#(sorry for being slow long week!) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stellamarielu · 3 days ago

Text

rusty

jack abbot x female reader

summary: after a dry spell in his sex life, jack would’ve never imagined the next women he’d have naked in his bed would be his favorite first year resident.

content: nsfw, 18+, mdni, resident!reader, touch starved!jack, established relationship, a little bit of fluff smushed in there, but mostly smut, jack being nervous to have sex for the first time in years, but then ofc something in him snaps and he gets a little freaky with it, jack uses the nickname kid for the reader (1) time, also uses the nickname sweetheart, fingering, handjob (if you blink you’ll miss it), p in v sex, dirty talk, condom use and the crowd boos (sorry had to keep it realistic! if i’m having sex with someone for the first time and they’re not wrapping it….questionable)

word count: 4.5k

author’s note: wanted to write something about big tough jack abbot being a little nervy to see you naked but i also wanted to write something about him having an inappropriate relationship with his resident…. so alas this was born. enjoy!

“I haven’t done this in a while.”

The words stumble from Jack’s lips in an exasperated sigh. They nearly get lost between kisses, the confession hidden amidst the steamy exchange as your bodies barrel through his front door.

Reaching up to thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, your forearms rest on his shoulders to steady yourself as he maneuvers you into his bedroom.

You don’t reply to his admission, just smile into the kiss as your hands trail down his torso finding the hem of his shirt. Your fingertips carefully tracing his skin underneath the material.

He wanted to tell you it had been years since he’d been with a woman like this— wanted to apologize in advance for being a bit rusty, but the light touch of your hands exploring the skin just above the waistband of his jeans, had him losing his previous train of thought.

He couldn’t think about how long it’d been since he’d brought a woman back to his place, couldn’t even think about how insanely wrong it was to be kissing you in his bedroom.

With that being said, he should be proud of himself for holding out this long.

It had been months of having you on his shift.

Week after week of watching you prance around the ER with that cute little smile on your face, following every last one of his orders. Always meeting his sarcastic remarks with witty comments of your own, the two of you working effortlessly together like there was some sort of magnetic field between you that pulled him to every case you worked on.

It was so innocent at first, shared inside jokes and granola bars in the breakroom. Him giving you a hard time for your absurd coffee intake through the night, making comments about how the quad shot of espresso you walked in with was going to send you into cardiac arrest.

But then, there was the time he put his hand on your lower back to squeeze behind you at the triage desk. The second his touch met the polyester of your scrubs, applying just enough pressure to seep through the thin fabric, your head turned in his direction.

You didn’t mean to look at him, but you couldn’t help it. His fingers stayed splayed out on your back for one second too long, and your eyes shot to his, the electric current running through your body impossible to ignore.

A sudden tension emerged in the small space between you, his stare raking down your body to where his hand sat just above your waist, taking his time trailing them back up with a knowing smirk on his lips.

The moment was fleeting but it played out in slow motion before his hand was gone and he was breezing past you into the trauma bay.

After that it became a game of cat and mouse, both of you sensing a pull of desire toward the other but almost too afraid to do anything about it.

For Jack, it was because you were his intern, just a first-year resident looking to him for guidance and education. His apprentice. It felt wrong to look at you in any other way. He wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if he took advantage of the obvious power imbalance at play in the situation.

Not to mention he was off his game.

He had no problem coming across abundantly confident at work, but as far as dating went, Jack hadn’t waded into those waters for years. There was a part of him that gave up on his love life. Maybe that’s why he threw himself into work, to avoid the loneliness that found him in his lack of companionship.

You could sense his apprehension.

The way he would subtly flirt with you and then walk away from the conversation like nothing happened. He was trying to avoid the guilt of getting too familiar, but it left you confused about his intentions.

It wasn’t until one morning that you decided to rip off the band aid entirely, asking him to join you for breakfast after your shift.

It was a simple invitation, one that could’ve been strictly friendly, but the way he smiled when you asked, looking around to see if anyone else heard, told you it was the start of something else entirely.

And it was.

The two of you went to breakfast, talking for hours in a corner booth, over a stack of pancakes and a few slices of bacon.

It was the first time you saw each other outside of the hospital.

Everyone else in that restaurant could recognize the two of you for what you were; happy. Finding joy in each other’s presence through constant laughs and affectionate smiles. But Jack couldn’t see it that way— couldn’t shake the conflicting feelings of guilt.

It wasn’t until you reached over him to dip your bacon in a pool of syrup on his plate that he finally relaxed. He soaked it in, sitting with you like that, because when the nagging thoughts of how inappropriate it all was began to cloud his mind, the gentle touch of your hand brushing his thigh chased them away. Your fingertips curled just above his knee as you continued telling him a story, the hold making him forget why he was even worried about saying yes to your invitation in the first place.

That was the first time he crossed a boundary with you. Allowing himself to get lost in your voice, hidden away in some diner down the street from the hospital. But it didn’t stop there.

The next time was when he walked you home after work, only three days after your shared breakfast date.

He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but you parted ways outside the sliding hospital doors and he watched as you walked down the street, all by yourself.

For a split second he could imagine what his frame would look like walking next to you, and so he followed, catching up to your stride with satisfaction running through his veins at your surprised smile to see him standing at your shoulder. You lived in an apartment building a block away, he knew because you mentioned it one time, and even though his leg was killing him after such a brutal shift, he walked next to you all the way to the front door of your complex.

Your bodies lingered on the sidewalk, palpable tension bouncing between them through prolonged goodbyes.

That was the first time your gaze fell to his lips.

The curiously hopeful look in your eyes made his mouth go completely dry, because Surely you weren’t going to kiss him in broad daylight… right? The world spun around him while your eyes stayed fixed on the straight line of his mouth, until they fluttered back up, meeting his line of sight and smiling brightly.

“Goodnight Jack.” Your hand met his bicep, squeezing lightly as you turned to walk into the building with a small wave.

Goodnight, even though it was nearly eight in the morning.

It was something you said to everyone after each shift, bidding your coworkers a good stretch of sleep, knowing you all shared a fucked-up sleep schedule due to working the night shift.

Jack found the greeting endearing. Smiling wide every time he heard the sing-song chime of your voice wishing everyone a restful day before leaving work in the morning.

His days were hardly restful though, he never got much sleep when he went home, because you were always on his mind.

After that day in front of your apartment building, he went out of his way to walk you home nearly every morning, if only for a few extra minutes of hearing your voice, and a small hope that you would look at his lips like that again.

When you finally did kiss him, it was well worth the wait.

It happened on the roof.

An especially hard night landed you outside for some fresh air, overlooking the city as you tried your best to clear your mind.

Jack came up to check on you.

Avoiding him entirely, your apathetic stare stayed plastered on the lights of the city. He stood next to you in silence for a while before placing a gentle hand of reassurance on your cheek, bringing your gaze to his and searching your eyes to make sure you were okay.

It was emotionally charged, the way you crashed your lips into his.

He held your face delicately in his hands, using his jaw to dive into the kiss, hungry and sloppy and undeniably passionate.

More than anything he wanted to explore every inch of you— to let his hands travel your entire body, but instead his palms stayed strictly on your face, careful not to push things too far.

In fact, weeks of suppression followed while Jack tried to respect the unknown undercurrents of your relationship.

A few more kisses were shared, even some heated make out sessions and heavy petting in the on-call room at work, but nothing more.

He’d be lying if he said his trepidation wasn’t slightly due to the rather lengthy sexual hiatus taking place in his life. But he could only deny his urges for so long, and this morning after breakfast, instead of walking you back to your apartment, he invited you over to his place for the first time.

An unspoken agreement hung in the air the whole way home, one laced with heavy sexual tension.

That’s what landed you here— barely two feet past the threshold of his bedroom door with your hands dangerously close to the waistband of his pants, and Jack couldn’t dare to think straight.

The only thoughts he could muster revolved around how much he fucking liked you. This other worldly figure standing before him, toying with the ties on his pants, fingertips brushing his abdomen and fuck- he was on another planet. Your touch was sending a vaguely familiar heat rushing through his body and he wanted more— needed it.

Something about the situation sent him on a power trip. His cock pushing against the lose restraint of his scrubs at the sudden realization that he finally had you right where he wanted you after all this time. Months of getting to know each other and countless dates ending in polite kisses and lingering goodbyes— all of it leading to this moment with his fingertips curling into your waist.

But there was still a little sliver of him that felt nervous, slightly unsure of venturing into unknown territory with you.

He was still trying to convince himself that you were genuinely interested in him, because when he looked at you he saw this beautiful woman, all radiant and self-assured, on the arm of some guy nearly twice her age who rarely smiled and always had a grumpy wise-ass remark on his tongue.

His hands went rigid at the thought, the doubts taking him out of the moment for a few seconds, and you could sense the uneasiness in his touch.

Pulling away from the kiss, you watched his expression, his lips parted to make way for fast shallow breaths as he stared back at you, his eyes hooded with desire but swimming with hesitation.

“We don’t have to do anything Jack.” Your words were sincere as you continued looking for any sign of regret in the hazel of his eyes.

“No, I want this.” His brows furrowed as the winded confession fell from his lips. His hands grasped at your hips, holding firm while his thumbs rubbed into your sides.

“You sure?” Voice changing slightly, you moved into a more playful state, fingers coming to the tie on his pants as you kept your eyes trained on his face.

“We could just talk.”

A playful whisper slid between your lips as you undid the drawstring between your fingertips.

“Or maybe watch a movie.”

Then, your hand slid into the waistband of his underwear, only a few inches, just enough to make his breath hitch.

He tried to cover his surprise at your touch, now dangerously close to the base of his cock. Mustering enough self-control to speak, his words come out calm and collected despite the dizzying effect of your hand down his pants.

“You’re funny, kid. You know that?”

Kid.

A nickname he'd been calling you since the day you were assigned to his shift.

You were just an intern; young, hungry, and passionate. Had he known you’d end up with your hands halfway down his pants in the middle of his bedroom, he might've opted for a different title of endearment.

“Seriously Jack, we can take things slow-“

A low chuckle interrupts your attempt to comfort him, trying to give him a chance to back out.

He guides you back to sit on the edge of his bed, smirking and shaking his head from side to side.

“Stop talking.” The words are rushed. A deep rasp from his lips as he leans in to kiss you, pushing your body until your back meets his mattress.

“I don’t think you realize how long I’ve thought about this.” It was apparent that Jack was hungry— starving even— to see more of you. His hands working quickly to get your pants down your legs and onto his bedroom floor.

“And what do you think about Jack?” He’d never heard that tone in your voice before, low and sultry while you leaned up on your elbows to look at him through your lashes.

“Jesus- I’ve thought about having you on my bed like this,” There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes scraped over your as he paused between words. Eyes drifting to your lower half, legs parted slightly, a pair of black panties acting as the only barrier between his eyes and your naked body. “all spread out for me like this.”

At his words, your legs open further, sending a muffled growl straight to Jack’s closed mouth as he lets his hand fall on your inner thigh. Trailing upwards, his fingertips come in contact with the hem of your underwear.

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about pulling you into the on-call room after our shift.” He’s leaning above you, eyes glued to your clothed core, fingers toying with the thin material of your panties at the inside of your thighs.

“How badly I’ve wanted to fuck you on one of those shitty beds, or maybe even against the wall…”

“But you deserve better. To be treated right, on a real bed.” Suddenly the smooth linen of his comforter feels much warmer beneath you, your hands splaying over the pillowy fabric at your palms.

Jack watches the way your shoulders relax, and your head falls an inch to the side at his words, your body melting into the moment of shared desire.

“Want to take my time with you. Make you feel good. Watch you fall apart.” He leans in to kiss you, right as one of his fingertip’s dip below the fabric of your panties to run along your slit. You gasp into the kiss, and he takes the opportunity to pull away.

“To hear the little noises you make for me.” His lips are only inches from yours as his breathless whisper fills the space between them. His hand fully pushes your panties to the side, his touch light as a feather, and lingering at your core.

“Bet you sound so pretty when you cum.”

Your mouth falls open and you’re not sure what triggered it, his words, or the way he pushes a single finger into you. The movement is slow and precise as he watches your eyes flutter in pleasure.

For someone who’s sex life was currently non-existent, Jack didn’t miss a beat when it came to the rhythm of your gratification. The moan dripping from your tongue coming right on cue as he slips another finger in with the first, stroking with purpose and dedication as his name comes floating from your lips.

