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ilovebabyonboard · 14 days ago

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Everytime, I Choose You

PAIRING: Bob Floyd x Civilian Wife!Reader

CATEGORY: Fluff, slight angst

SUMMARY: You’ve loved Bob Floyd since before either of you knew what love was. Now, with a toddler in your arms, a baby on the way, and a Navy career pulling you in opposite directions, you’re learning what it really means to build a life across time zones—and hold on to each other through it all. Soft reunions, stolen moments, found family, and the quiet kind of love that stays.

WORD COUNT: 6.5K

WARNINGS: Pregnancy, parenting struggles, long distance relationship stress, mild emotional distress. not proofreade, did a whole lot of writting without knowing where I wanted it to go with it so bare with me

You’ve known Bob Floyd for as long as you can remember.

He lived in the little gray house next door — the one with the creaky swing set and the patch of lawn his mom could never keep alive. ou met the way kids often do—tugged along behind your moms because they were the kind of women who believed in neighborly cookouts and holiday potlucks, the kind who'd swap recipes and stories over sizzling grills while you two chased each other barefoot through sprinklers and smoky air.

He was the quiet boy with glasses that kept slipping down his nose, a buzz cut that made his head look perpetually surprised, and scraped-up knees from racing his bike down the cul-de-sac like it was an Olympic event. You weren’t much louder—soft-spoken, wide-eyed, often half-hiding behind your mom’s leg or the hem of your favorite overalls—but somehow, the two of you always found each other in the noise. You’d sit cross-legged on the porch sharing popsicles or wander through sprinkler mist like tiny explorers, not saying much, but never quite apart.

You didn’t declare him your best friend. You just were. The kind of kids who ended up in all the same photos, shoulder to shoulder, blinking into the sun. And he never minded—not the quiet, not the way you always hovered nearby, not even the way you both grew up without ever really growing apart.

You were inseparable—two halves of a quiet, unspoken language. Your parents joked you were practically siblings. But even then, something about the way Bob looked at you—careful, soft, like you were something rare he didn’t want to startle—was different.

You carved your initials into the same tree at the end of sixth grade. You made a dumb joke about it being your “friendship monument,” and Bob had smiled so wide you swore the sun got caught in his glasses. It wasn’t love. Not then. But it felt like something that mattered. Like someday, it might be.

By the time high school rolled around, things started to shift.

You still walked to school together. Still shared secrets and late-night phone calls and summer movies where he let you rest your head on his shoulder without saying a word. But Bob had grown into his body, grown to be 6'0, and developed a very unfair jawline. You noticed.

Worse, he started acting weird.

There were moments — tiny, fleeting — where everything felt different.

The time you caught him staring just a little too long when you laughed. The way his hand hovered near yours for a second too long during study sessions. The time you cried after your first heartbreak, and he held you like it physically hurt him not to fix it.

He never said anything. He was never that bold. But you felt it.

And slowly, your feelings started to mirror his.

You realized you were in love with him one night in your junior year, sitting on his roof after a school dance you hadn’t gone to. He was in sweats and a hoodie, leaning back on his elbows, talking softly about how the stars were already dead by the time we see their light. And your heart just… knew.

You turned to look at him and thought, Oh. It’s always been you.

You kissed him the next week.

It was late—past ten, a school night—and you were in your room, both pretending to study but mostly just laying across your bed with textbooks open and music playing low from your speaker. He was flipping through your notes, teasing you for your doodles in the margins, and you were trying not to stare at the way his mouth curled when he smiled.

At some point, you both got quiet. Not in a heavy, serious way—just the kind of quiet that settles in when two people are entirely at ease.

You looked up from your notebook to say something, and he was already looking at you.

And it just… happened.

Not dramatic, not planned. Just a kiss that felt like exhaling. Like opening a door you hadn’t realized was always unlocked.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this, and you leaned in like you’d always known it would end this way.

It was soft. A little clumsy. But real. And warm. And safe. He froze. Then kissed you back like he was afraid he’d wake up from it. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands (he didn’t — they kind of just hovered like he was buffering). And when you pulled back, breathless, he whispered shyly, “I’ve been waiting for that since the third grade.”

You were his first everything after that. His first real kiss. First hand held beneath bleachers, hearts pounding against linked palms. First person he ever trusted with the quieter, more fragile parts of himself—the ones he kept hidden even from his parents. You learned him slowly, like a language, and he let you. Word by word, moment by moment. He never made it easy, but he never made you guess, either. Not when it really mattered.

So when Bob told you, senior year, that he wanted to join the Navy, he said it like a secret he didn’t want to keep. Like he was handing it to you gently, scared it might crack open everything you’d built together.

You didn’t flinch.

“You’re gonna fly, huh?” you asked, nudging his arm with your shoulder. The two of you were stretched out across the hood of his truck, parked at the edge of that old service road no one else ever bothered with. The sky was clear. Stars above like a map you didn’t know how to read.

“If they let me,” he said, barely louder than the crickets. “I just… I feel like I’d be good at it. I want to do something that matters.”

“You already do,” you said, like it was the simplest truth. And it was. “But if that’s where you’re meant to go, then go. Just…” Your voice caught. You turned your head so he wouldn’t see. “Write me, okay? A lot.”

He was quiet for a second. Then he leaned in, warm and steady, and kissed your cheek. His lips lingered like he didn’t want to pull away.

“Every chance I get,” he whispered.

And he meant it. Every letter, every email, every slow Sunday phone call—he kept that promise like it was sacred.

Boot camp was hard. So was flight school. The distance wore on you in places you didn’t know could ache—quiet places, like the space between heartbeats, or the seconds between texts that didn’t come fast enough. Some nights, the silence felt louder than any goodbye ever had.

But Bob never made you doubt him.

Even when he was thousands of miles away, when his world became early mornings and aching muscles and orders barked through static—he made time for you. He sent hand-written letters whenever he could, the envelopes soft at the edges from travel, always filled with little sketches in the margins—birds he saw on base, clouds shaped like hearts, doodles of you in your overalls with hearts around your head. He told you everything. How tired he was. How badly the food sucked. How homesick he was for your laugh, your cooking, the way your fingers combed through his hair when he couldn’t sleep.

You FaceTimed at odd hours, each call a small lifeline. Sometimes the connection cut in and out, freezing his face mid-smile or distorting your voice until you both started laughing. Sometimes you just sat in silence, watching each other exist, breathing in sync. You whispered I love yous across time zones and bad Wi-Fi, clinging to the sound of his voice like oxygen.

And every time he came home on leave, he held you like the world had stopped spinning without you in it.

There were reunions on front porches, airport gates, parking lots—messy and breathless, tears caught in your lashes before he even made it all the way into your arms. He’d bury his face in your neck, whisper something like, “God, I missed you,” and you’d feel the truth of it in your bones.

Time moved. Seasons changed. You wrote letters and made playlists and sent care packages with little notes tucked between socks and granola bars. He flew. He grew. And through it all, you remained—each other’s constant.

He proposed on your fifth anniversary, in your old backyard, standing beneath the tree where your initials were still carved into the bark—faded, but there. You didn’t know he had a ring. You didn’t even know he’d planned anything. But he reached for your hands with a look you’d known since childhood, the one that said you’re home, and dropped to one knee like he’d been waiting his whole life for this one moment.

“I can’t picture my life without you in it, Y/N,” he said, voice shaking just enough to make your heart stutter. “You’ve been my best friend, my reason, my everything. Will you marry me?”

You were crying before he finished. Laughing, too, because of course. Of course it was always going to be him.

You said yes with your whole heart—before he could even finish the question.

And he smiled like he had that day you carved your names into the tree, like the sun was caught in his glasses again. Like everything had finally come full circle.

Marriage with Bob wasn’t flashy or loud — it was steady. The kind of love that didn’t need an audience, because it had roots too deep to be shaken.

It was built on years of shared glances and slow-burn devotion. On a friendship that grew into something sacred, something safe. A thousand little rituals became your language: the way he’d tuck handwritten love notes into your coat pocket before every deployment — folded three times, always sealed with your initials and a tiny heart. The way you’d greet him on the front porch after months away with his favorite meal already warming on the stove, lights low, arms open like a home he’d never left.

It was forehead kisses before sunrise and tangled limbs long past midnight. The soft rhythm of his hand rubbing slow circles on your back when you were sick or sore or simply worn thin. The way you cradled his face in your palms when the weight of the world — of the cockpit, of the distance, of the danger — grew too heavy on his shoulders.

With Bob, love was in the quiet.

It was in the way he memorized your coffee order by heart and always made it just right — even groggy, even rushed. The way he looked at you like you were still the girl next door in grass-stained jeans, even when you were pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen, hair a mess and eyes tired.

There were no grand declarations. No over-the-top gestures.

Just a million tiny choices, every day.

And the unshakable truth that he was yours — and you were his — in every way that mattered.

When Arvin came along — your sleepy-eyed boy. Another airplane-obsessed little one, a perfect miniature of his father right down to the dark blue eyes and thoughtful silences — Bob stepped into fatherhood with the same quiet reverence he brought to everything he loved.

He was gentle from the very first breath, holding your newborn son like he might break if he exhaled too hard. He whispered lullabies into soft baby curls at 3 a.m., slow and low, even when his voice cracked from sleep. He changed diapers without complaint, one hand always resting lightly on Arvin's tiny chest, like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

He read bedtime stories in silly voices — sometimes dramatically bad British accents, sometimes with the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Arvin would giggle and clap and demand “again,” and Bob would oblige every time, without fail, even when his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion from a long day on base.

He taught Arvin how to fold paper planes with surgical precision, adjusting wings and creases like it was an art form. He'd cheer when they soared, groan dramatically when they crash-landed, and patiently help him try again. You once caught them both lying on the floor for an hour, surrounded by a fleet of multicolored paper aircraft, Bob explaining lift and drag in a voice just above a whisper.

And when he thought you weren’t listening — when the house was quiet, the baby limp with sleep in his arms — you’d hear him murmur into the soft crook of Arvin's neck, “I love you so much, buddy. So, so much.” As if he was pouring every ounce of feeling into those five words, like they were sacred.

And now?

Now you're sitting alone in your house in Lemoore, the glow of the tablet screen casting pale light over your tired face. Your hand rests instinctively over the small swell of your belly — life growing again, a quiet miracle you wish he could feel beneath his own palm.

And on the screen, there’s Bob.

He looks tired. So do you.

But when your eyes meet, everything else stills — like the world exhales around you.

The video calls never feel long enough though.

No matter how much you try to pretend they do.

You were overjoyed for Bob when he first told you he’d been recruited for a special mission at TOPGUN. His voice had held that rare spark — the kind of excitement that only came when he talked about flying. It was supposed to be a temporary assignment, just a few weeks of intense training and high-stakes simulations.

But those weeks stretched into months.

Then the higher-ups asked him to stay longer — first through the summer, then into the fall. Every extension came with the same promise: just a little while more. And each time, you swallowed your disappointment and smiled, because you were proud. Because this was Bob's dream — and you had always known that loving him meant loving the sky that called him away.

Eventually, those few weeks turned into more than a year. From the start of your pregnancy to now.

You try to fill the space between your words, the ones you don’t know how to say, by smiling extra bright, by asking him about the weather or how his new flight simulator is working. You talk about anything, anything to make the minutes stretch a little longer — but they never do.

Bob’s face glows softly on your tablet screen, the dim light from his room casting shadows across his features, making him look younger, more vulnerable than he does when he’s in uniform. His hair is still mussed from the helmet, the lines around his eyes deepened from exhaustion, but there’s a softness there too, something just for you.

You watch as his gaze drifts to Arvin in the background. The boy is jabbering about airplanes and apples, or maybe it’s just a string of nonsense words he’s gotten attached to, you’re not sure. Bob watches him like he’s a miracle — like the sound of his son’s voice is enough to keep him tethered to this world.

You’re only half-listening, your gaze on Bob’s face, on his smile as he watches Arvin, but your hand rests lightly over the small curve of your stomach, the weight of it both grounding and quieting you in a way you can’t explain.

And then Bob notices.

He always does.

“Is he sleeping okay now?” His voice is quiet, tentative, like the question itself is a thread he’s afraid will snap if he pulls too hard. He leans in slightly, like he can close the distance with just the weight of his eyes. His gaze flickers to the side — to Arvin, to the room, anywhere but you, and then back to you, searching.

You nod, though it feels like a lie. “Mostly. Still wakes up crying for you sometimes.”

You watch as his expression shifts, as the words hang between you, thick with the distance neither of you wants to acknowledge.

Bob swallows hard, the movement of his throat so subtle, but you catch it. You always catch it. His jaw tightens just enough that you can see it, the silent, invisible tension that coils within him. It’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something he can’t put into words.

“And you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes hold yours, steady and searching, and there’s a tenderness there — a rawness that almost makes you want to look away.

You hesitate, your chest aching, the weight of his question heavy in the space between you. You know what he wants to hear. You know it. You want to say, I’m good. I’m fine. We’re managing. You want to, but the words feel hollow.

Instead, you stay quiet. And somehow, that speaks louder than anything else.

Bob leans forward, his face coming into focus on the screen as his eyes soften — a small, fleeting thing, like a crack in a dam that might let the flood rush through. You see the way his brow furrows, the flicker of frustration that crosses his face, like he wants to reach through the screen and pull you into his arms.

“I hate this,” he says, his voice barely audible, as though saying it aloud would make the ache too real. “I hate not being there. Not… with you.”

Your heart aches at the softness of his words, the vulnerability in them. The quiet way he admits it, like it’s a secret he’s been carrying too long. You force a smile, but it’s thin, worn, fragile.

“I hate it too, Bobby.” Your voice trembles just enough for him to hear it, but you don’t let yourself say anything more.

The call flickers. The feed stutters once, twice, like the connection itself is reluctant to let go. And then, just like that, the screen goes black, and all you’re left with is the empty space around you. The silence stretches, suffocating in its weight.

You sit there on the edge of your bed, the cold light of the screen still lingering in your peripheral vision, the hum of the air conditioner too loud in the stillness of the room.

But there’s only the ache.

A quiet, persistent ache that pulses behind your ribs, that lingers even after the call has ended, and the miles between you stretch too far to bridge.

And you wonder, for the thousandth time, if this will always be the way of it — these small, stolen moments that never feel long enough.

A few days later — North Island, San Diego

You didn’t argue when Bob told you he was flying you out. You should’ve — you had your own command to report to, your own stack of overdue emails and unfinished reports — but the exhaustion had sunk too deep into your bones. It was the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. So when he said, “Please, just come out here. I need you here,” in that low, quiet voice that always made something in your chest loosen, you didn’t even try to fight it.

Because the truth was, you needed him too.

Now, standing just inside the hangar, the scent of oil and sunbaked concrete mixing with the faint salt of the sea air, you shift Arvin higher on your hip. He’s dozing against your shoulder, warm and heavy and clutching your collar in one sticky little fist, the remnants of a cherry lollipop smudged near his mouth. His soft breaths tickle your neck, and you press your cheek gently to his hair, breathing him in.

Your flight jacket is unzipped halfway, the soft curve of your belly peeking beneath the edge of your shirt. The baby stirs — a slow, fluttering kick — and your hand moves instinctively to rest there. Protective. Quiet. A silent hello.

You feel exposed, somehow. Not from the eyes of others, but from the sheer openness of being here, in his world again — the place where he comes alive in ways he tries not to show you over a screen. There’s no buffer now. No distance to soften the weight of how much you’ve missed him.

And then, like the thought conjures him — you see him.

Bob steps out from between two aircraft, still half in his flight suit, sleeves tied around his waist, sweat-damp curls falling messily over his forehead. His helmet dangles from one hand, the other runs through his hair in a gesture you’ve seen a thousand times. Nervous. Hopeful. Tired.

He spots you instantly.

His whole face softens.

You don’t wave. He doesn’t smile. It’s quieter than that.

He crosses the hangar in long, purposeful strides — not rushing, but close. His gaze never leaves yours. And when he reaches you, he sets his helmet down without looking, cupping your face with one warm, calloused hand.

You let your eyes close. Just for a second.

“You came,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You nod, the lump in your throat making words impossible for a moment. “Of course I did.”

Bob leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, slow and deliberate, lingering there like he’s trying to breathe you in. When he pulls back, his eyes flicker down — to your belly, to Arvin still asleep on your shoulder — and something flickers across his face.

Wonder. Gratitude. Love.

“Hi, baby,” he says softly, reaching out to run a thumb across the swell of your stomach, his touch reverent. Then his hand moves gently to Arvin's back, rubbing slow circles as he leans in. “Hey, little man. Miss me?”

Arvin's head lolls as he turns, blinking up at him. “Daddy,” he mumbles, drowsy but smiling.

Bob cradles him to his chest with practiced ease, like no time has passed at all. You watch as his fingers press gently against Arvin's back — counting, you think. Checking. Making sure he’s real.

And then he looks at you.

Really looks.

At your face, your tired eyes, your jacket stretched a little tighter over your middle than last time. His gaze lingers there, gentle and awed, and when it lifts again, there’s something raw in it.

“God, I missed you,” he says, his voice thick.

You reach up to fix his glasses from sliding down his nose, your fingers lingering. “I missed you more.”

