#Relative water content

[oaresearchpaper]

Analyzing Drought Tolerance in Indian Chickpea Varieties

Abstract

Drought is one of the major abiotic stresses in agriculture for losses in crop productivity worldwide. Three chickpea (Cicer arietinum L.) varieties namely P362, P1103 and SBD377 were assessed for response to drought tolerance during vegetative stage, in stress and non-stress environments, under contained conditions. Several physiological parameters including gas exchange, photosynthesis rate, fluorescence, stomatal conductance and water loss per day were monitored simultaneously. P362 variety showed maximum photosynthesis rate in irrigated as well as in drought conditions. This variety also maintained its relative water content (RWC) and water potential (WP) during imposition of similar duration of drought. Due to the maximum elasticity of leaf cells, it maintained its cell turgidity upto 68% RWC to protect itself from water stress, compared to variety P1103 and SBD377. The effective solute concentration and osmotic potential in the irrigated controls at full turgor was lowest in P362 variety, compared to the other two varieties. Osmotic adjustment (OA) was assessed as a capacity factor which is rate of change in turgor pressure with RWC. P362 variety showed a maximum OA value of 0.27 while the values for SBD377 and P1103 were 0.22 and 0.21, respectively. During water stress, the chlorophyll content was minimally reduced in P362 variety, therefore effective quantum yield of photosystem II (Fv/Fm) and photosynthesis rate was maximally maintained. The higher photosynthesis rate under irrigated conditions and maintenance of higher RWC under drought conditions makes P362 variety a promising option for optimum yield under prolonged terminal drought or under rain-fed conditions.

Introduction

The land plants have been coping with water stress, ever since they left the seas and colonized the dry land (Thomas 1997). As time passed by, progressive anthropogenic activities of the modern era has made the weather more unpredictable and crop plants dependent on rainwater are still facing the vagaries of the ever changing weather conditions. Because, land plants experience constant fluctuations in the availability of water, they have evolved adaptive features to search for and absorb water through their root systems, to prevent excessive transpirational water loss and to adjust their physiology and biochemistry for survival and sustainable growth and (Zhang et al., 1996; Zhu et al., 1997).

Chickpea (Cicer arietinum L.) is an ancient legume crop believed to have originated in South Eastern Turkey and adjoining parts of Syria (Singh 1997). It is the second most important pulse crop of the world and covers 15% of the cultivated area thus, contributing to 14% (7.9 million tonnes) of the world’s total pulses productivity of 58 million tonnes. India is the largest producer of chickpea in the world but the yield has been stagnating for last two decades primarily due to abiotic and biotic stresses and relatively slow progress in its genetic improvement (Dita et al., 2006; FAO 2012).

Chickpea plays a significant role in the nutrition of both rural and the urban population in the developing world. Improving its adaptation to drought including terminal drought is critical for sustained grain yield under rain-fed cultivation. From an estimated 3.7 million tonnes annual loss in chickpea through water deficit in semi-arid regions, about 2.1 million tonnes could be recovered by crop improvement efforts (Bhatnagar-Mathur et al., 2009). However, the multigenic and quantitative nature of drought tolerance makes it difficult to increase abiotic stress tolerance using conventional plant breeding methods and availability of genotypes tolerant to drought (Singh et al., 2012). Unfortunately, cultivated chickpea has high morphological but narrow genetic diversity and understanding the genetic processes of this plant is hindered by the fact that its genome has not yet been annotated for adequate EST and SNP resources (Varshney et al., 2013; Jain et al., 2013). Although, chickpea is considered as drought-tolerant cool-season food legume but terminal drought still limits chickpea production and grain yield. Due to terminal drought seed yield can be reduced by 58−95% compared to irrigated plants with reduction in pod production per plant and abortion are the chief factors affecting the overall grain yield (Behboudian et al., 2001; Leport et al., 2006).

In chickpea, a deep root system, osmotic adjustment, high leaf water potential, early flowering and maturity, high biomass, and apparent redistribution of stem and leaf dry matter during pod filling are associated with drought tolerance (Morgan et al., 1991; Subbarao et al., 1995; Leport et al., 2006). The requirement of water during flowering, pod development and seed filling stages is crucial for the productivity of chickpea plant. The influence of drought on yield of chickpea has been documented, but extensive research on the physiological responses of water stress on chickpea is limited (Sheldrake and Saxena 1973; Turner and Begg 1981). Leaf water potential is a good indicator of plant water stress and correlates well with different plant functions and crop productivity in legumes (Sojka and Parsons 1983; Phogat et al., 1984)

Three chickpea varieties P362, P1103 and SBD377 were grown for the assessment of drought stress response under water deficit and non-stress environments. Various physiological parameters like plant water loss per day, plant height, total photosynthesis area, relative water content, plant water potential, gas exchange, fluorescence and wet sensor reading of soil parameters were assessed. Based on these physiological parameters, the best responding variety to drought stress environment was determined during the course of the study, which can be incorporated in chickpea breeding programmes for the introgression of drought tolerance trait in other high yielding but drought sensitive varieties for cultivation in rain fed areas and genetic improvement of chickpea for drought tolerance.

Source : Analyzing Drought Tolerance in Indian Chickpea Varieties | InformativeBD

[rileys-battlecats]

i really gotta get better about listening to my own brain and needs when i'm making things. i've been working on a video and i'm almost finished (yippee!!), but drawing this One Specific Frame was giving me trouble. i could have just brute-forced my way through it and finalized the initial sketch, since it was relatively good enough. but instead i left it and took a day off from working on the project, let myself recharge, and came back to the sketch with fresh eyes today. and what do you know, my redrawn sketch today is WAY better! now, i can finalize that frame and be genuinely proud of it, instead of just powering through on something i was less than happy with.

i hadn't done any other art stuff that day when i couldn't get my sketches to look right, so letting myself stop and have a break from the project felt sort of "unearned" i guess. but it's just. what i needed! and the break did what i needed it to do; i was able to come back later and make something i could be proud of.

anyway i guess this is me saying that, if you're like me and have this weird morality-complex about letting yourself rest, it's ok to take breaks, even if you feel like you haven't "earned" one yet :)

[donuts4evry1]

After reading through Dungeon meshi and reading + watching content about Kui’s character design, I realized something (as I’m sure many other artists did):

My own character designs, while interesting enough, didn’t really properly reflect the character. And in my case, they didn’t really properly reflect animals I was basing them off of.

For body types, the only thing that separated my characters was height. Legs and arms stayed the same, stomach and cleavage were relatively flat. My style is mostly simple, but if I truly want to do the jellies justice and give them good gijinkas, I need to do more. (I could also work on my facial features, but I still haven’t grown out of the button nose yet. Haha. For the record, though, I do have somewhat varied eye shapes and styles thanks to Mairuma-kun. Yay!)

If you see me retroactively redesigning characters to reflect this… oops. I’m realizing it might’ve been a bit of a mistake for me to post about all my characters so early in development (especially when I had no Idea what I was doing), but I guess it’s not a bad thing to document the design process.

[shy-writer-999]

It's getting hot in here...

Summary: After a nice meal, you start to feel weird. Did you eat something funny? It turns out everyone is feeling the same, and there's only one thing to do about it. Read content warnings please!

CW: Lots of nasty sex. Afab reader, G/N language. Aphrodisiacs. TONS of zosan gay shit (like 50% of this fic). Could be considered dubcon because the aphrodisiacs are strong and reader keeps losing touch with reality, but it is consensual >_> Voyerusim, dacryphilia, begging, dry humping, edging, masturbation, "good boy," riding, prone bone, you name it. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS (VERY) NSFW CONTENT.

Something was in the water at the new island the Sunny anchored on. Or was it in the wine? The bread? The butter? You couldn’t remember what you ate. Your memory of the night was blurred—scattered scenes played through your mind the next day. Your recollection was… messy and nonsensical. You tried to recount the night.

In the early hours of the night in question, Sanji went into the island’s town to get supplies and ingredients for dinner. It was a nice day full of free time, clear skies with a slight breeze.

Nami and Robin went shopping and they wouldn’t be back on the ship in time for dinner. Brook, Usopp, Chopper, and Franky went off and did god knows what. Similarly, they wouldn’t be back in time for the evening meal. Sanji promised to make enough so they could have leftovers later.

When everyone went on their separate outings, that left you, Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji on the ship.

It was a small, simple, and delicious dinner that night. An intimate setting with just you four, a nice opportunity to hang out with part of the East Blue crew. You were soaking in some modicum of silence and peace (whenever Luffy allowed it) on the mostly empty ship.

Aside from Luffy’s chomping and smacking noises while he ate, dinner was relatively silent. Sanji and Zoro weren’t butting heads for once, either. You sat at the table, talked sparingly, and drank some of the wine that Sanji bought in town.

When dinner was over, you helped Sanji wash up (like usual), then you sat at the dinner table and did some reading.

An hour or so passed. You read your book while Sanji prepped food and cleaned the kitchen a few feet away. Gradually, the room got warmer. You opened a window, letting in some of the cool evening air, propped a door open, and sat back down again.

After a few minutes, you noticed that you felt a bit ill. Lightly perspiring, you almost shivered—your limbs felt heavy, you felt light-headed. You tried to reason it away. Did you have too much wine?

No, you didn’t. You stood up, and as you rose to your feet you realized that you felt like you were going to pass out. At the same time, your body started to buzz. You had never felt like this before. Something was seriously off.

Sanji was still in the kitchen cleaning up, and you staggered in his direction, stopping at the sink to splash some water on your face. The cold water felt great on your hot cheeks, and you could have sworn you saw steam rise up from where the cool droplets met your skin.

“My love, are you alright?” Sanji’s sweet voice shocked you out of your feverish stupor. You had almost forgotten he was there. When you turned to face him, your body pulsed and heat tingled outwards from between your legs, radiating to your whole body. He had never looked so good before.

The blonde’s eyes widened in shock—your pupils were dilated, your breathing was shallow and quick, and your face was covered in a sheen of sweat. He brought a hand to your forehead and confirmed that you had a fever. “Are you sick, dearest? You don’t look well.”

When his skin touched yours, your breath hitched. “Sanji, I don’t feel too good.”

“Do you need to go lay down? I’ll get Chopper to come take your temperature and give you something to help you feel better, okay?”

You didn’t know it, but Sanji was starting to feel ill, too. He was sweating just barely and had, up until that point, been blaming it on the fact that he just cooked and cleaned and was a bit exhausted. But what was more concerning to him was that in your feverish state you looked even more beautiful than usual—no, beautiful wasn’t the right word. In his mind he remarked that you looked fucking hot. Stunning. Sexy, even.

He could rip your clothes off here and now and ravage you, had you been up for it. But that sentiment wasn’t necessarily out of the norm, rather, it was that you were evidently sick, and he was starting to feel a bit woozy himself.

Maybe the food had turned, and he didn’t realize it, so you were both suffering from food poisoning. But that would have been very unlike him to not pick up on the food tasting rotten. It must have been something else. Did you both pick up some virus from the last island you were on? Like Nami on Little Garden that one time?

A soft whine slipped out of your lips. The noise made his stomach flip. You sounded like you were in pain but… you also sounded a bit erotic to him. In this state, his mind raced. Is that what you would sound like in bed? Whining like that?

Sanji mentally berated himself more than ever before, letting self-disgust wash over for a moment before he shook it off. When he got back to his senses (he had been staring at you for only a couple of seconds), he started to guide you to your cabin for some rest. “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s get you to bed.”

But no matter how many internal curses he threw at himself, he felt a tent forming in his pants. Something weird was happening.

He balked at the idea that seeing you in your current state was getting him so flustered. You were ill, after all. What sort of gentleman would he be right now, if he was thirsting over you while you had a dangerously high fever and were obviously in pain?

As he tried to shrug off how odd he was starting to feel, the blonde chef guided you down the hallway and towards your room. You walked behind him and your vision started to get splotchy. With every degree your fever worsened, you felt something get more intense—was this feeling arousal? At a time like this?  

Sure enough, heat bloomed between your legs; small zaps of pleasure radiated outwards with each step. The arousal-sickness combination was disorienting and concerning.

And not only were you just aroused, but it was coupled with wild sensitivity—as you moved, the fabric of your pants brushed down there, sending an electric shock up your spine as the tingling sensation intensified. Were you hallucinating, or was wetness seeping out of your core, saturating your panties?

The walk down the hallway felt like years.

By the time you were almost to your bed, you were soaking wet from nothing other than walking. You tried to squeeze your legs together. Was there a stain on your pants from how unreasonably wet you were? Should you hide it? The fabric of your pants was rubbing you just right, and, in the moment you sat on the (conveniently large) bed, you convulsed in pleasure. Undeniably, you moaned. A quiet one, but a moan, no less.

You sat there for a few seconds, eyes closed and mouth hanging open as you positively buzzed in pleasure. You didn’t know what was happening, and you were unaware that you were slowly rubbing your thighs together, drawing out more tingles of pleasure. Was that an orgasm?

Sanji’s mind was racing, and he was hyperaware of everything—every shallow breath and flutter of your eyes was making his heart patter and the tent in his pants grow. He was fully erect now, and his mind was so scrambled that he didn’t even think of hiding it. He almost couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

It was from this point on that you started to question if any of this was real or if you were just having a fever dream.

Sanji stood over you, watching in what could be called a mixture of concern and rabid desire. Your eyes opened finally, and it felt like you had tunnel vision. You noticed it then—his erection, hard and big. There was a visible stain on his bulge where precum pooled into the fabric. His cock twitched when he realized your eyes were focused on it.

“A-are you okay?” Sanji asked. He didn’t know what to say. He needed to drag himself away to a bathroom and deal with this.

His words got caught in his throat as your body literally worked against your own whims. Your fingers moved like they were being controlled by a puppeteer—you watched them in third person as they trailed down your abdomen and came to rest over your throbbing core.

Looking up at him, you gave yourself a squeeze through your pants. Some erotic sound tumbled from your lips. Your fingers started to circle over the fabric of your pants where your clit must have been, and you spread your thighs a bit. You couldn’t control yourself.

“Help, Sanji,” you whispered, mouth dry. “Don’t know what’s happening. Can’t stop.” Your fingers moved faster, building a crescendo of pleasure that would crash onto you soon. You felt like you were going crazy with need. No longer focused on the fever wracking your body, your mind knew only one thing: you needed pleasure.

If you didn’t get more soon, you were worried you’d pass out. Or something would happen. Would you go crazy?

“H-help?” Sanji’s voice cracked. “What do you mean?”

“Touch me,” you whimpered, fingers moving faster now. His jaw dropped.

Luffy suddenly staggered to the door and leaned on the frame. He was unbothered by the sight in front of him and, quite frankly, he looked a damn mess. His hair was plastered down on his forehead in sweat, he had no shirt on, and his pajama pants were riding down, showing the band of his boxers.

“Guys,” Luffy’s voice was strained. “I feel really weird.”

Your eyes darted down. Luffy was rock hard, bulge standing out against the gray fabric of his pants. His cloudy vision came to rest on your chest. With no care in the world, one of his hands reached down to start rubbing himself.

“It won’t go away no matter what I do,” Luffy rubbed the heel of his hand down the outline of his erection, and his words were broken by a loud grunt. “I came here to ask for help but it—it looks like you beat me to it.” He cracked a grimace/smile and threw his head back after a moment, leaning his whole weight on the door frame as he touched himself through the fabric.

You snuck a hand into your pants. Brushing your clit gently, you keened. You were on autopilot, incapable of controlling your actions and not the most cognizant. All you knew was you needed more, and if you didn’t get more, something bad would happen.

“Mmmphhhh,” Luffy stifled a groan as he squeezed himself, lost in his own world. “It’s like my body is on fire.”

Your vision went black around the edges—you started to rub faster, spreading your legs open wide and creeping your fingers under your panties.

Burying your hand in your underwear, you hissed in air at your teeth as your fingertips came in contact with your hot folds. Your back arched and a needy sound trickled out. “F-fuck, Sanji help me.”

Sanji froze, eyes glued on your hand that was shoved down your pants, stirring under the fabric. The stain on his pants got bigger and wetter—it was very noticeable.  

“What do you want me to do love?” He asked in a hushed, hesitant tone. He was holding onto his last shreds of reason, trying not to pounce on you, but those shreds of rationality were slipping out of his grasp like sand.

Your vision started to go black. You closed your eyes, lost in the pleasure that you pulled from yourself in a daze. Sanji reached a hand up to your core and ran a thumb up and down over the fabric above your clit. Your wetness was seeping through the layers already.

Some amount of time passed. You came and it helped you regain lucidity. When you opened your eyes—you had no clue how long it had been—you were laying on the bed and Luffy stood over you, watching intently.

Sanji was sitting at the end of the bed, now shamelessly digging his thumb into the tip of his cock, playing with his slit as clear precum seeped out of it. His hips bucked upwards a few times and you watched. You realized that you were touching yourself, moving your fingers in swift and messy need.

Luffy leaned in and pressed his lips on yours. The first few kisses were surprisingly sweet, loving, even, but they quickly turned sloppy. He maneuvered onto the bed—now, his knee was pressed against your core, a hand braced on one side of your head, and the other rested on your cheek as he kissed you passionately.

You made out for a few seconds, grinding down onto his knee a bit, aiming for friction. Your mewls were driving him and Sanji insane—the blonde continued to tease himself and stroke slowly while he watched Luffy take in every inch of you with his lips. The captain’s lips moved south.

He pulled your pants and panties off quickly, spread your thighs wide, and started to eat you out on the spot. Pressing his tongue on your clit, the captain drew soft circles around your sensitive bud, then he swiped his tongue up and down along your entrance. Luffy wasted no time slurping and greedily licking every inch and crevice of you that he could.

You started to lose touch with reality again—you realized, distantly and in third person, that whatever was wrong with you seemed like you would start to black out any time you went too long without an orgasm. As you were making this conclusion, a loud thud at the door distracted you once again.

Zoro’s body had dragged him across the ship, bringing him to your room of its own accord. He could hardly walk, slamming into the door frame, and before he knew it, he was sitting on the bed next to Sanji, eyes darting between Luffy eating you out and the blonde’s fist stroking and squeezing his hard on.

Your eyes shifted to Zoro, sitting with his legs spread wide on the bed next to Sanji. The swordsman started running a palm over his clothed erection. His breaths were fast, his cheeks were bright pink, he didn’t seem fully aware of the fact his eyes were glued on his nemesis/frenemy’s fist pumping over his cock.

No one said a word for a few moments. It was a silent agreement—whatever was happening needed to be addressed, and there was only one thing to do.

It had been too long without climax for you (again). Your vision went black and your mind went blank. When an orgasm finally crashed into you, minutes later, it brought you back to reality and a few moments of lucidity. Your ears were greeted by a cacophony of ragged breaths and deep groans to your left.

Turning your head, your eyes were met with the sight of two people (who you thought utterly hated each other) entangled on the bed.

Sanji was completely naked, while Zoro had on short, tight, black boxer-briefs. He was on top of Sanji, rubbing his aching erection on Sanji’s while his brows furrowed and needy sounds trickled out of his mouth. Every few seconds, Sanji let out a whimper and arched his back off the bed.

“Don’t stop,” Sanji gasped, grabbing fistfuls of sheets as Zoro’s muscles rippled.

“I f-fucking can’t,” the swordsman grunted in response, his tone tinged with annoyance.

Your eyes stayed glued on the pair, bewildered and feral, until Luffy’s tongue, buried inside of you, demanded your attention. Was he using his devil fruit powers? Head had never felt this good before. His tongue prodded your pulsing hotness, sliding up and down greedily between your lips before pushing inside of you again.

The slurping noises from your captain were sinful. Your eyes crept from his head buried between your legs to the sight of his hips rutting on the sheets beneath. His cock craved friction. He wished his tongue wasn’t buried in you but something else instead.

Grabbing tufts of Luffy’s hair, you dragged his mouth closer, pressing his roaming tongue as deep as physically possible.

“L-luffy, need m-more. Please.” You begged, vision getting blurry around the edges. You felt hotter than before.

Instead of your captain’s voice in response, a loud moan from Sanji answered your pleading. Your eyes snapped to the pair of men again—Sanji was squirming under the swordsman, shuddering and clawing at Zoro’s biceps now as he grinded up into his cock.

“Cumming,” the blonde grunted, pushing his hips upward, grinding harder onto Zoro. “I’m c-cumming, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The chef came on his own stomach while Zoro rocked his hips into the blonde’s shaft with more urgency, overstimulating him and eliciting desperate cries.

“Can’t stop,” Zoro choked out amidst his own moans and heaves for air.

Tears pricked in the corner of the chef’s eyes, but he didn’t tell the swordsman to stop, in fact, he rutted his hips up again and again. He was gearing up for yet another orgasm when Zoro brought him into a kiss and trailed his fingers towards the blonde’s erection.

More moments fleeted by—more gut-wrenching pleasure from Luffy’s tongue inside of you, hazy images of Sanji and Zoro grinding on each other, smearing the milky puddle of cum all over Sanji’s abdomen on Zoro’s underwear and abs.

Your eyes fixated on the outline of Zoro’s erection through the damp fabric. You were mesmerized.

Time faded into oblivion. The next memory you had was of Zoro flipping you over, onto your stomach, and climbing on top of you. He positioned you in prone bone, pressing his chest on your back. Trailing his fingers down and squeezing a rough handful of your ass, he then dipped two fingers into your hot folds and coaxed fireworks of pleasure from you.

Zoro relished how wet and ready you were for him thanks to Luffy’s previous work. He played with you for a little while, dragging his finger pads across your g-spot repeatedly and curling them upwards inside of you until you begged for more. When he pushed his cock inside, he felt so big that it was almost painful. He entered you centimeters at a time, and when he finally bottomed out and the ring of hair around the base of his cock met your flesh, his hips started to pump into yours rhythmically, gaining speed each moment that passed.

“Feels hot and s-sticky inside,” he gasped, hips shuddering into you as his tip passed your g-spot. You shifted under him the slightest bit, drawing a sensitive gasp from the swordsman. Every movement from him felt euphoric—and coupled with his weight on top of you, you felt like you were going crazy with desire. He couldn’t fuck you fast enough.

Turning your head, you realized that Sanji had one hand wrapped around his cock again but was now in a similar position to you. He was flush with the bed, chest pressing on the covers, simultaneously stroking himself and humping the sheets as he watched Zoro fuck you.

Zoro groaned pure filth in your ear. “Just like that, baby. Fuhccckkk. Feels so good.”

Each pass of Zoro’s length inside of you and past your g-spot was met with a squelching noise from how wet you were—every roll of his hips pushed him deeper inside of you and it felt like you were floating.

As Sanji watched, his fist moved faster and so did his hips. He roughly jerked his length and rubbed his glistening tip into the covers. His cock felt hot, it was pulsing, and each brush of his flesh against the fabric made him shiver. He was working off of animal instinct alone, eyes so dilated and mind so foggy that all he knew was that he felt good and he didn’t want it to stop. He could watch the pair of you for hours. He didn’t care.

Voice husky and bathed in lust, Zoro was getting more worked up. “Say my name,” he groaned as his length passed in and out of you. “Say it.”

Before his name could exit your lips, Sanji moaned into the sheets below. “Zoro. Zoro. Hah, fuck, Zoro.” Moments later, you watched him orgasm all over the sheets below, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut.

Hearing the chef’s desperate, pathetic mewls made Zoro fuck you faster. Just when you thought you were at the precipice of orgasm, Zoro reached a hand under you and started to rub your clit, then he bit your shoulder. The pain felt good, and the combination of sensations was overwhelming—your orgasm was intense, shocking, and ecstatic.

A fleeting thought passed through your mind—where’s Luffy?

He was perched at the end of the bed, touching himself to the sight, waiting for his turn, which he promptly took when Zoro was done with you.

The next scene in your memory was Luffy fucking you, but you weren’t quite sure how you got there. You did remember that right before Luffy touched you, he asked you softly, “Do you want to keep going? Or have you had enough?”

You croaked out an eager, “more.”

“On top?” Luffy asked, waiting for your confirmation. And when you again agreed, he shifted, so he was laying on the bed, and you were on top of him.

Sinking down on his cock, you started to ride him. His hands came to rest on your hips and his eyes looked hungry. As if he wasn’t full from the ridiculously huge meal he just ate.

Parallel to you and Luffy, Zoro had Sanji on his lap. Zoro’s chest pressed on Sanji’s back, so the chef was facing you and Luffy. The swordsman’s large, rough hand wrapped around Sanji’s front. Languidly, Zoro played with Sanji’s shaft, teasing him at a snail’s pace.

Zoro wasn’t all there mentally because of (what you deduced to be) the aphrodisiacs. It’s like he was running on pure thirst. Something in him wanted Sanji to beg and wanted to see you getting off to the sight. He was getting a kick out of the cook being absolutely pathetic. He wanted to see him be utterly shameless.

“’m gonna cum,” Sanji whimpered, writhing around on the stocky pair of hair thighs underneath him.

“Shhh. Not yet, cook. Can’t you hold on for a little bit longer? Don’t you want to watch?”

Sanji got quieter and nodded, holding his orgasm at bay as best he could while he watched you ride Luffy, who was practically growling out commands faster than you could keep up.

 “Faster.” “Faster.” “Harder.” “More.” Every time he spoke, you did as he said. You did so until your legs started to burn, until your thighs started to shake, until he was doing all the work for you, lifting you up and down on his shaft.

He pressed his tip on your spongey hot spot and wrenched pleasure from you. Zoro edged and teased Sanji within an inch of his life while the pair of them watched—it was almost cruel. The cook was in tears over how good it felt, how badly he wanted to keep cumming, and how much it was getting to his head.

“Please Z-zoro, fuck, please.” Sanji was close to his breaking point.

“Just a bit longer, curly brows, hold on.”

A few more seconds passed. It didn’t take long for Luffy to bring you to the brink of orgasm, which was what Zoro was hoping for. As you started to shake, eyes rolling back in white-hot pleasure from your orgasm, Zoro finally gave Sanji permission to cum.

You hadn’t expected the swordsman to be this controlling, this mean, and this verbal.

“Mmmphhhh. Just like that,” Zoro exhaled while he watched you cum all over Luffy’s cock. “Now you can cum.” He then murmured something in Sanji’s ear that would have left you gob smacked if you had enough wherewithal to think. “There’s a good boy.”

While Sanji painted his own stomach white, you collapsed on top of Luffy. He kissed the side of your head and started to pet your hair.

“You need a break?” He asked you, voice tender and kinder than usual. You nodded and then drifted into unconsciousness for some period of time.

Memories after this point completely faded to black. You had some notion of waking up and sucking Zoro off and then riding Sanji until he cried again, but… the images were blurred. Someone came on your face, two indiscernible figures in your memory were entangled on the sheets again, but… you drew a blank after a point.

---

When you finally came to, you concluded that whatever the fuck that was must have been a very strong aphrodisiac. You couldn’t figure out what it was in though—the wine? The water? Something in the food? Whatever it was, it must have gotten out of your system through sheer number of orgasms and hours of fucking.

You were still on your bed, under the covers and tucked in along with Luffy. Sanji and Zoro were off somewhere, presumably getting cleaned up but…? Who knows. 

You checked the clock—it was around 10:00PM. You, Sanji, Luffy, and Zoro had been going at it since 5:00PM, shortly after your early dinner. So… almost five whole hours? But you didn’t feel like it, really. You weren’t sore or anything which was a feat in itself.

Putting some clothes on, you wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water. You were parched. You’d have to wait to debrief until you saw Zoro or Sanji, or until Luffy woke up.

You walked into the kitchen and were met with a sight that broke your brain for a second. Nami, Robin, Franky and Usopp were at the dinner table, chowing down on the dinner leftovers Sanji packaged up for them in cute little serving boxes. They must have just gotten back from their outings.

Your eyes flashed around the room—wine bottles were open. They were having a grand old time.

Your stomach sank. Fuck. They were about to have even grander of a time if they kept eating and drinking like that. You’d have to sit yourself out for round two—not sure you could handle it, honestly.

After that night, you came to a good understanding of the dynamics with each man in bed. Not only from your memory, but because you went in for seconds with each of them at some point. Luffy was greedy and forthcoming, but kind, like usual. Zoro was an absolute machine, filthy and verbose. And Sanji was, well, Sanji. He was doting, pathetic, and desperate. What a good variety to choose from—you were never left wanting again.

ik im gonna look back at this later and go GOD DAMN woman, were you okay? frothing at the mouth. anyway...

thanks for reading!! this was pretty challenging for me, i wanted it to be halfway decent but just couldn't get it anywhere i wanted really T-T idk if i'll ever live up to the luffy aphrodisiac kinktober fic i wrote :p

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

dividers courtesy of @issysh3ll taglist @eggrollforyou !

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: KISS & MAKE UP

✩ ‧ ˚. streamer!au: after the breakup, you two decide to make up in the traditional way—by having sex! NSFW

contents: fem!reader. oral (f. recieving), p –> v, teasing, praise, hair pulling (m. recieving), missionary, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, use of pet names (too many to list here). not proofread bc you couldn't pay me to read all this again. 2.5k words. read this fic beforehand for better understanding of the context, but you don't have to.

author's note: tumblr hates me and that's why the banner quality's trash. if u wanna see the details, click here. anyways the streamer!gojo smut has finally arrived, tagging @satorena @screampied @cultrise, enjoyyy ;)

“did you tell them we’re back together?”

satoru nods in response to your question, plopping down on the couch next to you. he's spent the last hour chatting with his stream, and eventually he broke the news that you and him were back together after the breakup.

“yeah, i did,” he confirms, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck. your hands automatically move to his hair and you thread your fingers through the soft white strands, pausing after a couple seconds to give him a quick kiss on the forehead.

a week ago, you and satoru had an admittedly messy breakup—not messy in the sense that it got toxic or dramatic, but messy in the way that it could’ve easily been avoided. it wasn’t that big of a deal, but thankfully, you and satoru resolved your misunderstanding within a relatively short time.

since then, things have been a little different—satoru’s been taking a break from streaming, which gave him move time to spend with you and away from his thousands of fans. it was his suggestion, and not surprisingly, it worked. but all good things have to come to an end, and your “honeymoon” away from satoru’s stream seems to be coming to a close.

“something smells good,” satoru notes, lifting his head and glancing at the kitchen. “wait, is that ramen?” your boyfriend gasps, eyes rounding as he looks at you hopefully. 

“yeah, you said you were craving it, so i made some,” you reply with a smile, untangling yourself from his arms and walking over to the kitchen. satoru blows you a flurry of kisses that you see out of the corner of your eye as you check on the ramen, which looks pretty much done.

“y’know, i still haven’t forgiven you for the shit you pulled last week,” you say dryly, turning off the stove and draining the water from the ramen into your sink. the steam rises up as the boiling water slips down into the drain, clouding your face for a moment before it dissipates into thin air. 

“...does that mean i don’t get to eat that ramen?” satoru asks tentatively, a nervous smile on his lips as you empty a packet of flavored powder into the ramen. you shoot him a look and raise an eyebrow, turning back to the stove to hide your smile.

“maybe, maybe not,” you reply coyly, not wanting to give in too soon.

“boo, you whore.”

you roll your eyes and divide the ramen into two bowls, one for you and one for your boyfriend. “you’re lucky i’m too nice to let you starve, regina,” you say pointedly, walking back over to the couch and handing one of the bowls to him, which satoru takes with both hands—a habit from his childhood that never went away. “otherwise you’d be—”

satoru cuts you off by poking your lips with his chopsticks, steaming hot ramen wrapped around them. you reluctantly open your mouth and let him feed you, smiling when he seals the bite with a kiss. 

“best girlfriend ever,” satoru proclaims when he pulls away, a lazy smile playing on his lips. his soft blue eyes study your own, observing your unusually guarded expression and frowning.

“how many times do i gotta apologize for my bullshit before you stop making that face at me?” he grumbles, twirling his chopsticks in his bowl and taking a bite of the ramen. it’s cute how satoru’s face lights up at the taste, and it’s even cuter how his eyes round at you in awe when he takes another bite. “i didn’t know instant ramen could be this good,” he muses, licking any lingering flavor off of his lips.

“very funny, satoru,” you laugh, swirling your chopsticks around the broth and watching the rest of the steam rise from your bowl. “and to answer your question, i don’t really know.”

satoru tilts his head and takes a sip of his water, ice clinking against the side of the glass. when you respond to his question, he pauses and tilts his head in confusion. “...wait, what does that mean?”

you think for a second, choosing your words carefully. “i’m not sure how long it’ll take until we’re back to… normal,” you say cautiously. in all honesty, you weren’t that pissed off at him—you never were. but the fact that satoru was so ready to throw your relationship away over something as small as that was upsetting, to say the least. and you weren’t entirely sure it wouldn’t happen again.

satoru looks at you thoughtfully, more serious than you’ve seen him in a while. you can almost see the gears turning in his head before he replies. “any idea how i can make it up to you?”

you shrug, swallowing another bite of ramen before you meet his eyes. “you tell me. actions speak louder than words.”

your boyfriend drops his chopsticks, letting them clatter around in the bowl before he stands up. he extends a hand to you, a determined glint in his eye. “then lemme prove it to you.”

“satoru, you can’t bribe me with sex.”

“that’s not all i’ll be doing, sweetheart. trust me.”

and that’s how you ended up in his room, hands tangled in satoru’s soft white hair as he eats you out. his tongue laps at your cunt with quick, kitten-like strokes, and he presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh. “feels s’good, satoru,” you breathe, involuntarily tugging on his hair and dragging out a groan from his lips. “sorry—”

“don’t apologize,” satoru mumbles in reply, nose brushing against your dripping thighs as his tongue slips past your folds and goes in deeper. he looks up and locks eyes with you, unable to resist smiling at the way your legs tremble around him. “aw, you’re so fuckin’ cute,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue in and out of your cunt with a grin. “and i’m the one who should be—fuck, you’re gorgeous—apologizing.”

this isn’t the first time satoru’s eaten you out, but it feels like it every single time—somehow, his tongue has a talent of rendering you unable to focus on anything else but him. you grind your hips against satoru’s face, eyes squinted shut as your boyfriend flattens his tongue before lapping your slick up with cloudy eyes. “shit, i don’t know what i’d be without you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady—and something about his tone makes you certain he’s being completely honest with you.

“you’re so—fuck, satoru, i’m gonna cum,” you breathe, back automatically arching when satoru’s tongue reaches that spot inside you. he laughs, and the vibration of the soft sound against your puffy, sensitive cunt almost makes your legs give out—but thankfully, satoru’s hands are secured around your thighs, holding you in place. “‘toru, i can’t—”

“yeah, y’can, just relax that pretty pussy for me,” he cooes, licking up the slick dripping down his chin. “c’mon, you’re doing so good f’me, keep going, baby.” and just like that, his tongue slips out of your cunt and he lets you cum—the sheer force of your orgasm hits you like a truck, and your hips roll against satoru’s face in a choppy rhythm as you desperately ride it out, hands gripping and accidentally yanking his hair.

you stutter out his name a couple more times, unable to focus on anything but the feeling of satoru’s mouth on your sensitive, gushing pussy. your boyfriend praises you the whole way, gently murmuring soft words about how sweet you are for letting him taste you, even while your relationship was rocky. when your voice steadies enough for satoru to make out what you’re begging him to do, he’s not at all surprised to hear you plea for him to fuck you—so stands up and tugs you down onto his bed, hand intertwined with yours as he pulls the sheets over your bodies. 

you squeeze satoru’s hand and lean in to kiss him, chest still heaving from your earlier orgasm. naturally, you miss his lips and end up kissing the side of his face, which is flushed bright red from the way his body reacts to the taste of your pussy. “don’t ever leave me like that again,” you whisper, tears pricking at your eyes for some reason—maybe it’s the lovesick way satoru looks at you, or maybe it’s the way he’s holding onto you like there’s no place he’d rather be.

“i won’t,” satoru promises, pressing an affectionate kiss to your forehead and pulling your head into his chest. his lips touch the top of your head as he murmurs, “and if i do, shoot me.” it sounds like a joke, but you both know that he’s dead serious.

“good thing i won’t have to do that,” you say with a soft giggle. your smile is heart-achingly familiar to satoru, and it feels like home—and that’s the realization that has him stripping off what little clothing the two of you still have on before he climbs on top of you. 

satoru touches the tip of his dick to your pussy, waiting for your nod to allow him to go in all the way. after a second, you dip your chin and trail your fingers down satoru’s jaw, grabbing his chin and pulling him down into another kiss. his lips linger for a couple seconds, still-minty breath tickling your face, before he pulls away. satoru slowly lowers his hips and nudges his dick inside of your desperate cunt, hands resting on either side of you.

even though it’s only been a little over a week since you last had sex with satoru, it feels like it’s been forever—your boyfriend curses when he feels how tight you are, mumbling something about missing you “so fucking much” as he goes in deeper and deeper. it hurts a little at first, but you quickly get used to the feeling of him inside of you. 

“fuckin’ hell, i’m never gonna get tired of this,” satoru breathes, dipping his head and kissing your collarbone. a single drop of sweat drips down the side of his face as he watches you squirm, eyes soft and endearing as you do so. he starts rolling his hips back and forth against you to loosen you up a little, dragging out soft moans from you as he does so. 

“yeah, you better not,” you mutter, tilting your head back and drawing in a long breath of air. you can’t remember the last time you felt this good—maybe it was the last time satoru fucked you. “satoru, y’re going so slow—”

your boyfriend cuts you off with a particularly harsh thrust, making your body jolt against his mattress. satoru lifts his head and looks you in the eye, a breathy laugh slipping out of him when he sees the pout on your lips. “the fuck you mean, i’m going slow? you want me to tear you apart? silly girl,” he tuts, back to his usual cocky self. he shakes his head and goes deep enough in you to force you to arch your back, starting to grin at the way you paw at his chest. “always so selfish, aren’t you?” he cooes, dipping his head and giving you a sloppy kiss on the forehead. “but you’re always—so—fuckin’—sweet,” satoru whispers, punctuating each word with a thrust hard enough for you to moan out his name more times than you can count.

“you’re the selfish one,” you mumble, lips trembling enough to muffle your voice. satoru huffs out a sigh and kisses your mouth, teeth gently brushing against your bottom lip. “you broke up with me for no reason,” you continue, tears pricking at your eyes again. “you think i’m gonna forgive you this fast?” 

satoru shakes his head again and caresses the side of your face. “will you?” he asks, slowing his pace enough for you to notice. you mutter something about him edging you on purpose, to which satoru shushes you and repeats his question.

“maybe.”

“you gotta stop giving me maybe’s, baby—y’re drivin’ me crazy here.”

in the past week, satoru’s done so much for you, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. on the day after your breakup, he picked you up from your house and took you for a picnic entirely curated by him. on the second day, he made you breakfast, lunch and dinner—it wasn’t the best food you ever had, but it was definitely the most memorable (in more ways than one). on the third day, he took you out to your favorite amusement park and did everything he could to make you smile—by then, you had pretty much forgiven him, and the giant teddy bear he dropped in your bedroom only made you love him more. the rest of the days were filled with longing glances and little gifts left around your house, which only helped him earn more and more of you back.

so, you figure that satoru deserves what comes next.

“okay,” you whisper. 

satoru’s eyes widen and he hesitates before he tentatively asks, “does this mean—”

you don’t let him finish his question, instead grabbing his face and tugging him down into a full kiss. he lets out a soft hm? in surprise, but kisses you back more than gratefully. “c’mon, make me cum,” you breathe when he finally pulls away. satoru nods dazedly and mouths “i love you” before he goes back in you, pace faster than before.

one of his hands snakes down to your waist, holding it in pace while the other caresses your face. you gaze up at him with a soft smile, eyes fluttering open and closed every time his dick hits your sweet spot—which is more times than your body can handle, but you welcome the feeling of him deep inside of you. after barely a couple thrusts, a coil forms in your stomach, growing tighter and tighter with each movement of satoru’s hips. 

satoru laughs, chest heaving as he grins down at you cheekily. “i knew you’d forgive me,” he murmurs, pinching your cheek affectionately. “m’ so sorry—”

“shut up and fuck me,” you interrupt, tongue starting to loll out of your mouth as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to cumming all over satoru’s dick. 

“as you wish, princess.”

satoru’s breathing slowly changes, becoming more choppy and uneven the closer you watch him get to his high—it’s so, so close for both of you, and when it comes, it takes over both of your minds like a drug. satoru curses and groans out your name, thrusts growing sloppy as he desperately rides out his orgasm. cum shoots out from his dick and coats the inside of your cunt white, dripping out once you physically can’t take any more.

you run your hands all over satoru’s body, clawing and gripping at every inch of skin you can latch onto—satoru’s always been your anchor, and you hope that he always will be. one of his hands leaves the side of your face and tangles with your fingers, holding it down against the mattress as he promises to never screw you over like that again, and you’re only too welcoming to him and his words as you squirt all over his dick. “fuck, satoru—”

he lifts his eyes and meets your own, and unlike you, his vision is clearer than ever. “shoot me if i ever leave you again, baby. i’m serious.”

you raise a shaky hand and touch the side of his face, eyes fluttering shut as you murmur, “i know i won’t have to.”