“Jack.”

The word was foggy and desperate as his touch subdued you, his fingers curling at the sweet call of his name, hooking at just the right spot.

“Fuck that’s it.” A whine of pleasure rippled through you at the pressure of his fingers against your walls. With one stroke after another, the building tension in your abdomen threatened to overflow.

Jack’s stare falls on his fingers as they work you open.

He can hardly handle how responsive you are to his touch; your hips bucking into his palm, little pleas falling from your lips— It’s enough to make him cum right there in his damn pants.

“God- you sound gorgeous.” The compliment is almost primal, his voice nearing a growl as he looks down at your body writhing on the simple motion of his fingers inside you, a slave to his touch.

He lets himself get lost in the noises flowing from your mouth, allowing each moan to act as a signal, showing him exactly where and how you want him.

“Even better than I could’ve imagined.” He finishes his thought and brings his stare back to yours, the fucked-out expression in your eyes telling him just how close you are.

His words send you reeling, acting as a catalyst for the strain pulling in your abdomen.

He can feel your body preparing to tumble over the edge, walls clenching around his fingers, and thighs flexing.

“There you go sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. That’s new.

It surprises you both the second it leaves his lips. But the surprise of it barely registers, instead the word is unleashing a flutter in your chest and a warmth between your legs. You’re obsessed with the way it sounds in the rasp of Jack’s voice. In fact, you like it so much your body trembles and whimpers fill the air as you come undone on his fingers.

His eyes watch as his movements slow, digits coated in your slick and pushing into you continuously even after your body finishes shuddering.

It’s almost sadistic the small smirk he’s wearing as his eyes stay fixated on his fingers sliding in and out of your body.

He was starved. Starved of touch— the warmth of another’s body. The way you pulled him in with each thrust of his fingers made him want to stay there all night, making you cum over and over again to feed his craving of your body at his mercy.

If it weren’t for your delicate hands gripping at his forearm, forcing him back to reality, he would’ve kept going, would’ve seen just how much more you could take.

“Jack.” Your voice breaks him from his trance, hand wrapping around his arm and pulling him back to hover parallel over your body.

An unsolicited grunt erupts from deep in his throat as your hands, once again, slide into his underwear. Only this time, they fall far enough to envelop his cock in your soft touch.

His hand comes down forcefully next to your head, palm flat against the mattress to hold himself steady as pleasure washes over him.

You’ve only pumped over his length once and he’s already squeezing his eyes shut in focus, trying not to spill into your hand.

“Sweetheart.”

In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have used that nickname again. Not right now, when he was seconds away from having an embarrassingly quick orgasm.

Your grip tightened slightly at the word, hand working a little faster, and paying extra close attention to his overly sensitive tip. He has to put a hand over yours to conceal your efforts.

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up.” His brows raise at your smug expression, your hand still stroking him despite his attempt to stop you.

“I’m serious.” A breathless snarl meets your ear as his head falls lower, nearly resting in the crook of your neck.

You hum in response, one hand continuing its work between his legs, the other pushing at the pants still around his hips.

He was quick to oblige your unspoken request, bringing his own hand down to rid himself of his pants and underwear. His hands are then at your hips yanking your panties down your legs.

In a heated frenzy both of you took a few seconds to take off any remaining clothes. Sitting up to swiftly pull off shirts, and while you’re reaching to take off your bra, Jack stretches to his bedside table, fishing out a condom from its box that’s been sitting untouched in his drawer for far too long.

Then, you’re back to square one, his body hovering over yours, and his lips kissing down your neck.

Your hand finds him again, palm encircling his member as he freezes under your touch.

“You sure you wanna do this?” His voice is lost in the skin of your chest, his lips melting against your collarbone.

“You’re asking me? I thought you were the one who needed convincing.” The giggle in your voice has Jack nipping playfully at your skin, his hand confidently fitting between your legs.

“What can I say, you’ve persuaded me.” A teasing tone slips through his lust clouded whisper, fingers collecting the slick at your core with a groan on his tongue.

You grab the condom out of his hand, tearing it open and rolling it onto him with ease, the feeling causing him to lean further into your touch.

This was one of the reasons Jack was so drawn to you.

You held such discreet authority. Always taking charge with a charming smile and a sweet command in your voice.

He couldn’t have imagined the same power he witnessed at work would roll over into the bedroom. Your captivating ability to take quiet control was suddenly so obvious in the way you were guiding his now protected length to line up with your entrance, body shimmying down the bed to coerce him into you.

When the head of his cock finally pushes into you, you both let out noises of relief.

The placated gasp from your lips, and the profound groan on his, proves that you’d both been longing for this exact moment for weeks.

He takes his time. Learning the hug of your body. Savoring every inch of pure bliss, as he fills you at a painstaking pace. Your hands shoot to his back, fingertips digging into the broad expanse of his shoulder blades, just enough to encourage his movement until he enters you completely, pushed in to the hilt.

His eyes stay on yours, watching the way your lids almost close while you adjust to him, your mouth parted slightly at the stretch.

Then he’s pulling out and thrusting back in, moaning at the way you feel wrapped around him.

Your head tilts back into his comforter at the sweet friction of his strokes, and the sight beneath him has another moan bubbling up Jack’s throat.

It was exactly how he’d dreamt this moment— your back on his bed, with your head thrown back in pleasure. Getting to watch your body respond to him his perch above you, your naked figure far more beautiful than anything he could’ve imagined. It was all so perfect. You were perfect.

He picked up the pace of his thrusts, not too fast, but perfectly timed with the squeeze of your fingers on his back. He knew he must be hitting something right in the way you were gripping his shoulders and crying out for him. Crying out for him. Your voice was strained and winded as his name fell from your lips in a chant.

His self-control must’ve been at an all-time high, because he closed his eyes for a moment, gaining his bearings and talking himself down from cumming at the sounds of your whines.

He collects whatever composure is left in his body and brings a hand down between the two of you, fingertips finding that sensitive spot just above where his cock is driving into you.

He rubs steady circles into your clit, and judging by the way his name jumps from you an octave higher than before, he knows he’ll get to watch you cum again.

He makes it his goal. Setting his thrusts at a fixed pace, as his fingers deliberately stroke your bundle of nerves. He focuses completely on your pleasure to distract himself from the pulsing pressure running through his veins.

He needs to see you let go for him one more time before he can finish. An easy task given the way your back is arching off his bed, sending your hips further into him.

“I’m gonna-“ The words are hardly coherent as they slip between your gasps and moans— wanting to tell him you’re close but unable to string more than two words together.

“Come on sweetheart.” His words were directed straight to your core, eyes back down and watching between your bodies as he slides into you. His mind growing hazy at the sight of you taking his cock so well.

His encouragement was all you needed to let go. Your release washing over you in waves of bliss.

Jack’s eyes make the journey back to your face, watching in awe at your expression as it takes on a state of utter relief, your head falling even deeper into the blanket underneath you.

That image is what finally makes him succumb to the persistent chase of his release.

He’s groaning and panting, one of his hands coming to grip your hips, the other balancing himself on the mattress, pressed flat on the space next to your face.

He’s grunting profanities as he spills through his orgasm, allowing his elbow to bend so he can rest his forehead against yours. Both of you breathing heavy, eyes meeting in a moment of vulnerability and understanding as you bring a hand up to lace through his hair. Almost petting his grey curls, you lazily smile through the puffs of breath on your lips.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over seeing you like this, an angel laid out on his bedspread— just for him. Giving you both a moment to recover, he stays like that for a minute. He’s leaning into you, listening to your soft breaths even out, and he can feel himself getting hard again. His dick is still throbbing, not even fully soft and he’s already ready for another round.

His cock getting hard again, that fast after sex, was something he hadn’t experienced in over a decade.

These days Jack needed plenty of time between orgasms to even think about getting another erection, but in this moment, still buried in you and hearing the tiny gasps of breath coming from your heaving chest, he wanted more. He could feel his addiction to you growing stronger, reminding him of the forbidden nature of your budding relationship.

“What are we getting ourselves into.” Speaking his thoughts aloud, his voice fills the room, a grin lingering in his lips.

He can’t help but smile as he imagines what the future holds for your relationship, his forehead still pressed gently against yours.

my masterlist

#jack abbot #the pitt #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot fanfiction #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot x you #dr abbot #dr abbot smut #dr abbot x reader

1K notes · View notes

daryltwdixon · 1 month ago

Text

Summary: Cracks begin to show in the life you were building with the Miller brothers, the weight of the third trimester pressing down as Tommy lashes out in a way you didn’t see coming. Seeking comfort and clarity, you leave with Joel—where tension, tenderness, and long-buried feelings finally surface behind closed doors.

|| smut MDNI 18+, arguing, Tommy is an ass, pinv, fingering, pregnancy kink?, dirty talk obvi, breeding kink, possessive joel, some longing and angst, no outbreak, they still cant f'ing communicate ||

notes: I promise I actually like tommy in the show / game lmao. sorry this took me so long! was traveling to see family and literally had no downtime. enjoy!!!

The nursery was only half finished.

The bassinet was still in its box, unopened, up against the wall. Paint cans were stacked in the corner, samples painted haphazardly on the walls that had been dried for weeks. It was like dust had settled over everything—over the plans, the promises, the parts that were supposed to come next.

You sat in the recliner, the one meant for late-night feedings and early-morning lullabies. One hand rested on your belly, your thumb moving in slow, steady circles— something to do, to keep your breath even.

You were supposed to be building the crib today. Joel had followed Tommy home from the job site, both of their boots still dirty with sawdust, just to make it in time. They’d barely stepped inside before it was clear something was wrong.

Tommy stood by the window, arms crossed so tightly across his chest it looked like he might splinter from the pressure. His jaw was locked, shoulders coiled. Joel mirrored him from the doorway—hands tucked under his arms, weight leaned against the frame like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go.

Whatever was between them wasn’t being said, but you felt it all the same. Thick in the air, pressing down like humidity before a storm. Crawling across your skin, making you itch in places you couldn’t reach.

It had started weeks ago. Subtle, at first. Tommy pulling away in small, quiet ways—forgetting appointments, brushing past you with less warmth, keeping his kisses chaste and short. The bigger your belly got, the more he seemed to disappear.

Maybe now that it was real—your body changing more by the day, the shape of this future becoming something tangible—he was seeing it differently. Maybe he was seeing you differently.

You hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was stress. But as your due date crept closer, it became harder to ignore. He barely touched the baby clothes, the packages that came for the nursery. Or you.

Something had cracked, and no one wanted to look at the pieces. Now, whatever this was—this silence, this standoff—it felt like the final leak in a dam. Like the whole thing was about to burst open.

You tried to ease the pressure. Something small. Something safe.

“Have either of you thought more about names?” your voice came out lighter than it should. Like a peace offering. “We should probably decide before he gets here.”

Tommy didn’t even look at you. “You mean you and Joel should decide.”

You exhaled. Of course.

“Tommy… you’ve been avoiding every conversation about the baby lately,” you said gently. “For weeks. Can’t you just…talk to us? To me?”

“Maybe that’s because every time we talk,” he snapped, “I’m the one who’s unreasonable. I’m the one who’s supposed to suck it up and smile.”

“You are being unreasonable,” you said, too fast, too sharp. Then, softer—more careful. “You keep shutting Joel out of everything. You won’t let him have a say in any of the decisions or plans. He’s supposed to be part of this.”

Tommy laughed—a short, humorless bark. “He was part of this. We needed him to help. That’s what this was. A favor. You and me—we were gonna raise this baby. He’s not—” he shook his head, letting the end of his sentence hang between the three of you.

You rose from the chair slowly, pressing your palm into the armrest as you shifted your weight, the other hand supporting your swollen belly. Joel moved instinctively, ready to help, but you lifted a hand without looking at him. I’m fine.

Your knees ached. Your back pulled. The baby shifted under your ribs, like he knew something was wrong.

You crossed the room, stopping just a few feet from your husband. “Tommy,” you said, voice calm but full, “we agreed he would be part of this. We agreed to try it this way. We’re supposed to be a team. He’s not just some uncle. He’s the baby’s—”

“Don’t fucking say it.”

His voice cracked halfway through the word, and for a second you saw it. The grief. The way it was wrapped around his anger like barbed wire.

Joel pushed off the doorway. “Then what the hell am I, Tommy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel under it. “What, just a stud you called in when things didn’t go your way? You think I’m gonna stand here and act like none of this matters?”