He kisses you then — soft, sweet, a little breathless. The kind of kiss that feels like a beginning and a homecoming all at once.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, your world feels whole again.

Later That Night – Bob’s Quarters

The quarters are dimly lit, save for the warm glow of the overhead light above the small kitchen nook. The base housing isn’t big — just one long room split by a thin curtain and a kitchenette that hums faintly with the old fridge. But it’s clean. Lived-in now.

You’re curled up on Bob’s neatly made bunk, legs tucked to the side, with Arvin asleep on your chest — his little fingers curled in the collar of your shirt. Bob is across from you on the floor, back against the side of the bed, legs stretched out. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose as he finishes washing and drying a single baby bottle like it’s mission critical.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he says, voice soft enough not to wake Arvin. “You. Him. The burp cloths.”

You grin, brushing a hand through Arvin’s soft hair. “You say that now. Wait until he starts screaming at 2 a.m. because he can’t find his stuffy.”

Bob looks up at you, warm amusement in his eyes. “Then I’ll be glad I’ve still got my hearing protection from the cockpit.”

He stands and walks over, kneeling beside the bed so he’s eye-level with the two of you. He kisses Arvin’s temple, then your forehead. “Thank you for coming. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Before you can answer—

The door bursts open.

“Hey Floyd, you le— what the fuck.”

It’s Hangman. Behind him, Rooster, Coyote, Payback, Fanboy and two fresh faced recruits stand frozen in the doorway like they just walked into the wrong house. Phoenix lingers in the back with her arms crossed, clearly not surprised — but enjoying the boys reaction.

She was the only member of the dagger squad who knew of her WSO’s little family.

Everyone stares.

You stare.

Arvin stirs and lets out a soft grunt, then burrows deeper into your chest.

Bob doesn’t move. His hand stays on your knee, protective but not ashamed. “Hey, uh… guys.”

Hangman points, blinking. “What the hell is going on here?”

Rooster looks like his brain just blue-screened. “Are we in the right place?”

Phoenix smirks. “Yep.”

Bob clears his throat. “This is my wife. And that’s our son, Arvin.”

Fanboy mouths the word son and glances at Payback, who just raises his eyebrows and gives a low whistle.

One of the recruits awkwardly raises a hand like he’s in school. “Sir… you have a baby?”

Bob straightens a little. “Yes. And he’s sleeping. So... maybe keep it down?”

The room falls comically silent.

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. Bob's shoulders are tense, but he’s trying not to show it.

Then, Hangman recovers. He steps inside, looks around the room, and crosses his arms. “You mean to tell me quiet little Baby On Board has a whole-ass family he didn’t tell us about?”

Phoenix pipes up from the back. “Told you he had game.”

“I didn’t think you meant married with a baby game,” Rooster mutters, walking in more cautiously.

Fanboy edges over to the sleeping Arvin and crouches. “Man. Look at this little guy. He’s got Bob’s nose.”

Payback leans against the wall. “You been hiding this because you didn’t want us to babysit or what?”

Bob relaxes — just a little. “Didn’t think it was relevant to the mission.”

Hangman raises both hands. “Oh, no. No, no, Bob. This is the mission now. We are absolutely going to teach this kid how to dogfight.”

Rooster rolls his eyes. “He looks barely two.”

“Plenty of time to train,” Hangman says seriously.

You glance at Bob. His ears are red, but he’s smiling now — the slow, warm kind he only gives you when he’s too full of love to say anything else.

And somehow, in this tiny room filled with too many people and not enough space, it feels like home.

The fresh faced recruits are the first to bail.

The shorter one, nervous as a rabbit, nudges his partner. “Uh, Sir… we’ll, uh, just come back… later?” His eyes dart from Arvin’s chubby cheeks to Bob’s unreadable face and back again.

The taller recruit nods too fast. “Congrats, Lieutenant Floyd. Ma’am. Your baby is, uh… looks a lot like Lieutenant Floyd.”

They both retreat like they stumbled into sacred ground. The door shuts softly behind them.

Now it��s just the squad.

And they are settled in.

Rooster is sitting on the floor beside the bed with his back against the wall, chin in his hand as he stares at Arvin like the baby’s a new aircraft schematic. Fanboy has claimed a random pillow and is lying flat on the floor in front of the bunk like he’s cloud-watching. Payback’s perched on the tiny kitchen stool. Phoenix leans against the counter with a small smile, and Hangman…

Hangman is holding up one of Arvin’s tiny onesies like it’s a national treasure.

“Do you see how small this is?” he says dramatically, voice hushed like they’re in a museum. “This could fit on my forearm. I could wear it as a sock.”

You’re trying not to laugh too loud — Arvin sleeping peacefully, cheek smushed against your chest.

“Where’d you get this one?” Fanboy asks, pointing to the onesie in question. “The blue with the little jets?”

“Oh, that was from my sister,” you say. “She said if Bob’s gonna fly jets, Arvin should wear them.”

“Damn right,” says Coyote.

“How old is he?” Rooster asks.

“Fifteen months,” you reply.

Rooster smiles, amused. “And how long did Bob keep this from us?”

Bob, still standing at the foot of the bed, crosses his arms — but not in annoyance. In quiet defense. He’s close, just within reach, like his body’s trying to shield the three of you from the attention.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he says, voice low. “We’ve just been… figuring things out. He was born not long before I got deployed. Didn’t want to make it complicated.”

Fanboy whistles. “Man. You were flying with us every day, then going home to FaceTime with this little dude?”

Bob nods.

“That’s baller,” Rooster mutters.

Hangman squints at you, suddenly serious. “So wait, how long have you two been together?”

You shift Arvin slightly to cradle him better. “Since high school." You smiled sheepishly, "Married three years."

“She helped me study during training,” Bob adds, quieter now, almost shy.

Phoenix perks up. “You helped Bob Floyd study?”

“I did,” you say, grinning.

“Did you know,” Phoenix says, turning to the group, “this man cried when he saw Arvin’s ultrasound photo?”

Bob glares at her. “That was classified.” He coughs awkwardly.

The room erupts into gentle laughter. Even Arvin stirs and lets out a sleepy little sigh, like he approves.

“Alright, alright,” you say, holding up a hand. “Any more questions before we pass around a sign-up sheet for bedtime stories?”

Rooster raises a finger. “Does Arvin like planes?”

Bob answers this time, stepping closer and crouching beside the bed. “He calls them ‘brrr-brrrs.’”

You nod, smiling. “He has a toy F/A-18 that he crashes into everything. Including our dog.”

“Wait,” Fanboy says, eyes wide. “You have a dog too?”

Hangman sits down on the other side of the bed now, hands behind his head, grinning. “Okay. New rule. We all hang out here every Friday. You bring the baby. I’ll bring drinks.”

Bob finally chuckles. “And what if we say no?”

“You won’t,” Phoenix says.

Bob raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” she adds, “you tolerate us with remarkable patience.”

He doesn’t answer — just reaches over to brush a curl off Arvin’s forehead, his eyes soft and so full of quiet pride it nearly chokes you.

You meet his gaze and smile, mouthing, thank you.

He nods, mouthing back, Always.

Outside, the base is silent. Inside, it’s warm. Loud. Full.

And for the first time in months, Bob lets himself sink into the chaos, just a little — because this is the kind of noise that means you’re home.

After an hour the daggers finally leave you two alone.

The room is finally quiet again.

The door clicked shut ten minutes ago, leaving only the soft hum of the fridge and the rhythm of Arvin’s little breaths against your chest. You can still hear Hangman’s laugh echoing faintly in the hallway, followed by a muffled, “I’m just saying, if the kid’s already saying ‘brrr-brrr,’ he’s halfway to a call sign.”

You smile to yourself.

Bob locks the door behind them, then turns off the kitchen light, leaving the room in the low amber glow of a bedside lamp. He exhales as he leans back against the counter, watching you with a soft kind of awe — like he still can’t quite believe you’re really here.

“Sorry about the ambush,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. They were sweet.”

He nods, walking over slowly, careful not to wake Arvin. “I think they were more excited about his onesies than I was when I got my flight suit.”

You laugh under your breath. “That tracks.”

He crouches beside the bed again, resting a hand lightly on your leg. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You meet his eyes, and your voice softens. “I’m just… really glad we came.”

You shift, carefully sliding Arvin off your chest and onto the middle of the bed. He fusses for a second, then settles again, thumb in his mouth. Bob moves instinctively, pulling the small blanket up over him, tucking it just right.

Then he stands and, without a word, unzips his hoodie and slips into bed beside you, careful not to jostle either of you too much. He lies on his side, one arm under his head, the other resting lightly across your hip.

You shift to face him, your noses close, the space between you quiet and full.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Then Bob speaks — his voice a soft thread in the dark.

“How long can you stay?”

You trace a line along the collar of his shirt with one finger. “A few days. I told my boss I needed personal leave.” You glance up. “They didn’t ask questions.”

Bob’s mouth lifts slightly. “Remind me to send them a thank-you card.”

You smile, but your voice is quieter now. “We’ve missed you. A lot.”

“I know.” His fingers brush your side gently. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. “I don’t want this to feel like a visit. I want it to feel like a pause, you know? Like we’re not counting down already.”

Bob’s eyes search yours — slow, full of something fragile. “Then let’s not count,” he says. “Let’s just… be here.”

You nod.

He shifts a little closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was thinking,” he says, “we could take Arvin down to the beach in the morning. Just us. Before it gets crowded.”

You smile. “He’ll eat half the sand, you know that, right?”

“I’ll pack extra wipes,” he murmurs, and you both laugh quietly.

“And maybe,” he adds, hesitating, “we could find time for just us. Even if it’s just an hour. You and me. No schedules. Just… catching up.”

You reach up and trace the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the stubble there. “I’d like that.”

His eyes flicker — tired, but glowing. “We’ve been so many places apart,” he says softly. “I want to start building the places we’ve been… together.”

You blink once, hard, then lean forward to press your lips gently to his.

It’s not a kiss full of heat or hunger — it’s full of knowing. Of being known. A kiss that says: I’m here. I still choose you. Every time.

When you pull back, your voice is barely a whisper.

“So what’s the plan tomorrow?”

Bob exhales slowly. “Beach in the morning. Maybe breakfast after that. Arvin’s nap around noon.” He pauses, then smiles. “And if he’s down long enough, I thought maybe I could read to you for a while. The baby books, I mean. I’ve been practicing.”

You laugh softly. “I’d love that.”

He kisses your temple, then your cheek. “And I’ll make dinner. Nothing fancy, but—”

“You’re cooking?” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve improved since the incident with the instant rice,” he says solemnly.

“Have you?”

“Well… slightly supervised cooking.”

You laugh again, and then settle closer, your head resting beneath his chin, one arm across his chest. His fingers trace gentle circles against your back.

Bob exhales, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep starts to pull you under.

“I wish I could freeze this,” he whispers. “Just… hold it all still.”

You press your lips to his collarbone. “You don’t have to. We’re here now.”

Bob's gaze drifts to your belly.

“She been kicking a lot today?” he asks looking down at you , voice soft. God, you loved when he looked at you with his dark blue eyes through his glasses.

You nod, bitting your lip. “Like she’s doing laps in there.”

A small, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out, hesitates, then places his palm gently over the curve of your belly.

“I keep picturing her,” he says, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud. “Not just what she’ll look like — though I think she’ll have your face — but like… the little things. Her laugh. The sound of her feet on the floor. Her asking questions I don’t know how to answer.”

You watch him quietly, your heart aching in that full, overwhelming way only he can make it ache.

“She’s gonna be loud,” you say with a smile. “Louder than Arvin, maybe.”

Bob huffs a soft laugh.

A beat passes. Then, in a quieter voice: “Still want to name her Aubrey?”

You nod. “Do you?”

He swallows. “Yeah. I, uh… I was listening to the song the night you told me. And I just… I don’t know. It stuck.”

You can hear the song in your head now — Aubrey by Bread— soft and sad and full of things left unspoken. A strange choice for a baby’s name, maybe. But also perfect. Gentle. Old-fashioned. Honest.

“I love it,” you whisper.

He glances up at you, relieved. “Good. 'Cause I already made a playlist.”

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his. “Of course you did.”

“She’s gonna have good music taste,” he mumbles. “I’ll start her early. Bread, Simon & Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac…”

“You’re making a dad playlist.”

His ears turn red. “Is that bad?”

“No,” you whisper. “It’s perfect.”

He brushes his thumb lightly over the swell of your stomach, then looks down at Arvin, still nestled against you. “I just want them to feel safe. Always. Like… like no matter what, I’ll be here.”

“You will be,” you say.

Bob doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just breathes. Then finally, voice barely audible:

“I still don’t feel like I’m enough for this. For you. For them.”

You tilt your head, resting a hand on his cheek. “You’re already more than enough. Every single day.”

He closes his eyes at that. Nods.

And then, so quietly you almost miss it: “I hope she has your laugh.”

You smile, feeling the baby shift inside you, almost like she heard him. Like she’s saying I’m here, too.

Sleep comes for you slowly, like the tide—gentle, inevitable, pulling you under in waves.

Your eyes flutter, heavy-lidded, and the warmth of Bob beside you lulls you deeper into it. His fingers are still tracing quiet circles on your back, and his breathing has settled into that soft, steady rhythm you’ve always found comfort in. Arvin is tucked between you, his tiny body curled toward yours, mouth slack around his thumb, breaths even and small.

Bob shifts, just slightly, and you feel his hand slide from your back to the swell of your belly, his palm resting there with the kind of reverence that says: I know you're in there, and I love you already.

The weight of his arm wraps around you protectively. Not tight. Just there. Grounding. Like a tether you didn’t know you needed until now.

And then—his hand stretches further, carefully, reaching across you until his fingertips find Arvin’s small shoulder, barely brushing. It's the lightest touch, but it holds all the weight in the world. A father holding his whole world in the span of two palms.

You’re somewhere between awake and dreaming when you feel his breath against your temple.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You don’t respond—can’t, really—but your body shifts instinctively, curling toward him just a little more. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then one to the top of Arvin’s head. His hand never leaves your belly.

Outside, the night is still. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes, but it doesn’t reach you here.

Bob stays awake for a little while longer, just watching you sleep. He lets his gaze linger on the rise and fall of your chest, the gentle rhythm of the baby’s kicks beneath his palm, and the tiny hand of his son curled near your collarbone.

His chest tightens in that familiar way—love too big for his ribcage, like it might break him open. But it's the good kind of ache. The kind he’d carry gladly for the rest of his life.

Eventually, his eyes grow heavy. He shifts just a little closer, curls his body around yours and Arvin’s like a shield, and lets his forehead rest against your shoulder.

And finally, with his whole family safe in his arms, he exhales… …and sleeps

742 notes · View notes

seventeenpins · 9 months ago

Text

sniff

pairing: worst!Logan x neighbor!reader word count: 3k summary: You catch Logan with your stolen panties. content/warnings: pervy old man Logan, panty sniffing, masturbation with panties, mutual masturbation, a whole lot of fantasizing, kinda sub!Logan a/n: Still deep in the trenches here, folks. The Logan brainrot has gotten out of hand. Thank you to @ozarkthedog for making me worse ilu 😘

Logan was a bad man. He knew that. Had spent years knowing that.

Sure, he’d saved this universe, but he still had his demons.

The first time he’d crossed paths with you, you’d knocked him out. You’re a pretty little thing, all sweet and soft. There’s no way you’d ever want a man like him, all anger and failure, grey in his hair, face lined with time and exhaustion.

But you were kind, and charming. Made him smile every time you saw him in the halls or in the laundry room.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But when he sees you in your leggings and a tight little top, every curve on display, he just can’t help it. He can't tear his eyes away.

Your ass jiggles as you’re bent over the washer, tossing your dirty laundry in the machine haphazardly, and you don’t notice when you drop a lacy pair of panties.

He should tell you. He should really tell you.

Instead, though, he moves closer to you. Makes up some lie about this machine having been on the fritz. Gives the washer a little smack, the metal of the machine twanging against the metal of his bones.

And, as you thank him and turn back, he snatches up your lacy panties and slips them into his pocket.

“You have a good day, now, sweetheart,” he tells you, and you turn to face him, a bright smile on your face.

”You too, Logan! I’ll see you round.”

He makes a quick exit, cock already hardening, panties burning a hole in his pocket.

When he gets back to the apartment, he slams the door behind him hard enough to shake the doorframe. He slips into the bathroom, away (hopefully) from the prying ears of Wade and Al, double checking to make sure he has the lock latched securely. He thinks they’re out. He hopes they’re out. If they’re not out, they’d better not say shit if they hear him.

With a quick tug, he unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans, letting his cock spring free from its confines. He slips the panties from his pocket and sighs. They’re barely more than a glorified shred of lace. He holds them up, examines them. Do you wear this style every day, a little thong like this, or is it only for special occasions? Maybe you were wearing them for someone else, some little boyfriend?

The thought enrages him. He knows it’s unfair, that your life is none of his business. Maybe you are dating someone. That’s fine. You’re young and pretty and deserve someone good. Someone better than a man like him.

But fuck he would take care of you right. Wouldn’t stop till you were shaking and crying, utterly fucked out and satisfied, covered in sweat, the slick of your release all over both of you.