[specialgradefckr]

Beat Your Heart to Death

tw: explicit content, extremely toxic dynamics. gojo/geto, gojo/reader, geto/reader, and yes, stsg/reader. female!reader. mutual pining, requited unrequited feelings, the yearning, good god, the YEARNING. relatively unwilling voyeurism. EXTREMELY manipulative dynamics – boundary pushing, gaslighting, etc.

satoru and suguru are completely fucking deranged. their brains are operating on a level where human consciousness and emotion just hits different. they say INSANE shit at the end of this fic. you have been warned.

Sequel: Heartline Gone Flat

This must be what dying feels like.

You watch them, together. Leaning against one another, sleeping, vulnerable. Curled up in each other's embrace.

This must be what dying feels like. Seeing the man you love and the man you lust for, so painfully, peacefully, blissfully in love with each other.

If this is dying, you're surely going to hell for thinking something so awful about a feeling so beautiful.

It’s the sort of thing you think to yourself, bury deep – deep – inside the recesses of your mind. Dredging it out in the late hours of the night when you can’t sleep. Wallowing in your unrequited love, feeling sorry for yourself, while also comforting yourself with the thought that at least now you didn’t have to do anything.

You would never have to approach your longtime crush, Suguru Geto, and potentially ruin your friendship with him. It was something you’d struggled with for years, and after Gojo showed up – you didn’t have to struggle anymore. It was already lost.

And the insane twists your fantasies would play out for you, in those lonely nights in bed – you could be free of those, too. You could completely dismiss the insane idea of propositioning the man-whore menace of a human being who made your heart race, Satoru Gojo.

Satoru and Suguru loved each other, and it would be wrong to get in the way of that. At this point, even saying anything to either of them would be a trespass on your friendship, with both of them.

That was all there was to it. Nothing more to be done. You were mourning your feelings. Strangling your dreamy sighs at Suguru’s kind gestures, stomping the flutter in your chest when you caught Satoru smiling. Killing your heart and leaving it to rot, stepping around it like it’s not there.  

Unfortunately, you couldn’t escape the fact that all three of you lived together.

It doesn’t help that Satoru is just as prone to PDA with Suguru as he was with all his numerous hookups. More, even, because he doesn’t keep it to just his bedroom, doesn’t make the token efforts to stay quiet at night and shoo them out in the morning.

You do your best. Look away. Try to ignore how your heart jumps, twists, does all sorts of funny things at the sight of them kissing.

Satoru’s pretty white lashes flutter closed, Suguru’s warm gaze softens, cheeks flushed as Satoru’s hands jump up to cling to him. He cups Satoru’s face like it’s a treasure, tilting his head and leaning into the kiss like he can’t get enough of it –

You’re staring, fuck. You’re looking too closely. The scene burns itself into your eyes and you want to rip them out, never see it again. But you struggle to avert your gaze, greedy mind committing every detail to memory with a racing heart, dry mouth.

Thirsty, you’re so thirsty, in every sense of the word. They lean into each other, so in sync and so affectionate in a way that tugs on your every heart string. Fuck!

You start to just leave the room when it happens. You’d rather die than get caught staring, you’d rather go without water than thirst for droplets.

And you’d really, really, rather cut your fucking eyes out than face the feelings the sight awakens in you. Longing, yearning, how you want to tear them both off each other at once, how you want to see more, more, more, you want to touch, you want to taste –

God, fuck. You’re like one of those shitty girls who fetishizes male relationships. Aren’t you? You feel like this might be that. But you’re attracted to both of them individually, so it can’t be that, right? You’re not a creep, you’re just greedy. You leave the room when they kiss! You’re respecting their privacy!

They notice, though, is the thing. Not your staring (god you fucking hope they’ve never noticed the staring) but how you leave the room when they get affectionate with each other. It’s Suguru who pulls you aside to ask.

“…and listen, I know you’re not like that, I totally know, so does Satoru. It just… makes him feel a little weird, you know? He was raised by a traditional family, so they either think this is a phase, or call him disgusting to his face.”

Fuck your life. Actually fuck your ENTIRE life. “Of course not – I never – ”

“No no no, I know, I told you, he does too, it’s just – it’s a little disconcerting for him. But I can talk to him, make him understand. This is your house, too, you have the right not to see that sort of stuff.”

That just makes you feel a bit worse, actually. Satoru and Suguru shouldn’t have to hide away in their room whenever they want to kiss. It’s their own home.

“I’m sorry, Suguru, I – I don’t have any problem with you guys doing it around the house. I just…” You shift uncomfortably. “I’m not super comfortable with… PDA sort of stuff. It has nothing to do with you both being guys.”

Suguru nods, “No, I understand completely. Satoru will be disappointed, but you’re setting boundaries, and I respect that – ”

“It’s not that,” You say, “I – you can do whatever you like, really, I’ll just leave – ”

“No,” Suguru interrupts with a sigh, “That’s what’s bothering him. I think deep down he’s a little worried that you find it… disturbing.”

Your chest tightens with anxiety as you rush to reassure him, “Of course I don’t!”  

“No, I know, I know, we both do,” Suguru says in that warm, comforting voice of his, “It’s just how he feels – you know he can’t control that.”

And then your stupid mouth rushes ahead of you. Writes a check your heart can’t afford to cash.

“It’s fine! You don’t have to stop, I. Just… tell him I felt like I was intruding. I didn’t think he saw it as me being disgusted.”

And your heart will pay willingly, because Suguru gives you that smile. Warm and affectionate. The smile you’d fallen in love with.

“You’re not intruding at all. I’ll tell him you said so, it’ll be a great weight off his mind.”

So now the love of your life makes out with his boyfriend and you can’t even leave the room. Hahah. God. Maybe you should start thinking of a way to move out?

Problem: When Satoru moved in, he’d basically started paying all the bills. He didn’t have to worry about being cut off from the family money – even at his young age, he had his own financial success. Even if it started out with a few trust funds and an appointed position at one of his parent’s companies.

Every rent listing looked expensive when your current rate was “free”. And fuck, rent was expensive. You’d have to deal with other roommates, people you didn’t know (and love) as long as Suguru (and Satoru, at this point, you’d known him for years), and you’d be paying for the privilege.

You try, oh, do you ever try to get over it. Sexuality is fluid, after all, so it’s perfectly possible that Satoru and Suguru just ended up being gay. Being with either of them may never have been an option, except maybe as one of Satoru’s flings.

And wouldn’t that just suck? To have one night with Satoru only to watch him realize he’s gay and mutually in love with your longtime crush? Better to never sleep with him at all. You can’t miss something you’ve never had. And you wouldn’t want to be a fling anyways.

The thought stings more than it should, because deep down –

(You’d take it. You know you’d take it. That’s why you’re still here, really, under all the excuses. You’re fucking pathetic, pining for both of them. You’d take anything you could get.)

It doesn’t help that they get freer with their affections after your talk with Suguru. Looser. So unrestrained. You walk in on them fucking in the living room, having come back early from class, face burning up as you stand there stock still for a moment.

They don’t stop, or freak out, or cover themselves or anything. You see Suguru’s naked chest above the couch, Satoru’s hands pinned over the armrest of it, their bare legs and feet entwined and sticking over the other side of the couch. They’re both so fucking tall.

So beautiful. Satoru moans so pretty, and you hear Suguru purr, low and filthy, “Like that, you little whore?” and you feel yourself clenching all the way to your core.

You make a wild dash across the living room, staying on the other side of the couch so they can’t see you. Closing the door to your bedroom as quickly and quietly as you can, panting to yourself, feeling the heat rising on your face and the warm pulse between your legs.

(Pathetic, fucking pathetic. It’s like you’re actually some horny teenage boy with a crush on a pretty girl out of his league, rubbing one out every time you see her with her equally hot girlfriend.)

You’ve got to get ahold of yourself.

Your routine has changed, with the both of them being together, so openly. There were little things you’d shared, now gone, lost to the unfathomable whirlpool that was their relationship.

Used to be you’d buy sweets on grocery trips to share with Satoru. It was an old habit of yours, and when he’d first moved in, he’d caught you with them. Reaching for some with a grin before you smacked him away.

The look he gave you, a slow smirk before he went all wide-eyed and pleading, staggering to his knees like a proper starving drama queen – god, he had to know how he’d made your heart flutter. He probably pulled that on so many people.

Still, he would eat the candies right out of your hand, lips just teasing on your fingertips, eyes lingering on you while he licked his lips. It made you feel weird, at first, but you eventually realized that Satoru was just a weird guy.

He’d yawn and stretch and if he caught you or Suguru watching he’d flash his whole chest, like a girl flashing her tits. He slept naked and left the bathroom door open when he was using it, and he’d often knock when on your bathroom when you were in there, even if he had his own.

He had about ten different game consoles and games for them, plus a huge collection of movies, which he likes to watch with the room completely dark. He sleeps with a nightlight on, and his social media picture is an ugly picture of him from high school with these weird round sunglasses.

Not at all what you expected from a pretty boy like him. But Satoru’s eccentric charm, and the unstoppable allure of his perfect face and body, it rewired your brain somehow. You feel like you’ve wanted him for as long as you’ve known him.

You try to find other people. But the problem with living with Satoru and Suguru is that no one is up to your standards. You’ll never meet anyone as handsome or beautiful as either of them, so why bother?

In your defense, Suguru is hard to fall out of love with.

It’s not uncommon to wake up to the sound of your favorite breakfast being cooked while Suguru hums away in the kitchen, his pretty hair all tied back. If you sneak in quietly enough you can catch a tender smile on his face, the smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee he makes for Satoru in some expensive machine.

If you are unlucky, he’ll catch you, and that smile will grow as soon as his eyes are on you and you’ll fall in love all over again. If you’re lucky, you can sneak back away, but Suguru will eventually come and wake you up with a knock so gentle you suspect he already knows you’re up.

He shares his hair care routine, and it leaves your hair shiny and lovely. But your hair isn’t exactly like his, so he must have adjusted it.

He offers to help you brush or style it, himself, and asks you if you wouldn’t mind repaying the favor. Like you wouldn’t kill or die for the honor of running your hands through his silken locks.

Suguru is the type of guy who remembers when you get your period and asks if you need anything for it. You magically find your favorite fruits in the fridge, cut up, dipped in chocolate or caramel or yoghurt, however you like them best.

He does your laundry without being asked because he says it’s easier, and cleans dishes before you can get to them.

Every birthday he throws you a party, bakes a cake and he’ll spend hours to perfect a meal from scratch to go along with it. He’s perfect at finding a thoughtful present – Satoru just gives you cash, or some expensive luxury purchase you find fashionable but would never buy for yourself (Suguru definitely went shopping with him).

You get why Satoru likes him. Satoru’s sort of a slob, always leaving clothes on the floor – walking around shirtless like he knows exactly what it does to anyone watching “Just providing a public service, babe~” – and Suguru is so perfectly domestic.

Almost motherly. Whenever you misplace something, the fastest way to find it is invariably to ask Suguru, if he doesn’t approach you first with a concerned smile after watching you look.

After enough times catching Suguru sternly chide him for not putting away his clothes, leaving wrappers on the table, forgetting to put his shoes away; you’re relatively sure Satoru’s called him mom or mommy at some point. Possibly during sex.

And god, you get it. Those gentle tones of “Is everything all right?”, and “I tweaked the recipe, how do you like it?” and “I’m just really happy you enjoyed it.”, it’s enough to make your heart ache.

How, exactly, are you supposed to fall out of love with Suguru Geto?

How are you supposed to leave, how are you supposed to want to, especially when you swear you hear him call himself Daddy, and you find your face getting hotter than it should be.

Whispering to Satoru how “I’ve got you, baby,” and “Let Daddy take care of you, mhhm?”

And god, the high-pitched whimpers Satoru makes in response. He’s a tall guy, mewling, melting beneath Suguru’s hands, his words, his cock – and you could so easily imagine yourself in his place –

How are you supposed to be platonic about this?

 How are you supposed to stop touching yourself when they’re practically putting on personalized porn shows for you?

It's after the third time that you start to think they're doing this on purpose.

Whatever’s between them is something you just couldn’t understand. You get that, you do.

The way they look into each other’s eyes – there’s no way Suguru has ever looked at you like that, no way Satoru would ever want you that badly.

It’s something magnetic that makes them slot together at all times, draws their gazes to one another, leaves no room for anyone else –

But you stumble on them… a lot.

Never mind making out on the couch. You turn into the laundry room to see Satoru backed against the washer machine, his cock so far Suguru’s throat you can see it bulge.

His face is flushed, eyes teary, one hand loosely in Suguru’s hair while he whimpers. Dark eyes gazing up at him, fierce, Adam’s apple bobbing and another noise escaping him.

Or Satoru’s sitting rather innocently in Suguru’s lap, at a certain angle, but the sounds he’s making are less than innocent. Vile, even. Suguru’s broad hand wrapped around Satoru’s cock, pumping up and down, Satoru’s body shifting as you can tell he’s grinding down against something below.

And sometimes it’s really just the noises. You’ve heard them so often now it feels like you can put expressions to every moan and grunt and whimper and whine. Satoru makes a certain sort of gasp and your imagination jumps to think of how deep Suguru must be inside him, how his pretty face must look, twisted in pleasure.

They come back sometimes, from parties, drunk together. Leaning on one another like they could never lean on you – you’re not tall, not built like either of them are. Cheeks flushed as they whisper words into one another’s ears, Satoru giggling, kissing his cheek, Suguru laughing and squeezing his waist as they stumble into their room.

Like they’re in their own little world that you could never intrude on. You just catch glimpses every now and then. They don’t even look at you, it’s like you’re not even there – their eyes are locked on one another.

But that isn’t the worst of it.

Satoru and Suguru start bringing other people in.

No - they start bringing other girls into it. Like it's a punishment for catching them, only, you're fairly certain they wanted to be caught.

Satoru’s never been shy when he had a girl over, about walking around shirtless – maybe it’s an exhibitionism thing. And you’re someone they know well, someone tolerant (pathetic) enough to not say anything.

Either that or they’re both just that good at pretending you aren’t there. But they talk to you, all the time. You eat meals together, have movie nights (if you ignore how Satoru will not-so-discreetly put his hand on the inside of Suguru’s thigh while you’re all sitting together), grocery shop together, smile and laugh and share things about your day.

It’s just that they’re also dating each other. And in love, so in love, it’s painfully obvious that there’s no room for anyone else between them. Which makes the girls they bring over turn your stomach even more.

Sure, they’re one night stands. But they don’t even try to keep it quiet. You hear unfamiliar, high-pitched moans and whimpers, a wet smacking sound that has to be Satoru overdramatically eating pussy.

You wonder what his face looks like. What his eyes look like. Is he staring up at her when she does it? Does she have a hand in the feather-down softness of his hair? Or maybe Suguru’s hand, shoving him forward, that sly smirk that creeps over his lips when you’ve seen his eyes grow dark with want.

Is she whimpering because she’s close? Do they tease her, edging her, enjoying the expressions on her face, the way her body trembles? When she begs, is it for them to stop, or keep going? Whose dick is it inside her? Satoru’s, Suguru’s? What does it feel like? Satoru’s stupid enough to do it without a condom but Suguru isn’t.

What are they doing when she cums? You hear Suguru groan (you know how his groans sound, you know how both of them sound), so he must be cumming too. What’s Satoru doing? He’s too needy to be left alone for long.

Is he watching while he jerks himself? Has Suguru forced him to sit back? Or maybe he’s down where the action is, right where Suguru’s cock is buried inside her, laving over her clit and his cock like the slut he is until they both cum all over his face.

Why can’t that be you? Why don’t they want you?

Your fists clench harder than they should.

One night you stumble onto them in the middle of the living room, all at it in plain view.

Satoru is in Suguru’s lap, tall enough to tower over him. Suguru’s hand wrapped around his throat, choking him, head tilted back in bliss as his lashes flutter. There’s a woman on her knees, between their spread legs, sucking Satoru off.

And you can tell, by the way Satoru shudders, how he’s loose like putty in Suguru’s arms, that Suguru’s dick is buried deep inside him.

Satoru and Suguru don’t even try to pretend it was an accident. Some fucking roommates they are.

Suguru will smile and blush when you ask him about it, apologizing in soothing, kind tones, offering to never bring another girl home again if it bothered you – you’ve been through the goddamn song and dance so many times already.

He has this way of just. Making you feel guilty for even asking in the first place. Like you were presumptuous to say anything at all, unless it was something he wanted to hear.

It’s turned you into this. So eager to please but desperate to keep them at arm’s length. Wanting, longing, and starving for it. Watching because you quite literally can’t do anything else, sights burned into your eyes. Unable to look away. Unable to keep watching.

You don't know what they want from you.

You don’t think you want to, anymore.

Satoru and Suguru are getting impatient.

No, Suguru is getting impatient. Satoru is getting desperate. It was his idea to start going out and finding girls to bring back and fuck.

It wasn’t particularly difficult between the two of them. And promising, at first – after all, what was more likely to get you to snap than watching – hearing – the two of them give some other girl everything you’ve ever wanted on a silver platter?

But you just keep going. Gritting your teeth and bearing with it. Suguru spent a whole week dislodging your vibrator slightly from its charging port, slowly squeezing your lube bottle empty, doing everything he could to drive you to the brink.

Satoru’s starting to remark how much it’s a waste of time. He gets snippy when he’s needy, and lately, Suguru’s cock just isn’t enough for him. He has to go through your laundry, plant a camera in your bedroom on one of those few nights they stay out late enough to give you some private time.

Satoru makes him wear your clothes when Suguru fucks him, lets Suguru gag him with your panties when it’s the other way around.

They play dress-up together and watch you touch yourself at awkward angles with muddied sound quality. It’s not enough, not nearly enough.

Privately, Suguru is a little worried. Satoru’s getting weird – not that he hasn’t always been. But weirder.

He goes right into the bathroom after every time you use it. He’s always quick to reach your drinks for a “taste test” after you’ve had a sip. And Suguru knows for a fact Satoru isn’t using his own toothbrush at night.

He keeps talking about you. Looking at you. Whispering dirty suggestions in his ears, asking impatiently if you look like you’re going to snap.

Satoru is needy like that, demanding, and you’d always balanced him out while helping Suguru relax.

But there’s a distance now that wasn’t there before. The tension builds and builds, needs unmet for so long that desperation is clawing at both of them.

And that’s to say nothing of his own desires. Satoru, for all his faults, still has self-control.

Suguru passes your door every night and stops for a moment. He serves you dinner with a smile, domestic as he is, and thinks how easy it would be to slip something in there. To make sure you’d sleep through the night.

Would it even matter if you didn’t? You let him get away with so much. You love him, you must love him, don’t you? There’s no other reason you would put up with all of this. If he did slip, you’d forgive him, wouldn’t you? You’d drink up all his honeyed words with the same smile you always gave him.

But if he gave you such a convenient excuse, then he would always doubt. Whether you really loved him or if he just made it convenient to love him.

More importantly, you’re looking at them different. It was good, at first; your pretty eyes darting in a different direction, the way you try to hide your face, keep your words especially cool.

 They want you to TAKE what you want. Want you yelling and screaming and scratching them up like the hellcat they know you are, deep down.

“How long,” He whines between groans as Geto works between his legs, fingering him as he sucks his cock, “Is she gonna make us wait – fuck!”

Suguru pulls away with a pop. Saliva and precum dripping from his lips. Satoru pulls him in for a kiss, by the hair.

“You know she’s liked me a while,” Suguru murmurs, swallowing a moan or two as he works another finger into his hole. “She’s scared of pushing me away. And now that you’re my boyfriend, she probably wouldn’t want to break us up.”

“Fuck, but imagine if she did.” Satoru bucks into him, “She wants us, I know she does.”

He’s always so needy, like a puppy. Suguru likes it, but he can admit that he wants you, too. Misses the energy you’d provide. You’re not demanding like Satoru is. Too prideful. Satoru’s shameless. But you want, oh, do you ever want, and they both do know it.

Once he’s stretched Satoru out enough, he wastes no time shoving him onto his belly, burying himself in his hole from behind – “Fuck! Suguru!”

“On it right now,” He purrs, close to Satoru’s back, reaching lazily for his cock.

Satoru doesn’t like to cum too soon anyways. He likes to cum from getting fucked, to be edged into oblivion – or he likes going hard and fast and overstimulated to no end. Not much in between, unless he was the one in charge.

“Imagine it,” He pants like a dog beneath him. He’s pretty, so pretty, and the only thing Suguru could imagine that would be better is to see your face looking up at him from underneath Satoru, “Suguru!”

He grunts, thrusting his hips harder, “Imagining. What am I imagining?” God, Satoru’s a slut and a nuisance, but it’s always been worth it to indulge him.

“Her,” Satoru breathes after a particularly hard thrust, “Trying to break us up.”

Suguru grabs his hips for better leverage. Satoru dirty talks best when he’s getting fucked hard, after all.

“Fuck, imagine if she got me drunk or something, hngh, finally followed through on those fuck-me eyes she’s always giving me, ghhgh, fuck yes like that, and. Just fucked me in our room, waiting for you to walk in on us together.”

And he can see it, picture it so well.

A drunk night with the most beautiful man alive, because that’s what Satoru is; pretty even now, beneath him, all sweat and lean body trembling as he gets utterly railed.

You’ve always had the attraction, and Satoru couldn’t handle his liquor, and all the sudden, you’d slept together.

“Would you – ah, ahHhh, would you get mad, Suguru?” His voice is teasing now, even through the groans and utterances, “Would you cry~?”

“Ha!” He half-chokes out the laugh, because Satoru clenches around him and it’s hard not to cum right away. He’s going to leave bruises from how hard he’s holding those narrow, lovely hips.

“No," Suguru grinds out, "But I’m sure you both would. She’s the type, and you’re so fucking – gah, so fucking needy. What would you want me to do? Forgive you?”

His pace slows down, and he reaches to squeeze his cock in return, just for a taste.

“Nah – fuck! Yes, keep doing that, fuck.” Satoru bucks into his touch, always, always chasing after him, “She’s too fucking nice all the time. If she did it, it would be – hnng – like. A revenge thing. She should be fucking mad already, pissed off. She should make me cum inside her, say she’s pregnant. Make me dump you and marry her, so if she can’t have you, nobody can.”

Suguru barks out a laugh at the concept, and then a moan, choked off as he feels the heat shooting through him at the idea.

You’re too nice, like Satoru says, it’s a laughable concept, you acting like this –

But what had he seen in your eyes that day after you caught them both with that girl?

“Fuck, I swear I feel you twitching inside me – ”

“What would you do, then?” Suguru purrs hotly into his ear, “You want to win her heart while you’re married?”

“Well, we’d fuck all the time,” Satoru wheezes out a giggle, trembling as Suguru’s hand slides along his cock, “Fuck you – haaaahhh. But I’d be making nice with her, being a good husband, and then you could come and have an affair – ”

Fuck, fuck, that’s too much, “Close,” He grunts, driving himself deep and hard, chasing the edge, “Fuck, I could tell her I love her, blackmail her, even – threaten to tell you.”

A groan as Satoru gets closer, and Suguru continues, “I could fuck her, leave her coming home to you full of my cum – ”

“I’d eat it out of her,” Satoru laughs, near deranged as he jerks between fucking back into Suguru and rutting into his hand, “Jerk me off already – ah, fuck, what if you got her pregnant – ”

White-hot, like the idea of your face beneath him, both of them, accepting them with an open heart full of rage and bitterness and lust, Suguru cums.

He’s just aware enough to fist Satoru’s cock, sliding harshly along it until he hears the lovely whore beneath him gasping, twitching, spilling in his hand.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck,” Satoru whimpers. “Hnghh… god, just the idea of her coming home from the hospital with a black-haired baby.”

“Fuck you,” Suguru barks, because now he wants to cum inside you. He wants, so, so fucking bad to cum inside you.

But god, do you even want them?

You sit there, all day, looking away, running away. That’s not love, is it?

And he’s a romantic, at heart. Satoru is, too. They don’t want anything less than your whole heart. Your entire life, your mind, body, and soul, dedicated to them the way they are to each other. Mad with jealousy and rage and possession.

Satoru had left him with bruises, the day he found out Suguru was crushing on you. When Suguru told him, in no uncertain terms, that he’s been wanted you for over a decade now and he wasn’t leaving before he got you. Blue fury in his eyes, heart twisting in his chest.

He’d looked him in the eye, grin wild and wide. Staring down as he has him pinned. Suguru had raised his knee up between his legs to find his cock desperately hard and throbbing.

“I want to fuck her first,” had been his wicked demand. Pain and pleasure traded like currency in return for love, each of them furious at the other for wanting you. They reaped the cost of their love on each other, settled their scores deep in their souls.

Because even if Suguru had seen you first, could he really say he’d wanted you first? Did he really want to fuck you before Satoru moved in, before he saw you flustered from your attraction and playfully trading banter with Satoru?

Had he wanted Satoru because you wanted Satoru? Had Satoru wanted him because he could see that you did?

Lines cross and uncross between you and the two of them, too tangled to ever unravel.

Time to tighten the knot.

[philodendronplants]

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[aphrodicci]

ᴀꜱᴛᴇʀᴏɪᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴇᴘʜᴏɴᴇ [399]

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18+

❦  asteroid persephone [399] i wanted to do something different with asteroid persephone, it has been interpreted before, but i wanted to take a different out look, persephone is known to be the goddess of sirens, she was accompanied by them before she was captured by hades to be his queen in the underworld.

♇ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 1H/ARIES ⟶ this asteroid in aries/1h shows that you are someone who could be pretty infatuated with sirens, and can have features thare are very pulling and enticing, could have a very specific feature on your face, very strong cheekbones as well. you could have a skill with singing, swimming or dancing, and people, particularly men could feel like they have an ownership over you. on the other hand, this is an indicator of being someone who attracts energy vampires.

♇ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 2H/TAURUS ⟶ could have a lovely voice, likes to listen to music and can be very talented with manifesting/praying. this placement does show that you could be someone who could be into sugar-daddies, nsfw audios and you might attract people who like to use you for your money or for what you have. people with this asteroid placement are considered to be very pretty, could have quite arched eyebrows, always looks like they're surprised or about to ask a question.

♇ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 3H/GEMINI ⟶ indicator of attracting liars or being the liar. could be interested in writing and researching sirens, might also attract stalkers who want to know everything about them. deceptive relatives, people who usually have something up their sleeve, could've been that one person in school people were attracted to and other people wondered why. might've had a teacher that was weird to them, native might've not realised during the time but realise it in the future.

♇ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 4H/CANCER ⟶ very beautiful people, people could find the need to help these people all the time, and to have this asteroid placement could imply that this person could have a really nice body. is a beacon of being very bitter and envious though, the type to want to have it all, or could have lovers or admirers who want them for a very long time, it could be hard for people to get over them. could have deceptive people in their family, or might've lived in an area where there was much water, or even bars.

♇ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 5H/LEO ⟶ indicator of being amazing dancers, nice bodies, backs and upper bodies. could be into remaining fit or being a better version of themselves. people with this asteroid placement have a high chance of being entertainers, they catch people's attention very quickly, but this can also make them pull in powerful people who usually have 2 motivations when it comes to the person with this placement. likely had a strange childhood.

♇ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 6H/VIRGO ⟶ people might want to do many things for this person, epitome of having people-pleasers around them, but they can be someone who likes to please other people, sexually, or with their entertainment talents. they can be someone who are likely stalked or preyed on by men, or just weird people in general, could like to have alone time and might like to sing and find ways to become a better version of themselves.

♱ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 7H/LIBRA ⟶ similar to the previous paragraph, these people might attract people who want to do everything for them. but since this asteroid is in the house of relationships, this could mean they could attract very dominating people, people who can sell a dream, and then show a completely different side to them after spending more time with said person. since this is a venusian home, specifically of style, this person could be into whimsy/mermaid-like clothing.

♱ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 8H/SCORPIO ⟶ easily has eyes on them, people watch what these people do all the time, could be very intuitive people as well. clairaudient is a theme for these people. might feel like people have it all for them as well, could be very fascinated with sirens and could like to swim. their voice could be very enchanting, especially their eyes, something about it sparkles or is very sharp, intimidates other people with their beauty and their essence, and because of this there's a lot of one-sided competition made with native who have this placement.

♱ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 9H/SAGITTARIUS ⟶ people might want to listen to their advice all the time, what they say is literally the holy book to other people. on one hand, this can manifest into a circumstance where people want to use their beliefs on people who have this placement to trap them, hold them down. people from higher status could like to prey on them, and they could have beliefs that are conflicting with other people around them. this person can be someone who can be into water/siren magick.

♱ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 10H/CAPRICORN ⟶ man-eater status. people want to be around them all the time, usually preyed on, need to be careful in workspace, and can be someone who steps on people's toes to climb the social/work ladder. people could like to use them for what they can bring to the table, father's side of the family could of had a lot of affairs, people easily tempted, especially you, you can be someone who is easily tempted. people might underestimate you within the work field or in general. on the other hand, this can manifest into being worshipped.

♱ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 11H/AQUARIUS ⟶ could get taken advantage of in friendships if we look at the hades perspective of the story, and could get harassed/stalked online. on the other hand, this could also mean person with this placement could be really popular online, usually the top of the game when it comes to their content. person can be admired because of the things they can come up with, and the type to defend the underdog, or could have the underdog to queen bee type of fame.

♱ ASTEROID PERSEPHONE IN 12H/PISCES ⟶ can easily falls for scams, and the type to wear rose coloured glasses towards future significant others, people might gloss over the rudeness of this person, the type to get away with everything and praised for everything they do. this placement is the epitome of the halo effect. this person can be very enchanting and creative, great song/story-writers, and could have a soft voice, if not, their voice can easily take the attention of other people, could be many people's fantasy, which causes people to want to have them all to themselves.

masterlist

♇ pluto

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Daquiri: splash of cold water

Word Count: 3.8k Contents: angst, cursing, some dark themes, violence, Gojo's pov, highkey rushed and not proofread so bear with me pleaseeee Masterlist

“I’m disappointed in you.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. He’s been hearing that line for as long as he could remember — from his mother, father, teachers, friends, and especially from his grandfather, who sits on the opposite side of the mahogany desk. 

It was stupidly early in the morning when he was roused from sleep by Ijichi, the family’s Head of Staff. He has all sorts of titles, but the family dog is the most fitting. Truthfully, he’s a good guy. Somewhat of a friend. But damn, is he annoying?

Being hurriedly shoved in a car, half naked and still sleepy, Satoru had no choice but to follow along as he was dragged out and into the Gojo estate to meet with the head of the clan, practically paraded for all the snivelling, grubby-handed relatives and gossiping staff. Not the first time, for sure. One could even say he's used to it.

Of course, if he could avoid it, he'd never come here. Anyone with half a mind would hate it here. The people who live here hate it here. Sure, it’s all pretty with the beautiful woodcraft furniture, extravagant decor and lush gardens, but it’s a really big place, and it gets really lonely. The worst part, though? Running into people. He can’t stand seeing family members who either look at him with scorn for being the heir, which he never asked to be, by the way, or try to kiss his ass. 

But worst of all, he can’t stand the look of shame on his grandfather’s face. 

Older than he remembered, the man sits, hands clasped on a knee, legs crossed, and leaning back on the leather chair, no doubt crafted by hand by some artistic genius or other. His face has deepened with age, marred by years of experience and carrying the burden of leading the clan. It couldn’t have been easy, even if he had made it look as such, and it’s precisely why Satoru’s spent most of his life running from him and all that he represents. 

“Yeah, I know,” he yawns. 

Grandpa sighs. “I would have thought some time away in university would teach you to grow up. Yet, there you sit before me, just as immature as you were at eighteen, ten and two.”

Satoru, frowning, resists the urge to mumble some petty comeback. It wasn’t true, anyway. He’s matured a lot. Especially in the last couple of months when he was literally engaged and oh so close to walking down the aisle. That’s enough to send anyone into an early grave, so how much more mature did he need to be?

Hearing a lack of a reply, the older man asks, “You resent me, yes? For springing the engagement on you?”

“I won’t say no.”

It’s always the same story between them: two stubborn men, one old, the other young. Two sides of the same coin. When he was younger, his grandfather was his role model. His hero. At tedious and stupid family meetings, the older man would wink at him and slide a piece of candy over; they had secret games, sharing whole conversations with just their eyes. He was his first best friend. The leader of their precious clan, the man who struck fear in the most powerful men in the world, was who the boy would run to when he tripped and scratched his knees, when his parents would fight, and when kids at school would pick at him. 

The man cared for him more than his parents did. He practically raised Satoru. But then, as the boy grew older, they saw each other less and less. No special reason. Life got in the way. Responsibilities and yada yada yada. Then, his grandmother died, and the ones left behind were never the same after. In an inevitable twist of fate, more and more, those meetings turned him from pitiful observant, forced to bear witness to petty squabbling, to the very subject of those meetings. 

They changed from grandfather and grandson to Head and Heir, and there was no Spare to hide behind. 

“Satoru, son," he begins, pulling his thin-frame glasses off, "do tell, what was so wrong with being engaged to that young woman? To stepping up. To maturing and doing your part for this family?”

He groans. “You don’t get it. It isn’t about her. It’s about being engaged at all. They don’t get to make that choice for me. They don’t get to throw me into their schemes and plans when they know I want nothing to do with it. Any of it!”

“A boy so smart, with eyes that see more than they let on, with strength that surpasses us all, and yet you cannot see past yourself, past your own truth. That is the true disappointment. Not your acts of rebellion, not your games, but your refusal to rise to the occasion.”

Talking to the old man is like talking to a brick wall. Always lecturing him with riddles and think pieces. Satoru wants to leave. He’s having a terrible time as it is, what with the media whirlwind he has caused and the fact that he's still recovering from the bruising his friends had given him for ‘being a dumbass prick.’ He’s been holed up in his room, refusing to see anyone who wasn’t beautiful and adorned in black lace. Even as parties raged on below, nothing could tempt him to face the world. No classes had been attended, though that's just standard practice, and he didn't even check up on social media; he was scared he'd see her having fun without him, he supposed. 

Partly out of stubbornness and partly from shame, he didn’t reach out to the one person he so desperately wanted to. He was pretty sure she wouldn't want to see him after what he did. After he decided everything on her behalf, he blew up at her at dinner, left her to deal with their parents, and never answered her messages after that. 

Fuck. 

He's gonna die alone.

“Can I go, Gramps? I want to talk to her.”

A strange look passed over the man’s face. Satoru couldn’t place it, couldn’t understand, couldn’t even begin to know what it meant. But whatever it was, it made him sit up. 

“You can’t.”

He closed his eyes. Tight. “What do you mean? 

A fist falls on the desk. Satoru is jolted from his thoughts. 

“Satoru, she is engaged.”

Groaning, the younger man, exasperated and completely done, bolts out of his chair, shoving it forward as he feels the morning chill settle on his bare chest — they hadn’t even dressed him before ruining his day. “No, she isn’t. That was the point: to break the engagement by going to the media and telling them it was forced. Which it was, by the way. Thanks for having my back, Gramps. So, if it’s all the same to you, I gotta go wine and dine her and apologise. Maybe hit up a vampire shop and communicate in her language or sacrifice a child — don't tell her I said that. I'm tryna be better.”

He doesn't wait for a reply or notice the deadly silence that hangs in the air, suffocating and all-consuming. It's wild and unwise youth that takes him away without questioning the real reason he's been taken in his sleep. Years of shrugging off everyone who wasn't his age, wasn't drunk or stupid, had dulled his senses. 

Halfway to the door, stomping and muttering under his breath, the next words that come out of his grandfather’s mouth stop him dead in his tracks. A chill settles over his skin, clawing down his back. Sudden ringing deafens him, and he swears the room shifts, swaying him where he stands. 

“No. What? When?” Hearing only a tense sigh as a reply, Satoru grits out, “When?”

“Tonight.”

Satoru whirls around. “Who is she marrying?”

“Sit down.”

“No!” He screams.

This is impossible. 

She was his just days ago. 

This entire time, he had thought he’d taken a step back and was preparing to return, to go further, to promise himself in ways he couldn’t have under that restrictive alliance, but he’s just been showered in an ice-cold bucket of reality; hehadn’t stepped back. He had pushed her away. Shoved her. 

All the way into the arms of another man. 

Which man didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. 

He can’t think. Knees threatening to buckle, he can only try to catch his breath as dread settles in the pit of his stomach. Over the years, he had met many Zenins — it’s impossible not to run into them. And every single instance, every single one of them, left a bitter taste in his mouth. They were awful. Arrogant, spoiled, cruel, downright monstrous. 

Would she have been paired up with someone closer in age? If that were the case, only one person comes to mind. No. 

No. 

No. 

Not him. 

Feeling like he’s going to laugh and cry and scream at the same time, his voice lowers, fragmented and weak. So weak. “S-she can’t marry him. She can’t. H-he’ll hurt her. Crush her spirit. Fuck!”

Men come into the room, pinning him to the ground as books, vases and paintings are thrown around. He doesn't remember how his body moved, how his arms reached for anything and everything he could, and whose hands were on him. It all passes by in a blur. He can’t recall who tore down what and whose blood he spills, whether it's his own or someone just doing their job. Everything's hurting, and, at the same time, nothing is.

One thing he does remember is the shake of his grandfather's head and the glasses neatly folded on a damaged desk.

Restrained and barely conscious, he’s dragged somewhere and locked. 

This is his fault. In his pursuit to liberate her — both of them — he had inadvertently trapped her, driven her into the clutches of a man who’d place her on a mantel. 

Regret weighs him down. Everything has gone to shit. How could he fix this? Fix them? 

Would she want him to?

No, she would. Of course, she would. No matter how annoying, irritating, and irresponsible he is, Zenin could never be preferred. Not by anyone. Not when she deserves so much more. Someone who understands, who’d appreciate her artistry, her grace, elegance and intelligence. Someone better than both of them. Someone who wouldn’t be so impulsive and immature. Who wouldn’t react the way he had. 

Whatever she feels for him or against him, Satoru swears he will fix it. He’d free her the way she was supposed to be the entire time. And she can go wherever she wants. Be with whoever she wants.

Even if it isn’t him. 

———

“Tell me everything,” he demands. 

The old Gojo has never seen his grandson quite so serious. Having marched back into his office an hour later with bruised knuckles and a torn lip, he had approached the desk with a calmness that set an uneasy mood in the room. He’s dressed now, at least. Wearing jeans and a grey hoodie a maid had dropped off, Satoru sits, filling up a new leather seat, legs spread and fingers pressed to his lips as if to hide their pursing. Seemingly collected to anyone else, Grandpa Gojo knew better. 

His knee is bouncing impatiently, fingers drumming, and the way those familiar blue eyes are honed in onto every rise and fall of the chest of the older man in front of him, every twitch, every blink, and even on the dust that settles between them betrayed the peaceful facade he wears like armour.

Sighing, he relents, and so, the older man gets settled in and prepares for the storm.

“Your grandmother was the person I loved most in the world,” he began. 

“She was just a servant when we met. Young, beautiful, and the most headstrong woman I ever met, even then. No one at that point, or ever, dared glare at me or turn their nose up. She resented me for being a spoiled boy. Of course, she wasn’t wrong to dislike me; I was, admittedly, not a very conscientious young man then. Much like you, I skirted around my responsibilities and allowed others to take the fall. I never wanted this life, and truthfully, I didn’t think I would be well-suited.”

This is the most his grandfather has ever revealed about his past and despite the fact that he knows time is against him, Satoru listens intently. That's the man's cursed gift. Mesmerised by the charming baritone of the head of the clan, his fingers stop drumming against the armrest and he envisions a life not his and has since long past. 

“But your grandmother changed my life. She was never afraid to let me know when she thought I was doing something wrong. You remember the face she makes, don't you, son? All scrunched up and disapproving. That woman had a way of making you want to impress her.”

Chuckling to himself, he continues, “She made me want to be better. To be deserving of her. That continued well into our marriage. All that you see of our empire, far-reaching and ever-developing as it is, could not have been achieved without her. Every setback I ever faced was only made bearable because she’d smile at me as if I could get back up and try again. Do you understand what I’m telling you, son?”

“Grandma was great?”

His grandfather pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. Well, yes. But no, Satoru. What I’m saying is, women make us better. Not just any woman, but the one. I could not have managed for as long as I did without her. Even now, when she has been gone a long time, my ability to tolerate your ridiculous, weak and greedy aunts and uncles, and indeed your lousy parents, has been because of her. Because I hold memories of her in my heart. Because I can hear her voice guiding me to the right decisions. I want that for you, son.”

A sinking realisation made the younger man’s mouth dry. He sits up. And with an accusatory tone, he says, “It was you. You set us up.”

He was disgusted with his parents for stooping so low, for prioritising wealth and reputation over their son’s wellbeing again. And yet, the entire time, it had been him, the man who he thought was on his side. Always. Satoru thought he could turn to his grandfather for help, and he had actually deluded himself into thinking the man would be proud of him for having resolved it himself — or at least, attempted to. 

“Yes. I did.”