Tommy scoffed as he looked at his brother. “You think it does matter? What—you catch feelings after a couple fucks and now you think she’s yours?”

Your heart lurched at the venom in his words. Joel stepped even closer, his voice low and even and deadly calm.

“I think I was there when she couldn’t stop throwing up for three days straight. I think I was the one bringing her crackers and Pedialyte at two in the goddamn morning. And where the hell were you? Out with Frank again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes locked on his brother.

“I was there when she had those dizzy spells. When she got scared something was wrong. When she cried through the whole damn glucose test because you were too busy to answer your phone.”

He stepped forward in front of you. Steady. Final. “So yeah. I think I’ve earned the right to stand here. And I think you better watch your damn mouth when you talk about her like that.”

You stood frozen, heart in your throat, Joel’s words echoing louder than the silence that followed. You hadn’t expected him to speak—not like that. Not so plainly.

But maybe what scared you more was how much it meant to hear someone fight for you.

And then Tommy looked at Joel. Really looked at him. “Tell me the truth. You wanted her the whole time, didn’t you?”

Joel’s voice was tight. “That’s not fair.”

“Answer me.”

Joel looked down, breathed once, then met his brother’s eyes. “It didn’t start like that.”

“But it is like that now, huh?” Tommy’s voice broke. “You think you can just stand in my house, in my life, and pretend this is yours now?”

Joel’s voice cut in, sharp. “That’s enough.”

Tommy shook his head, face red. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“I’m not leavin’ her,” Joel said. “Not when you’re actin’ like this.”

“You don’t get to—”

“She’s pregnant,” Joel bit out, stepping into Tommy's space. “And you’re standing here yelling like she hasn’t been carryin’ all this on alone for weeks.”

“Alone?!” Tommy exploded—but you stepped between them before either could say another word.

“He’s right.” Your voice wavered, but it didn’t break. “That’s enough.”

You pressed a finger into Tommy’s chest, trembling with everything you hadn’t said.

“You’re the one who asked for this, Tommy. You’re the one who said you could handle it. And now you want to punish me–what? For trying to make this work even when you barely look at me anymore? I’m trying, Tommy.” You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Don’t rewrite this like I betrayed you. I already took the blame for my mistakes. We moved forward, we agreed this would be the three of us.”

Tommy stared at you like he didn’t recognize you.

“You want him here?” he asked, voice hollow. “Playin’ daddy, picking names for our baby in our house? Fine. But don’t act like I’m crazy for wanting my wife back.”

He didn’t stop when you called his name. He turned, shoved past Joel—hard enough to make it known—and stormed out.

The door slammed.

And just like that, the nursery was silent again.

Before

Joel never had a party phase.

He never did the college thing. No keg stands, no spring breaks, no waking up in someone else's dorm bed not remembering how he got there. Never packed into a room with three roommates and a GameCube. By the time most guys his age were skipping class and shotgunning beers, he was knee-deep in diapers and formula receipts.

He graduated high school, married his pregnant girlfriend, and tried to do the right thing. And within a year, Sarah was born—and Jess was gone. Real gone. Not a slow unravel. More like a door slamming and a trail of dust behind her.

He told himself she was never meant to be a mom. Hell, they were both still just kids at the time.

But that didn’t make it right. Didn’t make it easier, either. She left the baby. Left him. Just checked out and never looked back.

So when one of Tommy’s friends invited them to some frat party, Joel didn’t see the point. He tried to beg off, mumbled something about Sarah needing him, even as valid as that was. But Tommy had already lined up a sitter and wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“You need a night, man,” he’d said. “Just one damn night to remember what it’s like to have a pulse.”

So Joel went.

And now, he stood just inside the front door of a house packed with strangers, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

The place smelled like beer, sweat, cheap cologne, and microwave pizza. Every surface was sticky. A girl brushed past him, laughing too loud, perfume trailing behind her like cotton candy and alcohol. Guys with shaggy hair and flip-flops shouted over the blare of some terrible pop track, slapping each other on the backs like they’d just survived war.

Joel felt old. Not in years. In miles.

These kids weren’t that much younger than him, technically. But they weren’t people who'd held a screaming newborn at 3 a.m. They weren’t worried about overdue bills or busted radiators. These were the types who’d call home if they overdrew their account and had money wired to them in an hour.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and slipped through the crowd, trying not to bump into anyone. A couple was making out against the fridge in the kitchen as he grabbed a red solo cup of beer. Someone was throwing up in the sink. There were Doritos crushed under his boots.

He needed air.

The back door stuck a little when he pushed it open. He stepped onto the porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him with a squeal. Out here, it was quieter. Cooler. The music still thudded through the house like a pulse, but it was distant now—muted by the walls and the steady hum of crickets in the yard.

A few people lingered at the far end of the porch, passing a joint back and forth, slouched on the railing and talking low. One guy stood off to the side with a cigarette between his fingers.

Joel walked over, nodding once.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I bum one?”

The guy didn’t say anything, just held out the pack and a lighter.

Joel took both. Lit the cigarette and handed them back with a quiet thanks.

He hadn’t smoked since Jess told him she was pregnant. He quit cold turkey that day—barely even missed it. But tonight? He needed something to bite back the tightness in his chest. Something to ground him. He’d shower the second he got home anyway, throw his clothes straight in the wash before checking on his sleeping toddler.

God, he wished he was already there.

The smoke burned a little as it hit the back of his throat. He exhaled slow, watching it curl up into the porch light.

Time passed. People wandered back inside. The weed-smokers disappeared. The porch emptied out until it was just him.

Joel leaned against the railing and let his shoulders drop. He pulled out his old blocky cellphone, flipped it open with a quiet snap. No missed calls from the babysitter. No voicemails.

He stared at the screen a second longer than he needed to. Just making sure.

He almost wished there was something. A reason to leave. A reason to get the hell outta here and go home. But everything seemed fine. He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, jaw tightening as he took another drag of the cigarette between his fingers.

Just as he was settling into the quiet, the back door creaked open again. He didn’t look to see who it was, just figured it was some more potheads needing to get their fix. But he was surprised when he looked up, that his sudden gravitational pull felt off balance.

You stepped outside, fingers gripping the neck of a beer bottle, bringing it to your lips that shined in the moonlight from whatever gloss you had swiped across them tonight. Your black tank top clung to every inch of your chest and your mid-drift peeked below until your jeans that hung low on your hips, hugged you perfectly.

When you made your way out onto the porch, you looked like you didn’t owe the world shit, that you didn’t give a shit if anyone noticed you. But he noticed you. Everyone probably did.

Joel couldn’t stop staring.

When your eyes met his, it was like the world blinked. Just a beat—long enough to catch, short enough to question. And then you didn’t look away.

You tilted your head, your eyes glancing down at the beer and cigarette in his hand.

“That cheap stuff tastes like shit,” you said, “Like it came outta someone’s shoe. You’re better off with the good stuff.” you dangled your beer bottle up, shaking it just a little to show off you weren’t drinking from the keg.

“Not really one to drink it for the taste,” Joel said. You moved forward with a small smile.

“Mind if I take a hit off that?” you said smoothly, pointing to the cigarette.

He handed it to you wordlessly, and watched, entranced despite himself as your glossy lips wrapped around it, the ember burning at the tip.

“Told my parents I quit,” you said, blowing out the smoke, “Which is true. But nights like this make me a liar,”

Joel liked the way you talked. Dry, confident, like you were letting him in on your world. You weren’t fawning, weren’t giggling. You were sharp. Maybe a little reckless. Probably younger than him by a year or two, but smarter than half the house of partygoers combined.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around,” you said, handing him back the cigarette.

He shrugged. “That’s probably a good thing.”

You sipped your drink. “So you don’t go here?”

“Nah. Not exactly the academic type. Friend of a friend invited us out.”

You nodded, still watching him. The cigarette passed quietly between the two of you.

“And by ‘us,’ I’m guessin’ you mean...?”

“My brother,” he answered, “He’s around here somewhere. He’s better at this kinda scene than me.”

“I don’t know,” you said. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

Joel looked at you then—really looked—and felt something low in his chest shift, just slightly off-center. Your hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, big eyes that had no business looking at him like you were.

He huffed, barely a smile. “Don’t know about that.”

You shrugged, but didn’t look away. “You’ve got that whole brooding-loner thing going for you. Girls eat that shit up.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mhm.” You took another sip of your beer, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been out here, what—five minutes? I can already tell. Not even trying, and yet you look like you’ve got some kind of tragic backstory.”

He snorted, caught somewhere between amused and flustered. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” you said, leaning in a little, just enough that your voice dropped slightly. “You wear it well.”

Joel swallowed once, felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck. You were watching him like you already knew how he’d taste. Like you were just deciding whether or not it’d be worth the trouble.

He cleared his throat, looked down at his boots for half a second, then back up.

“What about you?” he asked. “You come to these things just to psychoanalyze strangers with your imported beer?”

“No, silly.” You smiled, slow and confident. “I come for the free cigarettes and hot strangers to psychoanalyze.”

Joel huffed a soft breath, smirk faint but real. He flicked ash off the end of the cigarette, not quite looking at you when he said, “Don’t know if I fit the bill on that second one.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him. “On the contrary, mystery man, pretty sure you’re tickin’ all the boxes.”

And Joel—God help him—he forgot his own name for a second.

He leaned a little closer, felt the pull of you like gravity. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch your waist, to tuck a piece of your hair that fell from your ponytail back just so he could feel what it was like between his fingers. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Maybe ever.

You were about to say something else, he could sense it, that moment between beats when something clicks open, but then a girl stumbled out the back door, making you turn as she grabbed your arm.

“Hey!” she slurred, glancing between the two of you before locking eyes with you. “I need you—seriously, Stacey’s throwing up and she just called freaking Mark, and she’s, like, sobbing—please come help.”

You looked over, face twisting with reluctant affection. “Shit. Yeah, okay.” you turned back to him, apology written all over your face, handing him back the nearly burnt out cigarette.

“Duty calls,” Joel said with a short nod.

“I’ll find you later?” you offered, a little breathless, and before he could reply, you were gone–swept back into the house, the music blaring for the moment the door was open, then leaving him out in the quiet again.

He stood there like a damn idiot, heart still pounding. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said to you—just a blur of cigarette smoke and smart little smiles.

You didn’t ask his name.

He didn’t ask yours.

But you’d looked at him like you already knew him.

The porch felt quieter now. Emptier, somehow, like you’d taken the oxygen with you when you left.

He took one last drag from the cigarette, flicked it into the yard, and let the silence wrap around him. Music still pulsed faintly from inside, muted now, swallowed by the thick summer air. A few fireflies blinked out by the fence. The sky above was dark and low, stars peeking through the haze of humidity and porch light glow.

He braced his hands on the railing and stared out at nothing for a long minute.

Eventually, he straightened up, ran a hand down his face, and turned back toward the house. He hadn’t seen Tommy in a while, and if he didn’t check in soon, he might completely lose track of his little brother.

Still… he glanced at the door once more before heading inside, like maybe you’d reappear if he looked hard enough.

You didn’t.

So he opened the door and stepped back into the noise. The music hit harder now—bass thrumming straight through his chest, like it was syncing up with his pulse. Everything felt louder, warmer, just a little off-kilter. The crowd moved in flashes—glimpses of faces, glitter, teeth, hands in the air—and Joel moved through it like he wasn’t fully there.

Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was you.

He made his way through the crowd slowly, eyes skimming over the living room couches, checking the faces of couples tangled together, wondering if Tommy was caught in some sort of lip lock with a random girl by now.

“Joel!”

He blinked and turned toward the sound.

There was his little brother, shoving his way through the crowd, hair messy, cheeks flushed from beer and the thrill of whatever he’d been up to. He looked like he’d just won a bet or found twenty bucks on the sidewalk.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Tommy grabbed his arm, grinning like an idiot. “Better than good.”

Joel gave him a look, dry. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m in love,” Tommy announced.

Joel snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m serious, man.” Tommy’s eyes were gleaming. “I just met the girl I’m gonna marry.”

Joel shook his head, a smile creeping over his face. Only his little brother.

“Where?” he asked, playing along.

Tommy spun, rising on his toes to look above the crowd. “She went back that way. Wait—hold up—there.” He pointed past the kitchen, toward the hall that led to the bathrooms and the back patio.

Joel’s eyes followed his hand.

And landed on you.