With that thought, he brings the panties to his face.

He takes a deep sniff and groans.

He could smell them already, smell you, but it was different from a distance. With your panties in his face, he breathes deep, tries to take you in, all you, only you.

It’s dizzying, the scent of you. The smell of your pussy is intoxicating and he wants so much more. He darts his tongue out, licking at the crusty gusset. He groans as he tastes you. The panties had been worn days ago, but as he sucks at them, he makes them wet again, slippery.

He fists himself with one hand, painfully hard to the point he’s dripping, and with the other, holds your underwear up to his mouth, soaking the fabric.

Then, he wraps the wet panties around his cock and starts jerking himself off.

God, he hopes no one’s home. He tries to quiet the sounds coming out of him, but he simply can’t. The feeling of your panties choking his dick is incredible, even better than he’d hoped when he nabbed them. His breaths are coming out in pants and growls, and he feels more like an animal than he has in a long, long time.

“Fuck-” he grits, imagining all the things he’d like to do to you. He wants to taste you, straight from the source. Spread your pretty little pussy and spit, mixing saliva with your arousal. He wants to fold you over, shove your face into the pillow and ass in the air, all for him to smack and grope at. Spread your cheeks and thumb your asshole. Maybe you’ve never taken a cock in the ass before, maybe he can be your first.

His mind swims with every filthy thought he’s ever had about you. He wants, he wants, he wants—

He wants to bite down on your inner thighs, leave bruises on that soft, soft skin. Plunge three fingers into your glistening pussy and take.

Logan can still taste you on his lips.

It’s with that thought, and one more slick tug, and he’s spilling into your panties.

There’s a lot. More than he would’ve expected. He keeps coming, the jerk of his hips punctuated with heavy breaths and growls, sweat dripping down his temples and brain blissfully blank from his exertions.

Fuck.

The post nut clarity starts to hit, slowly at first and then all at once.

FUCK.

He should not have done that.

Stealing your panties? Really? God, he really was just a perverted old man. You could never know, he’d have to find a way to slip them back in your hamper the next time you met doing laundry.

And despite that, despite the shame and guilt and absolute self loathing, he brings the wadded ball of panties to his mouth and licks one last tentative time, tasting both of you together on the flimsy lace.

It tastes like heaven.

Gingerly, he tucks his dick back into his jeans. Glances at himself in the mirror, and fusses a little, straightening out his disheveled appearance.

After one more look over himself, ruined panties balled up in his hand, he unlocks the bathroom door and steps out.

He exclaims when he sees you, smile on your face, reclined on the sofa next to Wade. Fuck these fucking walls had better be soundproof. FUCK.

”Peanut,” Wade sing-songs, “We have company! This little morsel from down the hall was just telling me how she’d run into you earlier today. She brought us some muffins.”

He puts undue emphasis on muffin in a way that makes Logan blush, just a little.

”Just had some bananas that were past their prime and I made too many. After I saw you earlier I thought I should drop some off as a thank you!”

“A thank you?” Logan asks, suddenly confused.

”Yeah, for helping with the washer!” You frown, surprised that he’d already forgotten.

Logan hesitates to make eye contact, instead only grunting vaguely in your direction with a curt nod.

He shuffles over to the kitchen and grabs himself a beer. Much to his chagrin, the muffins do smell good.

He’s not sure if you notice that he’s trying to ignore you, but you still seem cheerful.

”Well,” Wade sighs, “I’d better get going. I have a hot date tonight and I will not be late. Again. By more than fifteen minutes.”

”Say hi to Vanessa from me,” you tell him, and right as he’s standing you turn to him. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” You ask, and Wade points you towards the door Logan had just exited.

”Have at it,” he says, and then in a stage whisper tells you, “But if you die, I’m not to be held responsible. Peanut was in there for a while and I can tell you from experience, a wolverine-dump is frightening to behold, even if it’s just the aftermath.”

You snort a laugh and move towards the bathroom as Wade tugs a particularly hideous hat on top of his heinous toupee. “Play nice,” he mock-glares at Logan, “We want more friends in this building who bring us delicious, delicious baked goods.”

With that, he slips out of the apartment.

It’s then that Logan realizes–the panties are no longer in his hand. He’d dropped them. He’d fucking dropped them!

It’s so fucking stupid. So unbelievably fucking stupid. He’d dropped the panties when he saw you, startled out of his train of thought.

And left them on the floor of the bathroom.

”NO!” Logan calls, and tries to get to the door before you make it there, but he’s already moments too late.

As he dashes around the kitchen island and towards the bathroom door, you’ve already shut the door behind you. At the sound of his footsteps, the door swings back open, and you’re standing there, panties in hand.

He physically recoils and then stares, deer in headlights.

You look at the bunched up ball of underwear and back up at him.

“Logan?” you venture.

He glares at the floor, refusing to make eye contact. You can see the tick of his jaw, the dart of his eyes.

“Are these mine?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Logan gives one sharp nod.

“You seem to have made a mess of them,” you muse, suddenly feeling very, very warm. You should be angry. Hell, you should be scared.

But he stands before you, still looking at the floor, looking to all the world like a bashful child who’s just been caught misbehaving.

He doesn’t respond with words, only grunts.

You take a step closer to him.

“Logan, look at me.”

He finally does. He’s not sure what he sees in your eyes, but it doesn’t look like fear or anger. Instead, it’s almost a hunger.

“First," you tell him, "You’re gonna clean up your mess,” You're suddenly more bold than you know yourself to be, aching with it. “And then you’re gonna show me, and you’re gonna do it all over again.”

“I’m sorry, what–”

You take another step towards him, close enough to touch him. As he’s about to say something else, you take the opportunity to shove the cum-drenched panties right in his open mouth, shutting him up instantly.

He stands there, unmoving, panties half-dangling out his mouth.

“Good boy.” You say, and his eyes widen, mouth agape and panties nearly slipping.

Of all the scenarios he’s played out, for months now, this was never one of them.

He’d never realized how much he can enjoy surprises. The hunger in your eyes—it’s delicious.

He regains a semblance of composure and you guide him backwards. He stumbles blindly till the backs of his knees hit the sofa. He collapses with a huff.

“Go on,” you encourage, “You like playing with my panties so much, you get to do it for me.”

He groans, puts a hand to his mouth, and sucks at the fabric.

It’s still wet, and full – full – of his cum.

He slurps at it, pulls them out of his mouth and stretches the panties wide. Licks all over it, tongue running along the gusset where he can still taste the two of you together.

It doesn’t matter that Wade could come back home, that Althea may already be home. It doesn’t matter that he’s mortified; at the very least, his dick doesn’t seem to have gotten the message. He’s getting hard again, refractory period already practically nonexistent. He’s at a loss for words, but that doesn’t matter, either.

All that matters is the panties in his mouth, and your eyes on him, slight smile tugging at your lips as you watch.

”Do you make a habit of this?” You ask, and it’s more curious than condemning.

Logan shakes his head. “Uh-uh,” it comes out muffled through the mouthful.

“Don’t make a habit of stealing my panties, or don’t make a habit of stealing anyone’s panties? For all I know, you’ve got some secret collection. Got a pair of Wade’s briefs in the back of your drawer?”

The blush that blooms is pretty, flushing all down his bared throat. You desperately want to touch him, but more than that, you want to tease him. Humiliate him. Call him a dirty old man and make him sweat, and then show him that you want him anyway. That you have been wanting him.

You just didn’t think he’d fall so easily for the bait of dropped panties.

“Suck em clean,” you tell him, and he makes a half-strangled moan, slurping loudly against them.

He works at them with his mouth. It could’ve been comical but instead he simply looks feral. He makes a lewd, wet sound, and pulls the panties out of his mouth, dragging them across his teeth, saving every last bit of the mix of cum and reconstituted pussy juice that had been soaking them.

You take them from his outstretched hand and sniff them yourself. You see the way his eyes widen again, but he’s restrained. He holds himself back, stays still.

“I’ve gotta say, you do put on a good show. You can keep these,” you smile, and toss them back at him, smacking him square in the face.

“But these-” you slip your thumbs up your skirt, the one you deliberately chose to wear just for this purpose. You hook the waistband of today’s panties and slip them down, stepping out of them and handing them to Logan.

“You’re gonna show me exactly how you touched yourself with those panties you stole.”

“Hey,” he huffs, “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“I’m not,” you cut in, “If you hadn’t stolen my panties, you wouldn’t be showing me just how dirty an old man you are.” You wink, “And I like it.”

“Watch who you’re callin’ old, sweetheart.”

“Logan, baby,” you croon, “You ain’t the one calling the shots here.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but you take another step towards him and grab him by the belt buckle. He buffers, opening and closing his mouth several times, never taking his eyes from your face.

He watches, awed, as you undo the buckle, pop the button, pull down his zipper.

You grin when you see he isn’t wearing any underwear himself and, with a swift, deft movement, you reach into his jeans and slide out his cock.

If he wasn’t hard before, he is now. He moans as your hand wraps around him, pumping gently. It’s far too little pressure. He wants more. He needs more.

As if reading his mind, you snatch your panties from his hand and wrap them around his cock.

He whines, immediately overwhelmed. He’d barely dared to notice them when you’d placed them in his hand. Now, he realizes just how absolutely soaked you are. The crotch of your panties, (another lacy pair), is slick with your arousal.

“Show me,” you tell him. “Show me-”

Reluctantly, he tightens the grip on his cock and starts jerking himself.

Against his own will, a ragged moan slips out. It makes your body hot and your pussy even wetter. You sit back on the sofa and spread your legs, letting your hand rest on your needy pussy.

Logan notices and, encouraged, wraps his fist tighter around his cock and strokes himself faster, his hips moving rhythmically.

You start to touch yourself in earnest, dipping two fingertips into your slick heat and swirling the arousal around your clit.

Little moans start to escape you, egged on but his ragged breathing. He starts muttering, worn and desperate; “Fuck, fuck, wanna taste that pussy. Eat you right. Smells so good, tastes so good, wanna make you cum on my tongue, hold you down, fuck you through it–”

The touch of your fingertips is exquisite. You’ve masturbated to the thought of him a lot. More than you’d prefer to admit. But seeing him like this, undone and aching, it hits you all the more.

You sink into the fantasy. “Want you, Logan. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Gettin’ close now,” he warns. He should be embarrassed at the speed he's reaching his peak, but he's so drunk on sensation he simply cannot find it in himself to care.

You nod, and adjust the pressure on your clit.

“Wait for me,” you tell him. He groans, but nods. “Nearly there,” you assure.

You press tight circles around your clit working yourself up, closer and closer and closer to that high–

“Fuck,” you shout, suddenly overwhelmed by it, “Fuck, I’m— I’m coming. Show me, Lo, show me–”

You tip over the edge, cunt pulsing hungrily. You wish you’d had something inside you. Wish you’d had him inside you.

He lets out a ragged groan, followed by curses, and the most explosive ejaculation you’ve ever seen. The head of his cock is buried in your panties and he fills them, but his cum shoots out of the holes of the lace, spraying his spend across the floor and towards you. A single drop hits your cheek, and you nearly laugh, but the sound he makes–something primal and animalistic–sends another pulse through you and suddenly you’re coming again, untouched.

It takes a while to come down.

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his temples. Reality absolutely living up to the fantasy.

When you both catch your breath, you smile, sated and tired. You reach out a hand and, hesitantly, he hands you the ruined panties.

Mouth agape, he watches as you run a finger through the cum and dip it in your mouth, humming a pleased affirmation. Then, you step into the cum-drenched underwear and put them on.

He stares at you dumbfounded, burning with so many thoughts that he can’t pinpoint a single one.

“Next time,” you smile, standing up and pressing an unexpected kiss to his cheek. “You can just ask.”

You wink, half dazed yourself, barely able to believe everything had turned out exactly as you’d orchestrated it.

“I’m in Apartment 8,” you tell him, and then you’ve turned on your heel and stepped out the door.

Logan stands there, bewildered. He fingers the damp panties he still has in his pocket, and listens as your footsteps echo through the hallway.

#sorry folks i will not apologise for my use of the word “crusty”#logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #wolverine smut #james logan howlett x reader #xmen x reader #logan howlett x f!reader #logan x reader #logan x f!reader #logan x fem!reader #logan howlett smut #worst logan #worst wolverine

2K notes · View notes

redlinespeedster · 1 month ago

Note

how about charlos x driver!reader

I am a slut for both 🫠

OVERTAKE !! ☆

carlos sainz 𝒙 fem!driver reader 𝒙 charles leclerc

[summary] The world of motorsport is shaken by the shocking news: Carlos Sainz has been fired from Ferrari under circumstances many consider unfair. And to make matters worse, his replacement is you—a rising talent, sure, but still a rookie. The news couldn’t hit the Spaniard harder. Suddenly, a newcomer he barely knows is taking everything from him: his seat, his friends, his recognition… and worst of all Charles. Carlos isn’t about to just sit back and watch it happen. (7k)

[warnings] Smut !! threesome, toxic & jealous behavior, dom!carlos, switch!charles, sub!reader, m/m action, rough sex, dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (fem receiving), hand job, this is filthy as fuck. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes.

[notes] At first, I was like “just a simple one shot,” but then I thought—why not turn it into my 100 followers celebration? You already know this account lives and breathes Charlos, so sit back and enjoy. ❤️

The news that Carlos Sainz will leave Ferrari in the 2025 season completely shook the world of motorsport. It was an unexpected blow. Sainz himself admitted to feeling betrayed: he was ready to renew for another year with the Scuderia, and suddenly, he was out. As if he were worth nothing.

But it didn’t take long before it was announced that you would be the one to replace the Spaniard. It almost felt ironic to him: a rookie, also considered a rising star in motorsport, was now joining the biggest team in Formula 1. Although, when you really think about it, it’s not that surprising — something very similar happened with Charles. The Italian team now sees the possibility of winning the Constructors’ Championship over McLaren closer than ever.

But not even then was when Carlos started to resent you. Well, yes — aside from all that, you were egocentric, you thought you could conquer the world, and you carried that same attitude onto the track. You spoke with a confidence meant to project a superiority that didn’t really exist. But not even that bothered him so much about you. In fact, he even found you attractive.

But he couldn’t help the way hatred began to grow inside him when he noticed that Leclerc also seemed attracted to you. It was true that the Monegasque had always been naturally flirty with everyone —something that had already sparked more than one fight in their relationship, fights that almost always ended up being settled in bed. But ever since he left Ferrari, everything changed. No more quick hookups in the drivers’ room, no more wet kisses stolen when no one was looking. Now he was just following you around like a dog… chasing after you —and your pussy. He couldn’t stand it. He felt like changing teams had practically made him cease to exist.

Charles had always had a weakness for pretty, feminine women. Being a woman in a male-dominated sport didn’t mean you couldn’t be as elegant and flirtatious as you wanted. And damn, you really were. Just watching you walk by was enough to leave more than one driver —and even the occasional engineer— sighing. Fuck, you could be so damn annoying.

Carlos would’ve preferred not to know that you and Charles were sleeping together. But it was almost obvious—the way you looked at each other, how he’d rest his hand on the small of your back, or how you laughed at every stupid thing he said. There was no need to even ask. He didn’t have to catch you in a compromising situation to understand what was going on.

Because it had been exactly the same with him.

Those green eyes, shamelessly flirty, were a trap he’d fallen into over and over again. He couldn’t forget the way Charles spoke to him in that soft voice, laced with double meanings, dropping sexual innuendos every other sentence just because he wanted to be pushed against a wall and fucked without hesitation. The way he’d hold his face in those nearly perfect hands, just to kiss him breathless. How he’d sit on his lap while signing a few caps, shamelessly grinding his ass against his erection, knowing exactly what he was doing. And now he wanted to pretend none of that had meant anything?

Carlos had been replaced in every way—at work, in the spotlight… and between Charles’s legs. Now it was you who rode him, who had him inside, who made him moan like he’d never been with anyone else. He couldn’t help but wonder just how tight your pussy had to be to turn him so fucking stupid for you. And the more he thought about it, the stronger the burning curiosity grew inside him to know what it felt like to be squeezed by you like that.

Maybe his anger comes out on track. His hands on the steering wheel don’t just drive — they force him to overthink everything that shouldn’t be in his head. Qualifying was a disaster, and the race was even worse. He just wanted to be faster… or for this damn nightmare to finally end.

He watches you from afar, driving that red single-seater that, in theory, should’ve been his this season. You’re fighting for third place while Carlos is dragging himself around the back of the field. At first, you notice how he won’t let you through. And that resistance costs you time. Too much time.

“Sainz is a fucking child,” you growl over the radio, fed up with the Spanish driver’s immature attitude — one that’s more like a spoiled, overly competitive kid.

But a single mistake behind the wheel can ruin an entire race, taking out multiple drivers. Carlos’s car collides with yours, sending you both spinning off track. There’s not much to be done: you both have to retire.

You’re frustrated. You’re fighting for a championship — you’re not here for decoration like he is. You knew that collision was intentional, that there was no sign it had been an accident, but the FIA didn’t see it that way.

“Fucking selfish idiot! What the hell is he doing?!” you scream furiously over the radio.