“Why? Why would you do this to me? To her?” There’s a strain in Satoru’s voice. The wood of the armrest creaks under the deadly grip he’s inflicting. Tension rides through his body, an animal ready to pounce, to rip it all to pieces. If he hadn’t been set up like this, she’d be free; he wouldn’t have driven her into the arms of a Zenin, and she wouldn’t hate him for ruining her life. Maybe they could have even run into each other on campus and had just been a boy and a girl searching for something real in a sea of greys and beiges. 

Grandpa Gojo leans back in his chair and clasps his hands together. Then, as if looking into the distance, he recounts yet another story from his past, one Satoru hadn’t been a part of. 

“Not that long ago, I had attended a funeral for a great woman I once knew. It was your average affair: faux sincerity, faceless crowds, off-hours negotiations. Truly dull.”

The younger man knows all too well how those events go. It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t enjoy his own frat parties; they remind him too much of the parties he had grown up in. 

“Just a few years before that, as you know, we buried your grandmother in the very same place but in our own family plot. It's nice, or rather, as nice as those dreadful things can get. But she loved this little clearing far back in the forest behind the cathedral. Said she grew up playing in that land with her siblings. We used to have dates there, back when we were in our youth and we had to hide our relationship. Did I ever tell you my father never approved? Ah well, a story for another day. Where was I? Oh right. To commemorate her death, in my own personal way, I built a swing set. Two seats. For her and for me. Every time I missed her and the grief overwhelmed me, I’d visit, and I swear I could feel her with me.”

Satoru, breathless, feels the ground cave from under him. 

“I don’t get to visit as often as I’d like, a consequence of being who I am. But I am sure to maintain it. And at that funeral, I was given an opportunity to see the fruits of my labour and, as you do so very often, I snuck away. I don't mean to encourage that behaviour but I think I get a pass for being so generally well-behaved, no? Anyways, son, all the way out there, I saw a young girl.”

The grandson is standing before he even realises it. “You saw her?”

“I saw a girl coming into her own. I saw a melancholy air about her and a certain sadness that I could relate to. Why, she reminded me of myself, of my wife, and of you, all at once. Like the universe had aligned, I felt my wife guiding me to her last gift. In that moment, without ever exchanging a word with her, I knew she was special. In the way I recalled mygrandson was special. Is special. I left her to herself — she was grieving, after all. But I could never forget that little girl who had been abandoned by the adults around her, left to deal with the dangers of solitude. Through the years, I kept track of her, and, as a consequence of the family business being passed from the great woman I knew to her son, I watched her father drive their family to ruin with his gambling addiction, her mother dig her manicured claws in and twist, chasing thrill in luxury goods and losing herself in a flurry of white dust. Through it all, that little —no, that budding young woman — stood tall. But we all have limits, son."

There's a pathetic sense of jealousy growing in the white-haired boy. His grandfather's reminding him of how tiny his pool of knowledge regarding her really is. All he had done the past couple months was argue with her when he should have been at her side 24/7, begging her for every morsel of information.

Gulping, he shifts in his seat. "Limit?"

"She lost her dear friend. And rock bottom came soon after. Chained to a hospital bed, she took care of him when no one else would. But that is far too much responsibility for anyone. Once again, I saw you in her. Both running away from the problem, searching for comfort at the bottom of a bottle, and filling that void with countless people whose names you could not even begin to list. It was a pity.”

Reeling, Satoru tries to make sense of it all. The nonchalance in his grandfather’s words sends his blood boiling. Everything. Every second. Every fucking person in his life is a product of someone’s manipulation. Always. “So what? You wanted to help her out by bringing her into our family?”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s bull. Why couldn’t you just give her money? Why not build up her family's business like you do with literally everyone in this family if she's so special? Why go through this elaborate scheme? Why play games?”

Grandpa Gojo shakes his head. He looks thoroughly disappointed in his grandson and when he responds after a second or two of further thought, his voice reveals the age that has been wearing him down more and more. “Because when I go, I’d like to be certain you have somebody like I did, Satoru. Because you are young and you need guidance.”

It has become clearer than ever before: she was sent as a final nail in his coffin.

Satoru finds himself getting back up onto his feet, hands flailing in the air and a furrow in his brows.

“Now what? Huh? Your stupid games got her as good as dead. What are you going to do now?”

She's going to be a Zenin by the end of the day and he's going to have to watch her spirit fade at every ridiculous function for some charity event no attendant of the party could even hold a conversation about. They'll pass each other by like strangers, like two ships in the night, like nothing they shared had even happened. Was it better to have mattered for even just a second than to be nothing to each other?

SLAM!

A heavy fist quakes the mahogany desk, rattling every bone in the young man’s body. 

“We are the most powerful family in the country! We rule with both hands on a shield and a sword. A sword, Satoru. And deny it all you want, son, but the brutal truth will always be that you are not just a Gojo, not just a powerful man, a boy with a trust fund. You are the Gojo heir. A god among men! What you want is the will of our clan, don't you understand, my boy? Power courses through your veins. Limitless. Infinite. Accept it. For you, alone, are the honoured one. Embrace it. Use it. Weaponise it." 

When two pairs of eyes collide, one sees himself in the other and, after years of being at opposite ends, repelled by the weight of responsibility that hung between them, they finally arrive at the same page. After all those misunderstandings, all those stern talking to's, those never-ending arguments and disappointments neither could speak about, they're finally, finally friends again. 

One of them almost smiled. 

"So, what are you going to do?”

Satoru has one hand on the door and the other on his phone in a flash. For the first time in his entire life, he knows what to do. That thing that has been haunting him, forcing him deeper into the facade of an inconsiderate fratboy, brews to the surface. The privilege he had always considered a burden and a curse, that he had locked away and allowed to collect dust on, becomes his very lifeline.

“I’m gonna get my girl back.”

[sushirrrry]

READ PART ONE - CASA AMOR - HERE

PART TWO | CRASH OUT || a harry styles x you fic. word count: 4,935 content warning: tension & arguments & love island antics

summary: you and harry were the strongest couple in the villa, until the recoupling after casa amor. now, with some time to talk, you learn more things were happening in casa than what you had seen prior.

author's note: y'all loved this so much (which I did not think you would???) so I just had to write a little something today - this will ultimately be a short series because it's pretty easy to write once you get into it! I have another part that I cut from this one because I figured it's more fun to have more stories to post, so keep an eye out for that <3 I'm trying a few different ways to write it to make it feel like you're watching it but also feel a bit more story-like! also - wrote a character list at the top for your info!

hope you guys enjoy <3

Tonight on Love Island: Here is your breakdown after the recoupling...

You are Single | Luca is Single | Megan is Single | Tash and Harry | Ella and Johnny | Megan and Ronan | Tiana and Liam | Jess and Mitch

{In the Villa}

You go to sit with Luca on one of the low couches near the beanbags, your heels click together as you walk across the pavement. Your knees tucked up beneath you when you sat, a half-empty glass of water balanced between your palms. The night is thick with that strange, quiet buzz that happens when everyone’s pretending that they’re okay.

Luca watches you for a second before going to say anything; he pauses and gives you a reassuring smile.

“Y’alright?” he asks you, making conversation light.

You give him a small smile but nothing more, because you don’t really know how to feel but don’t want to show that to him immediately. “Don’t know really, just feel a bit betrayed.”

He nods in understanding. “Didn’t expect that, you know. Him walking back with her—like I was just under the impression that he was going to test it in Casa, but I figured that you would have had that conversation beforehand, y’know what I mean?”

You shrug, not having anything else to say, “Neither did I—and that’s why I’m fuming, Luca, it’s almost like he was waiting for the opportunity to leave.”

Silence hangs for a moment; you wonder if Luca knows something more, but isn’t saying it, so you allow there to be a space held for that conversation.

Harry and Luca are good mates, but you two have always had an open communication – he’s kind, he’s funny, he’s been choosing girls that aren’t choosing him back so you both feel relatively on the same page at the moment.

Tiana and Luca were coupled prior to Casa, but she had chosen Liam instead – it was for the best, seeming that they were getting along quite better than her and Luca had prior. That left you both single in the villa now, and given a certain opportunity, it may be best to try and explore the connection to make sure that you’re safe.

“I just thought…” Luca hesitates for a moment, shrugging as his arm gets placed around the seat where you’re sitting, “Like, if anyone was gonna make it through Casa, it was you two, so it’s a real twist in the villa now.”

You press your lips together, slowly letting your lower lip press further into your mouth as you start to gnaw on it softly. You know that your lip gloss is being smudged, but you’re not sure that you can just listen to Luca tell you all of the good parts about you and Harry.

You just respond with, “Yeah. Me too.”

“He talked about you a lot before he left, said you grounded him. Said it felt different with you—dunno, obviously he kept choosing you and you kept choosing him.”

You look over, surprised at Luca’s comments and allowing them to settle on you for a moment. “I mean it’s all talk though, isn’t it? He still brought her back.”

Luca nods, taking a sip of his drink before he adds, “I mean, but then… I dunno. Something changed. Tash walked into Casa and it was like—”

He stops himself for a minute, realizing he may have over-spoke. His voice got quiet, and he looked back up at you for a moment.

“Like what?” you ask, though you’re not sure you want the answer. You squint at him softly, trying to act like you don’t need the information that may be withheld. “Go on—I need to know if he’s still not being honest.”

Luca exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Like, I heard him make a comment where he wanted to remind himself that he could still pull, ‘cause I guess you two have been a thing since the beginning and it was just a game to him, or something. To pull Tash.”

“Did he say that?” You ask quickly, almost in awe of the fact that Luca would say that so openly, like he had been holding it in. The words slam into your chest at a frequency you weren’t aware of

Harry acted like what you had wasn’t real — just something to trade in for a quick ego boost and a pretty girl in Casa, which is exactly what he had been doing without you around.  Your hands start to tremble around your glass you had been holding, so you moved it between palms to ensure Luca didn’t see your shake.

Luca clocks the shift in your face, noticing immediately that your disappointment may have turned into a bit of anger now.

“Shit,” he says quickly. “I—I mean I don’t think he did it with bad intentions or anything,”

“No, it’s fine,” you cut in, standing up too fast. “You’re right. It makes sense now.”

Luca seems to have a bit of panic that he spoke far too much, “Hey—”

“I’m gonna pull him and clear some things up.”

You don’t wait for Luca to respond. You feel the walls closing in and you need answers — real ones, not just polite excuses and hollow regret that he tried to express. You find Harry near the outdoor kitchen, talking with Tash, who’s pretending not to glance at you every five seconds.

Your heart’s thudding so hard between your rubs that you barely hear your own voice speak out to him.

“Harry,” you say firmly, giving him a look, “can I pull you for a chat quickly?”

He looks up at you with a bit of surprise crossed over his features, maybe even hopeful, and nods without a word before following you.

He follows you toward the fire pit, where the embers are still burning. You take a seat at the benches and tuck your dress under your knees before you cross your legs and let him settle for a minute before you take in a deep breath before you say what you need to say.

“So, I hear that you had told some people in Casa,” you start, voice calm but breaking beneath, “that you felt different with me. That I grounded you. That what we had was real.”

He nods, a hesitant caution over him as he started to nod a bit in agreement. “Yeah, that’s true, I did.”

“But then I’m also told that you needed some reminder,” you say, looking him straight in the eyes, “why did you need to remind yourself that you could still pull?”

The color drains from his face when you keep speaking with a confidence; his eyes glance quickly away from you which is all that you need to know. You don’t even wait for his answer before continuing.

“Because that’s what you told the boys in Casa, isn’t it? That you walked into Casa, and you let yourself forget everything we had. Just so you could prove you still had game, and that pulling Tash was some kind of game to you. So, is it a connection or is it a game?”

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He licks over his lips and blinks a few times at the ground before he knits his brows together to try and come to a conclusion, but you can tell… he has nothing else to say.

You shake your head, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling.

“For the record, I was never holding you back, Harry. You didn’t need to pull. You just needed to stay.”

He shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak again, trying to reach for your hand. You pull back almost like his hand was on fire.

“I need to know if this was ever real for you. Or if I was just something steady until someone shinier walked in, because if that’s the case, I’m not even mad—I’m just over it and done.”

Harry’s mouth opens like he wants to argue — like he’s searching for some excuse to protect himself.

“I can understand that what you’re hearing may be hurtful, but that’s not fair,” he says, voice clipped. “You’re twisting it into something different than what it was.”

You blink slowly. “Am I? That’s not what it sounds like from what I’m hearing—unless you’re just lying.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. His jaw is clenched, his chest rising and falling faster and you can tell that he’s trying to make sense of it all.

“I didn’t plan to connect with her, alright? It wasn’t like that. It was just—Casa messes with your head, and I was making a joke about the fact that I hadn’t really pulled girls in the villa since you and I were so strong—it had nothing to do with our connection or the fact that I was bored.”

“Well, you kissed her in the Hideaway,” you say flatly, arms folded across your stomach like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “You don’t just end up there by accident, and I think it sounds a lot more than just pulling for the game.”

He exhales sharply, turning back to you. His voice rises a little.

“I was trying to figure it out! Everyone was telling me to explore, test things. I didn’t want to look like an idiot if you’d cracked on, too, which I know you did.”

You laugh once, short and disbelieving as you squint at him. “So, you did it to protect yourself—called her naughty and trouble.”

He hesitates for a moment; you can tell that he doesn’t want to lie, but doesn’t want to make anything worse, and then, softer: “Yeah. Maybe I did. I don’t think it’s that big of a deal here. I always had the intention of coming back to you here.”

That silence after his words lands like a brick. You look at him, and for a second, just a second, he sees it. The way your lip trembles at his words, and the way that your eyes are glassy with the recognition that he had hurt you. The way you’re so tired of fighting for something he already threw away. You don’t even know if you want to fight for it anymore.

Harry softly closes his eyes as he shakes his head and rests his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t—I’m just sorry. What we had wasn’t made up or fake or whatever—these past weeks weren’t just thrown away.”

You nod once, solidified in his statement with a simple statement of your own. “It might not’ve been fake. But it stopped being real the second you let her kiss you.”

That hits him almost like a bullet, so he breathes in slowly. And something in him starts to fold.

“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he says, voice is soft to keep it between you both as he shakes his head as if he can’t believe that you’re having this conversation. “Even when I was with her, even when I was doing all that stupid flirting —"

You look at him, and for a moment you’re not angry anymore.

“You knew it would hurt me,” you whisper staring at your hands, “and you did it anyway.”

Harry’s eyes shine. “I know. I know I did. And—and I was selfish.”

“I don’t even know how to be mad anymore,” you murmur, staring at the ground. “I feel stupid. And empty. And I don’t want to cry over someone who didn’t choose me.”

Harry moves towards you on the bench, looking down at you before he lets his shoulders drop.

“I did choose you—I always chose you, but” he says, quietly desperate. “I just… didn’t respect you, and I’m sorry.”

You look at him through blurred eyes, but you can’t let the tears fall because you don’t want to give it more energy than it’s worth anymore. “Then why does it feel like you didn’t?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you, so he looks away with his tail between his legs and wants to speak but decides against it. You press your fingers under your eyes to not ruin your makeup, swallowing a sob as you look away from him.

And neither of you says anything more. Because maybe for the first time since this whole thing began, he understands that he broke something he might not be able to put back together. The silence has stretched too long as you sit there.

Harry is still crouched next to you but keeps a look on his face that he still has more to say, lips parted like he might speak — but he doesn’t. You can feel it by the way that he rubs his palms over his pants and looks away. There’s still something he’s not saying. You blink slowly, jaw tight before you swallow.

“Did you sleep in the same bed as her?”

His eyes flick away for a split second, and that’s all you need. That was the confirmation that you needed.

“Harry,” you say, louder now, standing up. “Did you sleep in bed with her?”

Nothing-- there’s nothing for him to say because he’s not going to lie to you, which makes this feel even worse in the moment.

You let out a sharp breath and shake your head. “Right.”

And then, before he can move or follow or stop you, you stand quickly from your spot on the bench and walk across the patio, heels clicking against the pavement as you make your way back to where a smaller group sits.

The rest of the villa is scattered — Ella and Tiana are on some loungers by the pool, the boys are grouped near the kitchen, and Tash is sitting on the edge of a daybed, twisting her hair around her finger, laughing at something Mitch is saying.

She looks up just in time to see you walking straight for her. The air has a bit of a shift when you realize that the villa is watching you walk to her, angrily away from Harry. Harry starts to follow you when he realizes that you are going towards Tash, he stops in his tracks.

Tash’s smile towards Mitch drops when she sees you approaching.

“Hey,” she says, cautious. You don’t waste time; your time has been wasted enough these past few weeks.

“Did you and Harry sleep in the same bed in Casa?”

The villa goes dead silent, almost like everyone had been waiting for the ball to drop and for you to have some sort of crash out.

Tash blinks, sitting up softly like she’s trying to think about what she needs to say to make her not seem like the bad guy. “What?”

“It’s a simple question, Tash, really—I’m not here to bullshit you or be mad at you because I know you’re just coming into Casa, but I just have to know because while I was making connections in Casa I was being respectful and staying out of other men’s beds because I had already made a connection here, so I just want to know.”

Tash hesitates for a moment, glances past you — toward Harry, who’s now standing with Ella and Johnny near the kitchen. Then she lifts her chin with a confidence that you appreciate.

“Yeah,” she says, a bit meek but you disregard that. “We did—just the last two nights.”

You close your eyes for half a second before you realize that you have nothing to be mad about—he’s not yours anymore, and you don’t want him. The girls react instantly; Mitch looks between the two of you like he was just there to settle if something went down.

“What the fuck,” Ella mutters under her breath. She looks at Harry before he rolls his eyes and exhales like he couldn’t believe that this had become his life.

Mitch whistles, biting on his lip as he runs a hand down his face.

You nod once, like you’ve just confirmed something you already knew, “Cool—I appreciate the honesty.”

Then you turn to walk back to where Harry is standing with Ella and Johnny; Harry’s watching from a few feet away, face pale, jaw set. You meet his eyes with a hurt that you hadn’t really felt before.

“You couldn’t even say it,” you say, voice shaking. “You let her do it for you, you’re such a fucking bullshitter.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, muttering, “It wasn’t like that.”

You fold your arms, raising your voice at him. “It was exactly like that. You cuddled up with her at night and kissed her in the Hideaway like I wasn’t lying in bed alone thinking about you so you can get your dick up? Fucking prick.”

You can see the guilt and the remorse that crosses his face because he knows exactly what you were referring to; you two had been intimate together, and while it was still Love Island, it still hurt to know that he had decided to lay in another bed with another girl doing who knows what.

But it’s not enough to watch him feel guilty. Instead, you walk back across the villa, past every stunned face, every wide eye, and back to the daybed where Tiana’s already holding a space for you to sit down, where you can keep your shoulders back and your chin high.

You might be heartbroken, but you are not small.

{NARRATOR}

Well, that escalated quickly, didn’t it? One question turned into a full-blown villa bombshell — and it looks like Harry has finally realized what it means to fumble the bag in front of everyone. Looks like the only thing he can pull now is his hair out!

The girls are gathered in the dressing room, the air heavy and quiet with some sort of exhaustion from the sun and complete heartbreak from the fact that this could have happened to any of them. It was just a half-circle of crossed legs, red-rimmed eyes, and half-sipped glasses of water nobody really wanted.

You’re sitting on the edge of a chair, fingers clenched in your lap, hair still half-curled from earlier when you thought tonight might be fun or you might feel better about your connection.

Ella’s next to you; Tiana’s perched on the counter; Jess sits with her back against the vanity; Megan is sat at her vanity space. With another beat, all of you watch as Tash walks in last.

There’s a pause — thick enough to cut. She stands in front of the group, eyes flicking between everyone, but then settling on you.

“Can I sit?” she asks, gently, almost like she was hoping you would just yell at her instead of being nice; it may make her feel less shitty about her experience, but instead you just nod once.

She lowers herself onto the bench across from you, tucking her legs beneath her.

“I just wanna say something, okay? No drama, just… girl to girl,” She looks around at everyone, her voice a bit weary as she starts to speak again.

You don’t respond. You’re staring at the floor, jaw tight, heart pounding at what else she could reveal to you.

“I didn’t come in trying to wreck anything,” Tash continues, “Y’know, I liked Harry. He was flirty, yeah, but he never mentioned you in a way that made it feel closed off—like I knew he was in a connection, but I guess he just flirted with me more than he should have.”

Jess shifts uncomfortably. Tiana shoots a look toward Ella, but no one says anything.

“And I get it now,” Tash says. “I didn’t realize how deep it was with you two. I wouldn’t have gone there if I knew, truly.” She swallows and licks over her lips as she shakes her head. “But I didn’t kiss him thinking I was stealing someone’s boyfriend, you know what I mean?”

Still, you say nothing. The room is quiet as they’re waiting for you to speak.

Tiana shakes her head instead before taking the initiative, “It’s just muggy, innit? Like he knew that was going to humiliate Y/N and did it anyways, you know.”

“I just think the bed thing was mad disrespectful,” Ella says with no disregard, “Like, just knowing the context of it all—I don’t know.”

“I just feel like an idiot,” you say shrugging before you look up at Tash, “It’s fine. It’s not your fault—I get he wanted to test our connection, and he did it.”

You glance around the room, eyes darting like you’re trying to make sense of your own place here.

“I just feel stupid for trusting him so effortlessly. For sleeping alone every night, for saying no to other boys while he was cuddled up with you.”

Ella scoots closer, her hand brushing your back.

“I thought we were solid. I thought we were the couple people looked at and went, ‘Yeah, they’re real.’ And now?” Your voice catches as you start to take your makeup off with a wipe to try and hide the fact that tears are threatening, “I feel like a joke.”

Tash looks genuinely upset by the fact that she could have done something wrong. “You’re not. Honestly, I wouldn’t have—”

“I know,” you cut in, gently but firmly as you look at her. “I know you didn’t do it to hurt me—please don’t take it personally.”

You take a deep breath, but it doesn’t steady you. “It just hurts anyway.”

The girls all stay quiet as they begin to get ready for bed, and they know sometimes silence is safer than platitudes. Jess leans over and grabs a tissue, handing it to you.

“You don’t owe anyone forgiveness tonight,” Ella says softly, almost privately. “Not him. Not her. You just do what you need.” She glances toward Tash who’s started to look through her items to get ready for bed. “And to be fair, she showed up. That means something.”

You nod again, but your voice is barely there now.

“I just need to not feel like I got played.”

Tiana leans over from the counter, “Then don’t – you just need to feel like a girl who gave her heart to someone who didn’t know how to hold it because he’s a lad.”

You press the tissue to your face and smile, just slightly. The first honest thing you’ve felt in hours.

+++

The night’s gone quiet now, most of the girls have disappeared into the dressing room with Y/N when she started to walk off. Tash is nowhere to be seen, either, which gives Harry a bit of anxiety if he’s being honest. The fire pit crackles low in the background.

Harry sits on one of the beanbags, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, palms scrubbing over his face. Luca lounges next to him, arms behind his head, watching him with a slow, almost sympathetic blink.

Mitch and Ronan are there too, passing a bottle of water back and forth. No one says anything at first, the only thing heard is Harry exhaling loudly.

“You alright, bruv?” Luca asks quietly before glancing over at Harry.

Harry doesn’t look up. “No. Not really.”

Ronan whistles low. “Yeah… that was rough.”

Mitch nods, stretching out. “She looked gutted, man. Like properly heartbroken.”

Harry finally sits back, dragging his hands down his face, “I didn’t think it would get that bad—I’m honest to God, I didn’t think that the bed thing would come up.”

Luca shrugs, letting an arm rest behind his head. “I don’t think you were thinking at all.”

That lands to hurt him like a jab, and Harry is silent.

Ronan, trying to soften the blow, leans forward and shakes his head to try and make sense of what Harry did, “Look, Casa was a head-fuck. You get in your own head. Everyone’s buzzing around saying ‘test the connection,’ and you start convincing yourself it’s what you should do—and to be fair, Tash came onto you very strongly.”

Mitch chimes in, “Yeah. Like, I see both sides. You didn’t do anything that loads of lads haven’t done in there. But—”

He glances toward the villa. “It seemed that you had something real with her, like more than that sexual chemistry, you know.”

Harry nods slowly, contemplating what he had in front of him. “I know.”

Luca gestures vaguely. “And Tash? I mean… she’s sound. Not the one you’ve been sleeping next to since day one. Not the one who never cracked on, either.”

Harry’s eyes flick up. “That’s the part that’s killing me, you know? I kept thinking, what if she was moving mad on her end? What if I came back looking like a mug?”

The boys know that there was the potential to have this moment; there had to be communication, and they knew that Harry felt just as guilty, but scared that he was going to come back to Y/N also testing the connection and keeping another guy there.

Ronan spoke up, “Mate, you came back with a girl. You can’t be shocked she’s stepped back at bit.”

Harry slumps back again, rubbing his chest like it physically aches. “I messed it. And now she’s looking at me like she doesn’t even know me.”

Luca shifts, arms crossed. “That’s what happens when you break someone’s trust. You don’t just get to explain it away.”

Harry nods again, slower this time. “I know.”

The boys sit with that for a moment.

Then Ronan, a little softer: “You think you’ll pull her back?”

Harry lets out a shaky breath, “I don’t know. I want to. I’d drop everything with Tash tonight if it meant I could fix it with her. But… I think she’s already gone in her head so I’m like… I don’t want to mess shit up with Tash now if it’s really over for us. Because Tash is mad cool too.”

Mitch leans back, sighing. “Well, if you want to try — you better show her something real. No more flirting, no more excuses. Show her you mean it.”

Harry looks down at his hands, quiet. For once, he doesn’t have a comeback. There’s no jokes or smirks coming from him as he feels the sting in the back of his eyes. He’s just a boy who fumbled the one person who made this villa feel like something more than just a game.

The villa buzz has faded into soft rustling — hairbrushes against tangles, toothbrushes tapping against sinks, and the occasional low whisper between couples slipping under the duvet.

You’re in the dressing room with the girls, wiping off your makeup in silence while Ella hands you a clean face cloth. Tiana squeezes your shoulder on the way to the bedroom, but no one says much.

No one needs to say anything at all to excuse what’s happened and how it continues to move throughout the villa. There’s a dynamic switch that has happened, mostly because the individuals in the villa that saw a light in you both is now gone. The damage has already been done, and there is now a shift in the mood.

Cut to the main bedroom, where the lights are dimmed and the duvets are already turned down when the islanders start to move into the sheets. A few of the couples are climbing into bed, bare legs tangling beneath cool sheets.

Tash walks in quietly after putting on her pajamas and rinsing her face and taking off her makeup, pulling her long hair up into a bun. She pads over to her side of the bed, the bed that her and Harry will ultimately share tonight.

He’s already there, sitting on the edge, shirtless, elbows on knees as he faces away from her. She starts to lift the covers to move into her spot. He gently leans back and gives her a soft look as he rubs his hand down his jaw.

“Don’t take it personally, yeah? I’m gonna sleep alone in the Hideaway tonight.”

Tash blinks, confused at his words before he speaks again.

“Just for tonight. Think it’s better. Out of respect.”

She holds his stare for a second, then nods and doesn’t say anything more. She understand the consequences that sharing a bed tonight could have—also, it starts to affirm that she had come in at the wrong time.

You’re lying on your side, facing the room, back to Ella, eyes half-closed but not sleeping—you feel so exhausted but barely tired at all.

Harry’s sitting at the edge of his bed one minute, hoodie in hand, slides cover his feet as he just stands with a smooth and slow motion. He picks up his water bottle from the floor and walks toward the door. The click of it opening slices through the silence of the main bedroom.

A few heads lift instinctively at the sound, and seeing Harry leave the room without Tash. She covers herself back up in the blankets, but the other islanders watch.

Ella turns slightly in her bed; Luca glances over his shoulder to see the noise; Jess lifts her head halfway, brows furrowed.

Even you look up — just enough to track Harry’s silhouette slipping through the door.

You notice that Tash didn’t follow behind. But once he’s left there’s no awkward whispers or explanations or realizations. But everyone feels it, and no one says a word.

All you know is that he doesn’t want to share a bed with Tash tonight in front of you. The first respectful thing he’s done all night - you could argue.

[yourlipstogodsears]

NSFW ABCs: Jack Abbot

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Jack needs to hold you. Needs to kiss every red mark or bruise. Rubs lotion on the beard burn from his scruff on your thighs. He uses his arm crutch to go to the kitchen and get you a water bottle and orders DoorDash because he’s not the best cook and he doesn’t want you waiting 35 minutes for something to eat to help you settle back down to earth. He’s got a heated blanket he can plug in during the winter time if you need it. He knows sometimes after sex you don’t like clothes on your body. Just skin to skin cuddles and warm blankets.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Jack loves his eyes. Most importantly he loves how eye contact affects you in the bedroom. His steely gaze during foreplay making you wet, his soft furrowed expression when you refuse to make eye contact for the first time turns into a cocky glint in those eyes of his. He found her weakness and it’s not even anything remotely sexual. It’s just the way he uses eye contact to his advantage.

Now his favorite part of his partner is their plush thighs. He loves a little extra cushion to grip onto as he fucks into her. His hands gripping her thighs as he holds her down against him to take every last drop he can give her.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Jack abbot loves eating pussy, he wants your cum dripping down his face like the sweetest fruit he’s ever tasted. “One more baby.. gimme one more” he will grumble greedily and knock you into another white hot orgasm. He loves the taste of your cum, he swears you taste like honey.

He also pays for you to be on birth control or get an implant just so he can cum inside your tight pussy. It’s a need not a want. To fill you with his cum is his favorite thing, playing with it as it dribbles out of your overflowing messy hole. “Shh shh shh baby.. lemme just put this back where it belongs..” he’d purr as he eased two thick fingers back inside you, making sure to keep his cum inside. Hell he’s content falling asleep like that.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

From the first time you two had sex he was all in. He didn’t show it not til months later. But the first time your pussy wrapped around Jack he had to stop himself from writing vows in his head.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Jack is middle aged, ex military. Theres no way in hell that man hasn’t had partners. Looking how he looks now and you can just imagine what he looked like with his auburn hair and army green uniform.

He’s also a doctor. He knows the erogenous zones, he can find the clit. He’s steps above your average man. He can make you tremble and shake and finish over and over til you have to beg him to stop. He’s a pleasure dominant of course.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Mating position. He can be as deep as he needs while seeing your face. Teasing and taunting about the size of his cock. “Ohhh you poor baby… is this too much for you?” he fakingly coos, “oh if it’s too much I can always pull out..” he teases while his body does the opposite and pushes til his hips hit hers, his cock bulging her tummy.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Jack is always very serious. he’s no nonsense in the trauma room, no nonsense when it comes to consent and boundaries. But if something happens during sex- accidentally squirting, farting, queefing. He doesn’t make mention of it, it’s a bodily function. It’s nothing to be scared about. If you’re embarrassed, he might joke about it because if you can’t laugh about it you shouldn’t do it is his motto.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Jack is older now, so the carpet per se is salt n peppered. He’s relatively groomed. His chest is hairless but below the belt is lightly brushed with pubic hair. not a jungle but not exactly smooth. The army instilled a routine for him to be well groomed from 18 years old and on. So when he was honorably discharged he just kept up the routine.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Jack can be romantic when he wants to be. He can be rough and dominant and mean or he can be sweet. Sometimes he’ll sprinkle in a mix. Roughly handling your hips, his cock drenched in your cum as you take your punishment. “Atta girl.. there you go.. almost done..” he’d reassure you even in the roughest of scenes.

J = Jack off (handjob headcanon)

Jack never whines or is pathetic during sex but during handjobs. Absolutely. He’s panting, back arches softly as he leans against the wall of a supply closet. You’d teased him that morning sliding on his favorite thong of yours to wear under your scrubs. He can see the where the lace lays on your ass when you bend or reach for things. So now he’s locked in a supply closet, hand in his pants muttering to himself.

“Jesus Abbot.. pull it together.. couple more hours” he says as he begins to tug roughly on his cock after spitting quietly into his palm.

He’s whining softly and mumbling your name, mumbling praise like you’re there with him. He’s never one to really jack off unless he needs to. But ever since you and him became a thing, he’s started to want to. To want to picture you in his mind and cum for you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Jack Abbot is a possessive man. He’s quiet and observant of men who hit on you. He’s not explosive or angry. He just sits there knowing you’re his. the reason he’s so calm is because of the collar you wear. It’s not a collar in a traditional sense of the word in the BDSM community. It’s subtle. It’s hidden like an everyday piece of jewelry. It’s a silver chain with a little lock that keeps it around your neck. Only he has the key for it to come off. It’s devotion, not ownership. I’m yours and you’re mine.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Edge of the bed. He loves the fact you tell him he feels even bigger than he’s standing than laying down. The blood flow is greater making him swell more inside her. Jack lets you rest on the bed while he does all the work. On your tummy with your ass up or on your back and your legs straight agaisnt his shoulders and Jack holding your head up by the roots of your hair to force you to watch him fuck your weeping cunt.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Every little thing about you from the way you move, look, sound and smell. Just you being you is enough for him to want you. When you playfully banter sexually and tease as foreplay during work or around the house and wait for him to pounce on you is what he kinda enjoys. The thrill of the chase per se even though he’s already got you as his girlfriend.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Blood play, Knife Play- self explanatory.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves both. He is absolutely feral about the way you look sucking his cock. It’s the prettiest most erotic thing he gets to see besides his cock sliding into you. You’re gorgeous to him even struggling to take his full length down your throat.

He loves eating you out. It’s only if his favorite pass times. just because he feels like it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Jack switches pace depending on emotional state or energy level. He will match your mood no matter if he’s fresh off a shift.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He loves them. There’s a hidden taboo aspect that turns him on. Doing something he shouldn’t, in a place he shouldn’t is arousing.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Jack abbot is a war veteran. Nothing scares him, except hurting you. So he’s okay with experimenting within reason. Nothing that could permanently hurt you if done wrong.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

First time inside you Jack cums immediately. He’s embarrassed but everytime after he lasts a moderate amount of time. It’s not hours long but it’s enough to get you both off.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them?)

Jack doesn’t own toys before you date him but they will buy some with you in mind. Tossing one to you when you are laying in the bed or couch. “Gotchu something. Try it before I come home in the morning.. I wanna play with you a bit after my shift.”

U = Unfair (how much does he like to tease?)

If Jack doesn’t tease during sex something is truly and deeply wrong.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Jack abbot talks and never shuts the fuck up. He refuses to. He needs you to know how good it feels, how good you’re being for him. He wants it to be interactive and quiet sex isn’t his style. Unless it’s a heat of the moment thing at work where “shh don’t want them to hear do you?” Is sexy.

W = Wild card (random headcanon)

First time with Jack he uses a vibrator on your clit so it makes the first entry as painless and easy as he can. He nods when you whine at the buzz and get soaking wet and he runs his tip through it. “Atta girl getting this wet f’me.. gonna go slow and talk through it.. just breathe for me..”

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Jack is covered in freckles on his shoulder and body. It’s one of the things that drives you wild. He’s big below the belt. Thick and long, maybe 7 inches. Nothing crazy just bigger than average.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Ever since Jack went to therapy and started to talk about his feelings he’s gotten lighter emotionally which makes his mental state more apt to allow sexual exploration. He’s not bogged down with dark thoughts.

Z = Zzz (how fast they fall asleep afterward)

He doesn’t fall asleep til you do. He holds you and cuddles and debriefs it. He wants clear honest communication, always.

[sailorsoons]

Rain Room (x.mh)

PAIRING: Waterpark Worker!Minghao x Waterpark Worker!Reader 

SUMMARY: Working at a waterpark during the summer has its own trials and tribulations, but working with your ex makes it that much harder. When you discover the cool and quiet of the rain exhibit while hiding from your ex, you don’t expect to find additional solace - and something more - in its main occupant.

WC: 9,039

AU: Coworkers to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, Budding Romance

WARNINGS: Reader has an annoying ex boyfriend who won’t stop being overly friendly and The Nice Guy, depictions of an asshole boss, reader has a bit of a bad work day and cries about it at some point, general shitty job life lmfaooo, Minghao is a little possessive in a single scene, recreational drinking at a party, explicit language, explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering, unprotected sex (don’t do this!!!), semi-public sex (in an officed at a party), soft dom Minghao if you squint, oral (f. receiving). 

A/N: This is for the amazing Carat Bay Collab hosted by @camandemstudios! Thank you so much for hosting such a fun collab - writing quiet Minghao and silly reader has been so much fun! This is relatively short and sweet for me, but I hope you all love the little rain room and this pair as much as I do! 

A/N 2: No beta we die like men 

MASTERLIST | ASK | FOR THE CARAT BAY COLLAB

A TANGERINE-COLORED INFLATABLE TUBE HITS YOU DIRECTLY IN THE FACE. You swear, your neck snapping backward as your sunglasses go flying. You hear the telltale splash as they hit the water behind you, barely audible as the little monster of a child goes screaming toward the steps to leave the shallow pool where the waterslide exits. 

“Don’t run!” You yell at him as he high-knees it up the steps, hearing but not caring at your orders. His feet hit the pavement and he goes thundering away, probably to harass more workers or better, the creators that spawned him. “Fucker.” 

Taking the floating device, you wade over to the conveyor belt and toss it on. The little lifesaver goes cranking up toward the top of the slide to be reused again. Sloshing back to where you were standing, you start looking for your sunglasses in the waist high water. 

Just as you spot them, bending at the knees to sink into the lukewarm, chlorine-heavy water, a shout and explosion of tangerine hits the pool's surface, water spraying you in the face and hitting you directly in the eyes. 

“Motherfucker!” You curse, blinking the burning chlorine water away as the kid floating by on the tube oooo’s at you for your language. Instead of honoring him with an answer, you grab the bottom of his float and flip it over, depositing him unexpectedly into the water. He comes up, coughing and sputtering. “Have a good day!”

After retrieving your drenched sunglasses and shoving them back on your face to keep some of the sun out of them, you go back to your routine of pulling tubes and putting them on the conveyor belt. It’s not hard work, but it’s not fun. The sun bakes down on top of your head, turning it pan-sear hot, your feet are waterlogged and your fingers are pruned.

You don’t even want to think about how much lotion it’s going to take to bring them back to life, the chlorine turning your skin dry every night after you get out of the shower. 

At least you get to take frequent breaks. When your manager tells you it’s time for yours, you don’t stop the visible sigh, sloshing toward the steps leading out of the pool. You pass Vernon on the way, giving him a wet high five as he descends, groaning when he immediately takes spray from a landing tube.

“Good luck, buddy.” 

The waterpark is nice. Despite your loathsome work, you can at least admit that. Meteor Falls is a state-of-the-art water theme park, all mystical space and falling stars. You don’t mind it some days, admiring the space-themed slides and attractions, impressed that it somehow manages to be both cheesy and kind of cool.

Other days, it’s your own personal hell filled with screaming children, chlorine blasts to the face, and never-ending run ins with your ex boyfriend. 

Jinwoo has a nasty habit of always managing to find you when you’re on break. You can’t prove that it’s on purpose, but every time you sit down in the staff cafeteria, one of your secret hiding places (like the storage room with life jackets or the storage room that smells plasticy with intertubes), he somehow manages to interrupt your peace.

You know you should be thankful that things ended amicably. Except - that’s sort of the problem. You’d ended things because though he’s nice, there’s no spark between the two of you. No passion, no something that makes your heartbeat a little bit faster, that makes your blood turn molten. 

He’d let you end things with a nod and a smile. And then got a summer job at the same water park, and felt the need to sit down next to you at lunch and talk your ear off, none the wiser to your growing agitation. 

It feels mean, this deep-seeded annoyance that has begun to fester every time you see him. He’s not doing anything wrong, and yet you can’t help but feel like maybe he thinks this - whatever this is - will patch things over. Will remind you that he’s a nice guy, that he’s easy to deal with.

Which means when you see him sitting in your new oasis Vernon had showed you - the pump room - you nearly throw your tupperware at him. Of course he and Chan are sitting in the room, pumps screaming over their conversation as they eat chicken tenders from one of the stands outside. Of course he sees you just as you pivot, raising his hand in a greeting before frowning and dropping it when he notices you’re fleeing. 

You spare a single glance over your shoulder and notice he’s getting up - probably to ask why you’re leaving - and you nearly scream in fright, rushing out of the room.

Jinwoo hot on your heels, you break the number one rule at the waterpark - you run. 

Bursting through the staff only gate, you nearly knock over a kid holding a very melted, very red popsicle. The child flinches but you’re already moving past him, your shoes squeaking and filled with water as you round the Rocket Launch Splash Pad and toward the Bridge Between Worlds, the rope bridge swinging dangerously as you run over the people floating in the lazy river below. 

Jinwoo shouts your name but you pretend not to hear him, slowing your run to a fast walk. Very demure. Very mindful. You take a hard left, nearly taking a palm frond to the face before noticing a tiny dirt path through the trees. You have no idea if it’s there on purpose or if it’s staff-only, but you see no sign so you rush down it, letting fronts and palmettos hit you in the face as the rush of a man-made waterfall fades behind you. 

Up ahead, you notice a small round building with a giant disc-shape roof. It takes you a second to realize that it’s supposed to look like the rings of Jupiter, a giant rocket ship stationed to the left of it. You frown, slowing your steps to peer around. 