You were standing beside your drunk friend, your brows knitted as you held a water bottle to her lips, gently brushing hair back from her face. Still impossibly beautiful. Still glowing in a way that had nothing to do with the lighting or the beer or the gloss on your lips.

And Tommy was pointing at you.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“D’you see her?” Tommy said. “Little tank top, high ponytail—God, man, she’s—fuck. She smiled at me and I swear I felt it in my spine. I’m gonna find her after her friend’s chill. She said she’d come back.”

Joel’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Because what the hell was he supposed to say?

Joel nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I see her.”

Tommy clapped his back. “She’s everything, man.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just took a long drink of his beer.

And said nothing at all.

Present Day

You were silent as you climbed into Joel’s truck, his hand reaching for yours—rough, steady, warm—lifting you carefully onto the bench seat with your full belly.

Tears still clung to your lashes, blurring the view out the passenger window as you looked up at the house. At the window just above the garage. The one that led into the nursery.

The one where it all fell apart.

Your heart ached—not just from the fight, but from the truth in it. The worst part was… you understood Tommy. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was right. Maybe not about everything, but enough. Enough to leave a sting that wouldn’t fade anytime soon.

But that man inside the house—yelling, jealous, eyes full of something that looked too much like hate—he didn’t feel like the Tommy you knew. The man you married filled the house with music and laughter, who sang off-key in the shower and danced you around the living room with a beer in one hand and your waist in the other. He made late-night grilled cheese and kissed you with his whole heart, like he couldn’t believe you were real. He was your best friend. The one who stayed up with you talking nonsense into the middle of the night. The one who brought you coffee just the way you liked it. The one who made everything feel like the two of you were in it together—always.

He used to listen. Really listen. He was open. Curious. Soft where you needed softness and strong where you didn’t even realize you needed strength.

Where had that man gone?

Where had you gone?

“He just needs some time,” Joel said softly as if hearing your thoughts as he started the truck. It rumbled to life, and all you could do was bluntly nod, your throat too tight.

“Thanks–” you choked out, “For…I don’t know.” You shook your head. What the hell were you thanking him for? Sticking up for you to your own husband? Getting you out of your own house? Sitting beside you like the only steady thing left while everything else went to hell?

Maybe just… being here.

Joel didn’t answer. He just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-down on the bench between you. Like if you needed it, his hand, his steadiness, his silence…it would be there.

You sat in it—the hum of the engine, the wind coming through the windows, the muffled ache in your chest—while familiar streets gave way to unfamiliar ones. Houses changed. Yards grew wider. You passed the sign for Joel’s neighborhood, only a few miles away, but it felt like crossing a border into a different world.

“Do you remember,” Joel said, breaking the silence, “when we first met?”

You blinked, looked over at him, trying to come back to the present. “Huh?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road, but his voice was warm and comforting. That southern drawl like velvet. “You were in school. Tommy and I got dragged to some party by a buddy of ours.”

“Oh… right.” You blinked through the cobwebs of the memory. “Back when I thought I was cool for liking even grosser beer.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh at that. Just a puff of air through his nose, but it softened the edges of the truck’s cab.

“Yeah.” he sighed heavily, hand coming up to his chin as he leaned against his side door.

“What about it?”

He shook his head a little, jaw working, his fingers regripping the wheel. The leather creaked.

“Just funny how it all…” He trailed off. Exhaled. “I don’t know. Nevermind”

You studied him, brow furrowing. “What were you gonna say?”

At the next red light, he finally looked over.

His eyes met yours across the bench seat—deep, quiet, and full of something raw. Something you had been seeing more of since whatever this was had started.

A part of Joel no one else ever saw.

Your heart kicked at the look on his face. Like he was standing on a ledge and just now realizing how far the drop really was.

“It’s just…” Joel’s voice dropped. “I knew you first.”

You blinked, your brow furrowing deeper. “Tommy introduced us that night.”

Joel shook his head, eyes back on the road now, but there was a small smile twitching at his lips. “Nah, if I remember right, you bummed my only cigarette off me on the back porch. Spent ten minutes tryna figure me out like some sort of shrink.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the corner of your mouth lifting. You didn’t fully remember it, not clearly—but it felt right.

“Sounds like me, I guess.”

Joel’s fingers drummed once against the wheel, then stilled. “I just… I wonder sometimes.”

“Wonder what?”

The light turned green.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped on the gas. The truck lurched forward.

The golden hour light slanted across his face, catching the hard lines of his profile, the scar at his temple, the way his jaw twitched like he was biting down on something he’d been holding back for years.

“I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d had the guts to tell my brother I saw you first.”

You didn’t say anything.

There wasn’t anything to say.

The cab filled with silence. The kind that settled in your chest and turned tides in your stomach. The kind that said more than words ever could.

Outside the window, the trees blurred past in a haze of dying light.

And neither of you reached to turn on the radio.

When the truck pulled into the driveway, the sky was streaked in burnt orange and lavender, the last light stretching long across the hood. Joel was quick to hop out, moving around to your side before the engine had fully ticked quiet. He opened your door and held out his hand without a word.

You took it gingerly, wincing as your body shifted with effort. Six months in, everything took a little more.

He helped you down slow, steady, his hand catching at the crook of your elbow before it slid down to the small of your back as you found your footing. He kept it there as you walked toward the house—not holding you up, not rushing. Just… there.

When you stepped inside, you blinked at the silence.

“No Sarah?”

“She’s studyin’ at her friend’s. They got their exams comin’ up now,” he said, pulling the front door shut behind you. He toed off his boots near the mat, and you followed suit, groaning as you kicked yours off. Your feet were beyond swollen.

“Can we order a pizza or something? I’m dying,” you muttered, pressing a hand into the small of your back and arching until it cracked. The relief was minimal, but it was something.

Joel glanced over. His eyes skimmed your face, down to your belly, then back again. “Why don’t you sit down,” he said, already heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll make somethin’. It’ll be quick.”

You hovered near the table, one hand resting on the slope of your belly. The house was quiet. You hesitated, unsure.

“I don’t mind,” he added. “Just relax a minute.”

You wandered to the table and eased down into a chair, the weight of the day heavier now that you weren’t pretending it wasn’t. The silence of the house pressed in at the edges. You stared at the wood grain in the table. Breathed in the faint scent of garlic still lingering in the air from whatever he was fixing up. It all felt… normal. Which made it worse.

Joel moved around the kitchen, pulling things from the fridge. A box of pasta. A jar of sauce. His movements were easy, practiced.

You didn’t speak until he was chopping something—onions maybe, the soft rhythmic knock of the knife filling the space.

“I don’t know what happened,” you said quietly.

He glanced up.

You weren’t even sure where the words had come from, but they were out now.

“Things were okay. Good, even. Me and Tommy. Me and you. It felt like we were getting into a rhythm. But the last few weeks…”

Joel didn’t say anything. He just kept chopping. Listening.

You pressed your hand over your belly. “Feels like the closer we get, the more he pulls away. Like he’s finally seeing what this is gonna look like and—” Your voice cracked. You swallowed. “—and I don’t think he likes it.”

Joel set the knife down, wiped his hands on a towel. He didn’t push. Just looked at you across the counter.

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he said. “You can stay here, if you want. I’m not sure when Sarah’s gettin’ home, but… we can watch a movie or somethin’. Just… take your mind off it.”

You nodded slowly, eyes burning. “I’m just really tired, honestly.”

He understood, turning back to his cooking on the stove. You sat there, eyes unfocused, listening to the low simmer of the sauce, the clink of dishes, the soft scrape of silverware being laid out. So domestic and easy.

Before long, dinner was ready. Nothing fancy—just pasta with a little garlic, some toasted bread, and water poured into mismatched glasses.

You sat across from each other at the table, the kitchen bathed in that soft in-between light, not quite night yet.

The food was warm. The silence was easy. Neither of you said much, and that was fine. Joel wasn’t the type to fill quiet just to hear himself talk, and you didn’t have the energy to pretend you were okay. So you ate. Slowly. Each bite keeping you tethered to reality a little more.

He looked up once, just briefly, like he was checking on you without making a thing of it. You caught it but didn’t say anything. Just kept eating, your hand resting against the curve of your stomach.

By the time your plate was mostly cleared, the exhaustion was creeping back in full force—behind your eyes, in your limbs, settling deep.

Joel stood and grabbed your empty dish without a word. Washed it. Dried it. Set it aside.

Then he turned to you, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

You didn’t argue. You just stood, slowly, your joints stiff from sitting too long. His hand found your back again, that same steady pressure, guiding you through the quiet house like it was muscle memory.

When you reached the bedroom, you sat on the edge of his bed, the familiar scent of his cologne and detergent wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. Usually, it stirred something electric in your blood—lit a fuse that burned hot and fast. But tonight, it was grounding. Comforting. A balm for something deeper.

Joel gave you the softest smile, the kind he rarely let anyone see, then knelt in front of you and began to pull your socks off—slow, careful. His hands were warm, calloused in all the familiar ways, but his touch was gentler than usual. Reverent, even. He slid your pants down next, then your shirt, peeling each layer away without rush or heat.

This wasn’t the same kind of hunger he’d shown you before—wasn’t the fierce, consuming need that usually lived in the space between these sheets. This was something else. Something quieter. Worship without fire.

He stepped away for a moment, grabbed one of his sleep shirts from the dresser. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head with care, letting it fall over your bump and thighs. It smelled like him. Made you feel like you were wrapped in him.

Then he started to undress—slow and casual, unbothered by your gaze—and turned toward the bathroom as he unbuttoned his jeans.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said softly, voice low and rasped from the day as he shucked off the last of his clothing. “You go on and get comfortable.”

You nodded, watching him go.

And God, that view.

Joel’s bare back was broad, solid, built like it belonged to another time—hewn from marble and made to be seen on Greek statues of Achilles or Aries. You couldn’t help but stare at his tight, perky ass that always looked like it was made just for your hands.

He was so thoroughly masculine. So undeniably made from earth and sweat and quiet strength, it made something low in you ache—blood warming, mouth going dry. Even now. Even after the day you’d had.

That pull toward him never let up these days. Not really. It just shifted, simmered, and waited.

After a moment of sitting in patient silence, you eased yourself into the bed, shifting slowly beneath the sheets until the pressure on your hips and back lightened. You reached for the remote and turned Joel’s TV on low—just enough sound to fill the quiet without pulling you in. A dull hum. Something to keep the thoughts from circling too tight.

You pulled your phone out, thumb hovering before you typed the message. A small knot formed in your stomach, tight and uneasy.

I love you. I still want this with you. Can we talk in the morning?

You stared at it for a second longer than you should’ve. Then you hit send.

With a quiet sigh, you turned the phone face-down on the nightstand. You weren’t sure if you expected a reply. You weren’t even sure if you wanted one. But he deserved to know where you were, even if probably already assumed. You didn’t want him thinking you’d just given up or disappeared.

The door to the bathroom opened a few minutes later, a wave of steam curling into the bedroom as Joel stepped out, toweling off his hair. A dark towel hung low on his hips, drops of water trailing down his chest, catching in the lines of muscle carved from years of labor.

He moved toward his dresser, rifling through a drawer for something clean to sleep in.

You shifted onto your side, the tension in your belly easing with the change in position. One arm tucked beneath your bump, the other bent under your head. You watched him move, quiet and unbothered by your gaze.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” he asked, not even looking up, his voice thick with amusement.

You heard the smile in his voice before you saw it, that boyish grin flicking over his shoulder as he turned toward you.

His eyes caught yours from across the room. Your smile mirrored his.

“Definitely,” you said, voice soft but sure.

Joel chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rough as he pulled a clean shirt over his head and stepped into a pair of loose flannel sleep shorts. He didn’t rush—never did—but there was something different in the way he moved now. Something quieter, like the air between you had thickened just a little.

He turned off the bathroom light and crossed the room, climbing into bed behind you without a word. The mattress dipped under his weight, and then his arm was sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him.

His chest pressed to your back, one of his legs curling around yours. His body was warm from the shower, and the scent of soap clung to his skin—clean and comforting, with that lingering hint of spice that was just him.

You exhaled slowly, letting yourself sink into the feeling. Into him.

Joel’s hand rested low on your belly for a beat, thumb brushing absent circles against the soft cotton of his shirt stretched over it. It felt instinctual, protective. Like his body had already memorized the shape of yours, the places that needed soothing.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, lips close to your ear.