Unfortunately, that outburst earns you a penalty.

A dull anger starts to grow inside you after that incident and after spending hours locked up in the hospital. Over and over you kept repeating that you were fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, that it had just been a minor accident. But the nurse, visibly annoyed, had to remind you that you had crashed into a fence at 200 kilometers per hour.

Charles had been luckier than you. The Monegasque got another podium that season, this time behind the McLarens. And when he told you about it with that silly grin while you were alone, you were about to kill him out of rage. Because just because you slept together didn’t mean you were no longer rivals.

“Your boyfriend hit me,” you growl irritably, gritting your teeth. He barely smiles, with that cocky attitude that drives you crazy. “I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose.”

Your legs rested softly on his thighs while he placed a cold ice pack on your forehead. Although the pain wasn’t very intense, the strong impact had caused the skin around it to start swelling slightly.

“He’s not my boyfriend, but yeah, he probably did it on purpose,” he said, trying to downplay the severity of the Spanish guy’s toxic behavior, which was getting more and more obsessive. “He’s super dominant with me. And yeah, he’s jealous of you.”

“Thanks for telling me,” you say with a hint of sarcasm. “I noticed after he sent me to the hospital by crashing me into a fence at two hundred kilometers per hour.”

Charles laughs, moves the ice off your forehead, and pulls you toward him until you’re sitting on his lap. He gives you a slow kiss on the shoulder, over the fabric of your fireproof suit, and slides his hands down your waist cheekily. “It’s not such a big deal. Actually, I think you turn him on a little. But he won’t admit it… he’s stubborn as fuck.”

You open your eyes in surprise; deep down, you still couldn’t quite believe it. “Feels like he hates me right now,” you say honestly, smiling as you feel him planting wet kisses along your neck’s skin. You tilt your head a little, giving him more access.

Charles laughs against your neck, his warm breath brushing your skin as he leaves hickeys shamelessly, marking you as if you were his. You know you’ll have to cover each of those marks with makeup later because they’ll turn purple… but you love the idea of wearing them, of remembering how he devoured you with his mouth. “Maybe he hates you,” he murmurs with a dirty smile, licking right where it makes you shiver the most. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not dying to get between your legs.”

That sentence lingers in your mind for days. Even when you’re alone at home, already in Monaco, and then again in the paddock, with Charles on top of you as always. His hands grip your neck while he fucks you hard until you’re breathless. He doesn’t even know that in your mind it’s Carlos you’re thinking about, imagining what it would be like if he were in Charles’s place. Would he be rougher? Without a doubt. He would bury his cock with such force that you wouldn’t be able to speak or breathe, only feel how he completely dominates you.

Charles notices that you’re distracted, as if your body, feeling so much pleasure, is in the room with him, but your mind is somewhere else. “What’re you thinking about, mon cœur?” he asks you, slowing the intense rhythm with which he was fucking you.

Your cheeks blush with embarrassment; the image of the Spaniard appears again in your mind and Charles notices because you squeeze him harder than usual. “About Carlos.”

The pace that was slow before now stops completely. He’s not upset or annoyed, but rather curious. Of all the things he expected you might be thinking, that was the last. Because if you were thinking about his ex-lover while the two of you were having sex, it definitely couldn’t be anything sweet or innocent.

“About Carlos, huh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Now he definitely has a lot of questions. “So, why were you thinking about him, amour?” So many days had passed that Charles had completely forgotten he told you he might be attracted to you.

He pulls back inside you so he can talk. Both of you remain aroused: he stays fully erect and you completely soaked. That doesn’t stop curiosity from being stronger, and him having to wait before continuing the action.

“I was thinkin’ about what you told me the other day, that maybe he’s into me. And I just can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” you confess slowly, not caring what he might think because he was open, at least in that regard. Charles, of course, understands the feeling, since he’s experienced it more times than he’d like to admit, and still can’t control his knees trembling every time Carlos breathes near him.

He always missed how good it felt when Carlos slid inside him, how everything fit perfectly, how his back arched, and how his tip touched all the right spots. Those were the memories that usually came back before sleeping, along with the ones he had with you.

“I never got why you two stopped seeing each other all those months,” you say, looking him in the eyes, while he slightly turns toward you to hold your gaze.

He’s silent for a moment, as if searching for the exact words, though he himself doesn’t seem fully sure.

“I guess… not being on the same team kinda pushed us apart. He stopped lookin’ for me, I stopped lookin’ for him. And then… you showed up.”

Your eyes shine, and the heat on your cheeks betrays more than you want. You wanted to think he wasn’t with you just because you were his teammate, though honestly, it wouldn’t be that strange. You were together all the time. If not recording some game for YouTube, you were reviewing strategies for the next race, sharing interviews, press conferences… any excuse was valid to keep you two close. And sometimes, very close. Alone.

Maybe that’s why you ended up tangled. It was inevitable.

You remember the first time was in China, after a race that had been an absolute disaster for both of you. The frustration burned inside and you needed to release it somehow. It was quick, impulsive. Hungry bodies searching for an escape route. And it worked so well that you repeated it. Over and over. Until it became a habit: a weekly need, whether at home or in some hotel room lost somewhere in the world.

Because you loved how he touched you. How he read your body without saying a word. The chemistry between you wasn’t casual, it was fire. And you, addicted to every spark.

You slowly slide until you’re curled up in Charles’s arms. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap you firmly, gently pushing you against his chest, as if he needed to feel you close, as if your warmth could calm something inside him. He holds you silently, his lips brushing your hair, breathing deeply.

You want to speak. The words burn in your throat. You’ve never been one to keep your feelings inside, and this time won’t be an exception.

“I think he’s in love with you,” you whisper, not looking at him, your voice barely audible but loaded with meaning.

You can feel how his body reacts. He inhales deeply, his chest rising against your back. The silence that follows stretches, heavy, as Charles closes his eyes. He’s processing it, but doesn’t seem surprised. Deep down… he already knew.

“I know,” he admits calmly. “And I’m in love with you too.”

You sit up slowly, turning to look at him with eyes wide in surprise. But he doesn’t flinch; instead, he takes advantage of your closeness to run his fingers through your hair, caressing you with a tenderness that completely disarms you. As if that confession had been the most natural thing in the world.

You kiss him softly, your lips barely brushing his, as if inviting him to lose himself in you. He responds immediately, deepening the kiss with a slowness that sends shivers across your skin, taking his time to explore your mouth, to taste you, to touch you with every glide until you’re both intoxicated by one another. As if the world had stopped, even though in a few hours you’d have to be back on track for free practice.

And yet, even in the middle of that perfect moment, the memory of Carlos slips into Charles’s mind like a whisper from the past. As you close your eyes and settle against his chest, seeking a few minutes of rest, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like if Carlos were there too. Not to take your place—but to share it. The three of you, tangled in a bed, wrapped in desire… or simply together, anywhere in the world. He lets himself drift into that fantasy for a few seconds more, until reality calls him back: the roar of the engines, the flash of cameras, the show waiting for you.

Carlos longed for things to go back to how they were. You were looking for something new. Charles wanted both the old and the new. And maybe that was a sign that all your pieces fit perfectly together.

The following weeks were a true display of dominance by McLaren over the rest of the teams and drivers. It’s fair to say that while everyone else was racing, they were simply flying. Only Max Verstappen still held onto a glimmer of hope of turning the situation around, although even for him it was becoming difficult to face the tyranny imposed by the British team.

And as if that weren’t enough, now in Monaco, Ferrari was starting to get back on its feet after several races plagued by disastrous results with their new car… which looked more like a coffee machine than a race car. Even you were getting frustrated that it wasn’t performing as expected.

You never talked about Carlos again between you, but that didn’t mean you stopped thinking about each other. No one could ignore the stolen glances in the paddock: you, looking for him; Charles, noticing how he looked at your hips when you walked by; and how Charles stared at his arms—and Carlos noticed.

Those almost adolescent behaviors had you all teetering on the edge of unbearable sexual tension. You didn’t speak—not you two and him—but that didn’t stop the looks from saying everything the words kept silent.

But Charles couldn’t hold out much longer. Months had passed without a single word exchanged, even though, in reality, nothing truly serious had happened between them. Maybe that’s why he made a decision that could be considered reckless… but sometimes, just sometimes, he missed even just talking to him. Before anything else, they had been friends. Or at least something like it.

“Rough weekend, huh?” he said, and his face immediately flushed, realizing how stupid the comment sounded. Of course it had been a tough weekend—Carlos had qualified near the back for his home race.

The Spaniard looked at him with mild disdain, and for a moment, Charles’ heart cracked a little. They were alone; he had no idea how Charles had ended up there. But now… were they supposed to coexist? After so many months of silence?

Charles seemed to be searching for something, as always. Because in the end, he always came crawling back to him, tail between his legs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Carlos asked the Monegasque firmly, leaning in just enough to invade his personal space. “Already bored of your new toy, or is that why you’re suddenly all nice and chatty?”

Charles flushed instantly, trying to ignore the phrase he had just used. He tried to regain control of the conversation, as if that could hide the heat creeping up his body.

“I just… I dunno, wanted to see how you were doing. We’ve been way too distant,” he murmured, not very convincingly.

Carlos let out a dry laugh and stepped closer, completely cornering him. His hands pressed against the wall on either side of Charles’ head. They were so close that Carlos’ breath brushed against his lips. Charles closed his eyes for a second, anticipating the inevitable, his body reacting before his mind; he remembered exactly what it felt like to have him like this—so close, so his.

“Whose damn fault is that?” Carlos murmured, raising an eyebrow with a slow smile, as if savoring the question.

He didn’t answer. His mind tangled in excuses and silences: was it the team, was it him? He didn’t know. And Carlos knew that. He watched him unravel before his eyes—and he loved it.

“That’s it, right?” Carlos leaned in a little more, his voice brushing against him like a whisper laced with sweet poison. “She’s got you so fucking gone you can’t even think straight anymore. Got you so fucking hard you can’t even see what’s right in front of you. You’re way too easy to mess with like this…”

Charles felt a wave of heat rush through his chest, rising forcefully until it lodged in his throat. Breathing became difficult; a slight dizziness washed over him, mingling with something dangerously close to arousal. Carlos’ gaze was fixed on his lips—intense, almost devouring—and Charles fought to ignore how shaky his hands had become, how sudden the shiver running down his body was.

“Not even blaming you, man…” Carlos murmured into his ear, wearing a grin that bordered on obscene as he watched goosebumps rise on Charles’ skin from his breath. “I mean, even I wanna know what it’s like to spread her open, sink in slow and feel her clench around me.”

Charles’ eyes opened, a slow smile forming on his lips. That look returned—the one that always appeared when he already had something in mind… or someone.

“Oh no… that face’s got trouble written all over it,” Carlos whispered, brushing his thumb slowly, deliberately across Charles’ lips. “Let me guess… that pretty little brain of yours just cooked up some idea, didn’t it?”

He nodded, parting his lips slightly, a soft breath escaping as he shivered under the touch.

“Maybe…” he murmured, voice deep and playful. Carlos looked at him like he already knew exactly what he was thinking.

It doesn’t even take you a day to uncover the Monegasque’s twisted plan. All it takes is seeing him grinning from ear to ear every time you go somewhere together—the truth gives itself away. He’s not exactly a master at hiding what goes on in that head of his, and you can tell by the way Carlos keeps throwing glances his way in the media pen, while both of them continue giving interviews after the race.

They weren’t even trying to hide it.

Suddenly, you pinch his arm, pulling him out of his bubble of fantasies and forcing all his attention on you. “Ow! What the hell’s your problem…?”

You don’t let him finish; you just flash him a mischievous smile, raising your brows in amusement. “My problem? No, babe, what’s yours? You’re looking at him like a total idiot. Spill it—what happened?”

“Nothing…” he replies, but he quickly gives up. It’s impossible to lie to you when you’re looking at him like that, with eyes that clearly don’t believe a word he says. “Okay, fine… yeah. But I can’t tell you here.”

Now you’re even more confused. You don’t get the secrecy. Was it really that hard to just say “we fucked”? Because that’s exactly what you were starting to suspect happened. And the worst part? The thought gave you a sharp pang of jealousy. Though you weren’t sure if it was because of Carlos… or Charles.

But it’s the Spaniard who approaches you, leaving you nearly breathless with how calmly and deliberately he moves. To anyone else, it just looks like a casual conversation between three people. Who would suspect something else was brewing in the middle of that seemingly innocent gathering?

“Didn’t your boyfriend tell you already?” he asks, shamelessly slinging an arm around your shoulders. Your cheeks instantly flush red with embarrassment. You’re about to blurt out, “he’s not my boyfriend, for fuck’s sake,” but you hold your tongue, deciding to let him talk. “You didn’t tell her, babe?”

“I was gonna!” Charles replies, rolling his eyes with a crooked little smirk, clearly amused by your confusion. “Carlos and I were thinking—”

“No, just you. You were the one thinking with that dirty brain of yours,” Carlos cuts in, arms crossed—though the gleam in his eyes betrays the fact that he’s not nearly as annoyed as he pretends to be.

It was maddening. Not only did you have no clue what they were talking about, but they seemed to enjoy the game—keeping you out, speaking in half sentences. Like you weren’t even there. Like they found it amusing to see you lost.

“Oh my god, let me talk, will you?” Charles snaps, clearly impatient, though his tone stays more playful than serious. He shoots Carlos a quick glance, then looks back at you. “Carlos and I wanted to…”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

It’s Carlos who breaks the silence, his voice firm and almost indifferent. He looks you straight in the eyes, without a hint of nerves or regret, as if it were no big deal.

“We wanted to have a threesome.”

“Oh…” The air gets stuck in your lungs. For a moment, you’re not sure you heard right. Your mind tries to process it, but Carlos’ dry, straightforward tone leaves no room for doubt. He meant it. And the worst part? Neither of them looks the slightest bit sorry.

“‘Oh’? That’s your answer, amor? C’mon—yes or no, spit it out,” he murmurs with a teasing tone that sends shivers down your spine and sparks a flicker of desire inside you.

Your cheeks burn a deep red as you answer, voice firm yet shaky,

“Yeah…”

Carlos smirks wickedly and, with fingers both gentle and deliberate, lifts your chin to lock eyes with you, gaze blazing.

“Buena chica.”

Then he steps away like nothing happened—like he didn’t just leave you with trembling legs, a racing heart, and heat pooling between your thighs, imagining every detail of what had just happened… and what could come next.

They were you and him, as always, in that hotel room somewhere. This time, in Canada. For the last thirty minutes, he had been fingering you without stopping. His words were harsh, full of desire and provocation. He had you on the bed, legs spread, his fingers buried deep inside your pussy, making every touch burn you from within. And you only thought about how long it would take Carlos to arrive to give you the second part of this warm-up that had you on the edge.

“You two can’t even go ten minutes without touching each other, right?” The voice interrupts the moment. You. Because Charles doesn’t even flinch. You open your eyes and see him standing there in front of you, arms crossed, with a look that’s part amused, part annoyed. “Relax, he gave me a card to get in.”

Charles smiles like it’s nothing, not stopping his rhythm. The most disconcerting thing is that he keeps fingering you with the same calmness he uses to speak. He has three fingers inside you, completely soaked, sliding with a precision that makes you arch your back. He moves them with total control: pushing in, twisting, pulling out, then pushing deeper again, hitting exactly where he knows it unravels you.

“How inconvenient,” he murmurs with that deep voice that heats your body. “You should’ve arrived more than half an hour ago. We couldn’t keep waiting…”

Your breathing goes wild; orgasm is dangerously close. Waves of pleasure flow through you nonstop, making you arch your back while broken moans escape your lips. You don’t even care anymore about being half-naked in front of Carlos. And clearly, he doesn’t either.

He watches you calmly, as if he has all the time in the world to admire you. Your legs open, your clothes a mess, your breasts barely covered. You are pure chaos, and yet, you look perfect like that: soaked, trembling, exposed.

“If you want her to cum… touch her clit,” Carlos says as he sits next to Charles on the bed, shamelessly watching his fingers firmly entering and exiting you. “It’ll be easier. She’s probably so swollen she barely needs a touch.”

It feels strange how they talk about you out loud, like you’re a thing. Not invisible… but not quite human either. Like you’re just there to be used, admired, pushed to the limit.

“I know,” Charles replies, not taking his eyes off your face. Then he pulls his three fingers out all at once, slow as they come out, wet, shining from how soaked you are. The emptiness shakes you immediately; you feel your body instinctively contract, searching for what’s no longer there. “I just wanted her to last a little longer.”

Carlos firmly grabs Charles’s wrist and guides his fingers to his mouth, without asking, without hesitation. He opens his lips and wraps them around each finger with his tongue, licking slowly, savoring every wet trace they carry from you. He sucks shamelessly, wanting to extract every last drop of your taste, and when he releases them, he licks his lips with closed eyes and a clearly hungry expression.

You climb onto the bed on your knees, moving closer to them, completely surrendered. Charles reaches out urgently, stripping every piece of clothing still hanging from your body with a mix of anxiety and desire. Carlos doesn’t even help; he’s too focused on staring at your breasts. Your nipples, hard from excitement, hypnotize him. He didn’t need to check to know you were wet… but he would anyway. He wanted to dive into that heat, taste every drop, hear you moan with parted lips and trembling body.