No one else seems to be around. You’ve never seen this building, but the neon green letters built on top of the planetary rings read Jupiter’s Rain Room. From a distance, you hear Jinwoo call your name. It launches you to action and you bolt for the tinted glass doors that lead to the mysterious building. 

Air conditioning buffets you the second you step inside. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the low lighting, but once they do, you realize you’re in a sort of theater. Rows of cushioned seats fill the center of the room. The walls are circular, arching up until they form a smooth dome over the room. 

A single person twists around in one of the seats, a look of surprise on his face. He’s in an employee hoodie pulled up over his ash blonde hair, and his feet are kicked up on the seat in front of him. He raises his brows, as if to ask what you’re doing here. 

“Uhhh.” You lift your hand in a small wave. “Hi?”

“Hi?” He answers, just as unsure. 

“Sorry - what is this place?”

“The next show isn’t until three.” 

You pause. “I work here?”

“Why do you sound so unsure, then?” 

“I didn’t know this building existed.”

“That's because I took down all the directional signage.” 

“Oh?”

His mouth twitches, amused. “Do you phrase everything like a question?”

“No.” You think about it. “Actually, maybe sometimes. Look, I’m just trying to find a place to eat my lunch and hide from Jinwoo.”

He spreads his arms out to all of the chairs in the theater. “Be my guest.” 

Nodding in thanks, you walk down the steps to the auditorium proper. Up close, you can appreciate how handsome your unnamed coworker is. His feline eyes are intense, tracking you as you walk four rows ahead of him and sit down. He purses his full lips in thought before he settles back into his seat, nearly melting into the cushion as his eyes flick back to his phone.

Meanwhile, you pop the top on your tupperware, the fresh smell of grilled chicken and lemon hitting your nose. 

“What’s your name, anyway?” You ask, sticking your plastic fork in your chicken. You give him your name around a mouthful of lunch, followed by, “I’m in recreation. Usually you can find me on intertube duty for the slides.” 

“Minghao. Rain room attendant.”

“What exactly is the rain room?”

“It’s a room and it talks about rain.”

You frown, turning around to face him. His eyes flick upward, meeting yours over the top of his phone. When he sees you’re unsatisfied, he rolls his eyes. “It’s the room about how the park does water conservation. No one comes here.”

“Because there’s no signs?”

He nods. “Because there’s no signs.”

“Smart.”

He hums, attention going back to his phone. You turn back around to eat the rest of your lunch in silence, acutely aware of Minghao sitting behind you. Instead of peppering him with all of the questions you keep coming up with, you scroll your phone, monitoring the time until your break is over.

When it is, you stand up, joints popping. You groan and slide out from your row, glancing at him. He looks up, his brows raised in a question. “My lunch is over. Thanks for letting me hide here.”

“Anytime.” 

“Have a good day, I guess?”

He smirks. “You’re doing it again.”

You flush. “Sorry.”

“Mhmm. Catch you around.��

-

The next day, Mingho doesn’t have his hood pulled over his head. You’re surprised at how long his hair is, shaggy and a little bit longer in the back. It suits him, you think, as you pass him by and wave. He seems surprised to see you, but doesn’t object when you sit in the same seat as the day before, popping a chicken tender into your mouth.

Like yesterday, silence permeates the air. It’s cold in the room, making you understand why he’s always in a jacket. You make a mental note to bring one tomorrow - because yes, this is  your new lunch spot, so long as Jinwoo doesn’t find you and Minghao doesn’t kick you out.

Curious, you turn a little in your chair. He’s sitting folded into the seat just like the day before, entirely engrossed in whatever is on his phone. This time, you notice that he has a headphone in one of his ears. His ears are also pierced, with elegant hoops catching the light. Those suit him too, though you have a tough time imagining anything not suiting him.

Minghao is the kind of pretty that scrambles your brain. His face is made up of sharp angles and high, defined cheekbones paired with the most straight and refined nose you’ve ever seen. It makes his face look balanced and ethereal, but his plush mouth is where your eyes are drawn, watching his minute expressions while he’s engrossed with whatever is on his phone.

Until he’s not engrossed, and he’s looking directly at you, a single brow arched. 

“How long have you worked here?” It’s the first question that comes to mind, albeit not one of the ones you wanted to ask. 

“About four months.”

“Oh. I guess I’ve just never seen you around.”

“I avoid most of our coworkers.” He gives you a pointed stare and you shrink a little in your seat. “I know who you are, though. I room with Vernon.”

“Vernon has a roommate?” 

Again, not the question you wanted to ask. Minghao answers anyway. “Sure does.” 

“Huh. What’s that like?”

“Quiet.”

You hear the warning in Minghao’s tone, so you flash him a smile and turn back around in your seat. Three questions. He allowed you three questions before he got annoyed. Three is a good number. 

When you finish your lunch and your time runs out, you get up and give him a soft smile and a wave. He nods in acknowledgement, but that’s all you get from him for the day. 

Three questions. You prepare yourself to ask better ones tomorrow. 

-

“How many people a day come to the rain room?”

“Including you?” Minghao doesn’t look up as he asks this. You nod and he hums thoughtfully, fingers tapping on the side of his phone. The motion catches your attention. He has the fingers of an artist, long and elegant with a few silver rings. “Maybe ten.” 

“Only ten?” You try not to sound too surprised, too interested.

“Mhmm.”

“Lucky. I probably see hundreds of people a day.”

“That’s why I don’t work in recreation.” His tone is dry, but not unfriendly. You think he might be teasing, but it’s hard to tell. He still hasn't looked at you.

“Want to switch jobs?”

A beat. Then he glances up, meeting your eyes for the first time. It’s brief, but it’s enough to stir something “Nope.”

This time when you wrap up and head out, it’s Minghao who asks a question, eyes flicking to the drink in your hand. It’s the first time he sounds genuinely curious. “What is that?” You hold up the slushie in your hand, shaking it. “Yeah.”

“The Raspberry Rocket Blast. It’s a slushie and it’s so good.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a real name?”

You laugh. “Yeah. And it’s amazing.”

Minghao’s gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary. “Interesting. Have a good day.”

You beam at him, blue teeth and all. “You too!”

-

Water sluices down your back. You rush underneath the awning of Jupiter’s ring, shaking water off your raincoat like a dog. So long as there’s thunder in the area, you don’t have to work. Most of the staff are lounging in the cafeteria and other break areas, but there’s only a single place you want to be.

To your surprise, there are people in the rain room today. Minghao isn’t sitting slouched in his seat, but rather standing at the back where there is a control table. He notices you come in and holds a finger to his lips, gesturing for you to stand in the back. 

Nodding, you follow his orders and pad over to him, pulling a hand out of your raincoat to hold out a styrofoam cup for him. He looks puzzled, hitting a button on the control table that sends the lights dying until you’re in a dark room, barely able to see his outline.

A narrator comes over the speakers, so loud it vibrates the room. You flinch and he adjusts the volume as the display of thousands of stars appear on the domed ceiling. Minghao takes the slushy from you, tilting it toward him to examine it.

“It’s the Raspberry Rocket Blast,” you whisper. “The one I had the other day.” 

Minghao takes it skeptically. He looks from the cup to you, back to the cup again, his face downturned like something might jump out and bite him. You nudge the bottom of the cup, urging him to take a sip. 

Hesitantly, he does. He brings the red straw up to his lips, taking a gentle pull. When the slushie hits his tongue, you can tell. His face morphs from careful skepticism into surprised delight, smiling around the straw, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes a few strong sips. 

The inside of his lips are blue when he removes the straw, nodding. “It’s good.”

“Told you.” He rolls his eyes, but continues to sip the drink while the presentation plays.

You only half pay attention to it, deciding to sit on the floor with your back against the wall. Minghao glances over his shoulder at you and you point to your lunch. He shrugs and turns forward again, sipping his drink quietly as the ceiling turns to a rainstorm. 

It’s peaceful. The threadbare carpet isn’t exactly comfortable and the drywall behind you seems to absorb all of the moisture from the air, but it’s cold and dark. You only vaguely follow the story of the water park’s founding and core pillars. A soundtrack of rain and thunderstorm plays on the projector, lulling you until your head dips a few times as you flirt with sleep. 

Exhaustion wins. You doze off, only coming to when the lights come up and you hear shuffling feet and the thwunk of the theater chairs as they slam back to their normal position. You blink groggily, watching the procession of people who head to the door, checking to see how bad the rain is. 

Someone announces that it’s finally a light drizzle so they all head out, a mix of kids whining that they want to go down the slides and adults who want to give up and go home. When the last of them is gone, Minghao turns to you, smirking.

“Enjoyed the nap?”

“Very much.”

“Hmm. I’ve got to clean up. People love to leave their shit.”

You grumble and get to your feet. “I’ll help.” 

Minghao gives a hum of appreciation but says nothing else. It’s easy and methodical, picking up candy wrappers and empty bottles of soda. By the time you’re done, your phone is buzzing and Vernon is looking for you to switch rotations with him at the Astroslide. You sigh, sliding your phone back in your pocket while you toss the trash into the appropriate bend. 

Looking up from where he’s fishing a chicken tender from a chair, Minghao asks, “See you tomorrow?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“Feel free to bring the…. Blast rocket.”

“Raspberry Rocket Blast.”

“Sure.”

You grin, teasing. “Bye, Minghao.”

-

Minghao’s lips and teeth are blue. You don’t want to admit it, but it doesn’t look so bad on him. Nothing looks bad on him, though. He’s the kind of pretty that doesn’t belong working in an empty theater room at a waterpark, which has made you wonder on more than one occasion if maybe he’s a figment of your imagination. 

(Vernon has assured you that Minghao does, in fact, exist). 

Sitting in the back row, you watch as Minghao hops over the seats to walk to the control podium. “Show off,” you mutter under your breath. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing. You’re very athletic.” 

“Yes, I like keeping in shape. And yoga. And meditation.”

“Of course you do.” Settling further in the seat, you watch him as he flicks off the lights and turns on the presentation. “Why do I have to watch this, again?”

“Because if you’re going to hide in here from your ex boyfriend weekly, you might as well see the presentation so when a guest asks a question, you can answer it.” 

“Can’t I tell them I’m in recreation?”

He grins, his teeth Raspberry Rocket Blue. “No.” 

You huff, sliding further into the scratchy fabric of the chair as though you can become one with it. 

The walls of the room vibrate with how loud the speakers are, prompting Minghao to turn it down. When it’s at the desired volume, he returns to the row of chairs and jumps back over it, sitting down next to you while matching your slouch. He grins again before sipping his slushie.

You think he should smile more often. 

Instead of telling him that, you turn back to the screen as an aerial view of the waterpark pains the room in light. Meteor Falls, despite being your personal water-logged hellscape, is quite beautiful at a distance. Full of tropical trees hiding the stone walkways, pops of red and purple and blue waterslides peeking from the greenery. A cerulean ring wraps the waterpark, little tubes dotted along it as park goers float along the lazy river. 

“Welcome to Meteor Falls,” the narrator says, voice warm. “We know you’re here to have fun and cool off, but did you know that water is one of our planet’s most precious resources? We here at Meteor Falls, seek to reduce, reuse and recycle our planet’s water.” 

You watch as the scene cuts to footage of kids going down slides. You spot Vernon guiding tubes to the conveyor belt and point to him. “Holy shit, does he get royalties?” 

“If he does, he spends it on fast food.” 

“Every drop here counts,” the narrator continues. “Even the ones from the sky! That’s why we’re doing our part to conserve water by collecting and reusing rainwater!” 

“Probably cleaner than the piss-filled water in the lazy river.” 

“You’re probably right.” 

It’s a good presentation. You pepper the film with your commentary, earning a grin or a sharp huff of air through Minghao’s nose when he laughs. It feels like a win, each time you make him laugh. In the days you’ve been escaping here in the rain room, it’s felt like a personal goal to open him up a bit more.

Minghao is quiet. Observant. You ask him a ton of questions and he asks you none in return, and yet he’s seemed to puzzle things out on his own. It’s different from what you’re used to, most of your friends are loud and outgoing and overwhelming. 

Overwhelming like Jinwoo, who you wish would be awful just so you had a reason to cut him off, cut him out, push him away. 

At the end of the presentation, Minghao stands and, with a lazy sort of grace, hops over the row of seats instead of walking around like a normal person. He moves like he’s used to being watched, but not in the way that invites it. Just comfortable in his own skin. Then he flips the light switch, flooding the room with brightness.

“What’d you think?”

You wince instantly, throwing up a hand like it’ll shield you from the sun. “I think you just tried to blind me.”

“About the presentation.”

“I think it’s a crock of shit and we still overuse water,” you say without missing a beat.

Minghao snaps his fingers and points at you like he’s awarding a prize. “Good.”

For a second, the corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. You feel oddly proud, which is stupid, because you’re not here to impress him. 

Checking your watch, you heave a sigh. “I have to head back before Vernon freaks out. I was late last time.”

“Tough.”  He pushes off the chair, steps a little closer, not close enough to be improper, just close enough that you feel it. “Try not to take any pool noodles to the face.” 

“Tubes. They are tubes.” 

From behind you, you hear the quiet rustle of his hoodie as he slips his phone out of his pocket. “Sure. Later.” 

You glance back just once. Minghao’s got his headphones in, watching you, like he was waiting to see if you’d look. You meet his eyes for a second longer than you mean to. Then you nod, casual, like your pulse isn’t doing weird things.

“Later.” 

-

Pressing the sleeves of your hoodie into your eyes, you dab away any excess tears. The sunburn on your face is just as scalding as the lecture you’d received from your boss, reducing you to giving a tight-throat yes when he’d screamed if you’d understood him, fighting tears all the way down the rope bridge and gravel path to the little hidden oasis you’ve made for yourself. 

You don’t really consider yourself a crier. But today had been a bad day, your morning staring with someone running a stop sign and rear-ending you significantly enough to make you two hours late to your shift. Though you’d texted and called several times, your asshole Peaked-In-High School Manager liked to make people feel small.

He’d done a really good job of it today, despite explaining what had happened with your car. With the added, unplanned expense of needing to get it fixed because it had been a hit and run, you couldn’t exactly tell your manager to get his head out of his ass. 

So instead, you’d texted Vernon and agreed to take his shift tomorrow if he let you be another thirty minutes late, just enough time to collect yourself. Which is how you find yourself outside of Jupiter’s Rain Room, eyes burning, pride stinging. 

Cool air hits you in the face when you enter. Minghao doesn’t even turn around to see who it is. He knows it’s you. He’s sitting in the last row as usual, on his phone, the faintest sound of music drifting from one of his earbuds. 

You drop heavily into the seat next to him. That does make him look at you, his eyebrow raised and side eye heavy until his eyes scan your face, the attitude vanishing from his. 

“Are you crying?”

“No,” you answer sulkily. “I was crying. There is no active crying right now.”

“I see.” You sniff, staring with unseeing eyes at the rows of seats in front of you. “Want to talk about it?” That makes your stomach dip, but you shake your head. “Hmm. Want to listen to my favorite songs right now?”

You look at him from the corner of your eye. Minghao has never offered something like this. He usually keeps a perfectly manufactured distance, friendly but not friends, polite but not open. When you nod your head, he plucks the other earbud from its case and passes it over to you.

Tentatively, you put it in, heart hammering over something so simple that you chastise yourself, trying to make your breathing even. If Minghao notices, he’s nice enough not to say anything, pulling his phone from his pocket instead to tap on it. 

Music fills your ears. The song opens on soft guitar strumming, a soft and subtle melody. You feel your muscles unclench, the berating drifting far away as a soulful voice begins to sing. There’s a quiet intimacy to the song, making you glance at Minghao who watches you with rapt attention. 

You give him a small smile, a signal that you like it. He returns your grin, flashing his phone screen toward you so you can see what you’re listening to. River by Leon Bridges. You nod and write it down on your phone before leaning back and listening to it, the rhythm of mixed voice and minimal instruments lulling you into a calm. 

All you get is a few more songs. You list each one in your notes app. Minghao is quiet. Patient. A calm sea after a storm, only rippling when you take out to return the earbud, your over-long break over. You know Vernon is probably burnt to a crisp by now and will complain about this for the rest of the week. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, standing.

“Mhmm.” 

When you leave Jupiter’s Rain Room, you feel so much lighter than when you came. And so what if your heart beats a little bit faster. 

-

Sun beats down on the gravel paths winding through the waterpark. You feel the steam from them, yesterday’s rain burning away in the simmering heat. The smell of chlorine sticks to your skin as you balance the boxes in your arms, careful not to squeeze the styrofoam cup in your hand too hard. 

Cool air kisses your skin when you enter the theater. It’s empty, as usual, with Minghao sitting in the back row. He turns when he sees you, a smile alighting on his face. You nearly stumbled, surprised at how genuine the smile has become when he sees you. You ignore the skip in your heart.

Minghao is dressed in his usual polo and loose hoodie. He gets up and reaches for the items in your hand, eager to help you. 

“Hey,” he says, holding up a box. “What’s this?”

“I brought you lunch.” 

He raises his eyebrows before sliding back into the seat with grace that makes you hyper aware of the way you drop into your own seat, the metal creaking under your sudden weight. You straighten, sticking one of the styrofoam cups in his cup holder.

“Consider it a thank you.”

“For?”

“Not kicking me out when I was being a wimp. And for the really good song recommendations.” 

He hums, opening the container to reveal perfectly fried chicken tenders. He picks up a fry, popping it into his mouth to chew experimentally. “Not terrible. And you don’t have to thank me.” 

“Anyway,” you continue, eager to talk about anything else. “Leon Bridges is really fucking good. I went through his entire discography.” 

Minghao’s face lights up, a small, genuine smile. “Yeah? Glad you liked it. “He’s one of those artists that just holds you, you know? His music is there when you need it.”

“Mhmm.”

“I’ve got more recommendations if you need them. I spend most of the day here curating playlists. It passes the time and I’ve gotten pretty good at it.” His eyes meet yours and this time, they hold, dark and thoughtful. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you like to do to pass time?”

The question catches you off guard. You sink into the seat, thinking. Minghao rarely asks questions about you, content with letting you sit a few rows away while being a cranky cat in the corner. 

You’re suddenly hyper aware of how close you’re sitting. His fingers tap gently on the cardboard container while he waits, a rhythm only he can understand. 

“I guess I like reading?” It comes out like a question. “I’m into Sci-Fi movies - I’m sure you’re used to that with Vernon. When I was a kid, I was really into weird animal facts. Like did you know octopuses have three hearts?”

There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression, but it’s not mocking. “I didn’t. What’s another?”

He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. You catch the faint scent of his cologne, something clean and citrusy, not at all like your sterile chlorine. 

“Hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward.” 

“Wait, really?” 

“Yep.”

“Huh.” He tilts his head, lips curving into a half-smile that makes your pulse skip. “You’re full of surprises.”

You take a sip of your slushie, trying to cool the warmth creeping up your neck, but his eyes flick to your lips, just for a second, and your heart stumbles.

Desperate to keep the conversation going, you ask, “What about you? Besides music, what’s your thing? You’re always so quiet and put together.”

“It’s easy to seem together in the natural chaos of this place.” 

You snort. “Okay, fair.”

“I don’t know, I like meditating. Working out. Reading. I’m pretty simple, but I like it. I don’t always have it all together, but I’ve gotten pretty good at appearing that way.”

You nod, drawn to this glimpse of him, the crack in his polished exterior. “I admire that.”

He looks at you, really looks, and the weight of his gaze steals your breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The moment hands heavy with something unspoken. You’re so acutely aware of him, the way your knee brushes against his in the seat next to him, the way his fingers twitch. Your heart’s pounding now and you realize with a pang that these snatches with Minghao are the best part of your day.

Minghao is the best part of your day, the quiet he brings, the steady presence. Here, there’s no orange tubes hitting you in the face, no Vernon bitching and moaning that his skin is dry. There’s no sun to burn the top of your head and scalp. 

Just Minghao and his calm countenance. 

Silence falls between you, backtracked by the hum of the air conditioning. Your break is almost over, but neither of your movies. He takes a bite of a chicken tender while you nibble at your friends. You steal glances, the silence warm and electric. 

When you finally stand, brushing crumbs from your lap, he stands too. He’s close, the tangerine scent of him exhilarating. His hand brushes yours when he takes your container from your hands, assuring you he can toss it out. 

“See you later?” He asks, voice soft, eyes lingering.

“Yeah,” you agree, a little breathless. 

Outside, the sun is beaming, but its warmth is nothing compared to the burning Minghao’s touch leaves on your hand. 

-

Voices blend together as you enter the stuffy conference room. The air is thick with the smell of old coffee and dry-erase markers, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Rows of mismatched chairs fill the small meeting room. It’s ass o'clock early in the morning, but the resort's monthly meeting demands everyone to be present. 

You wonder why they don’t use the Rain Room for their meetings and then think better of it. The last thing you want is for the company to find the single space in the entire park that you like to hide in, that is now special to you.

Coworkers fill the room. You pick a random seat in the middle of a row, dropping down as the low chatter fills the space around you. You’re so caught up in scrolling on your phone that you don’t notice Jinwood at first, gliding toward you. You realize he’s going to the seat next to you at the last second, panic taking over as he moves toward you, smile friendly, steps confident. 

Before he can reach you, Minghao jumps over the back of the chair like he always does, dropping into it with an easy grace. He grins at you, lips curving into a private smile that makes your heart skip. He pulls one of his earbuds out and offers it to you, brows raised.

Heat simmers beneath the surface of your skin. You accept it, feeling flushed and breathy as you pop it in. He’s got Khruangbin playing, a gentle buffer between the noise of the room and everything else.

Jinwoo falters, his jaw tightening for a second as he diverts, taking a seat in the row in front of you but a few off. His irritation radiates, surprising you. Instead of paying him any mind, your focus is on the song in your ear and Minghao’s fingers drumming on the arms of his chair. 

“Ready for the torture?” He asks, leaning back. His shoulder brushes against yours but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

“Not at all.”

“Same.”

Quiet swoops through the room as the executives barge into the room, asking everyone to settle in. You peel the headphone out of your ear, passing it back to Minghao. He takes it, popping both of them in their holder and snapping the lid shut. He leans toward you to shove them in his pocket, filling your nose with tangerine.

When he leans back, you notice Jinwoo staring. His eyes linger for a second before he turns toward the front as someone begins a monotone spiel about budgets and schedules. At multiple points you see the tilt of Jinwoo’s head, the way he cuts a glance toward you. It makes your anxiety climb, palms sweaty. You wipe them against your pants, squirming. 

Halfway through the meeting, Minghao leans over and whispers, “What’s with the dude staring at you?”

“Ex-boyfriend. Still friendly, but uh… I don’t know.”

Minghao’s face stays neutral, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. “He’s making you uncomfortable.”

“A little. I think he’s hoping because we remained friends that we’ll figure it out.”

“You won’t.” It’s not a question. Minghao leans back, draping an arm along the back of the row of seats. Not around you, but along your back. Not claiming, not possessive, but something.

The meeting drones on, but Minghao keeps you anchored. Jinwoo’s glances taper off, but the tension is obvious in his jaw. When the meeting is finally over and you’re standing, Minghao’s hand brushes against your wrist, catching your attention. 

“See you later?” 

“Mhmm.” 

Minghao’s smile is brief before he hopes over the chair, blending in with the other employees all bustling out, eager to get away from cranky executives and uncomfortable chairs. 

-

Sun scorches the top of your head, heat bouncing off the chlorinated water at the base of the water slide. Kids shriek as they hurtle down the side, their tubes hitting the water with a spray. You and Vernon take turns grabbing tubes and adding them to the humming conveyor belt.

It’s one of the busiest days of the year, which means two people on duty. You and Vernon work in tandem, never stopping, the heat making you tired and prickly. For once, you’re thankful that the shallow pool you’re in is freezing cold.

Vernon is humming as he tosses a tube toward you with a lazy flick. You recognize the song as something Minghao recommended, a smile tilting your lips. Your stomach flips at the thought of Minghao, sad that you won’t see him today. It’s his off day, one of the few times his schedule doesn’t align with yours. 

You crab a tube from a splashing kid, tossing it onto the conveyor. You notice Vernon watching you, his expression curious but cautious. You slosh back over, giving him a once over.

“What?” You ask between lulls of kids coming down the slide. 

“So,” he says casually. “You and Minghao are friends?”

Your heart lurches. You’re saved from answering right away as a kid crashes into the pool, screaming. Vernon rolls his eyes, leaning forward to grab the tangerine ring before chucking it at the conveyor. He almost misses. It gives you time to think, resting your hands on top of the cold surface to ground you. 

“Friends?” You ask as Vernon returns. “I guess? I like to hide out in the Rain Room.”

“Hmm. He mentioned you at home the other night. Which is weird, being that he never mentions anyone.”

You blink, heart pounding. “Huh. What’d he say?”

Vernon shrugs, his smile a little too amused for your liking. “Who's to say?”

“Vernon.”

“Relax. Just that you’re cool. He was smiling when he said it, which is so unlike Hao that I thought I was hallucinating.”

Your chest warms, picturing Minghao on their couch, earbuds in, smiling about you. It’s thrilling, but terrifying. You tread carefully, unsure how much to reveal to Vernon, afraid to show that perhaps maybe you have a bit of a crush on his roommate. 

“We get along. He’s nice.”

Vernon hums. “He’s picky about who he vibes with. You must have made an impression.” He tilts his sunglasses down, looking at you. “Did you tell him about the octopus hearts?”

You groan and he laughs, slapping the surface of the water. It splashes you and you smack it back at him, volunteering to get the next tube if only to get away from him a little. 

He’s grinning when you come back. “He’s cool. You’re cool.”

“Cool,” you shoot back with venom. 

Two tubes come down at the same time and you both shoot for them. 

“You going to Mingyu’s party this weekend?” 

You’d forgotten all about the party. Now that Vernon says it, you wonder if Minghao is going. You assume not, assume he’ll keep to himself. Plus, you’ve never seen him at parties in the past. But you imagine if he did go, what he would be like outside of work, leaning against a wall, watching you with that steady gaze.

“Probably?” You finally answer. “He’ll be annoyed if I don’t.” 

“Good.” Vernon pauses before casually adding, “Hao is going. He’s been in a good mood and he figured why not. So. Just wanted to mention in case, you know. You needed to know.” 

“Vernon.”

He lifts his hands, a white flag. “Just saying, that’s all.” 

You both go quiet, only the ambiance of the water and shout of voices from down the slide to accompany you. Vernon’s words stick with you though and you fight a smile, trying not to let hope bloom in your chest knowing Minghao mentioned you at home. That he never mentions anyone. 

The sun dips behind the trees and you feel lighter, looking forward to the weekend and your well-earned off day. 

-

Mingyu and Wonwoo’s loft pulses with life, a sprawling expanse of lived-in comfort. Exposed brick walls rise to high ceilings, soft lights casting a warm glow over the crowd of your coworkers gathered all over. The living area is anchored by a massive sectional couch, its cushions littered with spilled chips and empty cups. 

The kitchen island is cluttered in the heart of the chaos, filled with bottles of tequila and vodka, mixers spilled over the surface. Mingyu is in the kitchen pouring shots into someone’s mouth while Wonwoo hovers nearby, watching with mild alarm. 

Floor to ceiling windows frame the city skyline, which twinkles like stars outside. Music rattles your ribcage, high energy as people dance in the living room. 

You have no idea how either of them can afford this luxury, but you don’t ask. Instead, you slip into the kitchen, looking for a drink to help ease your nerves. You’re dressed in a denim skirt paired with a cropped denim top, the barest hint of skin visible between the two pieces. 

Your shoes squeak on the hardwood  floor as you navigate the crowd. The room is packed with park staff, Vernon in the corner of the kitchen cackling at something Seungkwan is saying, your manager lurking in the corner nursing a beer, other coworkers in a loose circle near the speakers. 

You scan for Minghao, heart quickening. Your thoughts stutter when you see Jinwoo instead, leaning against the brick wall near the dance floor, is black button-down rolled at the sleeves. He notices you and your stomach twists as you dart away, heart pounding as you weave through the crowd, dodging coworkers as you aim for the balcony. 

The glass door slides open and the night air hits you, cool and cleansing. The city’s hum is a soft backdrop, its sounds drifting up from below. Minghao startles you, turning to look at you from where he leans against the railing, a cup in his hand. He’s in a loose, black sweater and jeans, hair mused by the wind. He looks good, your breath catching when he grins. 

“Hey,” he greets, surprised. “Escaping already?”

“Looks like you beat me to it.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit loud in there.” 

“I know, I’m surprised you’re here, honestly.”

He lifts a single shoulder, a shy shrug. “I like to keep people on their toes.” His gaze dips down to drink in your outfit and you feel hot all over, withering under his gaze. “You look nice.”

“Oh. You too.”

He chuckles, warm and low as you join him at the railing. He offers you his cup. “Sangria? Swear that's all it is, I just realized how creepy that was, sorry.”

“Not at all, thank you for clarifying though.” You take the cup from him and take a sip. It’s strong, not as sweet as you like it, but flavorful. “Not terrible.” 

The balcony is a quiet haven, like the Rain Room. The night air feels good against your flushed skin, fairy lights casting a soft glow over the potted plants. Minghao chats casually, asking what kind of Sci-Fi movies you’re into. He lets you yap, mostly doing his part listening and adding commentary where necessary.

You like that about him, how he’s a quiet counterbalance to your talkative nature. It’s comfortable. Even. you could spend all night standing and chatting with him, living for the familiar way he leans in close when he laughs, arm brushing yours. He doesn’t pull away, touch not lingering but still there. 

The balcony door slides open just as you both get to the bottom of the sangria in the cup, Seungkwan sticking his head out. “Yo! Come inside, we need people to dance.” 

Seungkwan vanishes back into the apartment and Minghao looks at you, brows raised. You shrug your shoulders and he grins, gesturing for you to head in. He follows, close on your heels. It’s crowded at the threshold of the door and he steps in beside you, a hand brushing low on your back. It’s soft, but it feels deliberate as he guides you after Seungkwan. 

Inside, the loft pulses with music, bass heavy. Seungkwan is near the speakers, grabbing a coworker and backing it up on her. You laugh when you see them all, Vernon wincing and watching Seungkwan with pure horror as Mingyu crashes onto the scene, fist pumping. 

Someone bumps Minghao, his chest pressing to your back, and he freezes, hands hovering. Your heart races. You glance back, meeting his dark, hesitant eyes.

“Do you dance?” You ask, teasing over the music.

“Sometimes.”

You raise a brow, challenging, and he nods, hands finding your hips, guiding you to the beat. You sway, melding to him, hesitant then bold, hips rolling, denim brushing his jeans. You spin, surprising him, arms around his neck, fingers in his hair. His smirk is molten, tugging you flush against him. His hand slides up, cupping your neck, thumb on your jaw, tilting your face.

“Remember how I said I’m not always composed?” he murmurs, rough, thumb tracing your lip. “You’re making it very hard right now.”

“So don’t be,” you grin, batting your lashes, bold, breathless.

Minghao’s eyes darken and he pulls you tighter, the music slowing, sensual. You dance longer, bodies locked, hips grinding. His breath hitches, lips grazing your ear, grip tightening as you arch into him. Your eyes drift away for a second, a tingling sensation needling at you.

Jinwoo is staring, sour as he watches you. 

Minghao notices your shift, loosening his grip to follow your line sight. “You okay?” He asks, hand on your back, protective.

“He’s just annoying.”

“Come on,” he says, firm.

Minghao steps away from you but grabs your hand, tugging. He weaves you through the crowd, past Mingyu pouring more shots, past Vernon slumped on the couch. You pass into a study that you immediately can tell is Wonwoo’s, with a desk and vinyl shelves.

He shuts the door, muffling the party, and it’s just you, the faint bass rattling through you, and Minghao, eyes burning. 

Ye backs you against the door, hands caging you in. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever since you started spending time in my Rain Room, you’ve upset the order of my life. I never come to these things, but honestly? The thought you might be here is what made me come.” 

Your heart hammers at his candor, at the way his breath ghosts against your lips. “You are entirely distracting,” he mutters. “And I’m so unused to distractions.”

“What about now?”

“Hmm?”

“Am I distracting you now?”

“There is nothing else I would rather focus on right this second.”

Minghao’s eyes flicker, hesitant, like he’s waiting for your signal. You nod, breath lodged in your throat. Then he kisses you, slow and deep, lips commanding. He tastes like sangria and want, lips softer than you could have ever imagined. 

His hands grip your hips, spinning you to press your front to the door, his chest warm against your back. He palms your ass, pausing to look at you. You nod, wanting - needing him to keep doing. He lifts your skirt a little, fingers exploring the round shape of your ass.

Minghao mouths at your neck and you go pliant under his touch, eyes closing as you gasp against the door. His tongue laves up and down your neck, eager to taste you as his hands continue to explore before he finally - finally - traces his finger along the line of your underwear.

“Minghao,” you breath, shuddering. 

“Yeah?” He asks. “This what you want?” 

You nod vigorously against the door. “You’ll tell me to stop? Tell me when you’re uncomfortable?” 

“Yes.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Good.”

Minghao hooks a finger in your underwear, pulling them to the side. Cool air hits your heated pussy and you whine. He shushes you, his fingers teasing your folds, spreading your wetness. You gasp, hips bucking back into his hand while you see stars.

His fingers circle your clit, slow, deliberate, drawing a whimper. He catches your mouth as you crane back, kissing you deeply, lips tender but firm, swallowing your sounds. Trapped between the door and his chest, his fingers are sinful, sinking one deep inside, then another, curling against that spot that blurs your vision. The wet squelch is loud, intimate, and he hisses, breath hot.

“Fuck, you’re so greedy for me,” he says, voice rough.

You tremble as he slides in another, curling them, pumping slow and deep. Each stroke is precise, making you pant and go weak at the knees. He sucks at your neck gently, teeth scraping, tongue sweeping. You turn to liquid in his hand, the wet squelch filling the room as he finger fucks you properly, mouth pressed to your temple.

“Come on,” he murmurs, mouth buzzing against your skin. “You got it.”

Your orgasm crashes into you, walls clenching. You cry out, shaking as he works you through it, not stopping until you’re panting and boneless against him. 

Minghao removes his hand and turns you toward him, kissing you and pressing the back of your head against the door. The kiss is hungry but controlled. He breaks away, eyes burning as he lifts his hand to lick his finger clean. He hums and it makes you shiver. 

“Need a taste.” 

You flush. He guides to the desk, swapping aside all of Wonwoo’s things before he helps you jump onto the edge. The wood is cool against your thighs. He drops down to his knees, hands kneading your thighs, squeezing as they tremble.

“You’re so good for me,” He murmurs. “Can you keep being good for me?”

Your head is dizzy with this new dynamic. Somehow, this makes sense. He’s still calm and collected, but you can see the chaos on the edge of him, the way he takes control of the situation - of you. 

When you nod, he hums, pleased, and kisses your knee gently. 

You lean back, skirt bunched, underwear still pulled to the side. He places wet kisses on your inner thighs, his breath warm and making you squirm. His hands hold you still, firm but gentle as his lips trail higher, each kiss a spark until he looks up at you, eyes fathomless as his tongue dips tentatively against your folds.

A gasp breaks from your lips. He grins, his tongue brushing long, languid licks up your cunt that make your hips twitch. He dives in, lapping, focused and hungry as his tongue circles your clit with slow, wet strokes. 

Minghao is relentless, alternating between broad licks and precise flicks. He sucks your aching clit into his mouth, pulling softly with his lips, then harder, until you’re trembling, thighs closing in on either side of his head. 

When he pulls back, his lips are wet with your arousal. “Fuck.”

He dives back in, keeping you spread as his tongue dips into your hole playfully, thrusting. His nose brushes against your clit, making you clutch the edges of the desk, sliding down the wall as you fight to stay upright. You reach a hand down, threading your fingers in his hair. He groans, doubling down, the wet sounds of his smacking lips filling the room. 

The desk creaks as you shift again, losing control of your ability to remain upright. His tongue flicks faster and you start to peak, healing right for your orgasm. He senses it, increases the way he sucks at you, tongue hungry, perfect.

You shatter. 

He drinks you in gently, tongue turning soft and lazy as he licks you through it. You turn oversensitive, pushing at him with a weak moan. 

Minghao stands and leans over you, grabbing your chin to plant a wet, messy kiss on your lips. You lick into him, tasting yourself, eager to have his mouth on yours again. 

His hands fumble against his jeans, fingers working the button until he’s finally free of them enough to shove them down. Your mouth waters at the sight of his heavy cock bobbing, hard and leaking from just pleasing you, from getting you off twice. 

With a few pumps, he’s brushing the tip of his cock through your folds, collecting the wetness there. You moan in tandem, both of you transfixed with the way his shaft slides against you. He lifts your thighs, hooking his forearms behind your knees as he presses the head of his cock into your throbbing entrance. 

“Shit,” you gasp as he breaches you, sinking in. 

He groans too, easing in, slow and deep until he’s seated, hips pressed flush against yours. He slowly starts to fuck you steadily, each thrust perfect and sending your eyes rolling backward in your head. The desk creaks beneath you, wet sounds filling the room.

“You drive me crazy,” he admits, kissing your neck, teeth crazy. “Glad you disrupted my quiet days, though.”

That makes you whine. You kiss him, messy, nails digging into the side of his neck. He groans and speeds up, dropping a hand to slide between your legs and circle your slippery clit. That makes you moan his name, hips bucking as he sets a faster pace. 

“Come for me,” he urges, grinning.

You do, clenching, his name on your lips. His thrusts turn messy until he grits his teeth and follows suit, spilling inside you. He rests his forehead on your neck, panting. Your fingers run through his hair, soothing, grounding for both of you.

“I,” he pants, voice raspy. “Have never fucked someone in a random room like that in my life.”

“Wanted me that bad?”

“You have no idea.” He lifts his head, looking up at you with dark eyes. “I thought you were going to be a nuisance. And then you kept showing up, kept being chipper. Sweet, even. You brought me slushies and asked about my music. You grew on me in a way I didn’t expect.”

“It sounds like you like me.”

He groans as you laugh, teasing him. “I guess, yeah.”

“Well, I for one, am glad I stumbled on that Rain Room.” He hums in agreement, tired. “Now how about you pull up my skirt and take me home to fuck me properly, Minghao. And maybe get a slushie on the way.”

He huffs, shivering. “I’ve got you.” 

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[silens-oro]

You Know Where You Are: Part II

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Musician!Reader Angst/Established Relationship Part I | Part III

The Pitt Playlist located here The Pitt Masterlist

Synopsis: Dr. Robby's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Morning bleeds into an Even Worse Afternoon. Word Count: 3,579 Content Warning: Reader is in her 30's; mass shooting; death; blood; gunshot injuries; angst - if I've missed any, please let me know. A/N: Just know my rubbing my lil fly hands together nefariously. Thank you for all of the love on the first part!

Robby was relatively good at schooling his emotions at work, locking them away so as to not let them cloud his judgement when dealing with patients. They deserved his full attention, no matter who they were. The med students and residents deserved to learn from him in an appropriate setting. That’s not to say that Dana didn’t clock the black cloud that clung to him the second he walked into the ED, because that’s exactly what she did. That and she knew Robby like the back of her hand.

“Good morning. Surprised to see you today,” Dana greeted, a knowing smile gracing her features. Robby just grunted his greeting, confirming her suspicions. “Hate to make your questionable morning worse, but Gloria is looking for you.” 

He couldn’t wait for this day to end.

The cold water from the bathroom sink hit Robby’s face with a jolt. He brought another handful up to follow the first for good measure. This day just kept derailing in one way or another -more than an ED usually derails in a day. He dried his face and pulled his phone out.

He sent you a text just after Jake came to pick up the backstage passes from him and sighed when he saw the ‘Read 11:26 AM’ under his message, then looked at the clock -12:51 PM. You were busy, he told himself. He was lying to himself, but with the day that he already had, it was the only thing allowing him to tread water.  

Between the fight with you, the anniversary of losing Adamson, the patients lost, and the hysterical families he’s dealt with today -add on the possibility of a future school shooter on the loose, Robby was heavily regretting his stupid decision to ask for this shift. 

And it was only one in the afternoon. 

This was his punishment from the universe. 

“You good?” Dana had asked as Robby stopped across from her at the nurses station and set down a tablet. He had pushed his glasses up to squeeze the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes closed. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the migraine that was edging at the corners of his eyes. Robby let out the deepest sigh before letting his glasses fall back down. 

“Define good.” His face was still pinched as he looked down to Dana.

“That bad?”

“You don’t know half of it.” Dana walked around the station and gently grabbed Robby’s arm to lead him to the breakroom. 

“Perlah, can you handle this for a few? I’ll be right back.” Perlah nodded as Princess tried not to obviously crane her neck behind Perlah to listen in as well.

“I don’t know what he did, but I’m on her side.” Princess said to Perlah in Tagalong, referring to you. Perlah nodded with an “mhm” before going back to her computer. 