You nodded, not trusting your voice just yet. “Yeah.” you said, swallowing dryly, “Just… nice to not be alone.”

He hummed in agreement, nuzzling the back of your neck gently. “You’re not,” he said. “Not tonight.”

His hand slipped up beneath the hem of his shirt you were wearing, fingers grazing your bare skin—light, curious, like he was just reminding himself of the feel of you. That he was still allowed to touch you like this.

You shifted slightly, giving him room. The smallest invitation.

Then—he stilled.

You felt it too. A soft nudge from inside, low and to the left. The baby moved again, a firm little kick right against Joel’s palm.

His breath caught. He didn’t pull away.

“Was that…?” he asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t believe it.

You smiled into the pillow. “Yeah. Think he’s saying hi.”

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, hand wide over your belly, chest pressed to your back. You felt him swallow, the rise and fall of his breath slowing as he processed it—really felt it.

“That’s…” he exhaled, the sound brushing the back of your neck. “Wow. He’s strong.”

“Tell me about it,” you murmured with a soft groan, shifting your hips to ease the pressure. Then your hand reached back, finding his cheek, fingers curling gently as you turned your head to look at him. “Those Miller genes must make tough boys.”

Joel gave a quiet huff of a smile, but his eyes stayed on your belly. On his hand, still moving slow under your shirt, like he was memorizing every curve.

“I wouldn’t… this wouldn’t be real without you,” you said quietly, your thumb brushing his jaw. “No matter how messy it gets. You’re part of this. He’s here because of you.”

His gaze flicked to yours then—steady, searching, something unreadable in it. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either. His fingers spread wider over your belly, grounding himself in the feel of it. Of you. Of him. The little life shifting beneath his hand.

Then he leaned in.

His lips met yours, slow and sure. The brush of his beard tickled your chin, your lips, your shoulder as he breathed you in. Your mouths molded together easily, unhurried, familiar.

The hand on your belly shifted—sliding lower, then wrapping around your hips to pull you closer into him. His body curved around yours, heat pressing into your back, chest to spine, hips tucked tight flush against yours. You could feel him against you as the moment turned heated, solid and wanting beneath his pants.

Still, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Your fingers curled behind his neck, pulling him closer as your tongue brushed his. A soft, low sound slipped from his throat, almost like a whimper.

He kissed you more and more, each second growing a little needier. His hand slid further beneath the hem of the shirt you wore—his shirt—palm grazing your stomach, your ribs, until his fingers found the soft underside of your breast. He cupped you gently, thumb stroking over the sensitive skin, slow circles that made your breath stutter.

“You tell me to stop, I’ll stop,” he murmured against your mouth, but his hands stayed steady and gentle against your soft skin.

Your breath caught, but not from surprise. It was the way he said it—low, honest, a little desperate under all that restraint.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered back.

That was all he needed. He groaned softly, deep in his chest, and kissed you again as you arched into him, pressing your chest against his palm, the ache blooming fast and low inside you. His touch grew firmer, more certain, squeezing and caressing, dragging another soft gasp from your lips.

Joel shifted, rolling his hips against you slowly, deliberately. You felt him thick and hard through his shorts, grinding into the curve of your ass with a low exhale.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with heat. His mouth trailed down the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek, your jaw, your neck as he kissed you slowly. “Belly all big and swollen with our baby, like it was always supposed to be this way.”

You moaned softly, your breath catching as your hips rocked back to meet him, chasing the friction. His hand slid from your breast down to your belly, splaying wide as he held you there, possessive and tender all at once. You whimpered, the heat between your legs only growing as he ground into you again, deeper now, his cock rubbing right against your soaked core through your panties and his shorts. The friction was maddening, so close, but not enough.

Joel groaned, voice breaking as he rutted against you. “You feel that? How bad I want you? How much I need you?”

His hand drifted down, slow and greedy, rubbing his calloused fingers over your covered mound. Then he pushed the fabric aside, dipping into your folds—slick and aching—and swore under his breath.

“Christ,” he muttered, thick with awe. “You’re soaked, honey. Already drippin’ for me.” His lips brushed your ear. “Already knocked up with my baby, and you still need more, huh?”

“Yes, Joel—please,” you gasped, your voice breaking. You lifted your knee, spreading your legs wider for him, offering everything.

“I know, darlin’,” he rasped, fingers gathering more of your slick, moving in slow, delicious circles around your clit. “Gonna make you come so many times before I even get my cock in you.”

You cried out softly as two of his thick fingers pushed inside with no hesitation, just the perfect stretch as he filled you. Your head dropped back against his shoulder, mouth falling open as pleasure bloomed bright and hot beneath your skin.

His lips grazed your neck, then your shoulder, the scruff of his beard scraping gently as his tongue licked a slow line over your pulse. He growled into your skin, low and deep, like he wanted to sink his teeth into you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, fingers curling deep as you pulsed around them. “You feel that? That’s me takin’ care of you. My girl.”

“So—so good, Joel,” you moaned, hips rolling to meet each thrust of his fingers. “Please. More.”

He hummed behind you, the sound dark and indulgent. He pulled his fingers out, slick and shining, and brought them up to circle your swollen clit, slow and firm.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Completely fucked out and I haven’t even touched you properly yet. You love this, don’t you? Show me how much you need this.”

Your only answer was a moan, ragged and high as your body arched for him, chasing every stroke like it was oxygen. Joel kissed your neck again, then your jaw, voice rough and trembling. His fingers didn’t let up the slow, steady circles over your clit, so firm and perfect. His other hand had slid beneath your body, wrapping and anchoring you against him.

The pleasure climbed fast, stealing your breath, your thoughts. Your hips rolled helplessly, grinding into his hand, chasing that friction, that pressure, desperate to crest at the edge.

Your back arched against him, and your head tilted, lips parting on a ragged moan, “Joel—oh god—”

Your orgasm hit sharp and sudden. Your body seized, fluttering around nothing, thighs clenching tight as his fingers kept moving, easing you through it. He didn’t stop. Not when your hips jerked, not when your breath stuttered into sobs. Not even when your legs started to shake.

“C’mon, sweet girl,” he growled against you, “Again. Know you can do it.”

His mouth was everywhere as he said it—your neck, your shoulder, your cheek—kissing you with a reverence that bordered on ruinous.

You barely had a moment to breathe before his fingers dipped back inside you. Two again, deep and slow, curling just right, the heel of his palm offering friction against your aching and sensitive clit. Your body responded instantly to him, your back curling further into him.

You whimpered, hand fisting in the sheets. He curled his fingers again, thick and warm as they pushed against the spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. The second wave crept up slower, thicker, your limbs going soft and heavy even as your core tightened like a coil wound to the point of snapping.

You moaned, louder this time, body trembling in his arms.

“Joel—Joel, I—”

“I know, sweet girl,” he rasped, his mouth brushing your ear, fingers still working you with unrelenting care. “Can feel your pussy grippin’ my fingers. Be a good girl now and give me another.”

Your breath caught on a sob as your body shattered again—this one deeper, longer, stealing the last of your strength. You came with a choked cry, thighs trembling, hips bucking against his hand. Your muscles clung to his fingers like they were the only thing tethering you to the world, your body instinctively holding onto him, knowing he was the one who did this to you.

Joel held you through it. His palm stayed firm and grounding over your belly while the other hand slowed, easing you down from the high. His fingers remained inside, stroking you with reverence as your body twitched and shook with the aftershocks.

Then he brought his fingers up—slick and shining with your arousal—and kissed your cheek, slow and warm.

His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper at your ear, full of control and hunger.

“Open.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a honey-laced command, thick with heat and tension.

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and his fingers slid into your mouth. The moment his knuckles brushed your lips, you closed around them, tongue flattening beneath as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him in. The taste of yourself on his skin was heady, electric.

A low rumble of satisfaction vibrated deep in Joel’s chest.

He pulled his fingers free with a slow drag and gripped your jaw with that same hand, still wet, turning your face toward him as he leaned in and kissed you—hungry, consuming. Your hand flew to his hair, twisting in the dark hair at the base of his neck as his tongue pushed into your mouth, both of you moaning into each other like it hurt to be apart for even a second.

His body pressed tighter to yours, and you felt him—thick and heavy, and his hand moved between you, tugging your panties down your thighs, off entirely, leaving you bare for him.

One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He rubbed the swollen head through your folds, slow and teasing, gathering your slick as your breath hitched.

Then he lined himself up, the broad head pushing against your opening. The stretch made you gasp, even after everything he’d already given you. You wondered for a moment if you’d ever get used to the stretch of him splitting you in two.

You reached for him instinctively, needing him closer, deeper. Joel’s hand returned to your belly, spreading wide, anchoring you again as he sank into you.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

You moaned, the sound trembling out of you, as he filled you inch by inch—no rush, no mercy. He buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, your walls fluttering around him in helpless welcome.

Your eyes fluttered shut, body arching back into him, completely surrounded by him. He held still for a beat, just feeling you pulling him in deeper. You whispered his name, and he exhaled shakily against your neck.

He stayed there for a moment, fully buried, like it took everything in him not to come right then as he let you adjust. He was so thick, stretching you as your walls fluttered with every uneven breath you took. And Joel felt it—every twitch, every pulse. His hand splayed across your belly like he needed to hold onto something solid before he lost control entirely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice torn and low. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am inside you?”

You whimpered, barely able to speak, body already fluttering around him in overstimulated waves. Your hands clutched at the sheets, at his arm, at anything you could find.

He pulled back just an inch and pushed in again, slow and heavy, dragging another desperate moan from your throat.

“Mine,” he growled, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out as his cock felt you gripping him, quivering around him. His hips rolled into you again, grinding deep, making you cry out.

“You were made for this,” he rasped, kissing your neck, your shoulder, his hand gripping your breast now, fingers toying with your nipple. “For me. Made to be full of me—my cock, my cum, my baby.”

You gasped, arching into his touch, your body trembling from how completely he owned you in this moment. He thrust again—harder now, still slow but deeper, rougher. You could swear you could feel him in your stomach as he rutted into you.

You sobbed his name, overwhelmed, wrecked, clinging to him like he was your gravity.

His mouth dropped to your ear again, voice dark and shaking.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about it—how sweet you look like this. Belly round, tits heavy, pussy so fuckin’ wet for me I could drown in it.”

Another deep thrust. Another broken sound from your lips.

“Fuckin’ mine,” he growled, hips snapping harder now, losing rhythm in his need. “All of it. Every inch of you.”

He wrapped his arm under your belly again, lifting just enough to hold you steady, like you were something precious, fragile—his.

“I don’t care what happens tomorrow,” he said, thrusting slow and deep, burying his cock to the hilt. “Right now, you’re mine. This body’s mine. This pussy—” he grunted, grinding into you until your toes curled “—fuckin’ belongs to me.”

And you could only nod, barely breathing, gasping his name as the heat built again, faster this time, rising wild and uncontrollable between your legs. It was nearly Pavlovian how fast this man could bring your body to the edge within minutes.

Your body was already trembling again, every nerve stretched to its breaking point, and Joel felt it. He sensed it in the way your breath hitched, your thighs tensed, your walls fluttered around him. He thrusted deeper, slower, the weight of him unbearable in the best way. His hand slid between your legs, fingers circling your clit with practiced, devastating precision.

“You’re close again,” he muttered, lips at your ear. “I can feel it. Pussy’s already startin’ to milk me, like you need it. Need to come on my cock, huh, baby?”

You whimpered something incoherent, your nails digging into his arm as your hips rocked into every thrust, chasing that final wave. The pleasure was blinding, your body overstimulated but desperate. His voice. His hands. The way he filled you like nothing else ever could.

Then—barely above a whisper, like it wasn’t meant for you at all, “He could never give you this.”

Joel’s voice cracked around the words. Still deep. Still raw. But it shook.

“What I give you… how I make you feel...”

You sobbed out a moan, and that was it. Your body shattered, pleasure exploding through you so violently your legs kicked and shook, your cries muffled by the sheets. You clenched around him, tight and relentless, pulling him with you.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” Joel groaned, losing himself, grinding deep into you as your orgasm ripped through you.

He cursed again, low and guttural, his hips jerking as he spilled into you with a strangled moan. The sound of his voice, wrecked and unguarded was enough to send another shiver down your spine.

He didn’t stop moving, not at first. Slow, instinctive rolls of his hips, keeping his cock deep inside you, like he couldn’t stand to pull away just yet.