He also wanted Charles to do it.

It’s Carlos’s hands that calmly slide down his clothes, removing them with the same familiarity he’s done so many times. His eyes are fixed on him as he undresses him, and his lips glide to his shoulders, leaving slow, almost possessive kisses.

Charles lets it happen, smiling with that disarming confidence, and meanwhile, he pulls your shirt off over your head, as if everything were perfectly synchronized.

You moan softly when his thumbs brush your nipples, teasing them until they harden. You stay sitting on the bed, legs spread, while they watch you from the edge, standing, devouring you with their eyes.

Carlos doesn’t take his eyes off you. They’re lit up, full of desire, although his lips still get lost on Charles’s neck. Until he kneels in front of you without saying a word, holding your hips and pushing you a little more toward the center of the bed. His face buries without hesitation between your thighs, kissing, licking, breathing you in, as if he needed to taste you to survive.

Charles moves behind you, his gaze just as fiery as Carlos’s. He sits on the bed and pulls you onto his lap, settling you against him. His hands grip your thighs and spread them wider, leaving you completely exposed. He holds you there—open for Carlos—offering him the view of everything he’s about to devour.

“Fuck… you’ve got such a pretty pussy,” the Spaniard mutters, his tongue dragging slowly along the sides of your swollen folds, not slipping between them just yet. The way his breath hits you—hot and close—and the teasing swipe of his tongue has you moaning, already desperate for more.

Charles lowers his hand slowly, like he’s really enjoying every second. His fingers trace your soaked folds until you’re completely open. With two fingers shaped like a “V,” he gently parts your lips, showing your clit completely. “So pretty… and so damn wet,” he murmurs, rubbing it with his fingertip in slow circles, knowing exactly how to mess you up.

You’re a mess of moans. Your legs keep shaking as Carlos finally runs his tongue all over your pussy, from top to bottom, tasting you eagerly. He starts slow, enjoying every drop, every reaction from you. Then he circles your clit with his tongue, playing with it so perfectly it takes your breath away—right as Charles carefully pulls back the hood, exposing it even more with his fingertips.

You arch your back involuntarily, gasping, your head resting on Charles’s shoulder. Your moans spiral out of control, and that only seems to turn Carlos on even more. He’s completely hard, his cock pressing taut against the fabric of his pants as he strokes himself with one hand. With the other, he holds your thighs open, pushing his tongue deeper, seeking every sensitive spot inside you until you scream, unable to hold back.

The Monegasque catches you with a wild kiss, his tongue forcefully entering your mouth, as if he wants to possess you from there too, muffling your moans while the other devours you mercilessly, with his wet, hot tongue, desperate to make you tremble again.

Whether you come or not, tears are running down your cheeks from pure pleasure. They’re taking you so far that you don’t even know if you’re crying from how good it feels, from too much, or from something you can’t even put into words.

“Fuck… you’re so damn sensitive, mon amour,” Charles teases in your ear, his voice low and dripping with desire. Carlos looks up from between your legs, and you can see the satisfied shine in his eyes. He’s loving every single second.

“You and I both know you go crazy having a mouth between your legs,” he whispers from behind, brushing a strand of hair off your face with fake tenderness, as your head falls back, giving in on his shoulder. “And you know damn well how much we love eating you out for hours… until you break.”

His fingers close firmly around your nipples, twisting them, making you moan uncontrollably. Carlos doesn’t stop: his tongue moves mercilessly between your swollen folds, licking, sucking, pushing with the tip exactly where you need it most. He sends shivers through you with every movement, while Charles plays with your breasts, nibbling your neck, whispering dirty things in your ear.

The combination is brutal. Your body arches between them, trembling, moans escaping without restraint. You’re so close you can hardly think. The only thing that exists are their mouths, their hands, and that burning desire consuming you from within.

But before you could react, Carlos stopped completely. He left you hanging on the edge, burning, moans caught in your throat and your body trembling with unsatisfied desire. You fell against Charles’s chest, surrendered, sobbing, completely wrapped in the frustration of pleasure that never came.

They both laughed at you, mercilessly, enjoying seeing you like this: vulnerable, needy, desperate.

“Desperate slut,” Carlos murmured with a dirty smile before grabbing you firmly by the waist and spinning you around, placing you on your knees and hands, completely ready.

Your face was barely inches from Charles’ cock, so hard it throbbed in front of you, and so wet that a drop of pre-cum brushed your chin.

‘Fuck…’ he moaned, tracing the tip along your lips, marking them with his wetness, leaving a shiny trail on your chin. ‘I’ve been wanting to see you like this all week… on your knees, exactly where you belong.’

“I’ve been imagining how your pussy’s gonna feel for three months,” he growls, watching you shiver under his touch. “And if you squeeze like that with just your fingers… damn, I can’t wait to feel you all over.”

The younger of the two sinks all the way down your throat, making you choke out a moan. Your tongue moves desperately, licking every corner, while saliva gathers and drips down his cock, wet and shining. His hands tangle in your hair, gripping tightly to set the pace and take your mouth mercilessly. Your eyes fill with tears as you struggle to take it all in.

Behind you, the older one pushes his way between your soaked folds. He goes deep, and your walls wrap around him tightly, warm and narrow, swallowing every inch. You moan with ragged breath, but can barely make a sound with your mouth so full.

The image is so delicious that the Monegasque in front of you completely loses himself, entranced, and fucks your mouth with more hunger—faster, deeper.

“Guess she sucks it better than you, huh?” Carlos throws with a teasing grin, looking at Charles just to provoke him.

And as the words leave his mouth, he drives into you with savage force — so deep he slams right into that perfect, aching spot inside you with every thrust. The rhythm is relentless, merciless; you’re gasping for air, legs shaking uncontrollably, your whole body burning with heat. Moans catch in your throat, strangled and desperate, while flashes of white explode behind your eyelids.

Charles is just as far gone. His eyes stay locked on yours as his cock plunges into your mouth — wet, hungry, hot — fucking your mouth like he needs to consume you. He groans, shameless and rough, his sweat dripping from his forehead, veins bulging along his forearms as he holds you in place. His lips are parted, panting, completely at the mercy of your mouth.

And still, he laughs — low, breathless, like he’s got all the time in the world to ruin you.

“And guess what… you don’t fuck her like I do, mon amour.”

His tone is full of challenge, and it only makes everything burn hotter. Carlos thrusts harder, deeper, determined to prove the other wrong. He wants to show you that you’re no one else’s but his. And your body doesn’t fight it—clenching tight, trembling around him until it drains him completely.

You’re a mess. You cry, mouth full, as the orgasm shakes you so hard you feel like it’s breaking you from the inside. You can barely breathe, and amid that overwhelming pleasure, you feel Carlos coming inside you too, filling you up until his heat spills over your thighs.

Your cum mixes with Carlos’s inside you, filling you to the limit, so much that you start dripping uncontrollably. When Charles cum in your mouth as well, you do your best to swallow it all, though keeping your composure is hard. You’re completely wrecked, feeling used, surrendered, and consumed by both. You fall onto the mattress, your body trembling like a leaf, exhausted and vulnerable.

“What a beautiful mess,” Carlos says with a defiant smile. “So dirty and full.”

Carlos grabs Charles by the arm and pulls him firmly against his body. You turn around, lying on your back and still weak, while watching. Carlos lunges at Charles with a ravenous kiss, a tangle of tongues fighting for control, though it’s Carlos who dominates. His hands grip the Monegasque’s nape tightly, forcing him to surrender without protest.

The younger one pulls away, gasping with heavy breaths, but the other doesn’t let go of the back of his neck and pushes him hard between your legs, giving a clear order: to clean you up with his tongue.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue traces every inch of your open pussy, licking hungrily, seeking to erase every trace of cum, devouring you as if nothing else existed.

You’re so sensitive that tears spring to your eyes immediately, but that doesn’t stop him. His eyes, intense and beautiful, burn against your skin as they lock onto you with a mix of desire and fascination. His tongue cleans you up eagerly, exploring you and trying to soak up every corner. Carlos’s hand doesn’t leave his head, holding it gently while pressing it to sink even deeper.

The other hand slowly slid down to caress him, grazing his cock with a calculated slowness that made him feel tortured, unable to resist that sensation. “Keep going like that, baby…” he insisted in a firm voice, while a mix of desire and vulnerability made them feel on the verge of breaking, as if any movement could unleash everything.

“Carlos…” he moaned, his voice broken and heavy with desire, barely lifting his head while his mouth trembled, wet and eager. The slow pace was consuming him, like a torture that tore at his skin and set every nerve in his body on fire. His body screamed for intensity, for urgency, for a passion that slipped away with every passing second. “I can’t… keep like this… I need more…”

His hand quickens its movements, though only slightly. The scene amuses him: seeing him so desperate while you burn with need, longing to feel him between your thighs again. “You stop, I stop,” he warns in a firm voice, releasing him for just a second. “And you know I will.”

After that cruel threat, he buries his head against you with twice the force, driven by the certainty that his effort will be richly rewarded if he does it right. He feels you writhe beneath his weight, while your hand rests on Carlos’s; both press firmly, driving his head deeper and deeper against your pussy.

As he gives himself with force, Carlos responds with his hand, his movements faster and longer, tracing every inch. You feel the vibrations of Charles’s moans escaping between his lips, resonating against your skin, shaking you from within. That deep, low sound full of desire takes you straight to the edge, consuming you in an uncontrollable fire.

“That’s it, fuck. You take it so damn well… buen chico,” Carlos growls, his voice thick with desire as he watches his hand glide fast and firm along all of Charles’s cock. The heat under his palm, now soaked with precum, pulls a sly grin from him. He’s so close he can feel Charles’s shaky breath, the slight tremble in his thighs, and the wet, steady sound of his movements just turns him on even more.

He’s not the only one, because you can clearly feel your orgasm about to erupt on his tongue. Though focused on his own pleasure, he doesn’t lose rhythm or intensity; he licks you with ravenous precision, without pause, until you’re left completely dry and trembling.

And finally, you give in under his lips, surrendering completely. Your orgasm bursts against your stomach for the third time with an almost unfamiliar intensity — a wave that crashes through you and drags you under, leaving you completely wrecked, spent, and breathless, lying on the mattress that seems to hold every last sigh you let out.

With exhaustion still pulsing through your skin, you watch with sleepy eyes as the same thing happens to the Monegasque. He reaches his limit too, spilling into Carlos’s hand until he’s completely spent. Normally, his drive would push him to keep going, to stretch the moment a little longer, but this time fatigue wins. Carlos feels it right away, senses the subtle shift in his breathing, the looseness in his body. He gently turns, lying on his side to wrap his arms around him, pulling his vulnerable body close to his chest like he’s offering shelter and comfort.

He holds him with tenderness, whispering words of encouragement, telling him how well he did, his voice calm and full of admiration. That deep, quiet connection they shared seemed to form a world of its own — one that, for a moment, you felt you didn’t quite belong in.

Charles rests his head against Carlos’s chest, eyes closed, his face showing relief and comfort. The older one runs his fingers slowly through his hair, soft and careful, like he’s putting every piece of him back together. It was their silent after care ritual — a gesture full of care that spoke louder than a thousand words.

You, however, feel a wave of shyness and embarrassment rise in you, your cheeks flushing deep red. Being there, caught in the middle of something so intimate, makes you feel like an intruder — a misplaced detail in an otherwise perfect picture.

But then Carlos turns his gaze to you, and in his eyes you see something different — a warm, gentle smile that wraps around you without demand. He reaches out a hand and murmurs in a low, almost secretive voice, “Come here, cariño.” That simple invitation turns your blush into something softer — sweet and filled with emotion.

Without thinking twice, you let his free arm pull you in, resting your head on the open space of his chest, right beside Charles. The steady beat of his heart surrounds you with calm and safety, like a warm haven washing away any lingering fear or doubt. That mix of peace, tenderness, and connection settles into you — perfect and unrepeatable.

It was simply perfect.

#charlos #charles leclerc #carlos sainz #charlos smut #charles leclerc smut #carlos sainz smut #charlos x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x fem!reader #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x fem!reader #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula 1 smut #formula 1 x reader

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

Text

Cricket Whites

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar plays Cricket. Teenage Felicity is TOTALLY normal about it.

Notes: Don't leave me alone with a Google Doc for an hour, or this is the result.

Y'all can thank @llirawolf and @leodette for both sending me that picture of Oscar in cricket whites.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Felicity Leong had always considered herself a composed person.

Even as a teenager, the age where everyone else was all hormones and impulse, she was the calm one. She planned things. She colour-coded her notes. She knew her boundaries. She once told a boy in Year 10 that “flirting is not a substitute for intellectual value” and walked away before he could reply.

So really, there was no excuse for what happened when Oscar walked onto the pitch.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, the kind where the Haileybury campus looked like a postcard: golden light spilling across the cricket green, the redbrick buildings glowing warm against a cloudless sky. A soft breeze lifted the edges of the white pavilion flags. It was all very idyllic. Very civilised.

Felicity had come prepared — not for the match, but for productivity. Her physics textbook was open on her lap, highlighters neatly lined up on a blanket, hair twisted into a no-nonsense bun. She had even brought a second set of flashcards to quiz Aarya during breaks.

She was there to “support her boyfriend” in an academically responsible way. Watch the first ten minutes, smile when he glanced over, then get through three chapters on oscillations and waves.

That was the plan.

And then Oscar walked onto the field.

In full cricket whites.

The trousers were unfair. The polo shirt was worse. And the cable-knit jumper with the school crest — God, the jumper — looked like it had been stolen from a Ralph Lauren ad and adapted by angels. He had the sleeves pushed up just past his elbows, exposing his forearms like it was no big deal, and his hair was ruffled from warm-ups in that exact way that made Felicity want to punch a wall.

She blinked once. Then again. Her hand twitched.

Aarya looked over. “You haven’t turned a page in five minutes.”

Felicity didn’t respond. She had just realised she had written the word cricket in the margins of her notes. Four times.

“I’m fine,” she lied, adjusting her glasses. “Just… distracted.”

Aarya leaned in, concerned. “Do you feel sick?”

Felicity let out a low, strangled sound. “He’s got the forearms out.”

Lara glanced up from her phone. “Yeah, that’s cricket for you.”

“He just adjusted his sleeve with his teeth.”

Aarya raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Are you… okay?”

“No,” Felicity hissed. “I’m sixteen and I’ve just discovered I’m shallow.”

To his credit, Oscar was entirely oblivious to the war crimes he was committing against her nervous system. He jogged into position with the easy grace of someone who’d grown up on a pitch, flexed his fingers in his gloves, and took a long drink from his water bottle — all very normal things that, unfortunately, now seemed deeply personal to Felicity.

He wasn’t even trying. That was the worst part.

He wasn’t peacocking. He wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t winking or smiling for the crowd. He was just existing — calmly, sweat on the back of his neck, school crest on his chest — like some private school boy dream sequence designed in a lab.

Felicity dragged a hand down her face and whimpered.

“Do you want me to splash water on you?” Aarya offered helpfully. “You know you’ve been staring at Oscar like he’s a final exam answer sheet for ten straight minutes, right?”

“I have not.”

“You have. It’s okay. Cricket whites do weird things to the female brain.”

“I’m going to die.”

“He’s literally your boyfriend.”

“Exactly! I’ve seen him with morning hair and mismatched socks. And now he’s out there looking like a fictional heartthrob, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Later — much later, after overs and innings and Oscar bowling a clean wicket — he jogged over toward her. Sweaty curls. Beaming like he’d just saved the world.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm and a little breathless. “You stayed the whole match?”

Felicity blinked up at him, suddenly aware that her cheeks were still flushed and her voice was definitely not going to come out normal.

“Yes. Obviously,” she said. But it came out more like a squeak.

Oscar grinned. “You were sitting with Aarya, right? I thought I saw you.”

Felicity nodded. “I, um. I was… taking notes.”

Oscar glanced at her closed textbook, still in her lap, the same page open as it had been three hours ago. “Right. Good notes?”

She looked down. Realized she had drawn a doodle of a cricket bat with hearts around it.

“Very good,” she said, stuffing the book into her bag. “Lots of physics.”

He laughed and leaned down, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “Thanks for coming, Fliss.”

And then he was off again, turning back to grab his gear, leaving Felicity to fan herself with a match programme and hiss, “I am in so much trouble,” under her breath.

Aarya just patted her leg. “You’re doomed. But like. In love.”

***

Oscar Piastri prided himself on being unflappable.

On the track, in exams, during surprise oral presentations — he was composed, methodical, ice-water-in-his-veins calm. His tutors loved to say he had “a natural temperament for pressure,” which was a nicer way of saying nothing ever seemed to rattle him.

That composure extended, usually, to his relationship with Felicity.

She was the one person who could throw him off, yes — but never in a bad way. She made him feel steadier. Like being with her made everything else make sense.

Which was why it took him exactly three seconds after sneaking into her room that night to realize something was different.

Fliss was standing by the desk in pyjama shorts and an oversized hoodie, hair scraped up in that messy bun she always claimed was an accident, even though he thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hey,” he whispered, already grinning. “I had to wait till Mr. Bates turned his WWII documentary on. I think I know more about submarines now than I ever wanted to.”