“This have anything to do with why you’re here and not at PittFest?” Dana asked with an eyebrow raised as they got to the breakroom. She closed the door as Robby leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and guarded. Dana came to stand next to him, busying herself with making two cups of coffee to give him room. He’d open up if she did this right, otherwise she’d be adding to the natural disaster of a cloud that followed him during their shift and that’s the opposite of what she wanted to do. They still had four hours of their left before they could call it quits and he needed to let some of that steam out before whatever was inside boiled over.  

The last time you spoke to Dana over coffee, you told her how excited you were to get Mike out of the house -out of the hospital. She couldn’t agree with you more that the man needed a break. Robby needed to experience things that weren’t the ED and anything within a five block radius of the hospital. Sure you got him out of the house on the occasion that he was up for going somewhere further, but he needed joy, and hanging with you and Jake outside in the sun, fresh air, music and food would do just that. That was the plan, anyway. Dana just needed to piece together where the plan that was set in stone went sideways.

Robby pins Dana with a look and she knows she’s at least hit that nail on the head.

“What happened?” She asked softly, leaving the question open so Robby could respond in a way that didn’t corner him. Placing the cup of coffee she made for him on the counter, she held hers nestled between both of her hands. 

“I happened.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I didn’t tell her I wasn’t going until this morning.”

“Robby!” Dana whispered the exclamation, eyes wide. He held up a hand.

“I know, believe me, I know. It was stupid.”  

“Stupid is an understatement, doc. Listen, I know why you did it. I get it. Today is heavy -emotionally and mentally. You need to stay busy and any downtime leaves room for too much thinking. Working does that for you.”

“Yeah.” Robby sighed, tapping his fingers on the counter. At least his arms had left their defensive position crossed over his chest. That was a win in Dana’s book. 

“But that doesn't mean it’s right. You can’t hide yourself away here when you’re going through something, Robby, not when you have someone who is willing to shoulder that burden with you.” Dana corrected him gently, placing her hand over his bicep. The worst part about this conversation was that Robby knew Dana was right. He knew he went about this the wrong way entirely, but he can’t seem to get out of his own goddamn way sometimes. You would’ve understood, even encouraged him to do what he needed to- “Communication is important, you know this. It’s nothing I haven’t said to you before.” Dana finished softly. Goddamn communication. If only it was that easy, that simple. 

“God, you’d think I’d understand that by now.” He chuckled sardonically. 

“There’s always time to learn.” She encouraged Robby. “She loves you -I know that for a fact. Reach out, leave the ball in her court. Let her know you understand.” He was already ahead of her on that suggestion, and it felt like he was stranded at sea with a single life preserver and no rescue ship in sight. 

“No luck?” Dana asked when she saw Robby looking down at his cell in the few spare minutes he had just after a particularly unruly patient in South 15. He shook his head and pocketed it, departing to meet Langdon so Dana couldn’t dig further. She meant well, but it was starting to grate on his nerves and the last thing he wanted to do was snap at Dana. Because that would be the last thing he ever did once she got through with him. 

Robby had been off and everyone who worked with him on the daily took notice -outside of Dana who clocked him the second he came through the doors. The glances from the residents and nurses said as much. The new interns and residents didn’t know anything was off until Whitaker overheard Langdon talking to Mohan about it. Gossip spread like the wildfire in the ED. The second it was out, there was no reeling it back in. 

Robby knew he was cutting it close, that your band’s set was scheduled for a 5 PM start, but he texts you again around 4 PM to ask you to please call him when you had a few minutes -that he loved you and just needed to talk. You replied with a simple ‘busy’ and that was somehow worse than no response at all. Robby knew he was in the doghouse when they both got home -if you even decided to come back to his place that night. “You know what, Mike…probably not” Robby winced at the memory and carried on with his neverending shift. 

The exasperation that laced your voice and the frustration that shined in your eyes this morning made Robby bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself present. He would apologize, genuinely -profusely-, when you decided to speak to him again. He would listen. He would communicate. He couldn’t risk this driving a wedge between you like it had in his past relationships. He’d fix this. This was fixable, he told himself. He didn’t want to think of the alternative. That was the last thing he needed after the day he had, but he knew he was an asshole and you were generally too understanding of him and his quirks -today notwithstanding. 

At the 5:15 PM mark, he got a facetime call from Jake. Excusing himself from South 10, leaving the patient in Mohan’s hands, he quickly stepped into a more quiet hallway to answer. A smile lifted his lips for the first time all day when Jake’s beaming face came onto the screen.

“Robby!” Jake shouted over the festival noise.

“Hey, bud!” All of Robby’s emotions nearly broke through the dam he crafted at the beginning of the shift.

“Me and Leah just wanted to say thank you for the passes!” The phone panned down to a young blonde next to Jake. She beamed up at him, then down to the phone. 

“Thank you so much, Robby! This is incredible!” The phone twisted back up to Jake’s face. 

“You’re coming with us next time, Robby! This is insane! Look at this view,” Jake flipped the camera to capture what he saw from the back lens. Jake was backstage facing the crowd. You were the first thing Robby saw. He recognized the song and could hear the crowd singing along to it as you moved across the stage. 

Robby’s heart clenched. Seeing you in your element was mesmerizing no matter how many times he had seen it before. He met you well after your career was established, but he still felt pride nonetheless. You were successful, humble, and grateful above all else to do what you loved -and to make a generous living on top of it. 

You toured the world, saw everything there was to see, and sometimes Robby felt like an anchor in the worst way. It felt almost like an insecurity that he wouldn’t be the person to experience those things with you, but he had been warned before you both decided to try your unorthodox relationship out -just as you had been warned about his profession and what that entailed.

This was the first time in Robby’s life that he had ever been in a relationship with someone who had an equally, if not more demanding job when it came to sacrificing time at home. It worked for you both so far, to the surprise of everyone. 

Your band had taken this year off from touring to write and record a new album, and you had a tour across North America scheduled for the following spring once the album was released in February of next year. The thought of not seeing you for months at a time was anxiety inducing, he would admit. The last time you left was on a 3 month tour through Europe and Asia, and Robby didn’t realize he could miss someone as much as he missed you. 

On the flipside, you hadn’t ever had a partner who wasn’t in the industry, so leaving him behind was brutal in its own way knowing he couldn’t just hop on a plane to meet you for a few stops. You got homesick when you never got homesick before meeting Robby. He had become your home in the last three years and it was a welcomed adjustment. 

This year was a nice cushion of time to relax and play solitary shows at local festivals or secret shows in smaller venues around Pittsburgh and occasionally Philly. Sometimes Robby made it to them, sometimes he didn’t. Some of Robby’s coworkers that you had met would show after you’d extended an invitation to any of your home shows. Dana and her husband, surprisingly, were the first to take up the offer. No one in the ED would believe you when you said she was wild on a night out, her husband encouraging her to let loose. After that, you and Dana had been two peas in a pod. Langdon still could not believe that Robby was dating an actual rockstar and was a little starstruck every time you showed up. 

That being said, you had been home more often than Robby was as of recent (whether you both landed at your place or his) and you never complained about anything really. You were just happy with the time you got with Robby and you spent every second you were afforded with him together. You rolled with whatever each day brought you and it was a breath of fresh air for Robby. He didn’t have to walk on eggshells when things didn’t go as planned and maybe he had gotten too comfortable with that. 

Robby was going to be sick -physically, viscerally, all-consumingly ill. There’s an active shooter at PittFest -Robby could have collapsed in that ambulance bay the second those words left Dana’s mouth as his work phone beeped in unison with hers. He wasn’t afforded even a second to panic before he had to shift to Dr. Robby and get all hands on deck to prep the ED for what was sure to be a mass casualty event. 

Robby called Jake, then texted Jake, then called him again, then moved on to calling and texting you, begging both of you to contact him in any way you could to make sure you Jake was okay -that you were okay.

5:46 PM, you were supposed to be on stage until 6 -Robby made a mental note. He prayed to whoever was listening -if anyone was listening- that the three of you got to safety. He nearly loses it when he sees Jack walk through the doors with his backpack in tow, ready to take on whatever this event brought through their doors. 

Dana was on a rotating call between your phone and Jake’s to try to get through to either of you as she prepped the nurses, and every time Robby asked her if she had gotten through, it broke a piece of her soul when she had to shake her head. 

You were fine. Jake was fine. Those were the words repeating in his brain over and over as triaged patients started to flood the ED. These people needed him and they needed him present, so he shut himself down emotionally and did what he knew how to do -he gave the best possible care under the current circumstances.

It was a lull in between songs while you were talking to the crowd when you saw an unusual scatter of patrons in the back cluster of people on the east side of the festival. You pulled out your ear monitors and heard screaming -blood curdling screaming, not the type of screaming from a normal crowd. In a split second, Nick -your guitarist and lifelong friend- collapsed to the floor of the stage, the guitar emitting a horrific feedback over the amps. Gasps and screams erupted from the crowd and mass panic set in. People started trampling each other as shots started ringing out. 

Your first instinct was to drop the mic and run over to Nick and that’s exactly what you did. The people stuck at the barricade were horrified and scared beyond belief because they were pinned in the crowd with nowhere to go as people dropped like flies. Blood pooled around Nick where he lay crumpled when you reached him.

Then you felt it. The sheer power was enough to knock you off your feet and you heard your name as you tried to crawl to safety. Fire radiated through your torso as you tried to lift yourself enough to move, but when you tried to pull yourself forward, your hand slipped in the blood on the stage that was leaking from somewhere on your body. Every instinct in your brain shut off with the exception of fleeing. Your brain screamed at you, begged you to go, go, go somewhere, anywhere, but your brain and your body could not connect so you simply lay there on your stomach, your eyes catching the crowd dispersing in mass pandemonium, blood pooling around you just as it had with Nick with your last coherent thought being that of Jake. Was he safe? Losing Jake would kill Robby and you couldn’t protect him. 

Your hands were noticeably cold, your body shivering regardless of the end of summer heat. The warmth of your blood pooled against the side of your face that was resting against the stage felt warm, warmer than you did and it was oddly comforting. Buzzing from your back pocket kept you present, awake, and aware, but you couldn’t move -you could barely breathe. 

“Leah, stay!” Jake’s panicked voice cracked as he flipped you onto your back and grabbed one of your feet to try to pull you to the side of the stage. 

“I have her other leg, just pull-” Another shot and you heard someone drop. 

“Leah!” Matt, your bassist, and a couple of the roadies put themselves in danger to help Jake drag you and Leah off the stage while Casey, your drummer, pulled Nick off to the side.

“Pressure! Put pressure on them!” You screamed incoherently when someone pushed something onto your stomach -at least you thought it was your stomach- and pain radiated through every limb and up your neck shooting blinding white light through your brain. It was enough to leave you breathless, wheezing, and falling in and out of consciousness. 

“Help pick her up on my three -one, two, three,” Someone lifted you into their arms and you were moving. You didn’t recognize them, possibly one of the roadies who didn’t work with your band or possibly just a good samaritan, but his face blurred every time you tried to look at him. “Hey, hey, don’t close your eyes.” He said as he kept looking down between you and where he was going. “We’re getting you out of here, alright? Stay with me.” He tried to coax you, shaking you in his arms to keep you awake. You didn’t even realize your eyes had closed. Your head tilted back, resting against his arm as he ran with you.

The sky was clear, you noticed, clearer than it had been in the past couple of weeks. The periwinkles of dusk were settling into the violets of night and you were getting colder by the minute. 

“Jake,” You wheezed out, the teen coming to the forefront of your mind. You tried to move in the man’s arms, but he held tight. “Leah,” Your voice slurred.

“The kid is alright.” He reassured you, only half answering -not that you were coherent enough to notice. “Just hold on, alright?” The next thing you knew, you were pulled into the bed of a pickup truck. “We’re gonna sit you up, alright?” You grunted as your back hit the cab of the truck. “We need you up so you can keep track of Jake, right Jake? He needs you to talk to him, alright? Talk to him about anything, you hear me? Don’t stop talking. Keep pressure here,” Not questioning him, you nodded and held someone’s balled up shirt to your torso with the stranger’s help. You grasped his bloody hands with one of yours to stop him before he could take off.

“Thank…you.” He looked at you, an emotion you couldn’t pinpoint flooded into his eyes, and he nodded as he squeezed your hand. 

“Mac, ma’am. Wished we met under better circumstances.” You chuckled groggily. You gave him your name. “You got ‘em?” Mac asked Jake. Jake nodded and Mac smacked the side of the truck to let the driver know to get the hell out of there and to the nearest hospital. 

Once the truck got moving, things got incredibly fuzzy while it tore out of the lot of the backstage area. Jake called your name and your eyes refocused on him and Leah. He was covered in blood and holding another shirt over the wound on her chest. 

“I’m fine, Jake,” You wheezed out. “Focus on Leah. Is she talking? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, she’s talking,” His eyes danced between you and Leah. “I’m fine.” 

“Good,” You nodded sloppily, “Good. Focus on her. I’m alright,” You tried to reassure the kid, but you could see that he did not believe you. You blinked and felt someone hitting your foot.

“Keep your eyes open,” Jake demanded. Your eyes felt like they were filled with sand, weights pulling each one down further and further. Your skin was losing its color, the tone turning gray as each minute ticked by.  

“Just blinking, kid.” Your eyes were closed much longer than a blink and Leah’s speech was starting to slur as she looked up at him. He finally let his tears fall, his lips quivering in pure helplessness as it engulfed him when your head started to nod to the left. Jake’s voice sounded like it was under a tidal wave when he said your name again before you were out.

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[honeyncherry]

summer’s end - joe burrow

summary summer 2017 brought along a boy you didn't see coming, stolen moments that felt like stolen hearts, learning that some people can love you completely without choosing you at all

content 18+, smut, angst, fluff, language, alcohol, slowwwburn

June 16th, 2017

It was unfair. All of it.

The humidity that had turned your carefully done hair into a frizzy disaster within ten minutes of stepping outside. Professor Klubertz and her final grades that came back three points lower than you needed, three points that determined your next school year. Michael and his stupid, perfect engagement announcement that had your dad calling every relative to brag about his successful son. Your friends and their effortless ability to slip into conversations with strangers, to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny, to make everything look so goddamn easy.

But most of all, this damn telescope.

The thing looked like it had survived several natural disasters and maybe a small war. The black paint was chipped and fading, revealing patches of dull metal underneath. One of the adjustment knobs was held on with what appeared to be electrical tape, and the eyepiece was so scratched up you wondered if it was even possible to see anything clearly through it. Someone had abandoned it here next to a cooler full of warm beer and sandy towels, probably after reaching the same level of frustration you were currently experiencing. 

By now, it had to have been nearly fifteen minutes you’ve spent tinkering with the old thing that looked like it was on its last life. Your knees were aching from crouching in the sand, there was grit working its way into uncomfortable places, and the sweat was beginning to bead along your hairline despite the breeze. You’d tried every combination of knobs and adjustments you could think of, following the water-stained instruction manual that was written in what might’ve been English but to you, read like a foreign language.

The thing was mocking you at this point. Every time you thought you’d figured something out, peering hopefully through the eyepiece, you were met with the same blurry mess of nothing. Streetlights, maybe some stars… possibly just your own eyelashes—it was impossible to tell. 

Twisting something—you weren’t quite sure what it was supposed to do, but it was the only knob you hadn’t tried in the last five minutes—you were about to give up and walk away when you heard a voice behind you. 

“You struggling?” No shit.

“What does it look like,” you replied without turning around, voice maybe a little sharper than intended.

The boy behind you hummed, somehow managing to convey more understanding than judgment, and you heard footsteps in the sand as he came closer. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him crouch down next to you, close enough where you could smell beer and sunscreen and something else—laundry detergent, maybe. Or just the general scent of someone who had their life together.

“Mind if I?” he asked, setting his beer down on one of the towels with a soft thunk.

You looked at him then, really looked, and felt thrown off. He was attractive in an effortless way—broad shoulders, strong jaw, the kind of strewn blonde hair that looked intentional even when it definitely wasn’t. But it was his eyes that caught you off guard. They weren’t laughing at you or looking at you like you were some poor incompetent girl who needed rescuing. They were just… intrigued. 

Huffing, you started to stand. “Have at it,” but he made a small noise of protest.

“Where are you going?” His face scrunched up as he looked at you, and you paused halfway to standing. Looking at him, you watched as he struggled to find the words. His cheeks were flushed, though whether from the alcohol or the weather, you couldn’t tell. “Give me a second.” His tone left little room for argument. You stood there begrudgingly, not filled with nearly as much interest as you’d held in the beginning. The whole stargazing thing had seemed romantic and mysterious when you’d first spotted the telescope by itself, but now it just felt like another thing you were failing at. 

The lake stretched out before you, dark water reflecting the lights from the party behind you and the distant flow of the campus. It was actually pretty, you had to admit, even if you were too frustrated to appreciate it properly.

You could hear him making small adjustments, the soft scrape of metal against metal as he turned various knobs and shifted the telescope’s position. His movements sounded confident, like he actually knew what he was doing rather than just randomly trying different combinations like you had been. It was probably going to work for him on the first try, and then you’d have to stand there and pretend to be grateful while internally dying of embarrassment. 

“How long were you fighting with this thing?” he asked without looking up.

“Dunno.” You tried to keep the irritation out of your voice and mostly failed. “Long enough to question my intelligence.” Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to look like you weren’t desperately hoping he’d fail just as spectacularly as you had.

He hummed before going back to work. After another minute, he leaned down to look through the eyepiece one final time, was quiet for a second, and let out a short laugh. 

“Okay,” he said, sitting back on his heels and gesturing toward the telescope with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “Come take a look.”

Uncrossing your arms, you reluctantly walked over, preparing yourself for another round of disappointment.

But when you looked through the telescope, your breath caught.

Stars. Actual, real stars, vibrant against the dark sky, arranged in patterns that actually made sense instead of the blurry mess you’d been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, not pulling away from the eyepiece. “I can actually see them.” “That’s the Big Bear constellation,” he said, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Ursa Major. The brightest part there is what most people call the Big Dipper.”

You finally pulled back to look at him, your earlier irritation completely forgotten. “How do you know that?”

Something changed in his expression at your question, like he was deciding whether or not to tell you something. “I’m kinda into space,” he said almost sheepishly. “Have been since I was a kid.” “Really?” You saw him tense slightly.

“Yeah, I know it’s probably weird—” “No, that’s actually really cool.” You found yourself leaning forward slightly, genuinely curious now. “I mean, I’ve been trying to figure this thing out for half an hour and you fixed it in like five minutes. That’s pretty impressive.”

His whole face changed when you said that, relaxing in a way that made you think he’d been expecting you to laugh at him. “Most people think it’s boring.”

“Most people are idiots,” you said mindlessly, then feeling the heat creep up your neck. “I mean…”

“No, you’re right.” He was grinning now, and it completely transformed his face. “They are.”

You smiled back, the first real smile you’ve had all night. “So what else can you see with this thing?”

Joe, as you learned his name was, guided you through different constellations over the next twenty minutes, or at least the ones you could successfully make out from your spot on the beach. He explained that the telescope was, as you’d suspected, ancient—probably from the seventies and definitely not designed for serious stargazing. But he made it work anyway, pointing out Cassiopeia and showing you how to find the North Star, his voice taking on an enthusiasm that was completely different from how he first approached. 

“You come here alone?” he asked eventually, after you’d spent a few minutes in comfortable silence just looking at the stars. 

“Not exactly.” You glanced over toward where your friends were still scattered across the beach. “My friends are here, they’re just… busy socializing. And I’m apparently too busy sulking to join them.” He laughed, and it was a nice sound. “Sulking? On a night like this? Finals are over, its summer, you’re on the beach. What’s there to sulk about?”

You probably should’ve shrugged it off, maybe laughed, that way you wouldn’t regret this tomorrow. But, this was a stranger, someone you’d never see again. And you needed to get it off your chest. Ariella was too busy playing house with her boytoy of the month to actually listen, and Iris and McKenna were stuck in that only child rhythm where the second you say anything even remotely messy, they tilt their heads and go, “Oh… so you’re not happy for him?” “My brother got engaged last week,” you finally spoke. “And now my dad’s calling every person he’s ever met to tell them how Michaels got it all figured out—perfect job, perfect girl, perfect future.” You picked at a loose thread on your shorts. “Meanwhile I’m failing organic chem and apparently need help just pointing a telescope at the sky.”

“Ah.” Joe nodded like he understood completely. “The ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.” “Is it that obvious?” “Only because I know the feeling.” He was quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. “My brothers both played football. Good at it too. But they decided college was more for academics, less sports. Now they’re both doing well, have good jobs… families.”

“And you?”

“And I’m here playing football and hoping it turns into something.” He shrugged, but there was almost a defensive manner in the gesture. “They built something substantial, you know? Something reliable that’ll last. They’ve got real jobs, real paychecks, real life figured out. And I’m still chasing something that might not even work out.”

“Football’s real,” you said, though you weren’t sure why you felt the need to defend his choices. 

“Is it though?” He looked at you then, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. “Like, what happens if I don’t make it past this? What if I get hurt, or I’m just not good enough? My brothers, they had backup plans. They’ve got skills that transfer to actual careers. And I’m just… stuck in this weird gray area where I’m not building anything concrete, but I’m also not ready to give up on this dream that might be completely unrealistic.” The tone of his voice made your chest feel tight. “The whole ‘why can’t you be more like your sibling’ thing.”

He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Sometimes I think they had it right all along. Maybe I should have just focused on school, picked a major that actually leads somewhere.”

“But you love it,” you said, guessing really. “Football, I mean.” “Yeah, I do.” He was sure of his answer before he spoke. “Which is probably what makes it worse. Like, at least if I hated it, walking away would be easy.” You hummed in understanding, then felt a clouding wave of embarrassment wash over you. “God, sorry for dumping all that on you. You definitely didn’t come over here for all that.”

He laughed, and it was genuine this time. “Are you kidding? This is better than listening to my friends argue about whether—”

“Hey!”

The shout cut through his sentence, and you both turned to see McKenna jogging toward you across the sand, looking frantic and slightly out of breath.  “There you are! Jesus, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She stopped in front of you, breathing hard. “We have a situation. Ariella’s about to make a very questionable decision with that guy from her psych class, and she’s not listening to Iris or me. We need backup, like, now.”

You were already getting to your feet, brushing sand off your legs. “Sorry,” you called over your shoulder to Joe as McKenna grabbed your arm and started pulling you away. “Thanks for the telescope thing!”

And then you were jogging across the sand, McKenna filling you in on exactly what kind of questionable decision Ariella was about to make, leaving Joe sitting in the sand next to the ancient telescope. You didn’t even get his last name, and Ohio State was big enough to ensure you’d probably never see him again.

June 25th, 2017

A nice, relaxing beach day is exactly what you needed after the week you’ve had. Professor Klubertz’s final grades are still making your stomach twist, but at least out here with the sun on your skin and the sound of summer, you can almost forget about organic chemistry. 

“Can you put sunscreen on my back?” Ariella asks, flopping down on her towel next to you. “I’m already burning and we’ve been here like twenty minutes”

You squeeze a generous amount of SPF 30 onto your palm and start working it across her shoulders, half listening as McKenna and Iris debate whether they should walk down to the docks or just stay put. The beach is packed today, weekend crowds claiming every available spot on the sand. Coolers, towels, and umbrellas create a maze of temporary territories. 

A couple minutes later, you’re stuck in that perfect lazy state where the sun is making you drowsy and the conversation around you fades into background noise. Your book is open next to you, but you haven’t turned a page in how long. 

The group of guys your age playing volleyball to the left have been at it for a while, their game adding shouts and laughter to your background noise. Then the noise gets louder, more excited, and you glance over to see what the commotion is about. 

A few new people have joined their game, making it all the more competitive. One of them is jumping to spike the ball, his whole body stretched tall and powerful against the blue sky.

When he lands and turns slightly, you catch a glimpse of his profile. You sit up a little straighter, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it. The guy rotates to face your direction as he sets up for the next set, and your breath catches.

Joe.

You’d almost forgotten about the telescope guy from the party you spilled your heart to—it’s been over a week, and between family stress and helping Ariella through her crisis, he’d faded to the back of your mind.

But seeing him now, wearing board shorts that hang low on his hips and nothing else, it’s weird how different he looks in daylight. More… real, somehow. You find yourself watching as he moves around the makeshift court, and you have to admit he’s clearly athletic. Really good at volleyball, actually.

You look away, try to pretend you’re suddenly interested in your book or your friends’ conversation, but your eyes keep drifting back. It’s just curiosity, you tell yourself. You barely know the guy, but there was something nice about the conversation you had.

Every time he pushes off the sand with a small grunt, laughs with his friends, lifts his hat to run a hand through his sweaty hair, you feel… something. But it’s probably just recognition.

You barely know him—you shared one conversation over a broken telescope and a mutual spiral, and now you’re acting weird, stealing glances across the beach like some stalker.

But then Joe serves the ball, a perfect arc that his opponents can’t return, and his team erupts in celebration. He’s grinning, that same easy smile from the night you met him, and when he turns to high-five one of his teammates, his eyes sweep across the beach.

And land directly on you.

For a second that feels like an hour, you both stare at each other across the sand. You’re very aware that you’ve been caught red-handed watching.

Then Joe’s face breaks into a wider smile, more knowing. He lifts his chin in a small nod—casual but somehow intimate, like you two share a secret—and you can’t help but smile back before quickly looking down at your book, pretending you were reading all along.

Your heart is racing, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are burning, but mostly you just feel embarrassed. He remembered you. He seems happy to see you. And unless you’re completely misreading the situation, he definitely caught you staring. 

“Oh my god, look at that one,” McKennna says suddenly, and you glance up to see her pointing (not so subtly) towards the volleyball net. “The tall one with the backwards hat.” You follow her gaze straight to Joe, who’s now setting up for another serve, and try to keep your expression neutral. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“Okay?” Iris looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Are we looking at the same person?” “I think I’m gonna introduce myself,” Ariella announces, already sitting up and adjusting her bikini top.

“No,” you blurt quickly, then catch yourself. “I mean, he’s probably busy. They’re in the middle of a game.”

“Since when do you care about interrupting boys?” McKenna asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you nervous. Does she remember? She couldn’t. “Wait… do you know him?”

Or not.

Before you can answer, you hear someone calling out your name questionably, and you look up to see one of Joe’s teammates jogging toward your group. He’s tall and blonde with the kind of all American good looks that probably got voted prom king, and he's grinning like he knows something you don’t. 

“Hey, I’m Derek,” he introduces himself. “My buddy over there thinks he knows you guys.” He jerks his thumb toward the volleyball net, where Joe is very obviously trying to look like he’s not watching this interaction while still absolutely watching it.

“Which buddy?” Ariella asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.

Derek laughs shortly, “the one kicking our asses. Joe. He wanted me to come over and ask if you girls want to play.” Derek scratches the back of his head and you look behind him at Joe. “We could use some more people, make the teams more interesting.”

You feel all three of your friends look at you, and you know you’re probably burning up again. This is it—the inevitable moment where you either have to admit you know Joe or pretend you don’t and hope no one figures it out.

“Oh, I don't really play volleyball,” you say.

“We’d love to,” McKenna cuts you off, already getting to her feet. “Right, guys?” “Absolutely,” Iris agrees, closing her own book with a snap.

“I’m really not good at it,” you protest, but Ariella is pulling you up by the arm.

“It doesn’t matter, it’ll be fun. Come on.” And before you know it, you’re being dragged across the sand toward the volleyball net, where Joe is waiting with a shit-eating grin that makes you want to hide behind your friends.

“Hey,” he greets when you get close enough, and his voice is welcoming and warm like you’re old friends instead of near strangers who had one conversation nine days ago.

“Hi,” you manage, noticing how little clothing you’re both wearing, how the sun is catching the sweat droplets falling down his neck, onto his chest.

You look around, glad to be able to hide behind your sunglasses. “I was hoping I’d run into you again,” there’s something shy about the way he says it that makes your stomach flutter. “Were you?” You tilt your head trying to look unimpressed.

He nods his head and he’s still grinning, but there’s friendliness underneath it that puts you at ease. “You left before I could even get your number.” 

The comment is casual, teasing, but there’s definitely a question buried in it. 

“Did I? I don’t really remember that.”

A complete lie, and from the way Joe’s grin widens, he knows it.

“Really? Cause I definitely remember you running off with your friend like there was some kind of emergency.” “There was an emergency,” you say, fighting to keep a straight face. “My friend needed help.”

“Right, of course. Very important emergency. And here I thought maybe you were just trying to escape before I could ask for those digits.” “Why would I do that?” “I don’t know. Maybe you’re one of those girls who’s too cool for guys who know about telescopes.” “Maybe I am,” you say, but you're smiling now, and you can see in his eyes that he knows you're full of it.

"Burrow!" one of his teammates shouts from the other side of the net. So that’s his last name. "We playing or what?"

Joe glances over, then back at you. "You playing?"

"I don't really—"

"She's playing," Ariella announces, patting your shoulder as she walks past you.

“Actually, no,” you say quickly, taking a step back from the group that’s already organizing themselves around the net. “I’m good just watching. Really.” McKenna gives you a look like you’re being ridiculous, but then she’s just as quickly caught up with one of Joe’s flirting friends to argue. You grab your towel—thank god you managed to snag it before they dragged you over here—and look around for somewhere to sit.

The guys have their stuff scattered in the sand nearby, a collection of water bottles and t-shirts and flip-flops, so you settle down there. The sand is warm against your skin as you spread your towel out, and you take your time smoothing out the corners, brushing away the grains that have already managed to find their way onto the fabric. 

The sun feels good on your shoulders, and you’re actually starting to relax again when you hear the soft thud of someone dropping down next to you. 

You glance over to find Joe settling beside you. He’s got that same grin from before, and he’s looking at you like he’s planned this whole thing. “Had to sit out,” he says simply, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Even the teams out.”

You look over where everyone is playing, also where there are clearly uneven teams now that he’s abandoned the game. “Joe, that makes no sense. Now they're completely lopsided.”

“Really? I’m terrible with numbers,” he's completely shameless about his ridiculous excuse. This face tells you he knows exactly how bad his logic is, yet doesn’t care even a little bit. 

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his complete lack of effort. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’ve been told that before,” he jokes again, then falls quiet. “About that emergency from the other night.” “What about it?”

“Was it really that urgent or were you looking for a way out?” You consider lying, keeping up the pretense that you barely remember him or that night, but something about him makes you want to be honest. “Cause if I’m reading this all wro—”

“It was real.” You cut him off quickly. “My friend was having a complete meltdown.” “And you’re the designated crisis manager?” “Something like that.” You focus your attention ahead, suddenly feeling exposed under his full attention. “What about you? Do you always abandon your friends to sit with girls you barely know?” “Only the interesting ones,” he says without missing a beat. “And for the record, I don’t think we barely know each other.”

He got you there. 

“So,” Joe continues, settling more comfortably in the sand beside you, “tell me what you’ve been up to for the past week and a half. Besides avoiding giving cute guys your phone number.” “Did you just call yourself cute?” “I was talking about Derek,” he says with mock seriousness, but then his nose twitches and he smiles. “But if you think I’m cute too, I’m not gonna argue.”

The rest of the afternoon unfolds easily. Conversation with Joe comes naturally, slipping between stories and quiet moments that don’t feel awkward at all. He tells you more about football—his teammates who think astronomy is weird, the pressure of growing up in a small town where everyone knows your name and keeps track of what you’re doing.

You find yourself opening up without meaning to, talking about childhood memories, the classes that drained you this semester, even Ariella’s latest boy drama. Joe grins at that part, leaning in like he’s genuinely invested, asking for more details than you probably should share—but he makes it hard to say no. There’s something about the way he listens, like whatever you’re saying is worth it. Like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

The sun starts to sink lower in the sky, painting everything golden, and you realize you’ve been sitting there for hours. Your friends are still playing, or pretending to play while mulling around with Joe’s friends, but you haven’t thought about them once. 

At some point, Joe shifts closer, a gradual drift that brings his knee within inches of yours. When he laughs, he leans in, and you notice his eyes are really blue when they’re caught in the sunlight. His fingers trace absent minded patterns in the sand between you as he talks, spirals and lines that you find yourself watching before catching yourself and looking away. You shouldn’t be thinking about—nope. Just sand and patterns. Nothing more.

Eventually, McKenna waves from across the sand with the sort of urgency that means it’s time to go. There’s a reluctance in the way you both move when you finally stand, like breaking this conversation may mean you can’t get it back.

Joe pulls out his phone without a word, and you take it, fingers still dusty with sand as you type your number in. When you return to your group, your friends are already gathering their things, chattering about dinner plans and who’s driving, but it all feels strangely far away, like the tide’s pulled something softer around you that hasn’t quite let go.

You start to follow them, the sand cooling beneath your feet, the sky turning a deeper shade of amber—and just before you leave, you glance back. He’s still there, standing where you left him, hands in his pockets, eyes on you, smiling like he already knows he'll be seeing you again soon.

And maybe, maybe, you want him to be right.

June 28th, 2017

Your head is buzzing pleasantly from the two beers you nursed during the game, and you’re still giggling about the drunk guy who kept trying to order nachos from the hot dog vendor. The stadium lights fade in Joe’s rearview mirror as he navigates the busy streets.

Earlier tonight, you’d spent an eternity in front of your mirror trying to figure out what “casual but cute” meant for a baseball game. Iris had finally intervened, tossing you a pair of denim shorts and a fitted Reds tank top while McKenna painted your nails a soft pink.

They’d been buzzing with excitement ever since yesterday, when Joe had texted you about the Cincinnati Reds after you’d mentioned during your conversation that you’d never been to a professional baseball game—not even minor league.

The invitation had come out of nowhere. One minute you were planning out summer bucket lists, and the next Joe was texting you about a game today. Ariella caught you staring at the message, formulating a reply, and intervened before you could even think about saying no. 

“I still can’t believe he thought she was his ex-wife,” you sink back into the passenger seat and turn to face him. The alcohol has made everything feel softer around the edges, more relaxed. You don’t even like beer normally, but something about sitting in those stadium seats with Joe had made you nervous enough to order one, then another.

“The way he kept calling her Linda,” Joe shakes his head grinning. “Poor woman was just trying to sell hot dogs and this guy’s in his own world.” “And you bought nachos for him!” you point out, laughing. “Like that was going to help the situation.” “I felt bad for him! He looked so confused when she didn’t recognize him.” Joe’s fingers tap against his leg as he stops at a red light, and you find yourself watching the movement. “Plus, he seemed pretty harmless. Just really, really drunk.” You tuck one leg up under you, getting more comfortable in the worn leather seat. The truck smells like him—that clean, warm scent you’re starting to associate with Joe—mixed with the lingering smell of stadium food. “I thought baseball was supposed to be boring.” “Who told you that?” “Everyone. Every movie, every TV show. It’s like the universal symbol for boring American pastimes.”

Joe glances over at you as the light turns green, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, those people are wrong. Baseball’s only boring if you don’t understand what’s happening.” “Or if you don’t have someone explaining why the pitcher keeps shaking his head at the catcher.” “That’s calleds strategy,” he says matter of factly. “Very sophisticated communication.” You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. The truth is, you enjoyed tonight more than you’d expected. Not just the game itself, but the way Joe had explained things without being condescending, how he brought you back a hamburger despite you saying you weren’t hungry, the way he seemed genuinely interested in what you thought about the experience. 

“What was your favorite part?” Joe asks, turning down your street. “Besides drunk Linda guy, obviously.” You think about it for a moment, watching the familiar college houses pass by. “Honestly, the seventh-inning stretch. When everyone was singing and you knew all the words.”

“You didn’t sing along.” “I didn’t know the words,” you laugh. “But you looked so happy to be there.” Something changes in his expression. “I was happy. It’s more fun when you have someone to share it with.” The way he says it makes your stomach flutter. The truck slows as Joe pulls into your driveway but leaves the engine running. The porch light casts a warm glow across the front of your house and you can hear crickets chirping in the background.

“So,” Joe drawls, turning to face you properly, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “What’s the verdict? Would you go to another game or was this a one-time experiment?” 

The way he’s looking at you makes the easy atmosphere shift slightly. The truck feels smaller, more intimate. You can see the way his hair is still messy from when he’d run his hands through it during a particularly tense inning, the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “I might be convinced,” you muse, then add more honestly, “it was actually really fun. Even if I still don’t understand why everyone gets so excited when a guy just… runs really fast.”

“He wasn’t just running—” Joe starts and then catches your expression and laughs. “You’re messing with me again.” “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. There’s something softer around the edges of his eyes now. The dashboard light casts everything in a muted glow, and you can see the way he's looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. 

You turn away and reach for the door handle, needing some distance from the intensity of his gaze, but you pause with your hand on the cool metal. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for tonight. Inviting me, I mean. And for explaining everything. I’m glad you remembered about me never going to a game.”

You turn to face him again and watch as his eyebrows furrow slightly, like he’s surprised you think he might’ve forgotten something like that. “I remember everything you tell me.” The admission hands in the air between you, heavier than it should for something so simple. To you, it’s not just about remembering—it’s about the fact that he was listening in the first place, that what you say matters enough for him to file away for later.

“I should go in,” you finally say, though you don’t move.

He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look away. There’s something building between you, some invisible thread that’s pulling tighter with each conversation, each shared laugh, each moment like this one. You can feel it in the way he’s looking at you, in the way your heart is beating just a little too fast.

The moment stretches between you, full of potential and unspoken questions. Finally, you force yourself to open the door, the cool night air rushing in and breaking whatever spell had settled over the cabin of the truck.

“Text me when you get home?” you ask, hopping down onto the pavement. “It’s like a five minute drive,” Joe points out, amused.

“Still.”

His smile softens. “Okay. I will.”

You climb out and he waits, engine idling, until you’re safely through the front door. Through the window, you watch as his tail lights disappear around the corner, your stomach in your chest from whatever just happened.

July 4th, 2017

The gravel crunches under McKenna’s tires as she pulls into the driveway of Derek’s family lake house, and you can already hear music and voices carrying from the backyard. Your skin is tight and warm from a full day in the sun, in desperate need of more moisturizer, yet a pleasant exhaustion that comes from hours of doing absolutely nothing productive settles over you.

You’d spent the morning sprawled on towels at the beach with the girls, nursing hangovers from last night with greasy gas station breakfast sandwiches and too many lattes. By noon, the mimosas Iris had smuggled in a water bottle had you all buzzed and giggly again, splashing each other in water and taking turns rating the guys who walked past.

Joe’s text came through around four, letting you know about the lake house and the barbeque followed by fireworks they had planned. Ariella immediately said yes when you showed the message, making a joke about how she could use some company tonight.

McKenna, who had opted out of drinking nearly two hours ago now, gladly agreed to make the drive a little ways north, excited to see Derek. And now, two hours later, you’re climbing out of the car with sandy feet and sun-drunk smiles, following the sound of voices toward the back of the house.

The lake house is beautiful in a lived in way. Weathered wood siding and a wraparound porch. Sitting on top of a hill that may be a little dangerous to balance on a couple drinks deeper.

“Holy shit,” Iris murmurs as you round the corner to the backyard, and you have to agree. The property stretches down to the water, complete with a dock and what looks like a pontoon boat tied up beside it. There’s a fire pit set up near the water’s edge, and closer to the house, a few guys are manning a massive grill while others lounge in deck chairs with beers in hand.

You spot Joe immediately—he’s on the lawn with someone else, tossing a football back and forth with easy precision that reminds you he's actually good at football. He’s wearing a different pair of swim shorts than you last saw him in with a faded t-shirt. When he catches the ball, he turns slightly in your direction from the impact.

“There’s your boy,” McKenna says under her breath, nudging you with her elbow.

“He’s not my boy,” you protest automatically, but you’re already walking toward him, drawn by some invisible magnet. 

Joe looks up as you approach, and his face breaks into a smile you’re starting to know by heart. “You made it,” he calls out, jogging over with the football still tucked under his arm.

“Thanks for inviting us,” you say shyly despite the fact that you just saw him two days ago when you’d dragged him to the farmer’s market downtown after he mentioned he’d never been to one. It was your turn to play tour guide, and you loved watching his face light up at the honey vendor’s samples, the way he was genuinely fascinated by the woman explaining how she had her own beehive.

He followed you around like a curious little kid, asking questions about everything and insisting on carrying your canvas tote when it got heavy with peaches and fresh bread. You spent two hours wandering the stalls, him marveling at things you took for granted. The morning felt domestic in a way that surprised you both, especially when he insisted on buying you sunflowers from the flower stand, claiming it was payment for the “cultural education.” 

“Course.” He spoke, drawing you back to the present. “How was the beach?” “Sandy. Hot. The usual.” You gesture to your slightly disheveled appearance.

“You look good,” Joe says simply, and it makes heat bloom within you that has nothing to do with a sunburn.

“Joe!” Derek calls from the grill. “Stop flirting and come help me with this before I burn everything.” “I wasn’t—” Joe starts but Derek’s already laughing, and you can see the tips of his ears go red.

“Go,” you say, giving him a little push toward the grill. “We’ll find our way around.”

You and your friends come to learn that Derek’s family has clearly hosted many times before. There are about five coolers full of beer scattered around the yard, a whole setup of lawn games, and enough food to feed a small army.