You lay there, both of you trembling, still joined, his chest heaving against your back, his arms locked around your belly like you might disappear if he let go.

You hummed softly as he slid out of you, the loss of him making your body twitch with oversensitivity. He didn’t go far, his arms just curled tighter around you, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t get enough of your skin. His face tucked into your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

You closed your eyes and let him hold you, your hand resting on top of his where it lay over your belly.

“Joel?” you asked gently once your breath came back to you.

He hummed in response, tired and wrecked, lips brushing your skin.

“What did you mean earlier?”

You felt him tense—just barely. A flicker of hesitation. His breath slowed, deepened, like reality was creeping back in and neither of you could stop it.

“When?” he asked, low and cautious.

You swallowed hard, your voice quiet but certain. “You said… you wonder what would’ve happened if you told Tommy…”

I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d had the guts to tell my brother I saw you first.

You could feel the words hanging there between you, unspoken but known.

Joel sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly before shifting, pulling away from your back and settling against the pillows. His arm draped over his eyes as he laid back, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that told you he was thinking. Too much.

You turned carefully, your body sore and boneless but needing to be near him. You laid your head on his chest, your belly pressing against his side, fitting awkwardly but close. He didn’t stop you. Just let you come to him.

His hand dropped from his eyes a moment later, resting on your back, his thumb tracing over your spine.

“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Not tonight.”

That was it. No elaboration. No apology, either. Just Joel’s version of walking the line—saying something and unsaying it all at once.

You looked up at him, searching his face. “But…what did you mean? Did you…have you always have feelings?”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared at the ceiling, jaw working.

After a moment, his hand slid to your belly, resting there like it always did.

“I don’t know what any of it means." he said finally. “I just know it ain’t simple.”

Your throat ached, but you nodded anyway. Because it wasn’t.

Not with him. Not with Tommy. Not with this.

You laid your head back on his chest, his heartbeat steady in your ear. And neither of you said anything else.

Because maybe silence was safer than the truth.

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma @leenieweenie12 @possiblyafangirl @alitaar @mads198-9 @emmaoc10 @auteurdelabre @the-last-twin-of-krypton @lilasskicker2 @levislegislation @flowercrowns-goodvibes @starmurdock @94namkooksworld

#family matters #joel miller #tommy miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x reader #joel miller tlou #tommy miller tlou #tlou fanfic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut

1K notes · View notes

artemisiasmuse · 3 months ago

Text

sex ban | toxic rafe x toxic reader

cw: obvi mdni 18+, toxic jealous rafe, physical violence (not towards the reader), sex ban lifted!, p in v, multiple rounds, unprotected (don’t do this), munch of the year rafe, crying during sex, squirting, headlock, oral receiving for both of them, mentions of blood, again these bitches are crazy

~ 4k words

an: this was so filthy i think i need to go to church (im not even christian) also don’t know if how i described the positions made sense but we move T_T

“you can’t be serious?” rafe looked up from his hands, you’d cleaned off the blood all the while being extremely pissed off. you couldn’t believe he beat someone to a pulp, again, just for checking you out. you hated how good he looked covered in blood, hated how even now you could feel your underwear getting sticky from your arousal.

“i am, no sex for two weeks, maybe then you’ll stop being such an asshole!” surely you were joking, there’s no way you’d hold out on him that long. he knew he wouldn’t survive without your pussy and he prayed you would give up after a few days. his prayers weren’t answered.

two weeks passed with the ease of a thousand pounds dropped onto rafe’s shoulders. he was irritable all the time, practically blue-balled the entire time, and couldn’t stand being in the room with anyone that wasn’t you. at some point, after he begged to at least eat you out, you stopped letting him come over at night even. rafe was practically vibrating with need, yet you seemed so unaffected.

he had a fucking reminder set on his phone for midnight when the two weeks was over, of course he was already on the way to your place at 11:50. you expected nothing less, unlocking the door for him preemptively, and he huffed out a breath when he found you sitting on your couch watching tv like it was nothing. like you didn’t care. rafe was so pent up he might come from a single stroke of your tiny hand around his cock, but here you were, calm and collected. you muted the tv when you saw him, he sat next to you, leaving a gap he normally wouldn’t, and began to apologize.

“baby it’s been two weeks, i’m sorry okay? i’ll do better.”

“you said that last time.”

“i mean it this time, i won’t beat anyone up, unless you want me to.” you roll your eyes at his addition, turning your body to face him. rafe’s eyes tracked the way your shirt rode up your thighs, realizing it was actually his shirt. his mouth felt dry, he hadn’t been so hard from so little since he was a fucking preteen.

“okay.” you conceded, you kinda had to, rafe looked a lil too good like he knew the exact outfit that would make you forgive him easily. his hands were veiny and a ring accentuated his long thick fingers, fingers you missed dearly. yours just weren’t cutting it any more, he knew exactly how to touch you, fill you, make your mind numb. and that was just his fingers, his pink tongue had slipped out to lick at his lips and you can’t focus much longer, all the memories flashing by.

“okay?” rafe couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he couldn’t believe you were taking him back so easily. he didn’t dare move or touch you until you confirmed.

“uh huh, your apology is accepted.” you nodded slow like molasses, your eyes already glazed over with need. he couldn’t tell, he was so caught up in his own desire. and as the word left your pretty lips, the spell was lifted.

“fuck come here” the words are empty, his large hand closes around the back of your neck and pulls you to him, his lips finding your own. you’d kissed the past two weeks but this is different, this is urgent. he’s sloppy with it, tongue peeking out into your mouth, tasting you, sucking on your tongue. it’s less of a kiss and more of a bite, he wants to consume you. you groan into his mouth, unsatisfied with the distance between you two and you move to straddle him. rafe pulls back at that, no he wouldn’t let you, he’d much rather have you on your back, he pushes you down by your neck, the slight pressure makes you keen. there’s no chance for you to sit back up when he’s leaning over you, settling between your legs and kissing you back down.

his kisses trail off, bites and open-mouthed kisses trailing your neck till he reaches your collarbone. your shirt is discarded with a blink of your eye and you wonder if he’s moving too fast. you can barely keep up when a mouth latches over your nipple, sucking harshly. “fuckkk i missed my girls” a lewd pop releases it from his mouth, giving attention to the other one and you arch into his touch. his large hand closes around the now sore nipple, pinching and massaging while he sucks on your tit like his life depends on it. the cold metal of his ring soothes the sting of his bites and you moan his name in desperation. the stickiness in your underwear is getting embarrassing and you feel like a fire is burning in your core. there’s no need for you to ask, rafe wants to eat, he’s been starving for weeks and your pussy is the only thing that can satiate him. after littering your chest and neck with hickies he kisses down your stomach, marveling at how soft your skin is, how he should never take an inch of it for granted any more. when he finally reaches your pink lace panties, he realizes it’s too much work to take them off you. that would require him getting off you and he really couldn’t afford to move an inch away. his fingers trace the flimsy material and he decides very quickly, tearing it off you with ease, and you hear the rip before you feel it. you don’t even notice him stuff the material into his pocket from the shock.

“rafe!” you don’t know if you’re mad or even more turned on but you wiggle under his gaze, blue eyes glued to your puffy and slick cunt. the tv screen illuminates enough for him to see his pretty girl is soaked. he nearly drools.

“getting in the way of my meal, i’ll buy you new ones.” he murmurs, not even looking away once, you huff at his words, and push his head down. he doesn’t need any encouragement, he’s nearly cumming in his pants from the sight of your pussy alone. if he could he’d take a polaroid of it and keep it in his pocket forever.

rafe is a man possessed, pushing you up the sofa length to make space for him between your legs, he hikes one up the cushions to rest on the back of the sofa, the other onto his shoulder so he can fit between them. you don’t even know if you exist to him any more because he’s smiling at your pussy like it’s his girlfriend instead. he shoves his nose, inhaling the scent of your arousal, it’s honey to his senses and his eyes flutter shut at how good you smell. then his tongue flattens against your pussy and he might just cry. you gasp at the feeling, wet and hard across your opening and clit, so brief you think you imagined it. rafe moans at the taste, let’s you coat his tongue before he goes back in for seconds, swirling his tongue along your weeping cunt until he’s thoroughly cleaned his plate. he’s moaning at your taste, tears pricking his eyes as it stains the back of his teeth, his hands grip your waist to drive you down to his tongue. he knows you’re gonna run from it, you always do. finally his tongue fills you up, delving into and cleaning you out, the feeling of the muscle squirming inside you makes you writhe in pleasure. “taste so fucking good, never letting this go again,” he slurs into you. you can feel yourself get wet again and he feels precum stain his boxers as more of your ichor slips down his throat. it’s not enough, he wants more, his right hand joins in, one finger curling into you along with his tongue and his thumb idly swirls along your clit. the combination of his tongue and finger fucking you and his drunken moans, make you come on his tongue embarrassingly fast. you’re gushing into his mouth more and rafe doesn’t even budge when you push at his forehead, the overstimulation stings and your poor walls flutter around his tongue, trying to drive him out, he only goes crazier. his tongue slips out a trail of saliva and your slick connecting him to you before he attaches his lips to your clit. you shake at the sensation, not yet come down from your previous orgasm. he sucks and laves over your clit, setting your body aflame. he takes the opportunity to slip another finger in, stretching you more than anything in the past two weeks, and he can tell your pussy is going to feel amazing on his cock. you’re struggling to take two fingers and he can’t help but moan at the thought. you hate how quickly he brings you to your next orgasm, your legs threatening to close around him and he makes a noise of disapproval. your mind feels numb now and you jump at his touches. rafe gives you a few seconds to recover, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, but when he tastes you again it’s not his fault he needs another hit. you’re a bit shocked yourself when he releases his hold on your legs and sits back. your wide round eyes making him chuckle at your disbelief. “you’re gonna sit on my face baby.” he resounds and you blink at him twice before sitting up, you wince at the way you’re drooling onto the couch and how you suddenly feel empty. rafe positions himself with his head poised for your pussy to sit on. you gawk at him.

“won’t i crush you?” besides your question you’re raised up ob your knees almost hovering over him, he could just-

“shut the fuck up.” he pulls you close and pushes your hips down to sit you down himself, your sloppy cunt meeting his lips and he’s in heaven. he wants to die like this, suffocated by your pussy. you try to shift your weight back onto your knees but he doesn’t let you, holding you down by your ass. when he licks up into you, you lose your resolve entirely. if he was a mess before, now he’s a goner. he’s spitting up into you, making out with your cunt and swirling his tongue along you, along every inch he can. your rock your cunt over his face, lost in pleasure and when his nose bumps your clit your legs nearly close on his head, he groans at the pressure. you’re practically dripping into his mouth and it’s all he could ask for; tears falling down his face just mix in with the mess of liquids running down his face and pooling on his neck and chest. you continue to rock against him, your cushiony thighs closing around his head and rafe feels himself twitch in his pants, he’s so fucking close just from eating you out. but he can’t even find it in him to care, no he’s crying from how good you taste, he’s past the point of caring. when you finally cum around his tongue he comes in his pants, moaning as you scream his name. you’re shaking uncontrollably, riding out your orgasm and thrashing along his face. your thighs press tightly against his head and he continues to drink you in, until finally your legs give out and you fall off him.

“pussy so good i came in my pants and you’re gonna clean it up.” you look at him in a daze, your body moving on its own accord, moving to your knees on the carpet. your body’s shaking but you still manage to claw at his buttons. “good girl.” he smiles down at you, chin and lips wet from your release and he’s not even dreaming of wiping himself clean, he wants it to stain him, seep into his pores. a whine crawls up your throat as you work his pants off, he’s sitting on the couch in front of you and you want to help him so badly. his cock finally springs free and he breathes out in relief, the cool air making him more sensitive after his release. the worst part is he’s still fucking hard. your eyes round at the sight of him, come lining his length, dribbling down the veins and blushed pink top. it’s so pretty you can’t help but stare. rafe slips a hand around your face, pulling you in, making you stop your staring and instead get to work. you might be drooling from the sight, it’s hard to tell because your mouth closes around him and everything is already so wet. a sick squelch resounds in the air as you lick up and down his length, he fights the urge to thrust into the wet tight heat of your mouth. you make sure to clean up his balls, your hand jerking him off while you’re down there, “fuck you’re doing so well baby.”