Felicity didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t smirk. She just crossed the room and kissed him.

Like, properly.

It wasn’t their usual soft goodnight kiss. This one was all heat and hands and startled noises in the back of his throat, and Oscar had just enough brain cells left to catch her waist and kiss her back before every single logical thought in his head short-circuited.

When she finally pulled away, pink-faced and breathless, Oscar just stared at her.

“Okay,” he said quietly, catching his breath. “Not that I’m complaining, but... what the hell was that?”

Felicity dropped her face into his hoodie-covered chest. “Don’t ask.”

“I’m going to ask.”

“You’re going to regret it.”

Oscar laughed, slipping his arms around her waist. “Was it the flash cards? Did I finally win you over with molecules?”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“You just snogged me like I came back from war.”

She groaned again, louder this time, and shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”

Still, she didn’t move far. And when he ducked down to look at her properly, he saw it — the pink blush across her cheeks, the way she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Which meant he really wasn’t letting it go.

“Still not telling me?”

She sighed, then looked up at him, and it hit him again — how beautiful she was when she was flustered. “It was the stupid cricket whites, okay?”

Oscar blinked. “The… what?”

“The cricket match. Your uniform. The sleeves. The sun. Your forearms. I don’t know. My brain shut down. Aarya had to tell me how to spell ‘turbine.’”

Oscar stared at her, baffled. “You’ve been tutoring sixth formers since you were twelve. And cricket whites took you out?”

Felicity groaned and tried to walk away.

Oscar followed her, laughing. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m just—seriously? That’s what did it? I’ve made you flashcards with little doodles. I learned ballet terminology for you. I literally memorised your favourite cookie recipe -”

“Yeah,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. “And apparently none of that matters because your arms looked good in the sun.”

Oscar blinked again. And then—

“Oh my god,” he said, delighted. “You were checking me out at cricket.”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“You love me in cricket whites.”

“I am not dignifying that with a response.”

Oscar was glowing. He couldn’t help it. Because the most brilliant, most put-together girl he’d ever known had just short-circuited over his stupid cricket whites.

“Tell anyone and I’ll key your laptop,” Felicity threatened him.

Oscar bit back a grin and stepped forward, cupping her face. “I won’t tell a soul,” he said softly. “But just so you know… I would’ve worn that stupid jumper a lot earlier if I’d known it had that kind of effect.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.

“I hate how smug you are.”

“I’m not smug,” Oscar said, all innocence. “I’m flattered. My girlfriend thinks I’m hot. In cable-knit.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

And then he kissed her again — softer this time.

And he was still grinning when they fell asleep, tangled under her duvet, her fingers curled into the hem of his shirt like they always were — the same shirt she’d probably end up stealing the next day.

Cricket whites, he thought, smug and dazed and very much in love.

Who knew?

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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azzinator3000 · 21 days ago

Text

Locked Doors

Word count: 2K

Content: Friends-to-lovers, secret relationship, intense sexual tension, college basketball AU.

Warnings: Mature Content (Minors DNI)

Pairing: Pazzi

CHAPTER 3 - How to Lose All Control

So, yeah…Azzi was definitely a little drunk.

Actually, Paige was pretty sure Azzi had crossed the “little” line about two rounds ago. Normally, this wasn’t a big deal. They’d go out, get drinks with the girls, maybe sneak in a few kisses in dark corners while everyone pretended not to notice — their usual thing.

But tonight?

It started like every other night, their regular bar, packed for New Year's Eve, the usual chaos of spilled drinks and too-loud music. Ice ordering shots for everyone, throwing them back with a gleeful whoop and Aubrey following up with a round like she had something to prove, her competitive streak extending even to recreational drinking.

But Azzi… Paige could tell early that Azzi was chasing something tonight.

She was laughing a little too loud, tipping her head back a little too fast, swaying a little too loose on her feet and Paige couldn’t take her eyes off her. Every time Azzi spun on the makeshift dance floor, or threw her head back in a peal of laughter, Paige’s gaze snagged, unwillingly captivated.

The skirt wasn’t helping. That tiny skirt, barely there, all soft fabric.

Azzi’s brown skin glowing under the bar lights, the way her curls were perfectly falling over her shoulder, the way her smile kept landing right on Paige and nowhere else. All a direct hit to Paige’s already frayed composure.

It was a sin. It was genuinely unfair and completely distracting. Paige was supposed to be keeping a low profile, celebrating with the team, not having an internal meltdown.

“She looks insane tonight, huh?” KK yelled over the booming bass, elbowing Paige and smirking, a clear challenge in her eyes.

Paige dragged her hand through her hair, trying to feign annoyance, trying to regain some semblance of control. “It’s a problem.” She couldn’t even summon genuine exasperation, just a helpless admission.

KK just laughed, a loud, booming sound that made heads turn. She didn’t even try to hide it because everyone could see it now — Paige was fully cooked.

She was a walking, breathing, blushing mess, and Azzi was the chef.

And Azzi was not making it easier. She was doing that thing she knew Paige loved, trailing her fingers up Paige’s arm, a feather-light touch that left a searing trail, tugging her closer, brushing her lips right against Paige’s ear and whispering, “You’re so pretty, P.”

Like it was just a casual thing to say, like it didn’t blow Paige’s entire brain apart, scrambling her thoughts into a nonsensical mess of want and terror.

The heat of Azzi's breath, the soft brush of her hair, the way her body leaned into Paige's side—it was a sensory overload, a deliberate assault on Paige's carefully guarded control.

Usually, they’d keep it subtle. A quick hand squeeze under the table, a stolen kiss in a deserted hallway, a shared glance across a crowded room that spoke volumes.

But tonight, Azzi wasn’t waiting for dark corners, she was pressing up on Paige in the middle of the room, her hand sliding low on Paige’s back, fingers just brushing the waistband of Paige’s jeans, her lips brushing the edge of her jaw — and the girls were loving every second of Paige’s slow collapse.

Ice was openly grinning, her phone probably ready to capture any incriminating evidence, while Jena just watched, her eyes wide with amusement.

Paige clenched her jaw, her entire body rigid with the effort of holding herself back. “Azzi, babe. Chill.” The endearment slipped out automatically, a soft counterpoint to her desperate plea for decorum.

Azzi just giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something undeniably feral. She leaned in closer, her voice a purr against Paige’s ear. “You love me like this.”

Which was true. She did.

Every ounce of this reckless, bold Azzi was exactly what Paige craved, what she dreamed about in the quiet solitude of her dorm room.

But then Azzi blinked up at her, her eyes unfocused, swaying a little, and the playfulness drained out of her face. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

The sudden shift from intense desire to genuine concern was instantaneous.

All thoughts of flirting and public displays evaporated. “Let’s go,” Paige said instantly, grabbing her waist, her grip firm and steady, steering her toward the bathroom while KK hollered behind them, “Good luck, P!”

The bar bathroom was a nightmare of stale beer and cheap disinfectant. Azzi was a little teary, clinging to Paige, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over while Paige held her hair back and rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles.

The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to hum with judgment, but Paige barely noticed. All her focus was on Azzi, on warming her trembling body against Paige’s arm.

“It’s fine,” Paige kept saying, her voice soft and reassuring.

And it was.

It should’ve been gross. It was vomit, for crying out loud. But all Paige could think was how weirdly domestic this felt. How naturally she’d fallen into the role of caregiver, like she’d do this a hundred times, a thousand times, without a second thought.

Once Azzi was done, looking pale but a little steadier, Paige led her out of the bar.

The crisp New Year’s Eve air hit them, a welcome shock. Getting an Uber on New Year’s was a special kind of hell, but eventually, one pulled up. Paige practically bundled Azzi into the back seat. Azzi’s legs were draped over the seat, her short skirt riding up dangerously high, giving Paige a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, toned thighs. Paige had to focus all her energy on not looking, on not letting her eyes linger, on not letting the raw desire take over.

She pulled it back down carefully, her heart hammering in her chest because damn, this girl was going to ruin her. Azzi, in her drunken state, barely registered it, just leaned her head against the window, murmuring, “So cold.”

When they got home, the dorm hallways were blessedly quiet, most people still out celebrating.

Paige helped her undress, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s warm skin, trying to keep her touch impersonal, professional, failing miserably. She ran her a quick shower, the steam filling the small bathroom.

Azzi swayed under the spray, her eyes half-closed, and Paige had to steady her, her hands firm on Azzi’s waist, the slickness of wet skin making her shiver. Azzi kept mumbling, “You’re so pretty, P,” the words slurring, but the sentiment clear.

Paige just laughed softly, the sound a little breathless. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” Azzi pressed her forehead to Paige’s shoulder, her whole body leaning into her, completely reliant. “You’re so pretty. I’m sorry I’m being so messy.”

“You’re not. You’re fine. I’ve got you.” The words came easily, naturally, a promise Paige knew she would always keep. She carefully toweled Azzi dry, the soft terry cloth against her skin, a quiet intimacy that made Paige’s heart ache with a tender longing.

She got Azzi into one of her big t-shirts and boxers, the soft cotton warming Azzi’s cold frame, making her look impossibly adorable.

Paige tucked her into bed, pulling the covers up, and went to leave, but Azzi’s hand shot out, catching hers, her grip unsurprisingly strong.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, her voice thick with sleep and remnants of alcohol. “Stay with me.”

“Okay.” Like she was ever going to say no. Like she had ever said no to Azzi, not truly.

Paige showered quickly, the cold water a welcome shock, clearing her head just enough to process the chaos of the night. She crawled into bed next to her. Azzi immediately curled into her, like a magnet to metal, her head resting on Paige’s chest, her arm flung lazily over Paige’s waist, her legs tangling with Paige’s beneath the covers.

“I really like being with you,” Azzi mumbled, sleep heavy in her voice, her breath warm against Paige’s skin. “Like, I really want this. I want this, P. Like for real.” Azzi shifted, nuzzling closer “I think I love you. I really do.”

Paige just stared at the ceiling, her breath caught in her throat.

The words hung in the air, echoing in the quiet room, reverberating through every cell in her body. Azzi, drunk and vulnerable, had said it first.

Azzi’s breathing slowed, soft and steady against her, a peaceful rhythm that belied the earthquake she’d just caused in Paige’s world. Paige could feel how much she meant it. Even drunk. Especially drunk. When the filters were down.

She looked at her, at the soft curl of her hair against Paige’s t-shirt, at the peaceful way she fit there

And Paige smiled. The kind of stupid, giddy, male-protagonist-in-a-90s-romcom smile. The kind where you see the girl, the one who’s been right in front of you all along, and it just clicks. The kind where you turn to your best friend and say, “Hey, you see that girl? I’m gonna marry her one day.”

It was that kind of smile. The kind that made her entire face ache and cheeks blush with the force of it.

It was the “Azzi” smile

Eventually, the first hints of dawn filtered through the curtains. Paige carefully, reluctantly, slipped out of bed, leaving Azzi curled in the warm spot she’d left behind.

She found KK in the kitchen, already up, already scrolling on her phone, coffee mug in hand.

KK looked up, a knowing glint in her eye. “How’s Azzi? Survive the night?”

“She’s good. Just sleeping” Paige managed, trying to sound casual, trying to erase the goofy smile from her face. It was impossible. Her cheeks felt hot.

KK squinted at her, then slowly, deliberately, put her phone down. “You’re blushing.”

“No” Paige’s face was burning, the heat spreading down her neck.

“You are” KK’s smirk was back, full force, but there was a softness underlying it, a genuine affection.

“It’s not—” Paige started, but the words caught in her throat.

“It is,” KK cut her off, her voice firm, no longer teasing. “You’re in love with her, P” She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. “It’s written all over your ridiculously red face. And honestly, it’s about damn time.”

Paige tried to fight it, but her face gave her away completely. She couldn’t stop smiling.

The embarrassment was there, but it was completely overshadowed by the overwhelming rush of happiness.

“You’ve been in love with her since you were, like, fifteen. It’s actually so embarrassing how obvious you two are.” KK shook her head, but her eyes were twinkling with amusement. “I swear, every time Azzi’s name comes up, you get this stupid look on your face, all giggles and blushing like some middle schooler. It’s pathetic.”

“I can’t help it,” Paige whispered, the admission a quiet, liberating confession.

She pressed a hand to her burning cheeks, unable to look KK in the eye. It was true. Ever since they were kids, the mention of Azzi’s name, a fleeting glimpse of her on the court, a text message it all had this visceral effect on Paige.

“Yeah, no kidding,” KK said, her voice softening. She pushed off the counter, walking over to Paige, and clapped her on the shoulder. “She likes you too, you know. She wants this. She’s just… a little more paranoid” KK paused, then added, almost gently, “You just have to say it.”

Paige looked down, chewing her lip, her chest still tight from Azzi’s drunken words earlier. I think I love you. I really do. The memory was a warm, insistent pressure against her heart. Azzi’s vulnerability, her innocent honesty, had shattered all of Paige’s defenses.

“You love her,” KK added softly, her voice an unexpected comfort in the echoing kitchen. “Just say it already. For real. Don't let her think this is just messing around for you. She's scared, P”

Paige bit back a giddy grin, shaking her head, a soft, involuntary laugh bubbling up. Her heart felt impossibly full, ridiculously light.

#pazzi #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi fics #paige bueckers x azzi fudd

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odileeclipse · 4 months ago

Text

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 16

<<<Previous Next>>>

No, you would go. But today would be different. You had decided determined, really that today would be nothing more than a lesson. All work, no jokes. No lingering on things that didn’t matter. No personal questions. No stolen glances. Because it wasn’t fair. He knew so much about you. Your struggles, your habits, the way your mind worked…or failed to work, at times.

He had seen you laid bare metaphorically, of course, but somehow that was worse. He had read you like an open book, and yet when you tried to do the same, you found the pages blank, sealed, or written in a language you could not understand. What did you know of him? He played the harpsichord. That much you had gathered. But what did he listen to when he was alone? What was his favorite piece?

Did he hum while he worked, or did he sit in silence, letting the weight of knowledge fill the air? Did he prefer tea or coffee? Did he even need to eat? And if he did, what was his favorite meal? Who were his friends? Did he have friends? Or was he always the Sage, always standing apart, untouchable and revered? What had he been like as a child? Had he always been this way poised, unwavering, impossibly composed? Or had he once been clumsy, uncertain, still learning what it meant to be the Sage of Truth? Was he spoken for?

That thought, more than any other, made something twist inside you, a sharp pang of something you refused to name. It wasn’t his fault you had gotten attached. But you had. And now, you had to fix it. You pushed the door open, stepping into the study room with renewed resolve. Today, there would be no unnecessary conversation, no lingering warmth. Just work. At least, that was the plan. You only hoped he wouldn’t make it difficult.

You entered the room, not bothering to hesitate at the threshold. No unnecessary thoughts. No unnecessary emotions. Just work. Without so much as a greeting, you pulled out your notes, flipping to the section you had struggled with most. The paper was a mess of hurried scribbles, half-finished equations, and the occasional margin note that made less sense now than when you first wrote it. But that didn’t matter. You dropped the pages onto the desk in front of you and spoke clear, direct, without hesitation.

"On the application of astral runes in planar stabilization," you began, skipping pleasantries altogether. "How does the stability matrix account for flux when the anchor points shift independently of one another?"

It was an advanced question, more than a little out of your depth, but that was precisely the point. If you buried yourself in complex theory, there would be no room for anything else, no stray thoughts, no wandering emotions, no reflections on how unfair it felt to be this exposed while knowing so little about him.

You finally lifted your gaze, forcing yourself to meet Shadow Milk Cookie’s golden eyes. He had been watching you from the moment you stepped in, his hands folded neatly on the desk, his expression unreadable. Usually, he would greet you with a thoughtful remark, perhaps a small observation on your mood or state of mind. But this time, you had given him no opening.

No space for idle chatter. Only a question. His gaze lingered for a moment, searching, as if trying to discern something unspoken. Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he answered. "A precise question." His voice was as smooth as ever, but there was something else there, something quieter. "Let us begin."

You sat down with a sharp, deliberate motion, placing your notes onto the table before Shadow Milk Cookie could say anything. No greeting, no lingering hesitation, just a question. “About the theorem we covered last time,” you said, flipping to a particular page in your notes, voice brisk, focused. “I was reviewing the applications, but I’m not sure how it applies when you shift the variables outside of the original bounds.”

The words left your mouth in a rush, leaving no space for anything else. No space for warmth. No space for familiarity. No space for him to see through you. For a moment, there was silence. Then, Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, inclined his head. His golden eyes flickered over you not with suspicion, not with amusement, but with something unreadable. He did not acknowledge the shift in your demeanor. Did not ask why there was no hello, no trace of your usual energy. Instead, he smoothly picked up the thread of your inquiry, as if nothing had changed.

“A fair question,” he mused, steepling his fingers before him. “To understand the constraints of the theorem, one must first consider its foundational premise. If we deconstruct the function as an extension of its primary logic, we find that-” He launched into an explanation with his usual measured eloquence, his voice even and assured, weaving seamlessly between theory and application.