The evening flows easily from there. Dinner happens around a long picnic table that’s been dragged onto the deck, everyone squeezing together on benches and mismatched chairs. The food is simple but perfect—grilled burgers and hot dogs, three different kinds of pasta salads, and corn on the cob that drips butter down your chin.

Laughter and stories circled the table, someone telling a story about a camping trip last year gone wrong, McKenna describing her internship, Derek explaining how his family ended up with this place.

You find yourself actually contributing to the stories instead of just listening from the sidelines like you usually do around people who aren’t your girlfriends. It’s a small thing, but it feels significant somehow. Usually you’re the one who laughs at everyone else's jokes and nods along, but tonight words are coming easier. It crosses your mind how different this is from family dinners, where Michael always dominates the conversation and you face into the background. Here, people actually seem interested in what you say.

The lakehouse reminds you of the places your family used to vacation when you were younger, before your dad got himself too caught up in work to take proper time off. There’s something about the wood siding and the casual elegance that brings back memories of summer weeks spent reading on docks just like this one. You wonder if Michael remembers those trips the same way you do, or if he was already too focused on impressing everyone even then.

After everyone’s satisfied and the table’s been cleared, the competitive spirit emerges. Someone suggests a cornhole competition, and suddenly everyone is picking partners and trash talking each other's abilities. You end up paired with Iris, facing off against some of Joe’s friends who are, annoyingly, taking this way too seriously. 

You’re somewhere between your second win and a losing streak that’s picking up speed when you feel someone step in behind you. “Your forn is terrible,” Joe says, close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath on your neck.

“My form is perfect, thank you very much,” you shoot back, lining up for your next throw. “Not all of us can be freakishly good at everything we do.”

“Here, lemme show you.” Before you can protest, Joe’s stepping up behind you, his chest almost touching your back as he adjusts your arm position. “You want to keep your elbow steady, like this.”

His hand covers yours on the bean bag and you realize this is the first time he’s touching you. Every nerve in your body seems to light up at the contact, and you’re remembering that several people are watching this interaction. 

The rational part of your brain is screaming about how this looks, about how obvious you’re being, but the rest of you doesn’t care. His hand is warm and steady, and standing this close to him makes your heart race in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

“Got it?” He asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You manage a nod back, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to anymore. Joe steps back and you throw the bean bag, which sails cleanly through the hole in the board.

“See? Perfect form.” Joe says with a grin, and you roll your eyes but you’re smiling too.

The cornhole tournament continues for another hour, you and Iris getting kicked off the next game despite Joe’s assistance. Eventually, as the sun starts to set, people begin gravitating toward the water. Someone finds a speaker, and soon there’s music mixing with the sound of waves lapping against the dock.

You end up sitting on the edge of the pier with your feet in the water, watching Joe and a few others attempt some sort of diving competition off the end of the dock. Someone attempts a backflip and belly flops spectacularly. Another tries some kind of twist and ends up hitting the water sideways.

“That was definitely a belly flop,” Ariella judges from beside you, and the victim surfaces with a wounded expression. 

“Those underwater swimmers do the same shit!”

“But yours was painful to watch,” you laugh, and Joe smirks at the interaction before swimming closer to where you’re sitting. Ariella excuses herself, hopping up with her empty cup. You watch as she makes her way to the coolers that are set up near the firepit.

Joe plants himself right between your dangling legs, arms folded on the dock, looking up at you with water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “Think you could do better?”

Your breath catches slightly at his position, and you instinctively scoot back just an inch on the dock. But you can’t look away from his face—the way his wet hair is pushed back, how a single droplet of water clings to his bottom lip before falling onto his hands where they rest against the dock. 

“Absolutely not. I’ll stick to my choice of sitting in the audience."

“Smart choice,” there’s something in his voice that makes you never want to look away from him. His eyes are a mesmerizing shade of blue this close up, and there’s water still dripping from his chin, and you realize you’re staring but you can’t seem to stop.

Joe stays there for another minute, but when he finally does push back from the dock to rejoin, his hand finds your ankle first, fingers wrapping around it in a gentle squeeze that sends fire crackling through your skin.

The touch lasts maybe two seconds at most, but your skin burns where his fingers were long after he’s swimming away.

“So,” Ariella settles down next to you with a fresh drink. “When exactly is he going to ask you out officially.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply back, but your eyes are glued to Joe as he surfaces from his latest dive, shaking the water from his hair. “Right. And I’m sure the way he’s been hovering all night is just friendly concern.” You glance around and catch Joe looking in your direction. When your eyes meet, he flashes you a cute smile before diving back under the water. “We’re just friends,” you insist, but even you don’t sound convinced anymore. 

A month ago, you were dreading three months of nothing, of being stuck while Michael got engaged and your dad pestered you about plans for next year. Now, you’re sitting here with people you actually want to spend time with, teetering on the edge of uncharted territory with a boy you’ve just met.

When someone mentions that the fireworks should be starting soon, people heave themselves out of the water and towel off. Someone runs inside to grab more blankets, another person emerges with s’mores fixings for after.

As the fireworks start blooming over the lake, you find yourself sitting next to Joe on a blanket he spread out on the grass for the two of you. The heat has finally cooled down, and there’s something grounding about the way the colors reflect off the water, the sound of everyone’s oohs and ahhs mixing with the distant boom of the explosions. 

“This is perfect,” you say softly, thinking out loud. 

“Yeah,” Joe agrees, but when you glance over, he’s not looking at the fireworks at all. He’s looking at you.

Somewhere during the finale, as you’re both leaning back on your hands watching the sky, his fingers find yours against the blanket. It’s subtle at first—just the lightest brush of skin against skin—but then his fingers slowly intertwine with yours.

By the time the show ends, people are yawning, checking the time, debating whether anyone’s sober enough to drive. The unanimous decision emerges quickly—everyone’s staying. Derek’s family (not so surprisingly) was prepared for this. There are various air mattresses and extra pillows scattered around the home, and people are already claiming spots on couches and in spare bedrooms.

“You guys can take the last guest room.” Derek offers to your group, but McKenna waves him off.

“We’re fine wherever. This couch looks perfect,” for added effect, she bounces down on the couch with a smile on her face. 

You somehow (through the plotting of your friends) end up on the floor with Joe, tucked into a cloud of pillows, other’s laying around in various states of exhaustion and lingering drunkenness. People begin to drift off to sleep, and the room grows quieter, but you and Joe keep talking in hushed voices about everything and nothing. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen the Star Wars movies,” Joe whispers, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you cried during Marley and Me,” you whisper back.

“That dog dies! It’s devastating!”

You’re both trying not to laugh too loudly and wake everyone up, but the effort is making you giggle even more. Eventually, your eyelids start to feel heavy, the combination of sun and alcohol and Joe’s warm presence next to you lulling you toward sleep.

The last thing you remember is the steady rhythm of his breathing and the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. 

When you wake up, the early morning light is filtering through the windows, and you’re completely wrapped up in Joe. Somehow during the night, you shuffled until you were practically lying on top of him, your head on his chest, his arms around you, your legs tangled together. He’s still asleep, his face relaxed in a way that makes him look younger, and for a moment you just lie there, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear.

For a second, it feels perfect. Natural. Like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. Like all those careful boundaries you’ve been maintaining were just getting in the way of something that was always meant to happen.

Then reality crashes over you in seconds. This is Joe. Your friend Joe. Who you’ve been telling everyone is just a friend, who you’ve been trying to convince yourself is just a friend. But friends don’t wake up like this, all wrapped around each other. Friends don’t feel this safe and right together.

Panic flutters in your chest as you carefully extract yourself from his arms, trying not to wake him. Around the room, everyone else is still passed out, and you’re grateful no one else is awake to witness this.

July 16th, 2017

The lookout point spreads out before you like something from a postcard, the city lights of Columbus twinkling below in the warm summer darkness. Joe’s truck is parked at the edge of the gravel lot, tailgate down, both of you sitting with your legs dangling over the side. A bag of fast food is shared between the two of you, the taste of a chocolate milkshake still sweet on your tongue.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the Fourth of July. Nearly two weeks since you woke up tangled around him and panicked your way out of the house before anyone could see. You’ve been keeping your distance since then, not obviously, but carefully. 

Responding to his texts hours later instead of minutes. Finding excuses the couple times he suggested hanging out. It’s not that you don’t want to see him—that’s exactly the problem. You want to see him too much, and that scares you more than you’re willing to admit.

The last time you felt this way about someone was junior year of high school, when Marcus Solomon asked you to homecoming and your dad somehow found out. The lecture that followed still makes your stomach twist when you think about it—you needed to focus on your future, a career, not get distracted by boys who would just derail your (his) plans. 

Marcus had stopped calling after your dad “had a conversation” with him, and you learned to keep your feelings to yourself after that instance. 

But Joe, for one, makes it hard to maintain that distance. When he called two days ago, his voice was warm albeit a little confused, asking if you were okay because you seemed different lately, you almost caved. Instead, you made some excuse about being busy with family stuff, and he’s suggested tonight. Just us two, he said, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no.

Now here you are, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

“My nephew turned six,” Joe is saying, grinning at some memory from his weekend. He went back to Athens in order to spend time with family at said nephew’s birthday party. “Kid’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Spent the whole party roaring at everyone who tried to talk to him.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you smile back. The way he lights up when talking about his family makes you feel warm. “Did you survive the attack?” “Barely. He informed me that I was being eaten by a T-Rex at least four times.” Joe takes a sip of his Coke, and you find yourself watching the way his throat moves when he swallows. “But I bought him some triceratops thing, so I’m officially the coolest uncle again.”

“Smart strategy.” The two of you jumped around from talking about his family to yours to random observations of the city sprawled out below. He tells you about driving through his hometown, how everything looks smaller than he remembered, how his mom still makes him sit through sunday dinner even though he’s twenty years old.

You tell him about spending the past weekend at the mall with Ariella, how she made you try on exactly eight dresses before finding one she deemed acceptable for some party you didn’t even want to go to.

It was comfortable, this back and forth, but there’s an awareness beneath it that wasn't there before—or maybe it was always there and you’re just noticing it now. The way he looks at you when you laugh, how he leans closer when you talk, the careful space he maintains between you that feels both respectful and somehow charged.

“What else did you do while you were home?” you ask, settling back on your elbows and looking up at the sky. “Besides surviving dinosaur attacks.”

Joe is quiet for a moment, and when you glance over, there’s a change in his expression. More serious. “Talked to some people. About football stuff.” “Oh.” You sit up a little straighter, sensing a shift. “Good conversations?” He shrugs, but it’s not casual. “Some coaches from different programs. People wanting to know what I’m thinking long-term.” “And? What’d you tell them?” “That I’m focused on this season first.” His voice has a deflective quality to it that you’ve never heard from him before. “It’s all hypothetical anyway.” You want to push, to ask more about what these conversations meant, whether they were about transferring or the draft or something else entirely. But something in his posture warns you off, tells you this is territory he’s not ready to explore with you. So instead, you just nod and let the subject drop.

Joe hums after a moment, clearly eager to change the subject, “whatever happened with your brother and all that engagement stuff?”

You exhale a short laugh, the sound more bitter than intended. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of planning. Talks about flowers and venues and all the things that apparently require months worth of discussions.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about it.”

“It’s not that I’m not happy for him,” you sigh out the words you seem to repeat day in and day out. “Michael deserves to be happy and Sarah’s nice enough.”

You trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated knot of emotions you’re tangled between every time someone brings up the wedding. “But?” 

“They tried to get me to be a bridesmaid. Sarah’s idea, I think.”

“But you said no?”

“Dad helped me get out of it,” you admit with a  slight laugh. “Which is probably the first time in my life he’s actively helped me avoid something involving Michael.”

“Why’d you want to avoid it?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Michael and I aren’t exactly the close sibling type. More like polite roommates who happened to grow up in the same house.” You fiddle with the rings on your fingers. “Standing up there pretending we’re best friends would’ve been weird for everyone involved.”

You make a face. “Plus, can you imagine me in some pastel bridesmaid dress? Dad saved everyone from that disaster.”

Joe laughs at that, and you’re thankful he doesn’t dive deeper into it. Maybe it was payback for the football thing. “Fair enough,” he mumbles in response.

The air is warm against your skin, breeze carrying the scent of summer grass and wildflowers. You two are sitting so close it would be easy to lean against his shoulder, to let yourself have that comfort. But something holds you back—maybe the memory of waking up wrapped around him. Or could it be the fear of wanting more than he’s willing to give?

“Look,” Joe says suddenly, his voice filled with excitement. “Shooting star.”

You follow his gaze upward, scanning the dark sky, but you don’t see anything. “Where?”

“There,” he says urgently, and before you can look where he’s pointing, his hands are on your shoulders and pulling you back toward him. “Gotta see it before it’s gone.”

Before you can process, you’re sitting between his legs, back against his chest. His hands are gentle but firm as he handles your head toward the right part of the sky. “See it? Right there above that really bright star—”

And then you do see it, a streak of light so brief you almost miss it, burning across the darkness before disappearing. “Oh,” you breathe, genuinely amazed. “I saw it.”

“Make a wish,” Joe says softly, his voice close to your ear.

But you can’t think about wishes right now because everything else is clouding your mind. The warmth of his body behind you, the way his hands are resting lightly on your bare shoulders, how his breath stirs the hair near your ear. Your heart is beating too fast, and you wonder if he can feel it through your shirts.

“Did you make one?” you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you lie, just to please him.

July 23rd, 2017

The night is thick with humidity clouding the air and the lingering smell of fried food from the street festival you both just left. Your head is pleasantly fuzzy from the drinks you shared—overpriced cocktails served in plastic cups that tasted more like sugar than alcohol, but somehow still managed to leave you both giggling at everything and nothing. 

Joe is in the middle of telling some story about his teammate who got stuck in a porta-potty earlier, accentuated with exaggerated gestures that nearly send him stumbling into a streetlight. You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the kind of deep, uncontrollable laughter that only comes when you’re tipsy and everything seems funnier than it actually is.

“I’m serious,” Joe insists, steadying himself against your shoulder as you both pause under a streetlight to catch your breath. “Derek had to literally push the thing over to get him out. Everyone was watching.”

“Stop,” you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “That’s horrible. The poor guy.” “He deserved it.” Joe shakes his head in mock disgust, and you dissolve into another fit of giggles.

You’re about to respond when something catches your eye—a non sign buzzing in the window of a narrow storefront wedged between a vintage clothing shop and a late-night diner. ‘INK & STEEL TATTOO PARLOR’ flickers in electric blue cursive, and through the window, you can see the glow of fluorescent lights and the dark silhouettes of people inside. 

“Joe,” you point at the shop. “We should get tattoos.”

It’s meant to be a joke. You expect Joe to laugh, make some joke like about how you should get a dog from the shelter further down the street next—something silly. Instead, his glazed over eyes sharpen with interest, and before you can process, he’s walking toward the door.

“Joe,” you call after him, your laughter dying in your throat. “Joe, wait. I was kidding.”

He stops with his hand on the door handle and turns back to you, his eyes somewhere between hopeful and uncertain. “Were you joking?” he asks. “Cause if you were, that’s fine. But if you weren’t…”

You stare at him, taking in the way the neon lights cast blue shadows across his face. “What would we even get?” you hear yourself asking, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or genuine curiosity that makes the words tumble out. “I dunno,” he hums, eyes flickering around your surroundings until they stop suddenly, looking up at the sky. “A star,” comes his next answer without hesitation. 

A star. Because of course it would be a star. 

“That’s…” you trail off, considering. The sober part of your brain is screaming that this is insane, that you barely know the guy, that getting matching tattoos with someone you’ve known for five weeks is the kind of decision you’ll regret for the rest of your life.

“Okay,” you surprise yourself when the word slips out. “Okay, but something small. Really small.”

Joe’s face breaks into a grin so bright it could power the neon sign behind him. “Really?”

“Really. But if we hate it tomorrow, I’m blaming you entirely.”

“Deal,” he states, pushing the door open.

The inside of the tattoo parlor is neat with black leather chairs and art covering every inch of wall space. You’re not sure if it's the steady buzz of a tattoo gun buzzing, or the air smelling like antiseptic and ink that almost makes you back out. 

The woman behind the counter looks up when you enter, her expression shifting from a professional welcome to barely concealed skepticism as she takes in your slightly unsteady gaits. She’s probably in her forties, with intricate sleeve tattoos and the kind of seen-it-all expression that comes from years in a business. 

“We’re about to close,” she says slowly, glancing between you and Joe with wariness.

“We just want something small,” Joe says, pulling out his wallet as if to prove you were serious. “A star each.”

The woman—her name tag reads Diana—studied you both for a long moment. There’s a maternal aspect of the way she looks at you, like she’s trying to decide whether to send you home or let you make what might be a terrible decision. “You two sure about this?” She asks finally. You and Joe both look at each other, smile, and then back at Diana, giving her a reassuring nod. 

Diana sighs, but she’s already moving toward her station, decorated with scribbled drawings, torn out from different pages. Her art is good, looking at it assures you that she should have no problem doing a star... at least you hope.

“Alright. But I’m making them tiny, and you’re both signing extra waivers. What kind of stars are we talking about?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re watching Joe extend his right wrist to Diana, his right hand gripping the larm of the chair as the tattoo gun starts buzzing. The design is simple, just a small, delicate outline of a five-pointed star, no bigger than a dime. But watching it take shape on his skin makes something flutter in your stomach.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning forward in the chair beside him.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth, though his knuckles are white where they’re gripping the leather. “Just feels weird.” “Big tough football player can’t handle a little needle?” you tease in order to distract him.

“I’d like to see you sitting here instead.”

“You will in about five minutes.” Diana speaks up from the other side of him. The thought makes your stomach flip. You’ve never wanted a tattoo before—never saw the point in permanently marking your body with some generic design that didn’t mean anything to you. But this feels different, like it means something, even if you can’t quite articulate what. 

Diana works quickly and efficiently, cleaning the fresh tattoo and covering it with a clear bandage before turning to you with an expression that suggests she’s still not entirely convinced this is a good idea. “Your turn, honey.”

You settle onto the padded table, extending your right wrist the same way Joe had. Turning your head away from Diana, because if you watch you know you’ll back out, Joe immediately crouches down next to the table so you’re at his eye level. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” you reply, surprised by how steady your voice sounds. “I want to.”

Diana preps your sin with the same clinical care she’s shown with Joe, and then the tattoo guns tarts buzzing again, you instinctively reach out and grab Joe’s hand.

“Shit,” you breathe as the needle makes contact. It’s not unbearable, but it’s definitely more intense than you’d expected—like a sharp, persistent scratch that seems to vibrate through your entire arm.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is soft, grounding. “Look at me, yeah?” You focus on his face, the way his eyes are completely locked in on you, the small scar above his left eyebrow you’ve never noticed before, the way his thumb is tracing gentle circles across your knuckles.

“What do you think our friends are gonna say about this?”

You laugh despite the discomfort, picturing their faces when they see the tattoo. “Ariella and Iris are going to think we’ve lost our minds. McKenna’s probably gonna be jealous she wasn’t here to watch.”

“Mine are gonna say I’m whipped,” Joe adds in with a grin.

“Are you?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. His face hardens, something that makes your heart skip even as the tattoo gun continues its steady patterns. “Maybe.”

“What about your dad?” Joe continues, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Is he going to be thrilled about his daughter coming home with a tattoo?” “Oh god,” you groan, the reality of that moment hitting you. “He’s gonna lecture me about ‘permanent decisions’ and ‘thinking about my future.’ I can already hear it.” “Worth it though,” Joe says, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something in them that suggests he’s not just talking about the tattoo.

Diana’s voice cuts through the moment. “Alright, you’re all done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You look down at your wrist, the small start that now matches Joe’s. It’s tiny, delicate, but somehow feels significant in a way that’s completely disproportionate to its size. “It’s perfect.”

After Diana bandages you up and gives you both care instructions (which you’re definitely too out of it to fully absorb), Joe pays for both tattoos despite your protests. Outside the shop, the reality of what you’ve done starts to settle in. 

“We actually did that,” you breathe, staring down at the bandage on your wrist.

“We actually did that,” Joe agrees, but there’s no trace of regret in his voice. “Can I see it again?”

You lift your arm up, revealing the small star etched into your skin. Beneath the bandage, it’s slightly red and tender, but the clean lines of it are clearly visible. Joe reaches out, fingers wrapping gently around your forearm. 

He studies the tattoo with an intensity that doesn’t match the gravity of what he’s looking at. It’s the same exact tattoo he has, after all. His thumb moves without conscious thought, brushing over the bandage where your fresh tattoo lies underneath. 

“Ow,” you gasp, instinctively jerking your wrist back as pain shoots through the tender skin.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Joe says immediately, his eyes wide with concern as he gently catches your wrist again, more carefully this time. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Before you can say it’s okay, that it’s fine, he’s lifting your wrist to his lips and pressing the softest kiss just bedie the bandage, on the unmarked skin of your inner wrist. The gesture is so delicate that it stops your breath entirely. 

“Better?” he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel the word more than hear it.

You can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare down at him as he holds you like something precious, lips still hovering near your skin.

Because in this moment, standing under the flickering non light with your fresh tattoo throbbing and Joe’s mouth pressed against your pulse point, you finally understand what you’ve been trying so hard to deny.

You don’t see Joe as a friend anymore.

You can’t.

Maybe you never really did, if you’re being honest with yourself. Maybe all those careful boundaries you constructed, all that insistence that you were just friends, all those moments of pulling back when things got too intense—maybe it was all just an elaborate defense against this exact realization.

You’re falling for him. Have been falling for him, probably since that first night with the telescope on the beach. Every shared laugh, every moment together, every time he remembered something you told him or looked at you like you were the most interesting person in the room—it’s all been leading here, to this moment where you can’t pretend anymore. 

The matching tattoos aren’t just ink under your skin. They’re a promise, a declaration, a permanent reminder that whatever this is between you has moved far beyond friendship into a territory that pulls you in with a force that’s equal parts fear and desire.

And as Joe finally pulls back to meet your eyes, his hand still cradling your wrist like he doesn’t want to let you go, you realize that you don’t want to fight it anymore.

You don’t want to be just friends.

You can’t be just friends.

Not anymore.

July 30th, 2017

The past two days at home had been a special kind of torture—the sort that comes wrapped in well-meaning family obligations and thinly veiled disappointment. Your dad has spent most of Saturday morning talking to you about “summer productivity” while pointedly ignoring the new scar on your wrist, though you caught him staring at it more than once.

Michael has been worse, somehow, Fresh off his engagement high and apparently feeling generous with unsolicited life advice, he’d cornered you during brunch on Friday to ask if you were “taking advantage of your opportunities” at Ohio State. The implication being, of course, that you weren’t. That while he’d graduated summa cum laude, and landed his dream job while finding his perfect fiancé, you were drifting through college without an endgame.

helpppp me, you’d reached for your phone under the table and texted Joe. michael is giving me the when i was ur age speech again

His response had come back within minutes: Tell him when he was your age people were still jerking off to cave paintings

You nearly choked on your orange juice, covering it with a cough that made Michael pause his monologue about networking and five-year plans. For the rest of the meal, you’d felt lighter, like Joe’s ridiculous jokes created a little bubble of shared understanding that your family couldn’t penetrate. 

The texting had continues throughout the weekend. Little observations about your dad’s obsession with lawn maintenance (he’s had the gardeners back like three times already), updates about Michael’s wedding planning (apparently that are exactly seventeen different shades of ivory and they all matter), complaints about their shared passive aggressive comments about your “summer lifestyle”.

Joe had responded to every single one, sometimes with jokes that made you snort in the middle of family dinner, sometimes with questions that showed he was actually listening, actually cared about the small details of your weekend home. When you texted him Saturday night about feeling suffocated and ready to go back, he’d called instead of texting.

By the time you did finally escape, the first thing you did was text him that you were free, and he immediately suggested joining him and his friends at some pool party. 

You spent the afternoon in and out of the backyard pool, floating on inflatable loungers with Ariella and Iris (McKenna was too busy flirting with Derek), while the guys played games of pool basketball. Joe was in his element, with his friends, occasionally catching your eye across the water.

Around nine, when the party was reaching that perfect point in the night, someone had suggested moving the event to the beach. Most people had been too lazy or too drunk to make the move, but the idea sparked something in both you and Joe.

You caught each other’s eyes across the group, some wordless communication passing between you, and before you knew it, you were gathering your things and making excuses about wanting to see the stars over the water. 

“You two are so weird,” Iris has called after you, but she was smiling, that knowing look in her eyes suggesting she understood exactly what was happening even if you didn’t. 

Now, running across the sand toward the lake with Joe beside you, the wind whipping through your hair, you feel more alive than you have all weekend. The beach is completely empty, and the moon is bright enough to turn the water silver.

“Last one in is buying breakfast tomorrow,” Joe calls out, already pulling his shirt over his head as he runs.

“That’s not fair! You have longer legs,” you’re protesting, but already reaching for the hem of your sundress and pulling it over your head as you sprint toward the water’s edge.

You’re grateful you’d kept your bikini on under the dress from the pool party earlier—a simple black two piece that’s nothing special, but makes you feel confident enough to not worry about it. Joe’s already in his swim trunks from earlier, and in the moonlight, you can see the lean lines of his torso, the way his shoulders move as he crashes into the waves.

You hit the water a few seconds after him, the lake unusually warm from the day’s heat. “I totally won,” you declare, splashing toward him.

“You absolutely did not,” Joe laughs, turning to face you as you wade deeper. “I was in first.”

“By like half a second, which doesn’t count because you’re basically a gazelle.”

“A gazelle?” He raises and eyebrow, grinning. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Fine, you’re like… a really tall and athletic giraffe.”

“Better.”

You splash water at him in retaliation, and he immediately splashes back, starting a water fight that quickly escalates into full scale warfare. You’re both laughing so hard you can barely breathe, diving under the surface to escape each other’s attacks, coming up gasping and immediately launching new offensives.

“Truce, truce,” you finally call out, wiping water from your eyes. “I’m drowning over here.” Joe stops immediately, “you good?” “I’m fine,” you assure him, but as you try to find your footing, you realize you’ve drifted father out than you thought. Your toes barely brush the sandy bottom, and you have to treat water to stay afloat. “Just deeper than I expected.”

Joe moves closer, and you can see that the water only comes up to his chest. Of course. Even in the water, his height gives him an advantage. “Can you touch?” The playful teasing from his voice is gone. You try again, stretching your toes downward, but you shake your head. “Not really. You?” “Yeah,” he says, taking another step closer. “Here, come here.”

There’s no time to second guess his words, his hands are on your waist, coaxing you effortlessly to him through the water. The space between you disappears, water slipping around your bodies as your skin brushes his beneath the surface.

Your legs hook around his waist, pulled there by the slow drag of water and the closeness of him. Fingers find balance against his chest, steadying yourself. He;s solid beneath your palms, skin warm and slick from the lake, his heartbeat thudding beneath your touch.

You feel bashful under his gaze because his hands stay exactly where they landed—low on your waist with no intentions of letting go. You blink once, twice, then look up toward the stars instead, pretending that the sky is the reason your breath caught.

“Look at the stars,” you whisper, voice barley audible over the gentle lapping of the water. “They’re so bright tonight.” You scan the sky, searching for the constellations Joe had shown you that first night together. There’s the Big Dipper, clear as day. Cassiopeia, that distinctive W shape. The North Star, a constant anchor. Successfully spotting each one feels like a small victory for yourself.

“I am looking at them,” Joe murmurs, voice low and rough in a way that makes your stomach flip. The tone of his voice draws your eyes back down, and when you do, you find his eyes are fixed on your face, not the sky at all.

The realization crashes into you, his eyes aren’t on the sky, they’re on you, and they haven’t moved once. Not when you tilted your head back or spoke softly in the dark. Not when you searched the stars for something to hold onto. He’s been looking at you like maybe you’re the only thing up there worth finding. 

You’re his star. 

The thought lands low in your stomach, fluttery and bright and a little impossible. It steals the breath from your lungs and replaces it with something lighter that makes you lightheaded. Your fingers twitch against his chest, your thighs tighten slowly around his waist like your body’s reacting before you’ve even caught up.

“Joe,” you breathe, but it comes out weightless. He’s looking at you like you’re something miraculous, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. One of his hands moves from your waist to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin.

You lean into the touch before you even think to stop yourself—because you decided not to care anymore. And when he bends toward you, closing the last bit of distance, you meet him without hesitation.

The kiss is soft. Like exhaling. Like being found. He tastes like lakewater and breathless hope, like every almost that led to this moment, and you melt into it—your arms around his neck, his hand holding the back of your head, the gentle roll of water cradling you both. It’s not urgent, nor is it desperate, but it is inevitable. 

Joe kisses you like he’s afraid of scaring you off, and you kiss im back like you’re afraid he might stop.

When he finally pulls back, leaving just enough space to breathe, his forehead finds yours like he can’t stand to let you go completely. Your eyes are still closed, chest still rising and falling too fast. And beneath the surface, your legs are still wrapped around him, holding on like you haven’t quite figured out how to let go.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he admits quietly.

Your fingers slip into the hair at the base of his neck, threading through the wet strands carefully. “Yeah?” you whisper back.

His throat works as he swallows, pupils dilating the smallest bit. “Since that night after the baseball game. Maybe even before that.”

Hearing those words feels like a breath let go. Your chest swells, and suddenly it’s hard not to smile. Your cheekbones ache from how wide your grin is, it feels ridiculous, it feels perfect. “Me too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And then he’s kissing you again, and you’re kissing him back, and you think that maybe some things are worth all the risk in the world.

August 7th, 2017

The past week has felt like living inside a dream you never wanted to wake up from.

Every morning started with a text from Joe—sometimes just a simple “morning pretty girl,” sometimes a photo of his breakfast plate with a message about how his pancakes didn’t taste like the ones you make, with a sad face. You’d started setting your alarm fifteen minutes earlier just so you could lie in bed and read his messages, smiling like an idiot at your phone while McKenna got ready in your shared bathroom.

Tuesday, you’d gone back to the farmers market, and Joe still carried your canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder without being asked. He’d looked slightly ridiculous—this tall, broad shouldered football player carefully cradling a bouquet of flowers in one hand while holding yours with the other—but he seemed completely unbothered by the picture you two painted.

When the elderly flower vendor had assumed you were a couple, and Joe didn’t correct her, you felt a warmth bloom in your chest.

“These are the same ones from last time,” he said as you walked away, nodding toward the flowers. “You want different ones next time or are these okay?” “I like those. They’re pretty,” you assured simply, but what you meant was: I like that you remember what I like. I like you paying attention to details that don’t matter to anyone else.

Wednesday night, you’d driven out to the lookout point again, but this time you spent more time kissing than stargazing. Joe spread a blanket in the bed of his truck again, and you laid there for hours with your head on his chest, his fingers tracing circles against your tattoo while you pointed out constellations and he pressed kisses to the top of your head for each you remembered correctly.

When you’d finally driven home around one in the morning, your lips were swollen and your hair was a mess, and you felt drunk on the sort of happiness you only thought existed in movies.

Thursday, he surprised you by showing up to your house with takeout from that Italian place you mentioned liking, even though it was completely out of his way. The two of you are sitting on your living room floor, sharing tiramisu straight from the container for dessert while some movie played unwatched in the background.

Your roommates came home to find you both asleep on the couch, your legs tangled together, Joe’s arm thrown protectively around your waist. Ariella sent the picture to the group chat with approximately eight heart eye emojis.

Friday had been perfect in its simplicity—just a lazy afternoon at Derek’s place, floating in his pool on inflatable loungers, Joe’s hand trailing in the water between you so his fingers could brush yours. You’d felt so content, so settled in a way you’d never experienced before. Like all the anxious energy that usually buzzed under your skin had finally gone quiet.

The tattoos on your wrists had healed beautifully, the small stars just a permanent reminder of that night when everything changed. Sometimes you were able to catch Joe absently rubbing his thumb over his own tattoo when he assumed you weren’t looking, and it made your stomach flutter each time.

You started leaving things around his own home without meaning to—a hair tie on his nightstand, a book on his coffee table, one of your hoodies draped over his desk chair. And he started doing the same at yours, his Ohio State water bottle appearing in your fridge, his extra phone charger plugged in next to your bed. 

But underneath all the bliss, there had been this awareness of an approaching deadline. August seventh. The day football training officially started back up, when Joe would shift back into athlete mode and you’d have to figure out how to fit into his newly restructured world. 

You tried not to think about it, had focused on instead memorizing the way he looked when he laughed at your terrible jokes, the sound he made when you kissed that spot just below his ear, the careful way he would willingly brush your hair when you were too tired to do so yourself. But the date had loomed anyway, circled in red on some invisible calendar in your mind.

Now, sitting on Derek’s back patio with McKenna and Iris, nursing a beer that’s gone warm in the afternoon heat, you can’t shake the feeling of unease.

“He’s two hours late,” McKenna observes, an unkindly reminder as she glances at her phone screen. “Isn’t that kinda weird for him?”

You shrug, trying to look unbothered even if you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes for the past hour. “First day of training. I’m sure it ran long.”

“You okay?” Iris asks, studying your face with the kind of attention that makes you squirm. “You seem anxious.” “I’m fine,” you lie, then immediately feel guilty about it. These are your best friends—you should be able to tell them that you’re worried about how the season is going to change the perfect way things have been going for the two of you. But putting those fears into words makes you teeter between feeling like it’ll give them powers, but also clingy. You’re not even dating him.

Derek emerges from the house carrying a cooler of fresh beers, followed by a couple of his teammates you’ve met in passing. The guys immediately launch into a discussion about the new offensive coordinator, speculation about the upcoming season, and complaints about the conditions drills that apparently nearly killed them today.

“Burrow looked like he was about to pass out,” one of them says, popping open a beer. “Dude pushes himself more than anyone else there.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of Joe.

Another twenty minutes pass before you hear the familiar rumble of Joe’s truck in the driveway. You resist the urge to immediately look toward the sound, instead focusing intently on McKenna’s story about the last day of her internship, but you’re listening to every sound—the slam of his truck door, his voice greeting someone inside the house, the sliding door opening behind you.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice is flat as he steps onto the patio, and when you turn to look at him, your chest constricts with concern. He looks drained in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion. His hair is still damp from what you assume was a shower, his shirt clings to his skin, and there’s rashes of turf burn on various spots of his body.

“Hey,” you say softly, standing up to greet him. “How was—” “Long,” he cuts you off, moving past you toward the cooler without his usual kiss hello, without even really looking at you. “Really fucking long.” The dismissal stings more than it should, and you feel heat creep up as everyone else notices the tension. You sink back into your chair, trying to process the sudden shift in his demeanor.

Derek hands Joe a beer, and he drains half of it in one go before finally acknowledging the group. “Went longer than expected, sorry.”

“Heard it was brutal,” Derek says carefully. “You good?”

Joe shrugs, settling into the empty chair next to you. The conversation gradually picks up again, but you find it hard to focus on anything other than Joe. When Iris makes a comment about how tan everyone’s gotte this summer, Joe glances around the group before his eyes land on you for the first time since he arrived.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when people have no real priorities,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes you want to crawl under your own skin.

You know he’s tired, know he’s had a rough day, but the casual cruelty of it takes your breath away. Around you, the conversation falters as everyone processes what just said, the uncomfortable silence stretching until it becomes unbearable. 

The exact moment Joe realizes what he’s done, his face changes.The defensive anger melts into horror as he takes you in, the way you’ve physically recoiled, the hurt and confusion that must be written all over your face. 

“Shit,” he says quietly, sinking down into his chair. “I didn’t… that came out wrong.” You stare at him for a moment, trying to reconcile this version of Joe who’s been leaving you good morning texts and buying you flowers. The one who held you while you watched the stars, who kissed everything better, who made you feel more wanted and valued than anyone else ever has.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” you say finally, voice controlled as you drop Iris’s hand when you stand up. You need distance, a moment to college yourself before you can say something you’ll regret.

“Wait,” Joe stants too, his voice hushed and urgent. “Can we—can I talk to you for a second?”

You want to be petty and say no, let him sit with the weight of his words, but his devastated expression stops you. Despite what he said, you can’t stand seeing him like that when he clearly knows he’s done wrong.

“Fine,” you say, but you don’t make it easy for him, you don’t move toward the privacy of the house. If he wants to apologize, he can do it here. 

Joe steps closer, his voice dropping so the others can’t hear. “I’m sorry. That was… I’m being an asshole and you don’t deserve that.” “No, I don’t,” you agree, watching him flinch at the coolness of your tone. 

“It was just a really bad day,” he continues, desperation creeping into his voice. “With everything—I feel like I’m walking into another year of hell, and I’m not looking forward to it. But that’s not your fault. And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” You study his face, taking in the genuine remorse there. You understand the pressure he’s under, have listened to him talk about his fears and doubts enough to know how much this means to him.

“Football’s really important to you,” you say finally, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe too important.” “And it’s probably going to get harder from here, more demanding.” “Probably.” His jaw tightens. “Almost definitely.” You nod slowly, processing this new side of things. The Joe from the past week—attentive, present, completely focused on you—that version might become harder to find as the season progresses. But the Joe standing in front of you now, apologizing for his mistakes, trying to be honest about his struggles… Maybe that’s the new version you need to learn to work with. Because you would—will, for him. “Okay,” you say finally. “But if you’re going to be stressed and taking it out on people, it can’t be me.”

“You’re right,” he says immediately. “You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He steps closer again. “I really am sorry. Today was just a reminder I guess. About what this season is going to be like.”

You reach out and take his hand, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders when you do. “I get it.” Your voice drops as you guide him a couple steps away from everyone else. “But we need to figure out how to make this work, Joe. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief that crosses his face makes everything within you settle, because you know he was worried about that. He didn’t want to lose you. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I don’t want you to.”

And despite everything, despite the sting of his earlier words and the looming specter of a difficult season ahead, you find yourself believing him.

August 10th, 2017

The past few days had been a delicate dance of adjustment, both of you trying to find your footing in this new reality where football had reasserted its claim on Joe’s time and attention.

You’d spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday preparing for the upcoming semester—ordering textbooks that made your bank account weep, organizing your schedule around the classes you’d managed to get into after your academic probation scare, trying to mentally prepare yourself for organic chemistry round two.

The familiar anxiety about the upcoming school year had settled in your chest like a stone, made worse by the uncertainty of how you and Joe would navigate his increasingly demanding schedule. But Joe has been making an effort; a real, tangible effort that showed he’d taken your conversation at Derek’s to heart.

Tuesday evening, he showed up to your house still in his practice clothes, but carrying a bag of Italian takeout and wearing that apologetic smile that made it impossible to stay distant. He sat on your bedroom floor while you organized your class materials, occasionally reaching over to run his fingers through your hair or press a kiss to your shoulder as you worked.

Wednesday, he texted you during what you knew was a brief break between practice and film study. The message was simple, something about wanting to see you again that night, but it carried you through the rest of your day.

That night, he’s fallen asleep in your bed again, his head in your lap while you studied all your upcoming professors. You spent an hour just watching him sleep.

Thursday morning, you’d woken up to find he made coffee and left a note on your kitchen counter: Good luck with your advisor meeting today :) 

Now, lying in the bed of his truck under a blanket of stars with Joe’s lips moving against yours, you feel like maybe you’d been worrying for nothing.

The lookout point has become sacred ground for the two of you, a place where the rest of the world falls away and it’s just you and him and the vast Ohio sky. Tonight feels different though, full of something that makes your skin hypersensitive to every brush of his fingers, every shift of his body against yours.

You’d never gone further than heated makeout sessions before. Hands wandering under shirts, breaths coming fast against each other’s necks, urgent touches that left you both frustrated and wanting more.

“Missed this,” Joe whispers against your lips, his voice hoarse in a way that has nothing to do with practice and everything to do with the way your hands are threading through his still damp hair. “Missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” you point out, but you’re smiling, breathless from the way he’s looking at you. 

“Wasn’t enough,” he says simply, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time.

The kiss doesn’t ask for permission, it sinks into you as if he’s trying to speak through the shape of your mouth. Like he’s telling you everything he hasn’t found words for yet. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm fingers splaying across your lower back like he wants to feel every inch of you he’s missed.

You arch into his touch, breath hitching as his palm moves up, mapping your ribs in slow strokes that leave heat in their wake. Your own hands find their way beneath his shirt, fingertips gliding over damp skin, still warm from the shower he must’ve taken before picking you up.

His muscles twitch under your touch, and he grains softly into your mouth, a sound that vibrates through you like a string pulled tight. “My pretty girl,” his mouth bites at yours. “Don’t know what you do to me,” his lips brush your jaw now, then your neck, moving like he can’t stop.

You tilt your head and give him more access to yourself, chest rising fast beneath his as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. One hand travels lower, gripping the back of your thigh and guiding it around his hip.

“Joe,” you whisper out, barely audible, but it's all you can manage at the moment. He lifts at that, eyes finding yours in the dim light spilling from the sky. The air shifts. His breathing is uneven. Yours isn’t any better.

He watches you with something new simmering behind his eyes, as if he’s waiting for the signal. Like he doesn’t want to push it but also doesn’t want to stop. Luckily for him—you don’t want him to either.