“missed this rafey” you hum at the taste of his come, thick and gooey on your tongue and the vibration makes him twitch in your mouth. rafe feels so close already, you’ve already cleaned him up, now you’re just cock drunk, taking him down as far as you can and pressing kisses to his tip. he doesn’t want it to end like this no, he’d rather fill you up properly, so he pulls your head off his length with a pop! and you glare at him and whine, like an insolent puppy whose toy was taken away. there’s a delicious sting from the hair he pulled and heat pools in your stomach again, you can’t tell if you’re wet or if it’s rafe’s saliva you like to think it’s both.

“come here.” rafe hoists you onto his lap, giving you two seconds to adjust before he lifts you both up and makes his way to your bedroom. his shirt comes off along with yours and you clamber up the length of your mattress to rest your head on your pillow while you still can. from how angry and hard his cock still is you know it’s gonna be a long night.

“remember your safe word right?” rafe flips you over, your momentary comfort gone just like that, he presses against your back hard. your ass perks into the air while he arches you just so. he’s waiting for your response, because one look at your pussy, glistening from another wave of desire, rafe knows he’s going to find it impossible to hold back. he’s vibrating with a need to fuck you already, dribbles of precum spurting out of him against his stomach. what a waste, there’s a perfect little hole that could use it. he smacks your ass once, lightly just to remind you to use your words.

“yes, fuck me please.” your voice is muffled against your bedsheets, but he hears it perfectly. when his tip presses against your tight hole, he thinks he might be religious. not to god or anything else, just you. you’re sucking in him, holding your cheeks apart for him like you know he likes and he groans at how you feel like silk around him. your cunt’s so warm and tight, rafe thinks he might never leave you again. once his tip is in you remember how to breathe, the initial stretch finally over. he can’t give you the time you need to adjust, he might start crying again, or worse come early. rafe pushes the rest of his inches in, bullying his way in, pressing you into the mattress just so your cunt could give in. you scream at the feeling of him being all the way in, the angle making him nestle against your g-spot while his tip rubs against your cervix. you feel ropes of pre spurt inside you and you feel tears slip down your cheeks from the pain, you know it hurts, you just can’t find it in you to care.

“s’good,” you’re mind is numb, the only thoughts are spiraling around your boyfriend and his stupid long cock. a sick ring of come and your slick circles the base of his length, his pubes soaked from both of you. he can’t hold back any more, not when you’re wiggling your hips for more. rafe pulls out all the way and slaps back into you, pulling you into him just so he can really fill you all the way. the force of his thrust and the way he tip nudges along your walls, grazing where you needed him most, as you screaming in pleasure, your poor pussy closing on him just so he can stay inside. not that it matters he’s hammering in and out of you so fast you think you might get whiplash. his hips drive you down into the mattress, stuffing you as much he can so you don’t run from it, like you’re already trying to do.

“fuck fuck fuck! too much hng rafe i can’t-“ the slap of his hips against yours are almost bruising, he’s pulling you back by a tight hold around you and it’s hard to breathe. there’s a pressure building in you that you don’t recognize and it’s almost painful how bad it feels to go unaddressed, something must be wrong. but rafe can feel himself getting close, just from your pathetic whines and screams.

“you can and you will.” there’s no room for argument when he’s flipping you onto your back, your head jostling and you blink away the tears in your eyes. you want to see him, want to look into his pretty eyes, rafe can’t help but laugh at your desperate expression. no, he’s no too far gone.

“dumb little girl, i could tell you were turned on, you know?” he maneuvers you onto your side, spooning you and pulling your leg over his so he can slip back in. the new angle steals your breath as you try to focus on what he just said, panic seeping into your system.

“wh-no i wasn’t.” you shake your head insolently, he’s rolling his eyes at your meager denial. his thrusts start out slow, testing the limits of how far he can reach, and it’s not far. a huff of annoyance teases the shell of your ear and you gulp at his proximity.

“tell me the truth and i’ll let you come.” it’s a whisper, soft and sweet, you know what’s to come will be anything but.

“fine! you looked so hot covered in blood-“ he grabs under your knee and lifts it up, slamming deeper into you cutting you off. “oh my god-“ rafe can’t handle not being all the way in, he loves the way his head kisses your cervix, how his veins have molded you to fit them, how he can feel come slipping out of you and dribbling down his length since there’s no space for anything. an addiction, one that he won’t give up. “that doesn’t make it-rafe!-okay!” you manage to get out between thrusts

“yeah yeah i get it.” he’s had enough of your lecturing, the arm that’s not holding your knee, loops around your front, closing around your neck and throat. his thick bicep presses against you in a headlock and he leverages the tight grip to pull you back into him, shutting you up finally. the only sounds that can be heard are of your pretty pussy squelching and gasping for him to be back inside. there’s the occasional moan from you when his grip loosens and the curses and groans from him, but mostly the room sounds like a porno. you’re not sure if you came or you ever stopped coming but your pussy feels warm and fuzzy, like it’s just given up on trying to decipher pleasure and pain.

“can’t come-fuck-need to” rafe frustrates himself with how quickly he feels like he needs to come. his balls are pinched tight, aching for release but he can’t stop, he needs to make it right, make it perfect. rafe won’t admit it anyone else but he’s so in love with you he hates coming without looking in your eyes. his hold on your neck releases and you slump forward tears and drool staining the mattress.

“pretty baby, you’ll give me one more yeah?” somehow rafe knows when you’re cumming, you stopped noticing. you nod dumbly, blurry eyes vaguely make out his face as he finally lets you rest on your back. your body aches and your legs haven’t stopped shaking, but you still welcome him with open legs. rafe presses a kiss to your forehead, shoving into you again, his thrusts aren’t so hurried this time, he’s savoring it. the slow drag of his tip inside of you warms you. you stop crying when he lifts your legs, pushing your knees to your chest, he wipes your tears and kisses down into you. the position is familiar, one of your favorites, and you kiss him back, it’s salty and messy but you can taste the words i love you.

“most beautiful girl in the world, fuck ,how did i get so lucky?” he peppers your face with kisses, giggles erupting from your lips and he can’t believe you’re his.

“love you rafey.” you say it so sweetly anyone would think he’s not 9 inches deep inside you, in a mean mating press.

“i love you angel, can i come inside?” your eyes light up, you both rarely do it since birth control is horrible on your body, but you can’t help but love how it feels.

“please…fill me up.” the words make his dick twitch inside you, more precum dribbling out of your cunt.

“fuckkk gonna get you pregnant, then everyone will know you’re mine.” he’s mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth and a whine leaves your lips. you should be concerned with how possessive your boyfriend is, you know that, but the image he paints in your head is too tempting.

“please.” you kiss his right arm that supports his weight next to your head and he smiles down at you. rafe takes it as his signal to pull out and fuck down into you, your mind blanks. it doesn’t take more than a few hard thrusts for the pressure building inside you to finally snap, seeing white under your eyes as you gasp and scream his name. you’re squirting onto him before you realize it, soaking his chest and dick and he keeps fucking you through it until you stop. rafe can’t help but lose himself as you do it, fucking down so brutally you think he might rip your cervix, if it’s even possible, the overstimulation claws at your senses and you fight the urge to push him away, scratching down his back instead. rafe feels his balls pinch and he can’t hold back any longer, you’re pulsing around him riding out your orgasm and he shoots gooey ropes inside of you. thick and never ending, coating your walls and slipping out the sides, the angle at least keeps most of it in, just like he wants it.

“can’t believe you squirted.” when he finally stops spurting into you, he pulls out, your legs falling to your side as you wince at the aches in your body. without the cloud of pleasure you can feel how sore you’ll be tomorrow.

“sorry” you mumble, turning to where he lays beside you and he shakes his head.

“nah baby i’m gonna make you do it every time.” a wolfish smirk graces his features and you decide you’ll never do a sex ban again. you won’t survive it next time.

#rafe cameron #artemisiasmuse #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe cameron headcanons #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron hard thoughts #rafe smut #obx smut #obx fanfiction #rafe obx

4K notes · View notes

inbabylontheywept · 5 months ago

Text

the fine and subtle art of arguing with old men

it was a good week for testing which meant it was a slow week for me. most of my job is fixing the machine when it goes down. if it doesn't go down, i don't have much to do.

fortunately neither did marc. in a site full of ornery old bastards, he's the oldest and the orneriest, so it goes without saying that i enjoy spending time with him. he reminds me of my grandpa. hell, he reminds me of a lot of people. i've befriended enough grumpy old men that i've got a sort of momentum to it now - you know how it is, when you meet someone that reminds you of someone else you really like. you get to start that friendship off half built, because you already have an idea of how to like that guy, and some of that old warmth can be brought to the new friendship. a little ember to start the stove up with.

(i think that's one of the really undersold beauties of getting older. you stop viewing people as strangers and more like remixes of friends.)

anyway, i was sitting next to marc and we were talking about the future. i've got my eye on having kids sometime soon (year or two? hopefully?), and he's very happy for me. i've tried asking him for advice, but all he says is that he didn't do a great job with his own kids and they still turned out okay, so i should stress less and trust myself more. i hope he's right. he believes it, at least, and it's a hell of a thing to have the faith of an old man. his faith is hard won.

as for his plans, he's retiring at some point in the next six months, and is hoping to sell his home and buy something in florida. he's republican, so he views the state as paradise, and i'm not inclined to even try talking him out of it. it's his dream, you know? i know for a fact my paradise would be a lot of people's hell. life's funny like that.

still, we kept going on, and it was a good time, and then he reminisced about the last time he got close to quitting - back around 2020. our job required getting vaxxed, and he refused, and there was a big kerfuffle about it before the job actually backed down. i know there's not a lot of sympathy for the unvaxxed out here, but the man's 62. you get the shot when you're under 30 to protect the people around you, but when you're over 60, you're just getting it to protect yourself and it's hard to be mad at someone for kicking their own ass.

still gave me pause though. i knew he wasn't going to take it well, but half the job of collecting curmudgeons is keeping them around, so i said

hey. i'm sorry they bent your arm over it, but.

but.

you should really get that shot.

and he looked over at me, and i looked at him, and he actually spat. not on me, just the concrete, but it was enough to show that he was mad. then he walked away, as abrupt as anything.

i felt bad about it. i wasn't sure what i'd expected, when he was willing to lose his job over it before, but i'd been so invested in his dream of retirement - the idea of him sipping margaritias on a beach next to his wife, the wife he calls every day during lunch, the wife he says is the one thing in life he ever got right on the first try. the wife that almost divorced him back when he was in the airforce because he just wasn't home enough.

(but he can be home now.)

and then he mentioned the vax thing, and it was like seeing a pin hit a balloon. he works out every day and takes all sorts of crazy vitamins and is generally committed to getting the most out of his pension and his life. i didn't want this dumb weak point to be his achilles heel.

---

i wasn't actually sure how long marc would be mad at me. i've seen him stay mad at some people for weeks. i wasn't sure if being friends would make that time go up or down.

it went down. i'm glad it went down.

he stopped being mad about two days later. we were doing front end maintenance one morning, and it was just that simple mechanical rhythm - hex key, replace the anode sheets, punch some off-gassing holes, oil it up, put it back in - that put things at ease. it always does. people working there are too busy to remember grudges, and it has this sort of mandatory practical communication that helps smooth things over. it was going great, and then out of the blue he said babs, you gotta be careful giving advice. those shots come with complications. what would you do if i got that shot, had a stroke, and died?

and i don't know what answer he was expecting, but i just told him the truth, which is that i would be devastated. i'd feel like i killed him. i thought that was a pretty normal response, but he looked taken aback. he asked why i said it then, and i said i'd have felt the same if he died of covid. that's just life. sometimes, there's no way forward that doesn't risk some kind of regret.

we finished the tube after that, in a silence that felt heavier than peace but lighter than anger. it felt like the ball was back in marc's court. like it would be rude to take that turn from him.

we parted ways with a nod and didn't speak until the next day.

---

i was doing spreadsheet work when he found me again. standard paper engineering - thinking of things we might need and ordering them in batches, months ahead of time. it always feels a little like plugging holes in a dam with my fingers.

but he popped up, and we didn't even exchange pleasantries. he just said i'm gonna die one day, and you can't blame yourself for that.

which is a hell of a thing to just tell someone right off the bat.

so i said what

and he said babs, i am in my 60s. something is gonna get me eventually, and whether it's covid or heart disease, or a stroke, there will be something you could have said or done before. and that's okay. it's not your job to make me live forever.

and you know, he actually made a lot of sense. so i said

okay.

i'll keep your business yours. i just

you were talking about your retirement before this. and i want that for you very much. you've worked hard for 45 years, and you deserve a break. we're getting to sick season, and it would be the saddest fucking thing in the world if you got this close to winning the race then tripped in the last ten feet.

and we sat there a few moments longer. i wasn't sure what to say, and i wasn't sure what he'd say, but eventually he just shrugged and said

yeah

then he left. i figured that would be the end of it.

