked to her,” you said, and meant it.

“Are we okay?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. We’re okay.”

-----

October

The first time you said “I love you” again was anticlimactic and perfect.

You were at Joe's place, attempting to teach him how to make your grandmother's apple pie. He'd insisted he could handle the crust, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“It’s not supposed to look like that,” you said, watching him wrestle with dough that had clearly been overworked.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks like concrete.”

“Edible concrete.”

“That’s generous.”

Joe laughed, flour in his hair and on his shirt, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. “Okay, fine. Show me what I did wrong.”

You moved behind him, covering his hands with yours to guide his movements. “Gentle,” you said. “You’re not trying to conquer it.”

“I’m not good at gentle.”

“You’re learning.”

As you worked together, fixing his mangled pie crust, you felt overwhelmed by how right this felt. How easy. How much you’d missed not just Joe, but this version of Joe—unguarded, willing to fail at something, content to let you take the lead.

“I love you,” you said without thinking.

Joe went still under your hands. “What?”

“I love you,” you repeated, realizing you meant it. Not the desperate, grasping love you’d felt during your relationship, but something steadier. More sure.

He turned in your arms, search your face. “I love you too. I never stopped.”

“I know.” You reached up to brush flour from his cheek. “But this feels different.”

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like apple and possibility.

-----

November

The first event you attended together as a couple was a charity gala you'd coordinated—your choice, your comfort zone, your rules. Joe wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and stayed by your side the entire evening, introducing himself to your colleagues, asking thoughtful questions about your work, never once making the night about him.

When a photographer asked for a picture, Joe looked to you first.

"It's your call," he said quietly.

You thought about it—about being public for the first time, about what it would mean, about whether you were ready for that kind of exposure.

"Okay," you said. "But just one."

The photo that ran in the society pages the next day showed you laughing at something Joe had whispered in your ear, his hand on the small of your back, both of you looking genuinely happy.

It was the first time you'd ever been photographed together. The first time the world knew you existed in his life.

December 9th

The night before Joe's birthday, you found yourself nervous. Not because you thought he'd leave—you were past that fear now—but because this felt like a test of how far you'd both come.

"I have something for you," you said as you curled up next to him on his couch.

"My birthday's not until tomorrow."

"I know. But I wanted to give this to you tonight."

You handed him an envelope. Inside were two tickets to Washington DC and a confirmation for a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

"The same dates as before," you said. "I never canceled it, just kept pushing it back."

Joe stared at the tickets for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What changed?"

You thought about it, about the months of rebuilding, about learning to trust again.

"I'm not trying to give you the stars anymore," you said. "I'm trying to share them with you."

Joe's smile was radiant. "That's even better."

He set the tickets carefully on the coffee table, then turned back toward you, his expression soft in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Thank you,” he said, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the gift.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward, like he was holding something back. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize it. The way he was looking at you, like he was seeing something new. The quiet between you felt different now. Not empty, but full of everything you hadn't said yet.

He didn't rush. Joe hardly ever rushed. His hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, fingers trailing along your jaw. When he brushed the hollow of your throat, you found yourself leaning into the touch without thinking about it.

Neither of you spoke.

His other hand moved to your hip, drawing you closer. You were suddenly aware of how much clothing was between you.

You tilted your head slightly and he kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, like he'd been waiting for permission.

Joe kissed the way he did everything else focused, and sure of himself. He didn't hesitate, but he wasn't rushing either. Just confident in a way that always turned you on.

His mouth moved against yours, coaxing you to open for him. You melted into it immediately, into the heat of him.

His hand slid back into your hair, thumb brushing your jaw like he was holding you exactly where he wanted you. And you wanted to be held there.

When he pulled back, you could still feel the press of his mouth on yours.

He looked at you with that half-smile that always undid you completely.

"Come here," he said, guiding you into his lap.

You moved to straddle him, settling against him naturally. His sweatshirt was soft under your hands as you pressed them to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

You didn't rush either.