So you reach for him.

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, fingers sweeping lightly over the short scruff he forgot to shave this morning. Joe exhales hard through his nose and kisses you again, messier this time. His hand slides back down the expanse of your thigh until it finds the curve of your ass and squeezes, pulling you flush against him. You feel him, all of him. Hard and pressing into you through layers that suddenly feel far too thin. 

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans in response, like he’s been waiting to hear that sound. “Lift this,” he tugs at the bottom of your shirt. 

The fabric peels away and the breeze is licking at your skin, but it barely registers. Not when Joe’s mouth is moving down your throat, not when his hands are skimming your bare skin, not when he kisses between the swell of your breasts like he’s been dying to.

He covers your body with his own, bracing his forearm beside his head. His other hand finds your opposite thigh, guiding it around his waist so both your legs are parted, bent around him in a way that feels possessive. 

You whimper when his hips rock into you, a soft, instinctual grind that spends sparks shooting through your stomach. “I know baby,” he chokes out, nose brushing against your cheek. “Just let me touch you.

You nod, a jerky movement more than anything. His fingers trail down your torso, dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts slowly, enjoying the way your body tenses. His knuckles graze the inside of your thigh and then he finds you.

And god—the noise that comes from him when he feels how wet you are is something feral that does more to you than anything else thus far. He curses under his breath and kisses you had, like he’s thanking you for it. 

“Look at you,” he mutters against your mouth, fingers moving lower to stroke you over your panties, coaxing another shiver from your spine. “So fuckin’ soft.” You arch into him as his touch grows more purposeful, his thumb brushing a tender circle through the damp fabric, teasing you through it. You feel like your whole body is pulsing toward his hand, your hips chasing the rhythm without meaning to.

He helps you work fully out of your shorts, tossing them aside, and you suddenly feel grateful for the privacy of your spot. You feel more exposed than ever, but not nervous. Not with him.

Not when Joe’s eyes find yours and stay locked there as he pushes your last bit of clothing to the side and slides one thick finger into you.

That first night you met him, you remember his hands with the telescope. How they completely dwarfed the adjustment knobs, how his fingers seemed to wrap around everything twice. Now you understand why even just one feels like so much.

You inhale sharply, the stretch of it feeling like too much and not enough at the same time. Joe’s expression tightens in response. “Fuck,” he presses his forehead against yours. “My girl—feel so good wrapped around me.” Your body clenches around him, muscles fluttering, and his tumb finds your clit, stroking it slowly while his finger works in and out of you in measured movements, testing what you like, what makes your mouth fall open.

In the moment, you can’t find it in yourself to stop staring at him. His jaw will flex, then his eyes flick down to watch what he’s doing, how your body reacts to him, then back to your face.

“Want another?” he teases with a small grin. You nod, desperate for more, and feel the second finger press in beside the first. It burns in the best way. Fills you.

Your hips jerk, and he catches you with his other hand, splayed across your lower stomach, holding you steady. Joe leans down and kisses you again, but it's slower this time as his fingers are working you open.

“Don’t stop,” you beg against his lips, feeling more alive than you have in months wrapped around him like this.

“Not planning to.” And he doesn’t. Joe keeps his rhythm steady, curling his fingers and pinching your clit every now and then, enjoying the way it makes you squirm from under him. Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, body rolling into his hand as much as his hold on you allows.

It builds like a slow flame, heat winding around your spine, climbing behind your ribs, and when it finally breaks—when you cry out and clamp around his fingers, back arching—Joe swallows hard and kisses you through it.

You’re still shaking when he finally pulls his hand away. He kisses your shoulder, your jaw, your temple. And then he whispers, with the softest kind of pride, “told you I missed you.”

September 9th, 2017

The roar of the stadium is deafening, but somehow it feels muted as you scan the sidelines looking for number ten. When you finally spot him, you tense with a mixture of relief and heartbreak.

He’s there—standing with the other quarterback, headset around his neck, clipboard in his uninjured hand—but he looks like a shadow of himself. Even from your seats up high in the student section, you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself apart from the celebration happening around him as the team scores another touchdown. 

He’s focused, locked in, but there’s something hollow about it. It’s like he’s going through the motions of being present while being somewhere else entirely.

It’s the first game since he’s been cleared to return to practice, though “return” feels like a generous word for what’s actually happening. He’s not playing. Hasn’t played a single meaningful snap since the injury. 

You know he’s watching Dwaryne Haskins take the snaps that should’ve—should—be his, watching his opportunity slip further and further away with each game.

“There he is,” Ariella says, following your gaze and pointing toward the sideline.” How’s he doing with all this?” You don’t know how to answer that question because you’re not sure you know anymore.

The call had come from Derek three days after that perfect night at the lookout point when you felt closer to Joe than ever before. You were in your room, trying to make sense of your class syllabi, when your phone rang.

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” the usual upbeat tone of his voice was long gone. “Joe’s in the hospital. He broke his hand at practice today.” The papers had slipped from your hand, pages fluttering as they hit the floor. “What? Is he okay? How bad is it?” “He had surgery on it. It went well, but…” Derek had paused, and you could hear muffled voices in the background. “Look, I found out from one of the guys on the team. Joe hasn’t called anyone yet, and I think… maybe it’s best if you don’t show up here.”

The words stung, but deep down you had to remind yourself that Derek’s reasoning made sense in the cruel way logical things often do. You texted Joe right after that call and stared at your phone for the rest of the night, waiting for a response that never came.

The next day passed in a haze of worry and checking your phone obsessively between classes. By Tuesday evening, you’d managed to convince yourself that maybe Joe’s phone was broken, or he was staying off it to focus on his health. There had to have been a reasonable explanation for his silence.

Then, finally, a short text came through. Just stating that he was fine, thanks for checking up on him.

Friday, after class, you’d driven to his house carrying homemade cookies you and your friends spent last night baking, his favorite drinks, and a stack of movies you thought might distract him. The Joe who answered the door was someone you barely recognized—pale, visibly exhausted with his right hand wrapped in a surgical case that made your stomach twist with sympathy.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, but stepped aside to let you in.

“I wanted to,” you assured, following him to the couch where he’d clearly camped out for days. “How are you feeling?” “Like shit,” he said bluntly, settling heavily into the cushions. “Four to six weeks recovery, minimum. Fall camp is basically over, and I missed all of it.” You tried to find the right words, some combination of sympathy and optimism that might help, but everything felt inadequate. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ll be back before the season really gets going—” “Will I?” The sharpness in his voice had made you flinch. “Haskins has been taking all the reps I should have been taking. By the time I’m cleared, he’ll have the backup spot locked down. Do you know what that means?” “It means I’ll be third string. Maybe fourth. It means I’ll spend the season holding a clipboard and watching other people play my position.” His jaw had clenched, and when he looked at you, his eyes were harder than you’d ever seen them. “How many years of work, and it’s probably over because of one stupid play in practice.”

The next few weeks were a careful dance around his moods. Joe, thankfully, softened somewhat after that first brutal conversation. He’d even apologized for being “a dick” when you were just trying to help. But the intimacy you’d built over the summer felt fragile now, strained under the weight of his frustration and the uncertainty of his future.

Classes were going full swing, and you’d thrown yourself into your coursework with determined focus. The professors were every bit as brutal as you’d feared, and between studying and trying to be supportive to Joe without being overwhelming, you felt stretched thin in such a way that left you exhausted by Friday evenings.

Joe was cleared for light practice two weeks ago, but you could see it in his face every time you asked about it—he was going through the motions, but the spark that had always defined him on the field was dimmed. He talked about football differently now, with a wariness that hadn’t been there before, like he was afraid to want it too much.

Now, watching him on the sideline as Ohio State dominates their opponent, you can see all of that frustration and disappointment written in the set of his shoulders. He’s not sulking—Joe would never sulk during a game—but you can see him balancing on the edge of something close to the sort.

“He looks good though,” McKenna offers, clearly trying to be positive. “I mean, healthy.” “Yeah,” you agree, though you’re not sure that’s entirely true. Physically, maybe. But the way he’s holding himself speaks to a different kind of injury, one that won’t heal as cleanly as broken bones. 

The crowd erupts around you as Ohio State scores another touchdown, but your eyes stay on Joe, willing him to look up into the stands, to find you somehow in the sea of scarlet and grey. He doesn’t, of course. He’s too professional for that, too focused on doing his job even when that job has been drastically reduced. 

But for just a moment, as the team celebrates around him, you see him glance toward the student section. It’s brief, probably meaningless, but you choose to believe he’s looking for you too. 

After the game, you text him: looked good out there. proud of you.

His response comes hours later, after you’ve already changed out of your game day clothes and started on your homework while your friends were out at some party. Thanks. Doing what I can.

October 15th, 2017

“—and I don’t want to hear excuses about being busy. Every other student manages to balance their coursework with preparing for the future. What makes you so special?” Your dad’s voice crackles through your phone speaker, sharp with the particular brand of disappointment you’ve grown up fearing. You’re sitting cross legged on your bed, homework spread around you like a defensive barrier, though it’s doing nothing to shield you from the familiar sting of his words.

“Dad, I know I should’ve applied already, but this semester has been really intense—” “Intense?” He cuts you off with a bitter laugh. “You think the real world cares if school is intense? You think employers are going to be impressed that you couldn’t handle basic time management as a student?” You close your eyes, pressing your fingers against your temple where a headache is building. Through your room window, you can see other students walking across campus in the October afternoon sun, looking carefree in a way that feels impossible foreign right now. “I’m not saying i couldn’t handle it, I’m just explaining—” “You’re making excuses. Just like with your grades last year. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was when Henderson asked how you were doing in school and I had to explain that my daughter was on academic probation?”

The words hit hard, and you have to bite your lip from saying something you’ll regret. You want to tell him about the sixty hour weeks you’ve been putting in this semester, about the study groups that run until midnight, about how you’ve been struggling to balance everything while also being there for Joe through what may be the worst period of his life.

But you can’t mention Joe—can’t explain that you’ve been splitting your emotional energy between organic chemistry and watching the person you care about most spiral into depression and self-doubt. 

Your dad would just see it as another excuse anyway. Another sign that you’re not serious about your future. “I’ll start applying this week,” you say finally, your voice smaller than you hoped. “I promise.”

“You’ll start applying today. And you’ll have at least five applications submitted by Friday, or we’re going to have a very different conversation about who’s paying for your education.” The threat hangs in the air like smoke, acrid and suffocating. You know he means it—your dad doesn’t make empty threats, especially when it comes to money and what he considers your lack of direction.

“Understood.”

“Good. And next time I call, I expect to hear about interviews. No more sob stories about how hard your classes are. Michael never had these problems.” Of course he brings up Michael. Perfect Michael with his perfect grades and his perfect internships and his perfect trajectory toward everything your father considers success. Michal, who’s never had to worry about academic probation or disappointing anyone because he was apparently born understanding exactly what was expected of him.

The line goes dead without a goodbye, leaving you staring at your phone screen in the sudden silence of your empty house. Around you, your homework waits patiently—chemical equations that need balancing, reaction mechanisms that need memorizing, problems that have clear answers if you just work hard enough to find them.

If only everything in life were as straightforward as organic chemistry.

You set your phone aside and try to refocus on your textbook but the words blur together as hot tears begin to well up in your eyes. The worst part isn’t even the lecture itself, it's the way your dad manages to make you feel like you’re fundamentally failing at life. Like every choice you make is evidence of some deep character flaw.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are making excuses. Maybe you should have applied for internships weeks ago instead of spending so much energy worrying about Joe. Maybe caring about someone else’s problems is just another form of procrastination, another way of avoiding your own responsibilities. 

The knock on your door startles you out of your spiral, and you quickly wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s probably McKenna coming back from her sociology seminar, or Ariella returning from her date with the latest guy she’s convinced is “the one.” Iris, though, is always the one who forgets her key.

“Coming,” you call, your voice only slightly hoarse as you climb off your bed and pad to the front door in your socked feet. But when you open it, Joe is standing in your doorway.

He’s looking better these days, still tired but more present. His hand is free of the bulky cast, replaced by a simple brace that allowed him more movement. He’s wearing an Ohio State long sleeve you always said looked good on him. 

For a moment, you stare at each other. You’re aware of how you must look—wearing shorts and an oversized shirt, eyes probably still red-rimmed from crying. He studies your face with careful attention you haven’t seen from him in months.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice so gentle it makes your throat tight with fresh tears.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, stepping back to let him in even though every instinct is telling you to close the door and deal with this alone. “Just family stuff. It's fine.”

Joe follows you inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “It doesn’t look fine.”

You’re already walking toward your bedroom, hoping he’ll take the hint and let it go, but you can hear his footsteps behind you on the hardwood floor. When you reach your room, you settle back onto your bed among the scattered homework, picking up your pen and pretending to focus.

“Seriously, it’s nothing,” you insist without looking up. “My dad being… you know. My dad.” Joe lingers in your doorway for a moment before stepping into your room properly and you can feel his eyes on you as you try to work. The numbers and letters on the page swim together, your brain too scattered to make sense of even the simplest reactions.

“You’ve been crying,” he observes, settling on the edge of your bed.

The mattress dips under your weight, and despite everything, you feel some of the tension in you ease at his proximity. It feels like it’s been so long since he’s been fully present like this. “I’m fine,” you repeat, but your voice cracks on the words, betraying you.

And that’s when you lose it.

The tears you’ve been fighting since the phone call spill over, hot and fast and completely beyond your control. Your pen slips from your fingers as your shoulders shake with suppressed sobs, and you press your hands into your face in a futile attempt to hold yourself together. 

“Hey,” Joe says softly, and then his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest in the first real embrace you’ve shared in months. “Hey, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay. Nothing feels okay. You’re drowning in school, your own dad thinks you’re a failure, you’ve been watching Joe struggle while feeling completely powerless to help, and now Jow is being kind to you for the first time in weeks and it’s making everything so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” you cry into him. “I’m such a mess right now.”

“You’re not a mess,” he assures, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs gentle circles on your back. “You’re just having a hard time. There’s a difference.”

The tenderness in his voice breaks something open in your chest, and suddenly all the words you’ve been holding back come tumbling out. You tell him about the phone call, about your dad’s threats and the internship applications you’ve been putting off.

You tell him about feeling overwhelmed by school and scared about the future and guilty for caring more about his problems than your own responsibilities.

Joe listens without judgement, without trying to fix anything, just holding you while you finally let yourself fall apart. When your tears eventually slow, he tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face raw with emotion. “I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I haven’t been there for you. That’s not fair.”

“You’ve been dealing with a lot—”

“So have you,” he interrupts. “And I should have noticed. I should have been paying attention.”

There’s a bit of silence where you just look at each other, and you can feel something changing, some wall that’s been up since his injury finally crumbling. “I missed you,” the admission slips out before you can stop it.

“I missed you too,” he says, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “So fucking much.”

And then he’s kissing you, soft and esperate and full of months of pent up longing. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all your frustration and fear and love into the connection between your mouths. 

What happens next feels inevitable, like the natural conclusion to these past months of building tension and denied feelings. Joe’s hands frame your face as he kisses you deeper, and when you tug at the hem of his shirt, he helps you pull it over his head. 

Your homework scatters to the floor as he lays you back against your pillows, forgotten in favor of the feeling of his skin against yours, the weight of him above you, the way he looks at you.

His mouth drags over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth that sinks deep into your bones. You whisper out his name when his hips press down, the thick line of him already hardening against your thigh through your thin sleep shorts.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your skin. “I’ve thought about this every night,” his voice is rough and almost disbelieving. “You know that?”

You shake your head, and he licks his lips. “That night… in the truck. When you—” His eyes flick down your body, a dark flush rising up his neck. “Went home and fucked my hand so many times to the thought of you like that. Been living on that memory for months."

Your breath catches, a bolt of heat shoots through your belly at the admission. You close your eyes and picture the image of him alone in his room, desperate for you.

You pull him down by the back of his neck, kiss him with everything you’re feeling—the missing, the anger, the apology, the wanting that’s never gone away.

His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up, and you raise your arms to let him take it off. The moment you’re bare to him, he drags his mouth down your chest, kissing the soft swell of your breast before sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue warm and eager.

Your back arches. You feel dizzy with how much you want him, how much you want this to mean something. “Joe… please,” you breathe out, the word slipping from you like a secret. You rock your hips up into him and he groans, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

He pulls back, eyes blown wide, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “You sure?” he rasps. “Baby, you tell me now—”

“I’m sure,” you say without hesitation, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “I want you. I’ve wanted you.”

Joe kisses you so deeply you feel it in your stomach, one big hand trailing down to slip under the elastic of your shorts, pushing them down your hips. You squirm out of them, all clumsy and breathless, and when you’re finally bare, he pauses and looks at you. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, stroking a hand up your thigh, spreading you open for him. “So perfect.”

You whimper when his fingers slide through your folds, finding you already soaked for him. His forehead drops to yours, “god, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Laughing shakily, you thread your fingers through his hair. “You’ve already ruined me.”

His answering smile is small, crooked, almost shy. Then he’s tugging his pants down enough to free himself, and your eyes widen at the sight of him—thick, flushed, the head wet where it presses against your thigh.

He strokes himself once, twice, your slick coating his hand, before lining up with you. The tip nudges your entrance and you tense, hips rolling forward instinctively. “Breathe for me, baby,” Joe soothes, voice gone soft.

He kisses you through the stretch as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. It’s nearly too much—the burn, the way he fills you so completely. Your nails bite into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Good girl… that’s it. Doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

When he bottoms out, your whole body trembles. You feel him everywhere, inside you, over you, in every frantic heartbeat that drums behind your ribs. 

You open your eyes to find him already watching you, gaze molten and tender all at once. His thumb brushes against your cheek again like he needs to make sure you’re real. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Want you to remember this.”

He pulls back, the drag of him sending a shockwave through your core, then rocks back in, slow at first, testing the give of you, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.

Your hips roll up to meet him, desperate for more friction, and Joe lets out a broken sound that goes straight to your core. He braces one hand behind your knee, pressing it up toward your chest you open you wider, sink deeper. 

“You feel so good,” he groans. “Been losing my mind thinking about this. About out.” “Me too,” you whimper, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop, Joe, Please—”

“I’m not stopping,” he vows, fucking into you harder, the headboard knocking against the wall with each trust. “Never would.”

Your whole body coils tight, pleasure winding sharp and sweet inside you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his pace growing rougher as your name falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when you come—when it finally breaks—you clutch at him like you’ll drown in it without him, his hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge, buried so deep you swear you feel him in your throat. 

Afterward, he doesn’t move right away, but before he does, he reaches for your right hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the small star etched into your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours.

November 28th, 2017

November had been a month of almosts. Almost like the summer you’d fallen in love with. Almost the way things used to feel between you and Joe. Almost enough to convince yourself that October had been the turning point you’d hoped for.

But almosts weren’t quite enough, and you spent the past few weeks existing in the uncomfortable space between hope and disappointment, never quite sure which Joe would show up when you were together. The good days were really good. Joe would pick you up from his afternoon classes, drive you to get coffee at that place near campus you both loved, and for an hour or two, it would feel like summer again.

He’d listen to you talk about your struggles with classes, ask follow up questions about your professors, steal bites of whatever pastry you’d ordered while pretending he didn’t want his own. Those moments felt like proof that whatever changed between you could change back, that the connection you built wasn't completely lost.

But then Saturday would roll around, and you’d be reminded that football was still the thing that defined Joe’s emotional state. Game days brought out a version of him that was sharp edged and distant, focused entirely on what was happening on the field. You learned to give him space on those days, to not take it personally when he barely responded to your texts or when his kisses felt more perfunctory rather than passionate.

He was better than he had been the past couple of months—less prone to the kind of bitter comments that had stung so badly at Derek’s—but there was still something guarded about him that hadn’t been there during those perfect summer weeks.

The weekend you’d gone home to visit your family had crystallized in your confusion in a way that left you more unsettled than before. You’d been complaining about having to make the drive alone, how they’d ask why you looked so tired, whether you were taking care of yourself, when Joe looked up from the textbook he was reading.

“I could come with you,” he said casually like he was suggesting grabbing lunch rather than meeting your family. “Might be fun to see where you grew up.”

You stared at him, completely blindsided by the suggestion. Meeting family felt like a relationship milestone, the kind of thing people did when they were serious about each other, when they were ready to integrate their lives in meaningful ways.

But the way Joe said it, so offhandedly without any apparent awareness of the significance—had left you completely unsure whether he was joking or not.

“You want to meet my family?” 

“Sure, why not?”

The comment left you spending the entire three hour drive home and whole weekend analyzing his tone, trying to figure out if he was serious. Did he want to meet your family because he saw a future with you, or was he just being friendly? Was this his way of telling you he was ready to take things to the next level, or had it genuinely been a throwaway comment with no deeper meaning? You returned to campus more confused than when you left, and when Joe asked how the weekend went, you were too embarrassed to bring up his offer again. 

Then, there were the mysterious absences. Three different times this month, Joe had cancelled plans with vague explanations about “meetings” or “taking care of some stuff.” When you asked for details, he’d been evasive in a way that wasn’t quite suspicious but wasn’t entirely reassuring either. 

“Just meeting with some people,” he claimed when you pressed him about missing your study date the previous Tuesday. “Nothing interesting.” But Joe’s definition of “not interesting” was usually things like mandatory team meetings or academic advisory check-ins—things he’d normally complain about in detail. The fact that he was being so deliberately vague made you wonder if something bigger was going on, something he didn’t want to share with you.

Maybe it was nothing, maybe you were reading too much into normal college guy behavior, letting your own insecurities turn innocent omissions into evidence of him pulling away. But the doubt had taken root anyway, adding another layer of uncertainty to everything between you.

Through it all, you'd been trying to navigate the increasingly demanding second half of the semester. Organic chemistry had somehow gotten even more brutal, and you'd been spending most of your free time in the library, surrounded by reaction mechanisms and molecular structures. 

The internship applications your dad had threatened you about were finally submitted, but the constant pressure to stay on top of everything academic while also trying to figure out your relationship with Joe was exhausting in a way that left you drained by the end of each day.

Now, sitting at your desk trying to make sense of a particularly complex synthesis problem, you feel that familiar weight settling in your chest. The late afternoon light is already fading outside your room window, and you have a stats problem set due tomorrow that you haven't even started.

You're so absorbed in the chemical equation in front of you that the knock on your door makes you jump. McKenna and Iris are both at work, and Ariella is at her boyfriend’s place, so you're not expecting anyone. For a moment, you consider ignoring it entirely—you really need to finish this homework, and unexpected visitors rarely bring good news.

But the knocking comes again, more insistent this time, and you reluctantly push back from your desk.

Joe is standing in your doorway holding a bouquet of wildflowers—the same mix of sunflowers, daisies, and those little purple flowers whose names you never learned that he used to buy you every week at the farmers market. They're slightly wilted around the edges, clearly picked up at the end of a long day, but they're beautiful in the imperfect way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," he says, and there's something almost shy about his expression, like he's not entirely sure how this gesture will be received.

"Hi," you echo, stepping aside to let him in. "What's this for?"

"Last farmers market of the year was today," he explains, following you toward your room. "Figured you might want these."

The simple explanation warms you. You'd completely forgotten that the farmers market season was ending, had been so caught up in homework and relationship uncertainty that you'd lost track of the small rhythms that had once structured your weeks with Joe. But he'd remembered. He'd gone without you, had thought to buy the same flowers he always bought you, had shown up at your door because he knew it would matter to you.

"You went without me?" you ask, settling onto your bed and watching as he sets the flowers on your nightstand with careful attention.

"You've been swamped with that organic chemistry stuff," he says, sitting down beside you. "Didn't want to bother you."

It’s like he's trying not to make you feel guilty for being busy, but also maybe like he's gotten used to doing things alone that you used to do together.

"You should have told me," you say softly. "I would have made time."

Joe looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment his expression is so open and vulnerable that it takes your breath away. "I wanted to surprise you," he admits.

He leans over and kisses you then, gentle and sweet and tasting like the promise of better days ahead. When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing in a gesture that feels both familiar and new.

"I have about an hour before I need to get back for team dinner," he says. "Want to put these in water and tell me about your chemistry homework?"

You laugh, surprising yourself with how natural it feels. "It's organic chemistry, and it's terrible, and you're going to be so bored."

"Try me," he says, and for the first time in weeks, it feels like maybe he really means it.

As you get up to find a vase for the flowers, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your dresser. You look happier than you have in days, lighter somehow, and you realize that maybe Joe was right. Maybe this—the flowers, the honesty, the simple act of showing up—was exactly what you both needed.

December 17th, 2017

Can I come help with Christmas shopping tomorrow? Joe's text had come through the night before, when you were sprawled on your childhood bed dreading the inevitable mall chaos.

you want to drive 3 hours to go Christmas shopping? you'd texted back.

I want to spend the day with you. The shopping is just an excuse.

You'd fallen asleep smiling at your phone, and this morning you actually put effort into getting ready, choosing your favorite jeans and the sweater that makes your eyes look brighter. Your dad had left for work an hour ago, giving you a pointed look and reminding you that he'd be home by five.

Joe arrives right on time, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a white hoodie, carrying two coffee cups and wearing that slightly nervous smile that means he's more invested in this going well than he's letting on.

"You actually came," you say, stepping outside and accepting the coffee that you know without looking will be exactly how you like it.

"Told you I would," he says, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "Ready to fight some crowds?"

Joe follows you through store after store with the patience of a saint, offering opinions when asked and staying diplomatically quiet when you're clearly overthinking things. At Williams Sonoma, he finds the perfect grilling set for your dad without you even having to explain what you're looking for.

"How did you know?" you ask, watching him examine the stainless steel tools with the kind of confidence that suggests he actually knows what he's talking about.

"My dad's got the same setup at home," Joe says. "Guys love this stuff. Makes them feel professional."

He insists on carrying all your bags, even when you protest that you can handle them yourself. At Bath & Body Works, he patiently waits while you agonize over scent combinations for your cousin, occasionally making comments that are surprisingly helpful for someone who probably hasn't set foot in the store before today.

"This one," he says, picking up a lotion. "Smells like you."

The observation makes your cheeks warm, especially when you realize he's right—it is similar to the perfume you usually wear.

Lunch is at the food court, which should feel like a strange place for what's essentially a date, but somehow doesn't. Joe seems genuinely interested in your stories about growing up here, about the summer job your dad made you get at the pretzel stand when you were sixteen, about the movie theater where you had your first kiss with Tommy Martinez in eighth grade.

"Should I be jealous of Tommy Martinez?" he asks, stealing one of your french fries.

"Probably not. He had braces and tasted like popcorn."

"Good to know I'm an improvement."

The afternoon continues in the same easy rhythm. Joe helps you pick out a scarf for your aunt, talks you out of buying the obviously overpriced earrings you're considering for your cousin, and somehow makes waiting in the endless gift-wrapping lines feel less like torture and more like an excuse to stand close to him while Christmas music plays overhead.

"Thank you," you say as you walk back to his truck, arms full of perfectly wrapped presents and shopping bags. "For driving all the way here just to help me shop for people you don't even know."

"I wanted to see where you grew up," Joe says, loading the bags into his truck bed with careful attention. "And I like doing things like this with you. Normal stuff."

The word 'normal' hits you in a way you don't expect. Because this does feel normal, domestic in the best possible way. Like something you could get used to doing together.

The drive back to your house is quiet and comfortable, Joe's hand finds yours across the center console while some Christmas song plays softly on the radio. The winter sun is already starting to set, casting everything in that golden light that makes even the suburbs of your hometown look magical.

"My dad might be home," you say as Joe parks in your driveway. 

"Is he going to give me the intimidating father talk?" Joe asks, but he's smiling like the prospect doesn't really worry him.

"Probably just the intimidating father stare," you say. "He's not much for talking."

Joe gathers your shopping bags from the truck bed, insisting on carrying them even though you could manage them yourself. You're still protesting when you open the front door and freeze.

Your dad is sitting at the dining room table, but he's not alone. Michael is there too, along with his fiancée Sarah, all of them looking up as you walk in with Joe behind you carrying an armload of shopping bags.

"Hey," you say awkwardly.

Your dad's expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the way his eyes take in Joe's presence, the shopping bags, the obvious fact that you've spent the entire day together. There's something in his posture that reminds you of every lecture you've ever gotten about focusing on your future instead of getting distracted by boys.

"Dad, this is Joe," you say, stepping aside so Joe can set the bags down. "Joe, this is my dad. And my brother Michael and his fiancé Sarah."

Joe steps forward with the kind of confident politeness that you know comes from years of meeting coaches and boosters and other people whose opinions matter. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad stands up and shakes Joe's hand, his grip probably firmer than necessary, his expression giving away nothing. "Joe."

"And you must be Michael," Joe continues, turning to your brother. "Congratulations on the engagement."

"Thanks," Michael says, and you can see the moment he makes the connection. "Wait, Joe Burrow? Ohio State football?"

Something changes in Joe's expression, a subtle shift that you probably wouldn't notice if you hadn't been watching him so closely. "Yeah," he says quietly.

"That's awesome, man. You have plans for next season? I heard this one wasn’t the one for you."

The question hangs in the air, and you watch as Joe goes slightly pale, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "I'm not sure yet," he says, his voice carefully even. "Still figuring things out."

There's something in his tone that suggests this is territory he doesn't want to explore, and you feel a sudden protective urge to change the subject. But before you can say anything, your dad speaks up.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Joe," he says, his tone polite but distant. "I assume you'll be heading back home soon."

It's not quite a dismissal, but it's close enough that you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Joe, to his credit, doesn't seem fazed.

"Yes sir, probably in the next hour or so. Don't want to drive too late."

The conversation continues for a few more awkward minutes, your dad asking polite but pointed questions about Joe's major and his plans after graduation, Michael making small talk about football that seems to make Joe increasingly uncomfortable. 

Finally, mercifully, Joe glances at his watch and announces that he should probably get going.

"I'll walk you out," you say quickly, grabbing your coat and following him outside before anyone can object.

The December air is sharp and cold, but it feels like a relief after the tension of your family's dining room. "That was fun," he says dryly, but he's smiling in a way that suggests he's not entirely put off by the experience.

"My dad's just protective," you say, even though you know it was more than that. "And Michael... he doesn't really know when to stop asking questions."

"It's fine," Joe says, but you can see something thoughtful in his expression, like he's processing more than he's saying.

"Are you okay? About the football stuff, I mean. You seemed—"

"I'm fine," Joe cuts you off gently, but firmly. "Just not really something I want to get into right now, you know?"

You nod, even though you have a dozen more questions you want to ask. Instead, you step closer to him, close enough that you can see your breath mingling in the cold air.

"Thank you for today," you say softly. "For driving all the way here, for helping me shop, for being so patient with my family. It was perfect."

"Even the awkward dinner table interrogation?"

"Especially that," you say, and when he laughs, the sound makes something warm bloom in your chest despite the cold.

Joe reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "I had a really good day," he says. "I like seeing you here. In your space."

"I like having you here."

He leans down and kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting like the hot chocolate you shared at the mall. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.

"Drive safe," you whisper.

"Always do," he says, stepping back toward his truck. "Text me when you get the rest of those presents wrapped."

"That's going to be a very late text."

"I'll wait up."

January 18th, 2018

The coffee shop near campus buzzes with the familiar energy of the first full week back from winter break—students catching up on holiday stories, comparing spring schedules, and settling back into the rhythm of campus life. You're sitting at your usual table by the window, the one that gets good sunlight, watching for Joe through the glass while absently scrolling through your phone.

The past week has been a whirlwind of syllabus collection and textbook purchasing. Your schedule is packed this time—organic chemistry II, advanced statistics, two psychology electives, and the internship seminar that goes along with the position you'd finally landed over break. The internship your dad had been pushing you toward since sophomore year.

When you'd gotten the acceptance email three days after New Year's, you'd immediately thought about telling Joe. Not just because it was good news, but because it felt like the kind of thing you'd want to share with someone who understood how much pressure you'd been under.

Joe pushes through the coffee shop door at exactly two-thirty, scanning the crowded space until his eyes find yours. He's wearing the navy blue henley you bought him for Christmas, the one that makes his eyes look even more blue than usual, and his hair is slightly messy from the January wind. When he spots you, his face breaks into a genuine smile, and for a moment it feels exactly like it used to—like summer, like possibility, like everything is exactly as it should be.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the chair across from you and shrugging out of his jacket. "Sorry, meeting ran long. Coach is really pushing hard this off-season."

"It's fine," you say, and you mean it. You've learned to build extra time into any plans involving Joe and football. "I ordered for you—medium black coffee with one sugar. That's still right, isn't it?"

"Perfect," he says, and the grateful look he gives you makes something warm bloom in your chest. 

You talk easily about surface things at first—smaller details about your respective winter breaks went, complaints about professors who assigned textbooks that cost more than your monthly grocery budget, the way campus feels different in January with all the fresh snow and new semester energy. 

Joe tells you about the team's winter conditioning program, about Derek's New Year's party that apparently got so out of hand the neighbors called the police, about his mom's attempts to feed him enough food over break to last the entire spring semester.

"She sent me back with like six containers of leftovers," he says, laughing. "I'm pretty sure she thinks the dining halls are trying to starve me."

"Moms are like that," you say, thinking about how your own dad had lectured you about eating enough vegetables.

There's a natural lull in the conversation, and you find yourself fidgeting with your coffee cup, turning it in slow circles on the table. The news about your internship feels too big to keep to yourself, but you're also nervous about how Joe will react. Not because you think he won't be happy for you, but because good news sometimes highlights the uncertain areas of your own life, and you're not sure where Joe fits into your post-graduation plans.

"I got some good news over break," you say finally, unable to contain your excitement any longer. "Remember that internship I applied for? The one downtown? They offered me a position for this summer."

Joe's face lights up immediately, genuinely pleased in a way that makes your chest tight with affection. "That's amazing! I know how much you wanted that one. Your dad must be thrilled."

"Oh, he's practically planning the celebration dinner already," you say with a laugh. "I think he's more excited than I am. He keeps talking about how it's going to 'open doors' and 'set me up for success after graduation.'"

"He's probably right," Joe says, stirring his coffee even though he hasn't added anything to it. "That's a really big deal. Competitive program, right?"

"Super competitive. I honestly didn't think I'd get it." You pause, watching his face carefully. "It's going to be a lot of work on top of classes this semester, but it feels like the right move. You know, getting serious about what comes after all this."

You let the comment hang in the air, not quite a question but definitely an opening. A door that invites someone to share their own thoughts about the future, their own plans for what comes after graduation. You find yourself holding your breath slightly, waiting to see if Joe will walk through it.

But he doesn't. Instead, he takes a long sip of his coffee and nods thoughtfully. "That's really great. You're going to be amazing at it."

The moment passes, and you feel smaller. Full of not disappointment, exactly, but something like it.

"Thanks," you say, trying to keep the moment light. "I'm nervous, but excited. It feels good to have something concrete lined up, you know?"

"Absolutely," Joe agrees, but there's something in his tone that suggests the conversation is closed, that he's not going to offer up any information about his own post-grad thoughts.

You pivot to safer topics after that—asking about his classes this semester, listening to him describe the new playbook they're learning, sharing your own fears about organic chemistry II and whether you'll be able to handle the increased workload.

Joe seems more careful with his words than usual, more measured in a way that feels unlike the easy openness you'd grown accustomed to over the past months. He's present and engaged, asking questions about your classes and laughing at your stories about your roommates' various winter break adventures, but there's something held back in his responses, some part of himself that feels guarded.

When he asks about your Christmas shopping purchases and whether your family liked everything you picked out, you tell him about your dad's reaction to the grilling set, about how your aunt had called to thank you for the scarf you'd chosen. The conversation feels comfortable and familiar, but you notice that Joe doesn't bring up meeting your family, doesn't reference that day in the same warm, nostalgic way you'd expected.

Maybe you're overthinking it. Maybe the semester starting has just put him back in football mode, made him more focused on the immediate demands of school and athletics. Maybe the distance you're sensing isn't distance at all, just the natural adjustment period that comes with transitioning back to busy schedules and competing priorities.

An hour passes easily, and when Joe glances at the time and mentions that he should probably head back, you do feel a pang of disappointment this time. 

"I should get going too," you say, gathering your jacket. "Professor Williams wants us to have the first three chapters read before class tomorrow."

"Already kicking your ass?" Joe asks with a grin, standing up and helping you organize your things.

"Oh, absolutely. I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend the next four months feeling like I'm drowning."

"You're not going to drown," Joe says with the kind of confidence that makes you believe him. "You're too stubborn to let some class beat you."

Outside the coffee shop, the weather is the sort that makes you want to walk fast and get indoors as quickly as possible. Joe walks you to your car, carrying your bag without being asked, and when you reach your driver's side door, he pulls you into a hug.

"It's good to see you," he says into your hair, and the warmth in his voice makes something loosen in your chest. "I missed this. Just talking."

"Me too," you say, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the cold winter air. "We should do this more often. Regular coffee dates."

"I'd like that," Joe says, pulling back to look at you. He kisses you goodbye, soft and sweet and tasting like coffee, and when he pulls away, his hand lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary.

"Drive safe," he says, stepping back so you can get in your car.

"Always do," you reply, echoing the exchange that's become routine between you.

As you drive back to campus, you find yourself thinking about the afternoon, trying to parse the feeling that something was slightly off without being able to identify what exactly it was. 

You push the thought away as you climb the stairs to your room. Whatever it is, it's probably nothing that can't be worked through with time and patience. After all, you've navigated harder things together—his injury, the pressures of football season, the complicated dynamics of balancing school with whatever this relationship is becoming.

Some things just take time to settle, you tell yourself. Some conversations happen when they're ready to happen, not when you're ready to have them.

March 25th, 2018

The sunlight filtering through Joe’s room window has that wishful quality that only comes in late March, when winter is finally loosening its grip and spring feels like a real possibility rather than just a distant promise. You're curled up against him on his couch, your legs tangled with his, both of you supposedly studying but really just enjoying the quiet comfort of being together.

Your textbook lies open but mostly ignored in your lap while Joe scrolls through something on his laptop—film study, probably, or maybe just checking his email. The past few weeks have settled into a rhythm that feels both familiar and slightly strained, like a song played in a key that's almost but not quite right.

Spring break had come and gone with both of you staying in town—you because your internship required you to start early, Joe because of other obligations. You'd spent most of that week together, falling back into some semblance of the easy intimacy you'd shared during the summer, but even then, there had been moments when you'd catch him staring off into space with an expression you couldn't dissect.

Now, with graduation looming just six weeks away, the campus has taken on that particular energy that comes at the end of senior year—a mixture of nostalgia, anxiety, and excited anticipation that makes everything feel both urgent and dreamlike. Your friends have been talking nonstop about post-graduation plans, about job offers and graduate school applications and the terrifying prospect of real adulthood.

"McKenna got that job in Chicago," you say, breaking the silence that had settled between you. "The one at the nonprofit she was hoping for. She's already looking at apartments."

"That's great," Joe says, glancing up from his laptop screen. "She'll love Chicago. Big city, lots to do."

"Yeah, she's really excited. Says she's ready to get out of Ohio, try something completely different." You pause, turning a page in your textbook without really seeing the words. "Iris is probably moving back home to Cleveland. Her mom's been on her about staying close to family."

Joe makes a noncommittal humming sound. You've been noticing that lately—the way he deflects conversations about the future, changes the subject when talk turns to post-graduation plans.

"What about you?" you ask, trying to keep your tone casual even though the question feels heavier than it should. "Have you figured out what you want to do after graduation?"

The question hangs in the air between you, and you feel Joe's body tense slightly against yours. He doesn't look up from his laptop immediately, and when he does, there's something carefully neutral about his expression.

"Oh, you know me," he says with a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll probably just wing it. See what happens."

The deflection is so obviously a deflection that it makes your chest tighten with frustration. You've been together for almost a year now, have shared things with each other that you've never told anyone else, and yet when it comes to something as basic as his plans for the immediate future, he's treating you like a casual acquaintance.

"Come on," you say, shifting so you can look at him directly. "I'm serious. You have to have some idea. Are you going to try to stay in Ohio? Look for jobs here? I mean, we're graduating in six weeks."

Joe closes his laptop and sets it aside, but instead of meeting your eyes, he focuses on the coffee table in front of him. "I don't know," he says finally. "There are a lot of variables. Football stuff, you know? It's complicated."

"What kind of football stuff?" you press, because this vague non-answer feels worse than no answer at all. "Are you thinking about a corporate job somewhere? Or coaching? You've never really talked about what you want to do after college."

"Because I don't know," Joe says, and there's an edge to his voice now that makes you pull back slightly. "I don't have some grand plan mapped out, okay? Some of us can't just land the perfect internship and have everything figured out."

The comment stings more than it should, especially because you know he doesn't mean it the way it sounds. Your internship hasn't been perfect—it's been demanding and stressful and has made this semester feel like you're constantly playing catch-up. But more than that, his deflection hurts because it feels like a wall going up between you, a barrier that keeps you from accessing the part of him that used to feel completely open to you.