---

i did front end maintenance yesterday, after being gone a week. it's one of my favorite things to do. i like working with my hands. i really like working with my hands. i'm glad i went to college, but in a different life, i think i could've made a better electrician than an electrical engineer.

and at one step, when we were both hoisting the plate back onto the machine, his sleeve rode up, and i saw two bandaids on his arm.

we finished the install, and i was ready to go back when marc actually stopped me.

i got the shot, he said, almost embarrassed. like he'd been caught. and i knew he was gonna say something dumb about it, so i just cut him off by giving him a hug.

i was relieved. hugging old men is kind of like picking up cats. if they like you a lot, they'll tolerate it, but that's about it. we sat there maybe three beats before his hands went up, and then he gave me one overly-hard thump on the back. in my experience, this is how old men tell you that they're done, so i let him go.

carla talked me into it, he said, almost defensive. his wife. his one good decision.

tell her i said thanks, i said back.

trump got the shot too, he said, less defensive, but oddly pleading. like he was consoling himself.

like he was nervous.

then it's gotta be safe, i said, and he looked up at me, strangely searching, strangely vulnerable. i don't know exactly what he was looking for, but i guess he found it because after a few moments his shoulders relaxed.

yeah, he said, one hand on the back of his head.

it's gotta be.

#babylon-lore #covid shots #work stories

3K notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 2 months ago

Note

Hi Mae!!

Could I request like a really cute Remus x reader where she’s never been kissed or anything before? Like they’re all out of Hogwarts or in their last year and she’s the only one to have never had a relationship, and she’s kinda insecure and anxious about it all?

No worries if not or if you’ve already done something like this!

Thank you! - x

Thank you for requesting <3

cw: alcohol, reader is a bit tipsy

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You don’t often feel self-conscious about your lack of romance. When you’re walking home from a bar on a cold night, it’s true that sometimes you wish you had a hand to hold, or a jacket that wasn’t your own, or somebody to slip an arm around your waist and make sure you keep your footing, but generally you’d rather wait than settle. When your friends start moaning and groaning about being lovelorn, though…

“It’s just been so long,” Sirius laments. He’s three sheets to the wind and hanging heavily from James’ side, who’s nodding commiseratingly as they wind a zig-zagging course down the sidewalk. “I mean, two months, James. Two months.”

“It’s been nearly two weeks for me,” James says glumly. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

“Lily will be back from her holiday in three days,” Remus reminds him. He can hold his alcohol better than any of you, and thusly he’s been tasked with carrying the things everyone worried they’d lose. The keys to your apartment are somewhere in his pocket, along with James’ wallet—confiscated after James left it lying on the bar for the second time—and a collection of Sirius’ rings which keeps growing each time Sirius becomes distressed about them somehow falling off.

“Yeah.” Sirius looks up at James, glaring. “You’re only two weeks in, and you’ve got a lifetime of kisses ahead of you. I’ve got to take them where I can get them, ‘nd I haven’t had even one in two months!”

“If you think two months is bad,” you say, “try going your whole life.”

You mean for it to come out light and quippy, but there’s a vulnerability lining your words that you don’t mean to reveal. You wince, thinking everyone’s heard it.

“Well,” Sirius says after a brief silence, “yes, that does sound worse. Thank you, dollface. You’ve made me feel a bit better.”

You smile ruefully. “Happy to help.”

James starts waxing poetic about the shape of Lily’s top lip, and Remus slows his stride, falling into step beside you. You glance over, and he’s giving you a soft look.

You go sheepish. “Sorry.”

“What? Why are you sorry?”

“That was embarrassing.” James and Sirius are talking loudly enough that you don’t have to lower your voice much to avoid being overheard. “I don’t mean to complain.”

“It wasn’t embarrassing,” Remus murmurs, tone a fond color. He bumps your shoulder gently. “Anyway, I don’t think either of them are likely to remember.”

You give him a sideways smile. “Maybe, but there’s still you.”

“I can forget, too, if it suits you.”

“It does suit me, thanks.”

“Right. I’ll get right on that, then. Consider it forgotten.”

You smile down at the sidewalk. There’s something about Remus which always relaxes you. Maybe it’s that he’s so easy to talk to, or that he doesn’t make you feel like you have to talk. You just feel safe with him. You walk a ways in comfortable silence, close but not quite touching, listening to Sirius and James giggle like schoolchildren ahead of you.

“Do you really feel that way?” Remus asks after a while. “Like it’s bad that you haven’t kissed anyone?”

You wet your lips. Your saliva tastes like booze. “Sometimes,” you admit. “Like, it’s not as bad for me as it seems for Sirius. But I guess it also probably helps that I don’t know what I’m missing.”

“Yeah,” he hums, seeming pensive. “That makes sense.”

“I do wish I’d gotten it over with earlier, though.”

You’re not sure where it comes from. You do wish that, sometimes, but it’s not the sort of thing you say aloud. Even with a friend as good as Remus, it’s humiliating to declare a want so intimate.

He looks surprised. “You do?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice a shade of itself.

“Why didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t…it wasn’t really a choice. I was never trying to wait, or anything.” You shrug, cheeks warm. “There was just never an opportunity.”

Remus makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a laugh. “Oh, I don’t believe that.”

You look up. “Why not?”

With your attention off the sidewalk, you stumble slightly, the toe of your shoe catching on the uneven pavement. Remus slips an arm around your waist to help.

“Careful,” he says, suddenly incomprehensibly close to you. “Watch your footing.”

“Sorry.” You look back down. “Why not?” you ask again, softly.

“I just don’t think it’s possible no one ever tried to kiss you.” Remus’ voice is quiet but genuine. Unabashed. “More likely people have tried and you haven’t noticed. Or you just haven’t been ready. That’s alright too, you know.”

“I’m ready,” you say certainly. “I’ve been ready. It just…hasn’t happened yet.”

He hums. “That’s alright. So long as you’re alright with it.”

You’re quiet the rest of the way home. You live in the same building as the boys, only the floor below. James’ bedroom is right above yours. He’s not usually too terrible an upstairs neighbor, though you’re looking forward to hearing him stumbling around before bed tonight.

Remus walks you to your door while James and Sirius wait in the stairwell, cackling and crawling their way up on their hands and knees. He unlocks your door and reaches inside to turn on the hall light.

“Alright?” he asks as you step inside.

You nod.

“Okay. Drink water, and make sure to lock the door behind you.” He gives you a smile, eyes dark in the dim light of your building. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you say back. But he hardly makes it a few steps away before you’re leaning out of the door, suddenly desperate. “Remus?”

“Yeah?” He turns. And he’s so lovely, all softness and gentle features. You know he’s the right person to trust with this.

You swallow. “I’ve been ready for a long time. And I don’t…I don’t know if I’m alright with it anymore.”

Remus frowns, stepping closer. “It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I just feel so behind.” Your tone is nearly pleading. “I’m tired of not knowing what I’m missing. I’m curious. I want to know what it’s like.”

“Y/n.” Remus says your name like a remonstrance gentled. Like he feels sorry for you. “What are you asking me?”

You worry your hands are shaking, but you steady yourself against the doorframe, making your voice solid. “I’d rather it be with someone I’m comfortable with. Someone I trust.”

Remus moves closer to you. He’s nearly as close as before, when he’d held you up on the sidewalk. You wonder if this is how close people get before it happens.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, not unkindly.

You shake your head. “Not that drunk. Not so much I don’t know what I want.”

He sighs. Says your name again as though to himself, with fondness and something else you can’t place.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” you say in a whisper. “I’d just feel a lot better if it was you.”

“Oh, love.” He takes your face gently in his hands. The pads of his thumbs soothe over your cheeks. “That’s not it.”

Your breath catches as Remus starts to lean towards you, your eyes fluttering closed. You stay perfectly still as his lips come to rest in the center of your forehead.

It’s a tender kiss, not lingering but not overly brief. In the end, it’s so sweet you can’t even bring yourself to feel slighted.

“Go to bed,” says Remus, pulling back with a sorry smile. “If you still want to talk about it in the morning, we will, yeah? It’s not that I don’t want to.”

“Okay. I’ll…” Your whole face tingles as though you really have been kissed. You’re half tempted to touch your lips to see if they feel different. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’m sorry, Remus.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he begs, backing down the hallway, “please. Goodnight, y/n.”

Your voice comes out a tad breathless. “Goodnight.”

1K notes · View notes

goldfades · 3 months ago

Text

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

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

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

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

It wasn’t about Joe.

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

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

It was the dream. Your dream.

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

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

For you.

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

What happens when he sees you again?

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

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

And for a while, that was the point.

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

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

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

But he didn’t say that.

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

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

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

So, he drank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Loneliness.

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

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

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

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

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

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

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

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

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing was prepped.

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

And that’s when it really hit him.

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

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

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

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

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

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

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

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

But it didn’t. It never did.

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

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

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

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

No. Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

It was his city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you were.

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

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

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

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

It was time.

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

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

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

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

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

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

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

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

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

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

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

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

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

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

Yeah. That sounded about right.

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

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

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

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

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

You knew what they were thinking.

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

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

You ignored it.

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

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

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

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

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

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

This was alone.

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

And God, it was loud.

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

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

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

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

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

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

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

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The first game of the season was electric.

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

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

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

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

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

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

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

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

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

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

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

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

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

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

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

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

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

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

Didn’t know him like you did.

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

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

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

Because winning used to mean everything.

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

He had never felt more hollow.

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

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

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

You picked up new hobbies.

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

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

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

And for a while, it worked.

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

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

—

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

Until it wasn’t.

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

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

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

The words landed like a gut punch.

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

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

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

But inside, you were shaking.

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

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

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

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

The unraveling.

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

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

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

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

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

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

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

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

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

He knew your moods before you did.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

December used to be your favorite month.

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

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

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

You had never held back.

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

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

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

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

But it all felt wrong.

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

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

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

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

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

But your body knew.

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

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t his family.

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

And it wasn’t him.

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

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

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

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

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

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

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

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

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

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

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

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

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

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

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

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

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

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

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

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

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

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

Because he was there.

Joe.

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

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

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

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

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

You felt sick.

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

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

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

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

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

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

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

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

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

She wasn’t you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course she knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

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

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

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

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

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

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

But he had been wrong.

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

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

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

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

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

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

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

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

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

But it didn’t.

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

It was shock. Discomfort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he felt it.

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

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

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

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

You had spent a year healing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

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

No, this was performative.

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

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

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

And that? That was unbearable.

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

No. No, no, no.

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

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

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

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

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

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

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

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

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

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

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

It made him move.

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

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

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

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

Gone.

Just like that.

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

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

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

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

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

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

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

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

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

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

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

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

All of it.

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

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

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

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

He missed everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knocked.

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

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

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

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

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

He broke.

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

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

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

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

So he just kept going.

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

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

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

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

But he couldn’t.

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

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

But there it was again—that ache.

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

He was still your Joe.

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

And you could have.

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

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

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

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

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

Because fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

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

And then, you let him inside.

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

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

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

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

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

So you told him. You told him everything.

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

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

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

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

Your heart clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to try.”

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

But you weren’t finished.

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

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

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

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

“I won’t.”

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

The next few weeks felt new.

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

This was different.

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

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

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

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

Joe never stopped trying.

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

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

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

Really listened.

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

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

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

And Joe had never been happier.

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

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

He showed up for you. For everything.

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

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

And he realized—this was you.

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

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

But you.

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

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

And you had never wanted to be one.

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

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

But because you had chosen him.

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

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

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

This was better.

This was right.

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

But not this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

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

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

And the worst part?

You did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

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

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

The crowd erupted into applause.

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

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

And yeah.

He really, really had.

The night felt easy.

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

Now, it was effortless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were just here. With him.

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

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

Joe was on one knee.

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

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

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

Only love.

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he whispered.

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

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

#joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #joe shiesty #joey b #jb9 #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #nfl fic #nfl players #nfl imagine

1K notes · View notes