Your fingers slipped under his sweatshirt, palms finding warm skin. You felt his breath catch, his hands tightening at your waist.

Joe's head dipped, lips brushing your jaw, then lower to that spot below your ear that always made you shiver. His mouth moved down your neck, breath warm against your skin.

You shifted slightly in his lap and felt him respond, his breath catching.

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tracing along the edge of your dress. He took his time, just touching like he was memorizing you.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands in his hair, guiding him where you wanted him. When he made a quiet sound against your mouth, it felt like everything you'd both worked for had led to this moment.

His lips were at your ear, fingers pressing into your hip as he pulled you closer until there was nothing between you.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, already breathless.

He kissed you again, and when you made a quiet sound against his mouth, his hands tightened at your waist.

You moved against him slowly, and he let you set the pace, his hands steady at your waist.

"Say you'll be mine," he whispered against your lips.

"Yes," you whispered back.

His hands slipped beneath your dress as he tugged you in closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the last layers between you.

Your fingers slid under the hem of his sweatshirt again, pushing it up slowly. He helped without a word, peeling it over his head and tossing it aside. His skin was warm, and you traced your hands over his chest, down the line of his ribs.

His breath stuttered when you shifted against him again, grinding just enough to feel him fully, already hard and heavy beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, head tipping back slightly.

You leaned in, kissing along the edge of his jaw, your hands steady as they mapped familiar territory. His hands slid up your thighs, dragging the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your hips.

His fingers slipped under the edge of your underwear, pushing them aside.

“Jesus,” he murmured, thumb brushing over you again, steady this time. “You’re already…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice catching.

His hand tightened at your hip as he kept touching you; slow, careful. Just reading every shift in your breathing, every quiet gasp, adjusting to it.

Your forehead pressed to his, your hips already moving instinctively into the rhythm of his hand.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling tight into his shoulders. He caught it right away, mouth brushing yours before he moved again.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on, baby.”

His voice sent you over the edge faster than you expected. You came quietly, breath stuttering against his lips, your whole body tightening around his hand.

He kissed you through it, his mouth soft but sure, catching every shaky breath.

And when you finally stilled, breath shallow and heartbeat loud in your ears, he was already reaching down, tugging at his sweatpants with one hand while the other stayed firm at your hip.

You shifted to help him, lifting just enough so he could free himself, and then he was there—pressed hot and heavy against you, one hand wrapped around himself, steadying, teasing, just brushing.

Then he guided you down onto him, slow, steady, his breath catching hard when he finally sank in deep.

You both stilled—just breathing, just feeling.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, one hand gripping your thigh as he held you there. “You feel… God.”

You didn’t answer—just curled your fingers around the back of his neck and started to move, slow at first. Testing. Learning this new version of each other.

His hands traced your waist, your hips, guiding you but letting you set the pace. When you ground down a little harder, a quiet groan slipped from his lips, and you felt it everywhere—his breath at your throat, his fingers flexing at your sides.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rougher now.

You did.

His gaze held yours as you moved together and when he finally lost a bit of that careful control—when his hips pushed up into yours a little harder, breath coming ragged—you welcomed it. Matched it. Took it.

He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing just under your lip, and kissed you hard as you came again—hard and fast, your body tightening around him.

He followed right after, muttering your name against your mouth, hips snapping up once, twice, before he stilled completely.

Neither of you moved for a while. Just breathing. His forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven, his hand slipping back to your face, thumb dragging slow along your cheekbone.

When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Rough. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it at the right time, but he needed to anyway.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You froze, just for a second, but he kept going—like he’d been holding it in so long he couldn’t stop now.

“I’m sorry it took me so fucking long.”

Your throat felt tight. You didn't say anything at first, just let your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

"I know," you whispered. "I know you do."

"I love you too."

He exhaled shakily, like he'd been holding his breath. His arms tightened around you, pulling you against him, forehead still pressed to yours.

You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, hearts still racing. Everything felt different now. Better. Like you'd finally found your way back to where you were supposed to be.