Good. Good. This was what you needed. You nodded along, forcing your mind to follow the thread of his reasoning, gripping onto each word like a lifeline. If you focused truly, deeply focused on this, then maybe the rest would fall away. Maybe you wouldn’t feel the weight in your chest, the sting of self-awareness whispering that you were lying to yourself. But Shadow Milk Cookie was thorough.

He explained the theorem in layered depth, drawing diagrams with practiced ease, his golden eyes alight with the quiet thrill of dissecting knowledge. His words flowed effortlessly, forming intricate patterns of logic, each thought linking seamlessly to the next. His explanations were precise, unraveling the structure of the problem with such clarity that, for a moment, you felt yourself being swept into it.

You blinked. Wait. What? Your grip on your quill faltered as you scrambled to process the last few sentences. Somewhere between defining the function’s behavior and its correlation to alternative magical applications, he had gone far beyond what you could follow. “Slow down,” you blurted, lifting a hand in surrender. “I don’t-I don’t understand.” Shadow Milk Cookie halted mid-sentence, his gaze flicking to yours. His expression did not change, but there was something in his eyes something careful, something aware. You swallowed, feeling frustration creep into your chest not at him, but at yourself. At the fact that you had let yourself get caught in the cadence of his voice, in the way his words spun knowledge so effortlessly, and now you were struggling to keep up.

No. That wasn’t the only reason. You were frustrated because even now even after deciding that you needed to create distance, that it wasn’t fair how much he knew about you while you knew so little of him he still had the power to pull you in. Still had the ability to make you forget yourself. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering you. Then, instead of continuing, he leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the table with practiced ease. "Tell me, then," he said, his voice softer now, less of a lecture and more of an invitation. "Where did I lose you?"

You gritted your teeth. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair. If he had just been indifferent, if he had simply continued as though you were nothing more than a struggling student, it would have been easier. But he wasn’t indifferent. He was patient. And worse he was perceptive. You forced yourself to exhale. “The part about restructuring the function,” you admitted, flipping back a page in your notes, trying to ignore the way your voice had lost its sharp edge. “You lost me there.”

Shadow Milk Cookie nodded once, then, with the same patience as always, began again. And you let him. You let him guide you back through the explanation, let yourself focus on the words, let yourself be lost in the steady rhythm of learning. Because deceit was a warmer embrace than truth. And if you focused hard enough, maybe you could convince yourself that this was all there was. Your quill hovered over the page, ink pooling at the tip, threatening to drop onto your already messy notes. You stared, not really seeing the words anymore, your mind an unsteady blur of half-formed thoughts.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice was steady, patient as always. His explanations wove through the air, each word carefully measured, precise, yet they slipped through your grasp like sand. You tried to follow, tried to focus, but nothing stuck. You knew it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the material. It was you. And that made it worse. “Do you follow?” he asked, his tone as composed as ever. You blinked, suddenly aware that he had finished speaking. You hadn’t even processed the last thing he said.

“Uh-” Your grip on the quill tightened, your heartbeat loud in your ears. You scrambled, flipping back a few pages in your notes as if searching for something, anything that would make the past few minutes click into place. But it was useless. His gaze was expectant, not impatient, not unkind. Just waiting. Waiting for you to catch up. Waiting for you to be honest. Your chest tightened. You couldn’t do this. “I don’t get it.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, low and tense, barely above a whisper. You swallowed, willing your voice to stay even, but the frustration was creeping in, sinking its claws deep into your ribs. “I don’t” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I’m not following anything you’re saying.”

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like me to simplify it?” That…That was it. The final push. You let out a short, bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. Your quill clattered onto the desk as you leaned back, rubbing a hand down your face.

“What’s the point?” His expression didn’t change. He simply regarded you, eyes steady, waiting for you to continue. You almost didn’t. But something in you snapped. “It’s not like I’ll get it if you keep trying,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I don’t...I don’t know why I even bother.” You exhaled harshly, hands clenching into fists on your lap.

“I just...I thought if I kept showing up, if I kept listening, I’d get somewhere, but I...” Your breath hitched, frustration rising to the surface, sharp and undeniable. “It’s useless. I don’t get it. I never get it.” Your voice wavered at the last part, and you hated that. A quiet settled between you, thick and heavy. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the heat behind them to go away. You didn’t want to be seen like this weak, frustrated, cracking under the weight of something that shouldn’t even matter this much.

But then he spoke. “Are you frustrated with the material?” The question was simple. Too simple. And for some reason, that made your chest tighten even more. You opened your mouth, ready to snap out an answer, to deflect, to insist that yes, of course, it was the material. What else could it possibly be? But the words wouldn’t come. Because it wasn’t just the material.

And Shadow Milk Cookie…He was too perceptive for his own good. You clenched your jaw, turning your face away, unwilling to meet his gaze. “I don’t know,” you muttered. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. Silence stretched between you again. You wished he’d just move on. Let it go. Let you sit in your frustration and wallow until the feeling passed. But instead, he said “Truth is not always kind.”

Shadow Milk Cookie rested his chin against the back of his hand, watching you carefully. “It is a mirror that does not bend to our wishes. And when we look into it, we do not always like what we see.” You stared at him, words caught in your throat. He continued, voice calm, unwavering.

“Deceit, on the other hand, is a gentler embrace. It soothes, where truth may wound. It comforts, where truth may force confrontation.” He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp, piercing. “Would you rather remain in deceit, then? Because it is easier?” You jolted as if struck.

Your mouth opened, then shut. You had no response. Something in you curled inward, like an exposed nerve, raw and aching. You wanted to say no. You wanted to deny it, to insist that you sought truth, that you weren’t weak enough to cling to something false just because it hurt less. But wasn’t that exactly what you were doing? Wasn’t that why you were here, sitting stiffly in your chair, forcing yourself to create distance because you had let yourself see too much? Your throat tightened. “I-” Your voice failed you. You suddenly felt… exposed. Like he had peeled back a layer of yourself you hadn’t even realized was showing.

Your hands clenched into fists. You needed to focus. You needed to ground yourself in something solid before you spiraled too far. You forced yourself to look at your notes, flipping a page just for the sake of doing something, anything. “Let’s” You cleared your throat, trying to steady your voice. “Let’s just get back to work.”

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment. His gaze wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t pitying, either. Just… knowing. You didn’t like that. But he did not press. “Very well,” he said simply, and began again. You tried to follow. You really did. But your thoughts were elsewhere, your mind still tangled in the weight of his words. And before long, you realized, You weren’t listening at all. You were staring. You weren’t sure when it happened, but at some point, you had stopped hearing his words entirely. His voice became nothing more than a distant hum, like waves rolling in and out against the shore. His gestures, his careful movements, the way his golden eyes flickered with thought it all blurred together into something incomprehensible.

“Are you following?” You snapped upright, startled. You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you scrambled to make sense of where you were, of what he had just said. But you had nothing. You had absorbed none of it. Your breath caught. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You swallowed thickly, gripping the edge of your notes like they could anchor you back to reality. “Wait-wait, slow down, I-I don’t understand.”

Shadow Milk Cookie paused. Then, slowly, he leaned back, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “I see,” he mused, and there was something almost amused in his voice. “You weren’t listening at all, were you?” Your face burned. You turned away sharply, jaw clenching, frustration bubbling up all over again.

“Forget it,” you muttered. “Forget it?” he echoed, arching a brow. “You were so determined when you arrived today. I wonder, what changed?” Your breath caught. You wanted to say nothing. You wanted to pretend it was just another day, another failed attempt at understanding material that would always slip through your fingers. But you couldn’t. Because you knew what changed. And you were afraid to admit it. To him. To yourself.

The silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure how long you had been staring at the parchment in front of you, but the words no longer made sense not because they were difficult, but because they felt distant, irrelevant. Like trying to grasp smoke. You knew he was watching you. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet patience with which he waited for you to speak. But you had nothing to say. Your fingers curled against the edge of your notes, gripping them tightly before relaxing again.

What were you doing here? You had asked yourself that before, but the question had never burned as much as it did now. It wasn’t his fault. That much you knew. It wasn’t his fault that he was always composed, always steady, always carrying himself with the unshaken confidence of someone who knew their place in the world. It wasn’t his fault that he could look at you, really look at you and see through the barriers you thought you had built. That he could tell, without needing to ask, whether you were listening, whether you were engaged, whether your mind was somewhere far away. Instead of addressing anything he continued tutoring in the hopes you’d start to follow along.

The ink on your parchment blurred before your eyes, the symbols and diagrams twisting into meaningless shapes. You weren’t even tired…not really, but focus felt impossible, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. You knew he could tell. Of course he could. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t miss things like this. Even now, as you sat stiffly across from him, your notes spread out in front of you, you could feel the weight of his gaze.

Patient. Expectant. Waiting for you to catch up, to ask a question, to engage. But you hadn’t. Not tonight. Instead, you had simply nodded along, feigning understanding when in reality, your mind was a thousand miles away. Shadow Milk Cookie finally set down his quill. The motion was deliberate, the quiet tap against the desk almost deafening in the heavy silence.

“You are unfocused.” Your jaw tensed. It wasn’t a question. You swallowed, gripping your quill a little tighter. “I’m fine.” His golden eyes studied you. “Then tell me what I just explained.” You hesitated. There was an answer somewhere in your head, you were sure of it. But when you reached for it, all you found was noise his voice, the rhythm of his words, the structure of his explanations, all slipping past you too fast to grasp. “I-” You frowned. “It was about…” Nothing. Your silence was all the answer he needed.

Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tapping his fingers lightly against the parchment. “Curious. If you are fine, as you claim, then why do you falter?” You inhaled sharply, irritation prickling under your skin. “I just zoned out for a second.”

“More than a second.”

You clenched your jaw, heat rising to your face. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “It is if you wish to learn.”

That was the thing, wasn’t it? You did want to learn. You wanted to be here. Or at least, you had convinced yourself that you did. But tonight, everything felt wrong. You had walked into this session determined to build a wall, to keep things strictly professional, to separate whatever this was from what it needed to be. He was your tutor, nothing more. And he knew you weren’t listening. It was unfair. Unfair that he could read you so easily, unfair that he always seemed to know exactly what you were thinking, unfair that he could see right through you while you…You knew so little of him. You had spent all this time by his side, listening to his teachings, watching the way his mind worked, the way his words wove knowledge into something tangible. You had seen him confident, assured, unwavering. But beyond that?

What did he like outside of all this? Did he have a favorite color? A favorite meal? Did he ever get frustrated? Did he ever feel lost? Who were his friends? What was his childhood like? What made him him? He had told you once that his hair was a reflection of who he was. But that answer had only left you with more questions. And yet, he had never offered more. And why would he? Why should he?

Your fingers curled into fists on the table. This wasn’t his fault. That was the worst part. This wasn’t his fault. It was yours. Yours for letting yourself get attached, for allowing yourself to wonder, for looking at him and seeing something beyond what was there or worse, for seeing something that was there but was never meant for you.

Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly. “Shall we begin again?” His voice was calm, composed. Like this was just another lesson, just another evening. Your frustration swelled. You couldn’t do this. Not like this. “Why do you care?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, sharper than you intended.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s eyes narrowed slightly not in irritation, but in consideration. “Is that truly what you wish to ask?” You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “I just. I don’t get it. Why does it matter if I’m paying attention or not? It’s my problem, isn’t it? It’s my responsibility to learn.”

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back slightly, regarding you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. “You misunderstand.” You frowned. “Do I?”

“Yes.” His tone was measured, deliberate. “It is not that I care whether you listen. It is that you wish to listen, yet you do not.”

Your heart stuttered. His gaze didn’t waver. “And that, I believe, is what frustrates you most.” Your breath caught in your throat. You did want to listen. You wanted to be here. But your thoughts had tangled into something unmanageable, something overwhelming, and no matter how hard you tried to pull yourself back, you couldn’t. You looked away, your voice quieter now. “It’s not that simple.”

“Is it not?”

You scoffed. “Of course you’d say that.” His lips quirked up at the corner, almost imperceptibly. “I only speak the truth.” You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temple.

“You always do, don’t you?” There was a pause.

“Would you rather I lie?” You looked up at him sharply, startled by the question. Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze remained steady, unyielding. But there was something beneath the surface. You swallowed. “No.”

He nodded, as if that answer was expected. “Then tell me.”

You hesitated. “Tell you what?”

“What troubles you.” You nearly laughed.

“That’s not how this works.”

He tilted his head slightly. “No?” You let out a dry chuckle. “You’re the Sage of Truth. You already know, don’t you?” He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was softer than before.

“I know what I observe. But I am not omniscient.” Something in your chest tightened. You shook your head, looking away again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” You exhaled sharply, frustration flickering back to the surface. “Why?”

He regarded you for a long moment before speaking. “Because truth is not always what one wants. And yet, it remains. Would you rather embrace deceit?”

Yes. Yes, because deceit was easier. It was a warmer embrace than the truth. Because the truth was…You liked him but…you didn’t know him. Not really. And yet, you had let yourself want to. Your fingers curled against the parchment, heart pounding. Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, leaning forward slightly. “We will begin again,” he repeated, quieter this time. You swallowed hard, nodding without a word. You didn’t know what you were doing anymore. But you knew you had to move forward. Even if the truth was the last thing you wanted to face.

The sharp edges of frustration had dulled now, replaced with something else something quieter, something bitter. You had let your emotions dictate your actions, let them warp your thoughts into something unbecoming. You had sat here, barely listening, building walls between yourself and the one person who had done nothing to deserve it. And for what? Because he saw through you? Because you didn’t know him the way he seemed to know you? It was childish. You were childish.

Your grip on your quill tightened before you finally sighed, letting the tension slip from your shoulders. “I…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry.” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t respond right away. He merely watched you, eyes unreadable in the dim candlelight of his office.

“For what?” You hesitated, pressing your lips together before exhaling. “For… behaving like that. For letting things get to me. For…” You frowned, searching for the right words. “For allowing emotions I don’t even understand to dictate what I do.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering your words. “A rare admission.” You let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah, well. I feel foolish.” His gaze didn’t waver.

“Foolishness is not in acknowledging one’s emotions. It is in denying them.” You stared at him for a long moment before shaking your head. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Say things that make too much sense,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. Then, after a beat, you looked at him again, more serious this time. “How do you always know the truth?” He blinked, the shift in topic catching him off guard. “I am the Sage of Truth.”

“No,” you interjected. “Not as the Sage of Truth. I want you to answer me as Shadow Milk.” His expression flickered, the ever-present composure cracking just slightly at your request. You leaned forward, elbows resting against the table. “What is the truth to you? And don’t give me some grand, philosophical answer. I want to know what it means to you.”

Shadow Milk Cookie was quiet for a long time, his fingers idly brushing against the parchment on the table. You could see the way he weighed his words, measured them as he always did. But this time, it wasn’t for the sake of some grand declaration. Finally, he spoke. “The truth,” he said slowly, “is both burden and gift.” You frowned slightly, but let him continue.

“It is an unyielding force. One that exists beyond our desires, beyond what we want to be true. It does not change, no matter how we plead or fight against it. And yet…” His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “It is also what guides us. What shapes us. What reveals us, even when we do not wish to be seen.”

You exhaled through your nose, mulling over his words before finally asking, “And what about me?” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You said truth reveals us even when we don’t wish to be seen.” You met his gaze fully now, unwavering. “What do you see? What do you know just from what you observe in me?”

His expression shifted something deeper settling in his gaze, something you couldn’t name. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. “I see someone who tries to convince themselves they do not care, when in reality, they care far too much.” Your breath hitched. “I see someone who holds their own struggles close, too stubborn to share them, because they believe no one would truly understand."

You held your breath. “I see someone who seeks knowledge not just for the sake of learning, but for the sake of proving something to themselves, to others, to someone whose voice still lingers in their mind.”

Your chest felt tight. “That’s-” But he wasn’t done. “I see someone who is afraid.” Your breath caught in your throat. His voice was softer now, but no less steady. “Afraid of being seen. Afraid of being known. However…” He studied you carefully, as if peeling back the layers of your very being.

“You crave it, all the same.” The room felt too small. You swallowed hard, looking away. “I hate that you’re right.” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, tilting his head.

“Did you want me to lie?” You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “No.” He nodded, as if that was all he needed. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“…Is that all you see?” The question was quieter than before, uncertain. Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his golden eyes. “I see someone who is trying.” You looked up at him. He continued, voice steady. “Someone who, despite everything, still moves forward. Who still chooses to be here. And that, I believe, is no small thing.”

Your chest ached. There was nothing grand about his words, nothing overly poetic. Just simple, honest truth. And somehow, that made it harder to bear. You exhaled, rubbing your temple. “You really don’t hold back, do you?” His lips curved ever so slightly. “You asked.” You let out another breathless chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah. I did.” The weight of the conversation still lingered, pressing down on you. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite so suffocating anymore. “…We should probably get back to studying,” you murmured after a beat. Shadow Milk Cookie inclined his head slightly. “If you are ready.” You hesitated just for a moment before nodding. “I am.” And this time, you meant it. At least you thought you did.

The conversation lingered in your mind, even as you forced yourself to refocus. Shadow Milk Cookie had said his piece laid bare what he saw in you and though the weight of it still sat heavy in your chest, you found yourself breathing a little easier. And as the lesson resumed, something within you eased.