"I don't have everything figured out," you say quietly. "I'm just as scared as everyone else about what comes next. But I thought... I thought we could talk about it. Together."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you've learned to recognize as a sign that he's frustrated or feeling cornered. "Look, can we just not do this right now? I've got enough pressure from coaches and advisors and everyone else asking about my plans. I don't need it from you too."

The words hit like a slap, and you feel your face flush with a combination of hurt and embarrassment. You're not "everyone else"—you're supposed to be the person he can talk to about the things that worry him, the person who understands the pressure he's under better than anyone.

"I'm not pressuring you," you say, pulling your legs up and wrapping your arms around your knees. "I'm trying to have a conversation about our futures. That's what people in relationships do."

"Are we in a relationship?" Joe asks, and the question is so unexpected, so blindsiding, that for a moment you can't find words to respond.

"What do you mean?" you finally manage, your voice smaller than you intended.

Joe immediately looks stricken, like he can't believe he just said what he said. "Shit, I didn't... that came out wrong. I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it?"

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured in a way that feels rehearsed. "I just meant that we've never really defined what this is. And with graduation coming up, with everything changing... maybe it's better to not make assumptions about what happens next."

The rational part of your brain understands what he's saying. You have never officially defined your relationship, have never had the "what are we" conversation that turns casual dating into something more serious. But the emotional part of you is reeling from the suggestion that almost a year of shared moments, of him meeting your family, of matching tattoos and late-night conversations and sex, might not mean what you thought it meant.

"So what are we then?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds despite the chaos in your chest. "What would you call this?"

Joe meets your eyes for the first time since the conversation started, and the expression you see there is so conflicted, so full of something that looks like pain.

Did it pain him to think about this?

"I don't know," he says quietly. "I wish I did, but I don't know."

The honesty in his voice is almost worse than the deflection had been. At least when he was being evasive, you could tell yourself that he was just being private, just processing things in his own way. But this admission—that after everything you've shared, he genuinely doesn't know what you are to each other—feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet.

You sit in silence for several minutes, both of you staring at different points in the room, both of you clearly trying to figure out what to say next. The evening light has faded to dusk while you've been talking, and Joe's room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have moved closer together.

"I should probably go," you say finally, closing your textbook and gathering your things. "I have that paper due tomorrow anyway."

"You don't have to leave," Joe says, but there's no real conviction in his voice. "We can just... watch a movie or something. Forget about all this."

"I think I need some space to think," you say, standing up and slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "About what you said. About what this is."

Joe stands too, following you toward the door with the kind of careful distance that suggests he's not sure whether you want him close or far away. "I really didn't mean for it to come out like that," he says as you reach for your jacket. "About the relationship thing. That was... I was being an idiot."

"Were you though?" you ask, pausing with your hand on the doorknob. "Because maybe you're right. Maybe we have been making assumptions."

"Don't do this," Joe says, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. "Don't let one stupid conversation mess up everything good between us."

"I'm not trying to mess anything up," you say, turning to face him. "I'm just trying to understand what we're doing here. What we've been doing for the past year."

Joe steps closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the laundry detergent you've learned to associate with comfort and safety.

"What we've been doing is being happy," he says softly. "At least, I've been happy. Haven't you?"

The question breaks something open in you, because yes, you have been happy. Happier than you've ever been with anyone, happier than you knew was possible. But happiness without direction, without some sense of where it's leading, feels suddenly fragile in a way that scares you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I have been happy."

"Then why does everything else have to matter right now?" Joe asks, reaching up to cup your cheek. "Why can't we just be happy?"

You lean into his touch despite yourself, closing your eyes and trying to memorize the feeling of his palm against your skin. "Because eventually everything else does matter," you say. "Because we're graduating in six weeks, and I don't know if you're going to be here next year, and I don't know what that means for us."

"We'll figure it out," Joe says, but even he doesn't sound convinced. "Whatever happens, we'll figure it out."

You want to believe him. You want to sink into the comfort of his touch and the familiar warmth of his voice and let tomorrow worry about itself. But something has shifted tonight, some fundamental understanding about what you mean to each other and what kind of future you're building together.

"I hope so," you say, pulling away from his touch and opening the door. "I really hope so."

The drive back to your house feels longer than usual, and you spend most of it replaying the conversation in your mind, trying to figure out where exactly things went wrong. By the time you're climbing the stairs to your room, you're no closer to understanding what just happened, but you're absolutely certain that something important has changed between you and Joe.

Something that you're not sure can be unchanged, no matter how much you both might want it to be.

May 8th, 2018

The organic chemistry textbook in front of you might as well be written in a different language for all the sense it's making right now. You've been staring at the same page about molecular orbital theory for the past twenty minutes, your brain too fried from three consecutive days of studying to absorb any new information. 

Finals week is in full swing, and your room has taken on the chaotic appearance of someone who's given up on maintaining any semblance of organization in favor of pure academic survival.

Coffee cups in various stages of emptiness sit scattered across your desk alongside highlighters, note cards, and the remnants of the granola bar you'd optimistically thought would count as lunch. Your roommates are similarly buried in their own academic disasters—McKenna camped out in the library for her senior thesis defense prep, Iris stress-eating her way through a statistics final, and Ariella having what she calls a "controlled breakdown" over her capstone project in the room next door.

You reach for your phone, telling yourself you're just checking the time but really looking for any excuse to avoid thinking about molecular orbitals for another few minutes. The blue light of the screen makes you blink as you scroll aimlessly through social media, your thumb moving automatically through the endless stream of posts about finals stress, summer excitement, and graduation countdown posts.

That's when you see it.

@JoeyB has posted a new tweet, and your heart does that automatic little flutter it always does when you see his name pop up unexpectedly. You and Joe have been in a weird place since that conversation at his apartment in March—still talking, still hanging out occasionally with friend groups or meeting for coffee, but everything feels more careful now, more surface-level. You've been existing in that strange space where you're not quite together but not exactly apart either, having pleasant conversations about classes and finals while carefully avoiding anything deeper.

Just last week you'd run into him at the campus coffee shop and ended up sitting together for an hour, talking in the cautious way of two people who used to share everything but now aren't sure what's safe territory. It had been nice, comfortable even, and you'd left feeling like maybe you were both finding your way back to some version of friendship, even if the romantic uncertainty remained unresolved.

You tap on the tweet without thinking, expecting maybe a joke about finals or a complaint about spring practice. Instead, you find yourself staring at words that don't immediately make sense, like your brain is refusing to process their meaning.

Excited to be playing in Death Valley next season. Ready to get to work.

You read it once. Twice. Three times, each pass making the words feel more surreal and impossible. There's a photo attached—Joe in an LSU baseball cap, grinning at the camera with the kind of genuine excitement you haven't seen from him in months. He looks happy. Genuinely, unreservedly happy in a way that makes something cold and sharp twist in your stomach.

Death Valley. LSU. A thousand miles away from Ohio. Joe is leaving—not just Ohio State, but you too. And you’re finding out like any random stranger on Twitter.

Your phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto your desk with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet of your room. The molecular orbital diagrams blur together as your eyes fill with tears you don't remember starting to cry, and for a moment you can't breathe around the weight of what you've just learned.

He's leaving. Joe is leaving Ohio State, leaving Ohio, leaving everything and everyone here, and he didn't tell you. After a year of shared secrets and matching tattoos and nights spent talking about everything and nothing, after meeting your family and driving three hours just to help you Christmas shop, after spending endless nights together and promising that you'd figure things out together—after all of that, you found out about the most important decision of his life the same way a stranger would.

The betrayal hits you hard, settling in your chest and making it hard to draw a full breath. You think about all those conversations over the past few months, all the times you'd asked about his plans and he'd deflected or changed the subject or gotten defensive about the pressure he was under. You think about that horrible night in March when he'd asked if you were even in a relationship, the way he'd looked so conflicted and pained when you'd pushed him for answers about what you meant to each other.

Now you understand. He'd looked conflicted because he was lying to your face. He'd been pained because he already knew he was leaving and was apparently too much of a coward to tell you.

Your laptop dings with a notification, probably another email about finals scheduling or graduation ceremony details, but you can't bring yourself to look at it. Instead, you find yourself opening your text conversation with Joe, scrolling back through months of messages that now feel like evidence of your own naivety.

how was practice? you'd texted three days ago.

Long but good, he'd replied. Hope your studying is going well.

Such a normal, friendly exchange.

The worst part—worse than the public humiliation of finding out via Twitter, worse than the months of lies and deflection—is the silence that follows. 

You keep waiting for your phone to buzz with a text from Joe, some kind of explanation or apology or acknowledgment that maybe he should have told you about this directly. 

You wait through the rest of Tuesday afternoon, checking your phone compulsively between half-hearted attempts to study. 

You wait through Wednesday, telling yourself that maybe he's been busy with transfer paperwork or family calls or any of the dozen legitimate reasons someone might have for not immediately reaching out to the girl they've been sort-of dating for a year.

By Thursday, the waiting has transformed into something else entirely. A cold, clear understanding that settles in your chest like ice water. Joe isn’t going to call. Or text. Or explain. The silence is your answer.

The silence isn't an oversight or a moment of thoughtlessness. It's deliberate. It's his answer to every question you've asked about your relationship over the past few months, his response to your concerns about the future and what you mean to each other.

You don't mean enough to him to warrant a conversation about his decision. You never did.

Thursday night, you finally allow yourself to truly process what this all means. Joe has been planning this for months—you can tell from the professional quality of the announcement, from the way the LSU athletics Twitter account immediately reposted his message with what's clearly prepared graphics and welcome statements. This isn't a last-minute decision made in response to some sudden opportunity. This is something he's been working toward, probably since winter break, definitely since before that conversation in March when you'd asked about his plans and he'd gotten defensive about pressure.

He's been lying to you for months. Not just avoiding difficult conversations or being private about his thought process, but actively deceiving you about his intentions and his future. Every time you'd brought up graduation plans, every time you'd tried to talk about what came next for both of you, he'd been sitting on this secret, letting you wonder and worry and make assumptions about a future that he already knew wasn't going to include you.

The tattoo on your wrist feels like it's burning. 

Finals week continues around you in a blur of stress and exhaustion and the kind of forced normalcy that comes from having to function when your personal life has imploded. You take your organic chemistry exam and your statistics final and your psychology research methods test, going through the motions of being a student while feeling like you're watching your life from a distance.

Your phone never buzzes with Joe's name. He never calls to explain, never texts to apologize, never even sends one of those awkward "hey, I know this is weird but I wanted you to hear this from me" messages that would at least acknowledge that you were once important enough to warrant direct communication.

The silence is its own answer. 

Sunday night, a week after the initial tweet, you finally allow yourself to feel the full weight of what's happened. Not just that Joe is leaving—though that hurts more than you want to admit—but that he apparently never considered you significant enough to deserve honesty about his plans. 

While you were falling in love with him, building your sense of future around the possibility of him being in it, he was planning his exit strategy and never once thought to include you in that conversation.

You cry harder than you have since you were a child, the kind of sobbing that leaves you exhausted and hollow and strangely empty. And then, finally, you delete his number from your phone.

Not because you're angry, though you are. Not because you want to hurt him the way he's hurt you, though part of you does. But because keeping his number feels like holding onto the hope that he might explain or apologize. 

And you're beginning to understand that he never will. This is Joe's goodbye—a public announcement and then silence. 

May 18th, 2018

The beach is full of hundreds of new Ohio State graduates scattered across the sand, some still donning their caps, the formal graduation ceremony having given way to an impromptu celebration that stretches as far as you can see along the shoreline. 

Coolers of alcohol appear and disappear, someone's brought speakers that blast music over the sound of waves, and everywhere you look, people are taking pictures and hugging and crying happy tears about the end of one chapter and the beginning of whatever comes next.

You should feel celebratory. After four years of hard work, questionable life choices, and more stress than you care to remember, you're finally done. You have your degree, your job that starts in two weeks, and a future that feels more concrete than it has in months. 

Your friends are ecstatic—McKenna keeps talking about her move to Chicago, Iris has been crying happy tears on and off all day, and Ariella is already planning elaborate post-graduation trips that none of you can afford but all of you want to take anyway.

But sitting here in the sand with your graduation cap beside you and your dress tucked carefully around your legs, you feel sad in a way that has nothing to do with the normal melancholy of endings and everything to do with the person-shaped absence that's been following you around for the past ten days.

Ten days of complete silence from Joe, ten days of watching your phone not ring and checking social media for any sign that he's thinking about the people he's leaving behind. Ten days of your friends asking carefully if you're okay while pretending they haven't seen the LSU announcement that's still being shared around Ohio State social media like some kind of local celebrity gossip.

You'd gotten through graduation itself by focusing on the ceremony, on your families’ proud faces in the crowd, on the surreal feeling of walking across that stage and shaking hands with the dean. But now, surrounded by  your entire class saying goodbye to college, the weight of everything unsaid and unresolved feels impossible to ignore.

"I'm going to get another drink," you tell McKenna, pushing yourself up from the sand. "You want anything?"

"I'm good," she says, barely looking up from the elaborate group selfie she's trying to coordinate with some girls from your psychology program. "Take your time."

You wander away from the main cluster of your friends, ostensibly heading toward the coolers set up near the parking lot but really just needing some space to breathe. The beach extends in both directions, and you find yourself walking toward the quieter end, where the crowd thins out and you can actually hear the waves over the music and laughter.

You settle into the sand a safe distance from the party. The moon is starting to rise, painting everything in those silver tones that make even the most ordinary moments feel significant, and for the first time all day, you allow yourself to really sit with everything you're feeling.

Grief, mostly. Not just for Joe, but for the version of your future you'd been imagining. You'd known, logically, that college relationships often don't survive the transition to real life, but you'd thought what you had was different. Special enough to at least warrant a conversation about whether it was worth trying to maintain.

Apparently, you'd been wrong about that.

You're so lost in your own thoughts that you don't hear footsteps in the sand behind you until someone settles down beside you with a soft thud. When you look over, your heart stops.

Joe is sitting next to you, close enough that you can smell his familiar cologne mixed with the salt air, far enough away that there's no risk of accidental contact. He's changed out of his graduation attire and he looks tired in a way that goes beyond the normal exhaustion of a long day. His hair is messy from the wind, and there are lines around his eyes that you don't remember being there before.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You both stare out at the water, watching the waves roll in and recede, the rhythm hypnotic and somehow soothing despite the tension crackling between you. You're acutely aware of his presence, of the way he's sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, of the careful distance he's maintaining even though he chose to sit beside you.

The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable, and finally, you can't stand it anymore.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice quieter than you'd meant but still audible over the sound of the waves.

Joe doesn't answer immediately. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers, the grains catching the light as they fall. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like he hasn't used it much lately.

"I didn't think it would matter," he says.

The words are so devastating in their casual dismissal that for a moment you can't breathe. You stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, to explain what he could possibly mean by that, but he just keeps staring at the water like he's said something perfectly reasonable.

"You didn't think it would matter?" you repeat, and you can hear the edge creeping into your voice. "You didn't think that leaving the state would matter to me? To us?"

"There is no us," Joe says, still not looking at you. "You said it yourself—we never defined what this was. We were just... hanging out. Having fun."

"Hanging out?" you say, turning to face him fully. "Is that what you call a year of this? The tattoos were just hanging out? Meeting my family was just hanging out? Sleeping together was just hanging out?"

Joe finally looks at you then, and there's something defensive in his expression that makes you want to scream. "We agreed we weren't putting labels on anything. We agreed to keep it casual."

"When?" you demand. "When did we agree to that? Because I remember having a lot of conversations about what we were to each other, and most of them ended with you deflecting or changing the subject. I remember you asking me if we were even in a relationship like it was some kind of ridiculous question."

"Because it was complicated," Joe says, his voice rising slightly. "Because I didn't know what I was doing with football, with school, with any of it. I told you I was figuring things out."

"You weren't figuring anything out," you shoot back, standing up abruptly and brushing sand off your dress. "You already knew. You'd already decided to transfer, probably months ago, and you just didn't bother to tell me. You let me think we were working toward something when you'd already checked out."

Joe stands too, his jaw tight with frustration. "I didn't lie to you. I never promised you anything."

"You didn't have to promise me anything," you say, and you can feel tears starting to burn behind your eyes. "But you could have been honest. You could have told me you were planning to leave instead of letting me find out on Twitter like some random stranger."

"Would it have changed anything?" Joe asks, and there's something almost pleading in his voice now. "If I'd told you in January that I was thinking about transferring, would that have made this any easier?"

"It would have given me a choice," you say quietly. "It would have let me decide whether I wanted to spend the last few months of college falling in love with someone who was planning to disappear."

The words hang in the air between you, and you see something flicker across Joe's face—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or something that might be regret. But when he speaks again, his voice is carefully controlled.

"I never asked you to fall in love with me," he says.

The statement is so cruel, so deliberately cutting, that it takes your breath away. You stare at him, looking for some sign that he understands how devastating those words are, but his expression is closed off, guarded in a way that makes him look like a stranger.

"No," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tears that are now falling freely down your cheeks. "You didn't ask. You just let it happen. You let me think that what we had meant something to you, that I meant something to you. But I guess I was wrong about that."

"That's not—" Joe starts, but you cut him off.

"Do you know what the worst part is?" you continue, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "It's not that you're leaving. I could have understood that. It's not even that you didn't tell me directly. It's that you genuinely don't understand why any of this matters. You really think that a year of my life, a year of us, was just casual enough that your leaving wouldn't affect me at all."

Joe opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but no words come out. He just stands there looking lost and frustrated and entirely unwilling to acknowledge that he might have handled this badly.

"I loved you," you say quietly, and the past tense feels like swallowing glass. "I loved you, and you knew that, and you decided it wasn't worth a conversation before you moved on with your life."

"It's not that simple," Joe says finally, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

"Yes, it is," you reply. "It really is that simple. You could have talked to me. You could have included me in the decision, or at least in the conversation about the decision. You could have treated me like I mattered to you."

"You do matter to me," Joe says, and for the first time in this conversation, his voice cracks slightly.

"No," you say, stepping back from him. "I don't. And that's okay, I guess. But I wish you'd been honest about that from the beginning instead of letting me think this was something it wasn't." Joe reaches out like he wants to touch your arm, but you move away before he can make contact. "Don't," you say. "Just... don't."

You can see the exact moment he realizes that this conversation isn't going to end with reconciliation or understanding or any kind of resolution that leaves you both feeling better. His hand drops to his side, and his shoulders slump slightly, like he's finally understanding the weight of what's happening here.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry I hurt you. That was never what I wanted."

"I know," you say, and you mean it. "But wanting something and making sure it doesn't happen are two different things."

You look at him one more time, taking in the familiar lines of his face, the expression of confused regret that he's wearing like he genuinely doesn't understand how things got this bad. You try to memorize it, this last image of him, because you know that after tonight, you'll never see him again.

"I hope LSU is everything you want it to be," you say finally. "I hope it was worth it."

And then you turn and walk away, leaving him sitting alone in the sand with the sound of the waves and the distant laughter of your graduating class. You don't look back, not even when you hear him call your name softly behind you.

By the time you rejoin your friends, you've composed yourself enough to smile and laugh and pretend that nothing has changed. But as the night goes on and the celebration continues around you, you find yourself thinking that this is how some stories end—with the quiet recognition that some people are simply incapable of loving you the way you deserve to be loved.

And sometimes, walking away is the only choice that preserves any dignity at all.

September 2020

The cereal aisle at Kroger should not be this complicated, but here you are, standing on your tiptoes trying to reach the granola that's been placed on the highest shelf like some kind of elaborate psychological test. Your fingertips barely graze the box, and after the third failed attempt, you let out a frustrated huff.

"Seriously?" you mutter under your breath, glancing around for a store employee or even just a taller human being who might take pity on your situation.  

The store is unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon, filled with people stocking up for what the weather app promises will be the first real cold snap of the season. You'd only stopped in to grab a few essentials—coffee, bread, something that might pass for a healthy breakfast—but somehow you've been wandering the aisles for twenty minutes, your mind elsewhere as it often is these days.

You're reaching up one more time, determined to either get the granola or accept defeat, when you turn slightly to adjust your angle and find yourself face to face with someone you never expected to see in a Cincinnati grocery store.

Joe Burrow is standing three feet away from you, frozen in the middle of reaching for something on a lower shelf, his eyes wide with the same shock you're sure is written all over your face. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting for the other person to disappear or reveal themselves to be some kind of stress-induced hallucination.

But he doesn't disappear. He's very real, very much there, wearing joggers and a simple black t-shirt that shows off arms that are somehow even more muscular than you remember. His hair is shorter than it was in college, more professional, and there's a different quality to the way he carries himself—more confident, maybe, or just more settled in his own skin.

"Hi," he says finally, his voice exactly the same as it was two and a half years ago, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest tight with unexpected emotion.

"Hi," you manage back, acutely aware that you're probably staring but unable to look away. "I didn't... what are you doing here?"

"Grocery shopping," Joe says with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Same as you, I guess."

Right. Of course. You'd known, logically, that Joe was playing for Cincinnati now, had seen the news coverage and the social media posts about the promising young quarterback who was supposed to turn the franchise around. But knowing something intellectually and running into it in the cereal aisle of your neighborhood Kroger are apparently very different things.

"Right," you say, feeling heat creep up your neck. "The Bengals. I forgot you were... how is that going? The season?"

"Good," Joe says, then immediately looks like he wants to take it back. "I mean, it's going. We're working on it. Building something."

The conversation feels stilted in a way that conversations with Joe never used to feel, both of you carefully polite like you're strangers making small talk rather than people who once knew each other's bodies better than your own. You notice he's holding a basket with what looks like the contents of someone who's still figuring out how to grocery shop for himself—protein bars, bananas, a bag of pre-made salad that's probably three days past optimal freshness.

"That's great," you say, because what else is there to say? "I'm sure it's exciting. Playing professionally."

"Yeah, it's been a dream come true," Joe replies, but there's something automatic about the response, like it's something he's said in interviews a hundred times. His eyes flick over you, taking in your appearance. "You look good. Happy."

"Thanks," you say, suddenly self-conscious. "You too. You look... professional athlete-y."

Joe laughs at that, a genuine sound that reminds you so strongly of college that it makes your stomach flutter with muscle memory. "Professional athlete-y? That's definitely going on my resume."

For a moment, it feels almost easy between you, like you might be able to have a normal conversation despite everything that happened the last time you spoke. But then your eyes drift down to his hands as he adjusts his grip on the shopping basket, and you notice something that makes your breath catch.

He's wearing a wristband on his right arm. A simple red OSU band that wouldn't be remarkable except for the fact that you remember, with startling clarity, Joe telling you once that he never wore anything on his right wrist because of a scar he'd gotten as a kid, something about the way bands would catch on it and feel uncomfortable.

But there it is, covering exactly the spot where you know a small star is tattooed into his skin.

The realization hits you, and instinctively, you tug your right sleeve down further over your own wrist, covering the matching tattoo that you've considered getting covered up or removed at least a dozen times but never quite managed to follow through on.

Joe notices the gesture, his eyes following the movement, and for a second his expression shifts into something that looks almost guilty. Like he knows exactly what you're thinking, exactly what you've just figured out.

"So," you say quickly, desperate to fill the sudden tension with something, anything, that might make this feel less like a confrontation and more like a chance encounter between two adults who used to know each other. "How long have you been in Cincinnati?"

"Since June," Joe says. "Just got an apartment downtown. Still figuring out the city."

"It's nice," you offer. "Good food scene. The river's pretty."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that."

Another pause. You're both running out of safe small talk, approaching the territory where one of you will either have to acknowledge what happened between you or make an excuse to leave. You're leaning toward the latter when you hear footsteps behind you.

"There you are," a familiar voice says, and you turn to see Derek approaching with the bouquet of flowers you sent him off for. "I've been looking everywhere for— Joe?"

Derek stops short when he sees who you're talking to, his expression shifting through surprise, recognition, and something that might be n as he takes in the scene in front of him.

"Derek," Joe greets, and there's genuine warmth in his voice as he steps forward to shake Derek's hand. "How are you, man? It's been forever."

"Good, really good," Derek replies, though his eyes keep flicking between you and Joe like he's trying to figure out exactly what he's walked into. "I heard you were in Cincinnati now. That's awesome, congrats on making it to the NFL."

"Thanks," Joe smiles. "What about you? What brings you to Cincinnati?"

"Work," Derek says. "Got a job at a firm downtown about a year ago. Really liking it here."

You can see the exact moment Derek realizes that this conversation is about to get complicated, that there are layers of history here that he, even the best people pleaser you know, isn’t sure how to navigate.

"We should probably get going," Derek says, glancing at his watch. "Don't wanna be late to our own rehearsal dinner."

The words hang in the air, and you watch as Joe's face goes through a series of expressions—confusion, realization, something that looks like he's been punched in the gut. The silence stretches uncomfortably as he processes what Derek just said, what he thinks Derek just said.

"Well," Derek continues, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling between you and Joe, "it was really nice seeing you, man. We ought to catch up soon."

"Yeah," Joe manages, his voice hoarse. "You too."

Derek gives a friendly wave and starts walking toward the registers. You stand there for a moment longer, caught between following Derek and staying to explain, watching as Joe stares after Derek's retreating figure with an expression you can't quite read.

After a minute, you follow Derek, but something makes you glance back over your shoulder. Joe is still standing in the cereal aisle, and when your eyes meet, you see something broken in his expression that makes your chest ache. He looks hurt in a way that reminds you of a kicked dog, confused and wounded and trying to understand what just happened.

You could have said something. Could have clarified, could have explained. But your feet keep moving toward the checkout, and you find yourself thinking about how it felt to discover his transfer plans via Twitter, how it felt to sit in that coffee shop talking about internships while he was hiding his entire future from you.

Part of you feels guilty for not saying more, for letting him walk away with whatever conclusions he's drawn. But there's another part—a smaller, uglier part that you're not proud of—that likes the look on his face.

It's petty and mean and not like you at all, but for just a moment, watching Joe Burrow look lost in a grocery store aisle feels like the universe settling a very old debt.

When you reach the checkout, McKenna is already there, holding a small vase and checking items off a list on her phone. She looks up when she sees you approaching. "There you are," she says. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

You shake your head at her comment, the irony not missed on you.

[internetdaddy98]

Eros and Empirics

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby expresses his desire to know you fully, not just in the heat of your secretive moments but in the quiet details of your life.

Word Count: 3.2 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times.

Robby woke slowly.

The moonshine filtering through her linen curtains was pale and gold, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. The sheets were too soft, the room too warm. And then he felt the press of a small body curled against him, her bare leg tangled between his, her breath steady against his collarbone. Y/N.

Her apartment.

Her bed.

His heart gave a traitorous twist.

It was early, maybe five, maybe earlier. He was used to it. The world always started for him before anyone else. But this morning, for once, he didn’t feel the need to move. He just wanted to stay. Absorb it.

Her.

She was tucked beneath the covers, face half-hidden, messy brown hair spilling over the pillow, one hand fisted gently in the fabric of his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go even in sleep.

And God help him, he didn’t want her to.

Carefully, he slipped from the bed, trying not to wake her. Her sheets smelled like vanilla and clean linen. Her nightstand had a half-drunk glass of water, a novel with a cracked spine, and a worn tube of lip balm. Things so small and intimate it made his breath catch.

He padded barefoot into the rest of the apartment, soaking it in without the haze of last night’s heat between them. It was still quiet, early-morning hush over everything. Outside, the street was just starting to stir, birds, a garbage truck rumbling down the alley, a dog barking distantly.

Inside, her world was still.

He moved through the living room slowly. The details of her life were everywhere. Art books and first-edition novels, a framed psychology degree from NYU next to her coat hanging neatly on a hook by the door. A small vase of dried lavender. A Polaroid camera. A silk scarf draped over the corner of a mirror. Every detail was curated but unpretentious, lived-in. Personal.

He paused at the piano in the corner.

It was old, upright, chestnut wood with a few chips in the varnish, but well-loved. Music sheets were stacked carefully, tucked with bookmarks and scribbled notes. His fingers grazed the keys, but he didn’t press them down. Instead, he looked at the photo sitting on top of it: a younger Y/N, maybe seventeen, at a recital. Her hair was longer, pulled half-up, and she was smiling, really smiling, in a way he’d rarely seen in the hospital. Free. Unburdened.

He didn’t know if that version of her still existed. But God, he wanted to meet her.

There were more photos in the hallway, Sheri as a child with scraped knees and a gap-toothed grin, her parents in a vineyard, some older relatives at what looked like a christmas dinner. The more he looked, the more he realized just how much of her life she’d never talked about. Not because she was hiding it, but because she’d never been asked.

And now she was offering it to him, open-palmed and quiet and brave.

He lingered by the bookshelf, picking up a slim volume of poetry and flipping through it. A note was scribbled in the margin in her handwriting: for the days that hurt in silence. He stared at it for a long time.

When he finally returned to the bedroom, you were just beginning to stir.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering against your cheek before you focused on him, shirtless, barefoot, leaning in the doorway with the moonlight at his back like some ghost she hadn’t expected to stay.

“You always wake up this early?” you asked, voice still rough with sleep.

He smirked faintly. “Some habits die hard.”

You stretched, a soft sigh escaping you as you rolled onto your back and pushed the covers down, bare legs curling into the sheets. The moonlight caught the dip of your waist, the slope of your collarbone, and for a moment he felt something primal twist in his chest.

But he didn’t move toward you yet.

Instead, he watched you.

“What?” you asked quietly, voice hushed in the still morning.

“I’m just looking,” he said honestly.

“At what?”

“At everything you are.”

You flushed. “Do I disappoint?”

He crossed to you then, kneeling beside the bed, brushing his hand through the mess of your hair. “You’re beautiful.”

Your eyes softened.

“I’ve never—” he started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I never let myself want this.”

“But you do,” you whispered.

He nodded, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder, just above the curve of the sheet.

“I do. I want you. Not just your body, not just the secret, not just the adrenaline of getting away with it in a fucking supply closet—though, Christ, that too—but you, in this bed, with your stupid candles and your crooked piano and the way you write in margins.”

Your throat worked around a swallow. “You read my poetry book.”

“I want to read everything,” he murmured, kissing you again. “All of it. All of you.”

You leaned forward then, kissed him like you meant it, soft, slow, unhurried.

And in that morning light, tangled in sheets and sunlight and honesty, something in Robby settled for the first time in years. Not silenced, not quieted. But held.

—----------------------------------

The ER never slept, not even on days when the morning light broke in slow golden strands across the windows of the trauma bay. But this morning felt different. Calmer, somehow. As if the universe had paused for breath and let in something softer between the crash of stretchers and the clatter of coffee cups.

You stepped onto the unit just after 6:30 a.m., hair tied in a low ponytail, hoodie unzipped, and a takeaway tray in your hands. You moved with quiet certainty, your expression unreadable to most, but not to him.

Robby was already there, early as always, leaned against the counter outside trauma room two. He had a pen between his fingers, flipping it with the idle precision of a man who never really stopped thinking. He looked up the moment he sensed you.

Not turned. Sensed.

Your eyes met for a fraction of a second longer than would’ve passed for casual. Something passed between you, warmth, reassurance, the kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be loud to be real.

He said nothing. Neither did you.

But you handed him a second coffee as you passed, the exact way he liked it, no words exchanged. You wore a small smile and a steady step, and the minute Dana caught sight of you across the nurses’ station, the charge nurse pointedly raised one eyebrow and offered a slow, approving nod.

“Well, finally,” Dana drawled.

You froze mid-step. “What?”

Dana sipped her coffee with exaggerated calm. “You know what.”

You didn’t have to turn to feel Robby behind you, his presence like gravity, like the steady pressure of a star. He appeared at your side a second later, expression unreadable but eyes brighter than you’d seen in weeks. He looked like a man who’d exhaled for the first time in years.

“Morning,” he said to Dana.

“Mmm,” Dana said, her grin widening. “So… HR knows?”

“HR knows,” Robby confirmed, nodding once. “We disclosed it last night.”

You added quickly, “We submitted everything by the book. It won’t affect patient care. We’re both still professionals first.”

Dana held up her hands. “Hey. No judgment. Just… it’s about time.”

There was a short pause.

“Is there a betting pool I should know about?” Robby asked dryly.

Dana didn’t even blink. “There was. Santos won it. Said it would happen this quarter.”

Santos appeared from behind a curtain, pulling off gloves with a triumphant smirk. “I always knew you two were going to combust. But I didn't think it’d be in an alley. Bold move.”

You flushed from the neck up.

“I told you not to talk about it—” Robby began.

Santos grinned. “What, you think I didn’t recognize that look you had the next day? Man was walking like he’d been struck by lightning. And Sheridan couldn’t look anyone in the eye.”

Whittaker passed by with a chart, looking nervous. “Should I… come back later?”

Mel piped up from across the room, smiling gently. “No, Dennis. You’re witnessing love in a hopeless place.”

You buried your face in your hands. But Robby, for once, didn’t seem phased. He chuckled—a real, low sound—and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“All right,” he said. “Everyone gets one day to harass us. But then it’s business as usual.”

Dana lifted her coffee. “Cheers to that, Dr. R.”

You flushed, but Robby only gave a soft exhale that might’ve been amusement, might’ve been relief. There was something easier about the set of his shoulders this morning, something almost unrecognizable to the ones who’d known him longest. He looked... lighter. The storm behind his eyes was still there, but it had a quiet in it now. A steadying calm that hadn’t been there in months.

He turned to you and said quietly, just for you, “You ready for rounds?”

You nodded. “Always.”

You walked together toward the huddle, footsteps falling into rhythm. You didn’t reach for his hand. He didn’t touch the small of your back. But there was an unmissable closeness in how your bodies moved near one another. Not possessive, just connected.

At the patient board, the rest of the residents gathered: Santos with her sarcastic smirk, Whittaker with his usual nervous energy, Mel with her careful warmth. A couple of interns hung in the back, eyes wide, obviously new.

Robby cleared his throat. “Morning. Quick huddle before rounds. Interns, evaluations start today, make sure to shine with your seniors and show them what you’ve learned, and make sure you drink water, because no one else is going to tell you when your brain is turning to soup.”

Soft chuckles. Santos rolled her eyes. “He says that like he ever drinks water.”

“I hydrate,” Robby said, deadpan. “It’s just black and roasted and comes in a mug.”

A few more laughs.

His gaze flicked to you, just a second’s glance, but enough for her to feel it settle on her skin. He always saw you, not just in the obvious ways. He noticed the minute tension in your shoulders, the slight downturn of your lips when you were too tired to fake it. And now that they weren’t pretending anymore, he let that concern show in soft, quiet ways.

He handed you a protein bar later that morning, just before the next trauma came in.

“You didn’t eat,” he said. “You’ll start shaking again.”

“I don’t shake,” you said.

“You do when your blood sugar tanks.”

You took the bar. Your fingers brushed and then he held your hand. He held the contact and your breath caught in your throat.

Around you, the ER pulsed with life, alarms, footsteps, orders barked and nonstopped charting, but in that second, it was just the two of you again. The unspoken tether of months, years, threading you closer with each quiet kindness.

And it wasn’t all sweetness.

When a difficult peds trauma came in later, you took the lead without hesitation. You were measured, firm, voice steady as you called out orders, but Robby hovered just within your orbit—ready if you faltered, ready if you needed him. You didn’t. You never did. But the fact that he was there mattered more than you could admit aloud.

Afterwards, he pulled you aside, voice low. “You did good in there.”

You smiled, tired but grateful. “You doubted me?”

“Never,” he said. “But I worry anyway.”

Your heart tightened at that. Because that was him, always, the man who kept every worry locked tight behind those cool gray eyes, but who noticed everything. The man who fought the world with his hands and himself with his silence.

You stood by the trauma board, arms crossed, squinting at the cluster of cases lighting up in red. You were waiting for the next wave. They always came in waves.

“Quiet before the chaos,” came a voice behind you.

You turned slightly. Dr. Collins stood there, coffee in hand, her usual expression unreadable but not unfriendly. She was in scrubs, her red jacket slung over one shoulder, the picture of poised competence.

You gave a small smile. “You know, everyone says that, and it’s always true. Creeps me out.”

Collins chuckled. “You get used to it.”

“I heard about you and Robby.”

You stiffened. Just a little. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that Collins noticed.

“I’m not judging,” Collins added quickly, sipping her coffee. “He and I... that was a long time ago.”

You turned toward her fully now, brows raised. “Yeah?”

Collins nodded, leaning against the counter beside the trauma board. “Before you were even in medical school, I think. It didn’t last long. We were fire and ice—too much heat, not enough glue.”

You hesitated. “I knew it happened, but didn’t know why it ended.”

Collins smiled wryly. “We don’t advertise it. Didn’t end badly, exactly, just… ended. He was complicated. Still is.”

That made you laugh under your breath. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Collins glanced over at you, eyes sharp but not unkind. “So… can I give you some unsolicited advice?”

You looked wary but nodded. “Sure.”

Collins shifted her coffee to her other hand, her tone growing quieter, less clinical. “Robby’s spent most of his life keeping people at arm’s length. It’s not because he doesn’t care. It’s because he cares too much. And somewhere along the line, he decided that if he let people in, they’d either leave, or he’d lose them. So he built walls. Really good ones.”

Your voice was soft. “I’ve seen them.”

“Then you know how hard it is to be let in. He’s let you in, hasn’t he?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. He has.”

Collins studied you for a moment, then said, “Then don’t waste it. But don’t expect it to always be easy. Loving Robby is like… like trying to hold onto something that doesn’t always want to be held. You have to be steady. Patient. And maybe a little selfish, too. You have to ask for what you need.”

There was silence between them for a moment. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. You leaned against the counter, mirroring Collins. “Did you love him?”

Collins didn’t answer right away. She took a slow sip of her coffee, then set it down gently on the steel counter. Her eyes went distant, thoughtful.

“I think a part of me did,” she said finally. “But I also think I loved the idea of fixing him more than I loved who he really was. And you can’t fix Robby. You can only choose to stay.”

You looked down, chewing on that. “I don’t want to fix him.”

Collins smiled softly. “Then you’ve got a chance.”

Just then, a trauma alert crackled through the intercom. You and Collins both stood a little straighter.

“Back to it,” Collins said, straightening her scrubs.

You looked at her, something flickering in your eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition. “Thanks. For saying all that.”

Collins gave a half-smile, already turning toward the trauma bay. “You’re welcome. Just don’t break his heart, Sheridan. He doesn’t have many lives left.”

You stood there a moment longer, the trauma board now lighting up like a Christmas tree behind you. But your mind was still on Collins’s words. On what it meant to be let in by someone like Robby. And what it meant to stay.

Robby didn't touch you in front of the others. Not once. But when you passed in the hallway near radiology and no one was looking, he let his knuckles graze yours. When you came back from the break room, jaw clenched from a phone call with a combative family member, he reached over and brushed a loose strand from your cheek.

“I’ve got your six,” he murmured, just low enough for your ears only.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Later, in the staff lounge, Dana caught Robby refilling your water bottle.

“You’re ridiculously smitten,” Dana said, not bothering to hide her grin.

Robby gave a weary exhale. “Don’t start.”

“I mean it. She softens you.”

“She grounds me,” he said.

And he meant it. Because whatever weight he carried—whatever ghosts still lurked in his chest from COVID, from Adamson, from years of holding back, you had become the one person who could coax him out from behind the walls he’d built.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t commanding. But you saw him.

And now, finally, he let himself see you back, not just as a resident, not just as a colleague, but as the woman who made him want more. Who made him remember what it felt like to want something for himself.

By the end of the shift, the teasing had faded. The work had taken over again. He let his hand rest lightly at the small of your back for just a breath. You stood at the computer terminal. Your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, but your posture was more relaxed than it had been before. More grounded. You hadn't been rattled. If anything, you'd been unnervingly steady.

Robby watched you for a moment. Something was different.

“You okay?” he asked casually.

You glanced up, then gave him that small, almost imperceptible smile he’d come to read like a pulse. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Sure,” he said, but his tone was knowing. “Still… something’s on your mind.”

You hesitated, saving the chart and logging out. “Talked to Collins earlier.”

Robby's eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You looked up at him now, her gaze direct but unreadable. “She said you’re complicated.”

Robby gave a soft huff of laughter, rubbing the back of his neck. “She would say that.”

“She also said you build walls.”

That made him pause.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at you, searching your expression, trying to see what else might be behind those words. You didn’t push. You just let the silence stretch, comfortable in a way that still surprised him sometimes.

“Was she warning you off?” he asked finally.

You tilted your head, your voice soft but certain. “No. She was telling me not to waste the opportunity” Robby looked down, that answer hitting deeper than he expected. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “She’s not wrong.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I’m not going anywhere, Michael.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then up at you. And for a moment, everything, the years, the baggage, the ghosts fell away. There was just you. And the quiet certainty in your eyes.

“Good,” he said. Then softer, more to himself than to her, “Good.”

She squeezed his hand once more. 

“You want me to wait and walk out with you?” he asked.

You looked at him, smile soft. “Always.”

And maybe the world hadn’t changed. Maybe the hospital was still loud and unpredictable, and their jobs still unforgiving.

But the weight was different now.

They weren’t pretending.

They weren’t hiding.

They were them.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.

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