The usual rhythm returned the back-and-forth, the push and pull. You let yourself slip into the banter, your playful nature peeking through in small quips and exaggerated sighs of suffering whenever he asked a particularly difficult question. “Of course you’d expect me to remember that,” you muttered, frowning at the notes before you. Shadow Milk Cookie merely arched a brow. “Would you prefer a simpler question?”

You scoffed. “What, and give you the satisfaction? I don’t think so.” He exhaled, amusement dancing in his golden eyes. “Your defiance is commendable, though misdirected.”

You grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” And so it went. You asked questions. He answered them. He posed new ones, guiding you toward realizations without simply handing you the answers. Somehow, without even realizing it, you learned. Not through rigid memorization or frustrating drills, but through genuine discussion. By the time you finally closed your notebook, the weight of the day felt lighter, the earlier frustration nothing more than a faint echo in the background.

“Well,” you sighed, stretching slightly. “That’s that.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave a satisfied nod. “You grasped the concepts well.” You hummed, tapping your fingers idly against the cover of your notebook before saying, “I don’t actually think I needed to learn this.” His gaze flickered to you, mild curiosity in his expression.

You shrugged. “I just picked the concept that seemed the hardest.” You smiled a little, rolling your shoulders. “Figured if I was going to spend time learning something, it might as well be the biggest challenge. Maybe it’ll come in handy one day.” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a moment before exhaling a quiet chuckle. “That is certainly one approach.”

You smirked. “Hey, if I’m going to suffer, I might as well choose my suffering.” He shook his head, though there was no real disapproval in his expression. “You continue to be an enigma.” You laughed. “And yet, somehow, you always seem to figure me out.”

He hummed, watching you with that ever-measured gaze. “Not entirely.” That made you pause. Your grin faltered slightly, just enough for the shift in expression to be noticeable. But before you could ask what he meant before you could linger too long on the thought he spoke again. “Shall we conclude for today?” You blinked before nodding.

“Yeah. That sounds good.” He nodded in return, gathering his own notes as you shut your notebook. You found yourself wondering just for a moment, if he had truly meant what he said. That he didn’t entirely know you. That there was still more to be seen. You left his office only to return. You should have stayed gone. But, It wasn’t time for dinner yet, and you had nothing to do. You also nothing to say, no reason to sit here idly while he worked.

Your fingers tapped against the arm of your chair, your gaze flicking between the bookshelves that loomed over his desk, the faint glimmer of candlelight against the deep blue strands of his hair, and the serene focus on his face. Shadow Milk Cookie hardly seemed to register your presence. Or maybe he did and simply chose not to acknowledge it. You weren’t sure which would have been worse. You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable, not with him but with yourself.

Your mind was restless, searching for something to latch onto, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out. “…What do you actually like?” The quill stopped mid-stroke. For a long, silent moment, he did not move, his head only barely tilting in your direction. Then, his golden eyes flickered toward you, unreadable. “…I beg your pardon?” You swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish, but you had already spoken. There was no taking it back. “I mean… I don’t know anything about you. Not really,” you admitted, leaning back in your chair. “I know the Sage of Truth. I know the scholar, the mentor, the one everyone looks up to. But… I don’t know you.”

That surprised him. You could tell by the way his brows lifted just slightly, the way his quill lingered, forgotten, between his fingers. You exhaled, shifting under his gaze. “What do you like?” you repeated, softer this time. Shadow Milk Cookie set his quill down, folding his hands neatly over the parchment. “You are quite direct today.”

You huffed. “Would you rather I beat around the bush?” He studied you, something thoughtful behind his gaze, before exhaling softly. “No,” he admitted, almost to himself. You weren’t sure why, but the way he said it made something in your chest feel lighter. Still, he seemed to consider your question carefully, as if deciding how much of himself he was willing to share.

Finally, he answered. “I enjoy playing the harpsichord,” he said, voice even, measured. “The act of creation through music is… calming.” You blinked, you knew this.

He continued. “I find solace in quiet libraries, where the weight of time lingers in the air.” He glanced briefly at the nearest bookshelf, his expression softening just slightly. “And I prefer tea to coffee. Something floral, with a subtle sweetness.” You listened, eyes fixed on him, taking in every word as if they were the rarest truths you had ever heard.

Shadow Milk Cookie hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added, quieter almost like an afterthought “…I like the night sky.” Your breath caught. Not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. There was something different in his tone something uncharacteristically unguarded.

You tilted your head. “Why?” He glanced at you, then away, his fingers pressing together slightly. “…Because it is vast, endless, and unknown.” A pause. “Because no matter how much I seek to understand it, there will always be something beyond my reach.” You watched him carefully, his golden eyes fixed somewhere distant, as if lost in thought.

For a moment, he wasn’t the Sage of Truth. He was just himself. Perhaps you selfishly wanted to see more of that. You hummed, letting his words settle before saying, “So… if you like the night sky because it’s something you can’t fully understand… does that mean you like a challenge?”

His gaze snapped back to you. And for just a second just a heartbeat you thought you saw it. A faint warmth at the tips of his ears. It was gone before you could be certain, but something about it made your own heart stumble over itself. Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his expression, though his eyes held something else something curious. “

You are quite bold today,” he remarked. You shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to see what kind of answer I’d get.” His lips quirked up slightly, a ghost of a smile, before he leaned back in his chair. “And? Are you satisfied?”

You studied him for a moment, the quiet flicker of candlelight reflecting in his eyes. Maybe it was because you swore just for a moment that you had seen something there, something warm and human and quietly sincere, but you found yourself smiling. “…I think I’ll need to keep asking to know for sure.” Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly, shaking his head, but there was no disapproval in it. Only quiet amusement. “…So be it.”

The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the polished wood of Shadow Milk Cookie’s desk, casting long shadows that stretched toward the walls lined with books and parchment. You leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as you let your thoughts drift, the memory of the night in the Ghost City lingering in your mind. You had meant to focus on your studies tonight to keep things light, simple, free of the tangled web of thoughts you kept getting caught in. But your curiosity gnawed at you, persistent and unshaken. And so, before you could think better of it, you spoke.

“You know… the other day, when we went to the Ghost City, I heard this story.” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed in acknowledgment, quill still moving against parchment, his focus undisturbed. “Oh?”

“Yeah. A ghost told it in the Storyteller’s Circle,” you continued, watching his expression carefully. “It was about two lovers who could only meet once every hundred years.” His quill paused for just a fraction of a second before continuing its path across the page. “A compelling premise,” he mused, his tone neutral.

“What did you make of it?” You huffed, tilting your head. “I don’t know. Chai Latte thought it was romantic.” He let out a thoughtful sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Hazelnut Biscotti said it was tragic,” you added, crossing your arms. “A reasonable perspective.”

“And Earl Grey Cookie said some people are worth waiting for.” At that, Shadow Milk Cookie finally glanced up from his work, his golden gaze flickering toward you with quiet intrigue. “And what do you think?”

You hesitated. That was the real question, wasn’t it? You exhaled, shifting in your seat. “I think… I don’t know if I could wait that long. A hundred years is a long time.” You tapped your fingers against the desk idly. “But I guess it depends.”

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you carefully, setting his quill down. “On what?” You met his gaze. “On the person.” A beat of silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure if he caught the way your voice dipped slightly, the way something quiet curled beneath your words. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, considering. “A rather pragmatic answer.” You shrugged. “So… would you?” His brow arched slightly. “Would I…?”

“Wait,” you clarified. “A hundred years. For someone you cared about.” You tried to keep your tone casual, as if this were just another question in a long list of inquiries about philosophy, logic, and the nature of truth itself. But your fingers curled against the fabric of your sleeve. “Would you wait that long for someone?” His eyes searched yours. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, though your heart had a traitorous way of lodging itself in your throat. Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled softly, his fingers pressing together in thought. “I suppose,” he began, voice measured, “that would depend on what awaited at the end of that wait.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“If one waits a century,” he mused, “it is not merely a question of patience, but of purpose. Is the reunion assured? Or is it a mere hope, a wish cast into the void?” His golden gaze flickered slightly. “If there is certainty. if the one I waited for would be there, unchanged, unwavering then perhaps.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words. Then, after a pause one that felt light, almost playful you added, “Are you waiting for someone now?” It was meant to sound like casual curiosity. A natural follow-up. But even you knew better. Something in his expression shifted not in a way that was easily decipherable, but in a way that made your stomach flip nonetheless. He held your gaze for a moment too long. Then, a slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

“An interesting question,” he murmured, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Why do you ask?” You forced yourself to shrug. “Just curious.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something about the way he looked at you something you couldn’t quite name. You realize now it’s hard to make out his expressions. Perhaps it’s faint amusement. A quiet knowing. Then just for a moment you swore you saw it again. A flicker of warmth at the tips of his ears. It was gone as soon as you noticed it, replaced by the careful neutrality he always wore so well. Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back slightly, regarding you with interest. “And if I were?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“If I were waiting for someone,” he elaborated, “what would that tell you?” You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because what would that tell you? Your heart was a traitor, thrumming in your chest as if it knew something you didn’t. But you weren’t ready to answer that yet. So instead, you scoffed, crossing your arms. “It would tell me that someone has very high standards if they’re making you wait a hundred years.”

That earned a chuckle from him soft, real. “I see,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “A fair assessment.” And just like that, the moment passed like a leaf caught in the wind, drifting just out of reach. But even as you turned the conversation elsewhere, even as you forced yourself to move on, you couldn’t quite forget the way he looked at you in that fleeting second. Or the way something in your chest felt just a little warmer because of it.

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you carefully, golden eyes gleaming with quiet curiosity. You weren’t sure why you kept talking why you pushed just a little further. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to know everything about you, yet you knew so little of him. Maybe it was the way he answered without answering, weaving around your questions like a scholar sidestepping an argument they didn’t want to commit to. Or maybe it was something simpler. Something quieter. Maybe you just wanted to hear him say it…whatever it was. You exhaled, leaning your chin into your palm.

“I don’t think I’d even live to a hundred years old,” you mused, keeping your voice light. “A century is a long time to wait for someone.” Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head. “Indeed it is.”

You tapped your fingers against the desk, gaze flickering toward him. “If it were me, though…” That caught his attention. His fingers stilled against the parchment. “If I knew it was you,” you continued, voice thoughtful, “I wouldn’t keep you waiting.” A flicker of something crossed his expression so brief you almost missed it. You shrugged, as if the words hadn’t set your heart pounding, as if you were merely speaking in hypotheticals. “I mean, someone as important as you? It’d be ridiculous if someone kept you waiting for a hundred years.” You laughed, trying to pass it off as a casual remark. “Who in their right mind would do that?”

Silence. You expected him to brush it off. To give you some grand, scholarly response about patience, about truth, about the nature of time itself. But he didn’t. Instead, he regarded you for a long, quiet moment, his expression unreadable. Then, so softly you barely caught it he spoke. “Who indeed?” Your breath hitched. It wasn’t a question. It was something else. Something weightier. Something that made warmth coil low in your stomach, even though you weren’t sure why. You blinked, forcing out an awkward chuckle. “Well, it’s just a thought.”

“Is it?” You froze. He was still watching you, head tilted slightly curious, contemplative. He didn’t press, didn’t pry, but the weight of his gaze alone was enough to send your heart into an uneven rhythm. You swallowed. “Yeah. Just a thought.” He hummed, studying you for a second longer before looking back down at his parchment.

But that flicker of warmth the one you swore you saw, barely dusting the edges of his ears didn’t quite disappear. And neither did the feeling settling into your chest. Shadow Milk Cookie was silent for a beat too long. His quill hovered above parchment, the ink threatening to blot as his golden eyes flickered toward you, unreadable. Yet there was no mistaking the way his ears' traitorous things remained dusted with that telltale warmth. You had caught him off guard. But the Sage of Truth was nothing if not adaptable. Slowly, his lips curled into something unreadable too knowing to be innocent, too amused to be cruel. He set his quill aside with deliberate grace and leaned back ever so slightly, watching you with something that made the space between you feel suddenly smaller. "What about you though...Would you wait for me?" You asked with faux confidence, after all it was just a follow up question nothing more...

"A most fascinating inquiry," he mused, tilting his head. "Tell me, are you testing the limits of my patience? Or is this merely a cunning attempt to unravel the heart of the Sage of Truth?" Your breath hitched. You hadn’t expected him to turn it back on you. He must have noticed, because his smile deepened. "You have already given your answer, have you not?" he continued, fingers steepling as he regarded you.

"You would wait for me. And yet, here you are, asking if I would do the same." His voice lowered mischievous, like a scholar who had just found a contradiction in a well-argued thesis. "Curious. What is it you are truly seeking, I wonder?"

Your face grew warm. "I was just asking," you muttered, crossing your arms. "It’s not that deep." "

Oh?" His golden gaze gleamed. "Not that deep, you say? And yet, you pressed the matter. As if my answer mattered greatly to you." You had never wanted to shrink into your chair so badly. "I was just curious!"

"Ah, curiosity!" He gasped theatrically, placing a hand over his heart as if he had just uncovered a great mystery. "A scholar’s greatest vice. And yet, I cannot help but wonder…" He leaned in just enough to make your breath falter. "Is it truth you seek from me, or something else entirely?"

You opened your mouth then closed it. He had you cornered. And the worst part? He knew it. His expression was far too pleased, as if your silence was the answer he had been seeking all along. "You are unfair," you grumbled, shoving a book toward him in some weak attempt at distraction. He chuckled, the sound richer than you expected.

"Unfair? My dear scholar, it is not I who sought answers this evening." You scowled, looking away. "Just forget I asked."

"Ah, but you did ask." His voice was teasing, yet there was something else beneath it something warmer, more thoughtful. "And for that, I shall give you an answer…" You dared a glance back at him, finding his expression softened. He did not look away. "If it were you," he said, quieter now, "then I suppose…" A pause so brief, yet so heavy.

"Waiting a century would not be such a terrible thing." Your heart stumbled. Before you could react, he picked up his quill again, the moment vanishing as quickly as it had come. "Of course," he added, voice turning light once more, "I imagine it would be quite inconvenient for you. You did say you wouldn’t last a hundred years, after all." You gaped at him. "Are you seriously throwing my own words back at me right now?" He gave you a slow, knowing smile. "Why, of course. What kind of scholar would I be if I ignored inconsistencies?" You groaned, dropping your head onto the desk. The Sage of Truth may have been flustered before. But now? Now, he was enjoying this far too much.

For a long moment, Shadow Milk Cookie said nothing. You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse. The weight of his gaze lingered, golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable something you couldn’t quite grasp. And yet, the corners of his lips twitched, ever so slightly, as if he was holding something back. Amusement? Intrigue? Something crueler? It was almost infuriating. “Curious,” he murmured at last, tapping a gloved finger against his parchment. “You asked such a question, knowing full well what you have already declared.” You frowned, tilting your head. “What?”

“You claimed you would wait for me,” he said simply. “With that same breath, you asked if I would do the same. Are you hoping to trap me in my own words? Or…” He leaned forward slightly, just enough to be teasing, his voice taking on that lilting quality he used when debating. “Are you seeking something more, something beyond a mere answer?” Heat crept up your neck. “That’s not-”

“Ah, no need to deny it.” His eyes gleamed, a smirk playing at his lips. “It is only natural. When one flirts with the unknown, they wish for something in return. A revelation. A secret.” He tilted his head, mock-considering. “Perhaps even a promise.”

Your breath caught. He had to be doing this on purpose. You clenched your fists, looking away, frustration bubbling under your skin. It wasn’t just the teasing…it was the way he always did this, always knew more, always stayed just out of reach, dangling answers like bait but never letting you catch them. “I was supposed to be mysterious,” you muttered, your voice quieter now. “Cold, even.” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked. The teasing glint in his eyes faltered, ever so slightly. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “As silly as it sounds… it’s not fair.” You glanced at him, gaze searching.

“You know everything about me. Where I come from. My friends. How I react to things. And yet, I barely know anything about you.” A pause. A shift. Your hands curled into your sleeves. “It’s not fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, his smirk fading into something quieter, something more thoughtful. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed not gone, but subdued, as if considering your words in a way he hadn’t before. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a soft chuckle. “Ah… so that is what troubles you.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, fingers steepled together.

“You wish for the truth, yet I remain an enigma. A most tragic plight.” “Don’t mock me,” you mumbled. “Oh, but I wouldn’t dare.” He tapped a finger against his temple, a slow, thoughtful motion. “It is true, I know much about you. Perhaps… an unfair advantage, as you say.” You raised a brow, wary. “And?” He hummed, as if considering. Then, he smiled mischievous, teasing, but not unkind. “Very well,” he said lightly. “Ask, then.” You blinked. “What?”

“Ask,” he repeated, tilting his head. “Since you wish to know me as I know you… ask a question. Any question.” His voice dipped slightly, a challenge hidden beneath the invitation. “Let us see if you are ready for the answers you seek.” Your heart thumped. You swallowed. For all your complaints, for all your frustrations, you had not expected him to offer this. And yet… now that he had… What would you even ask?

For a moment, you hesitated. Not because you didn’t have anything to ask, but because there were too many things. Countless questions had been building in your mind since the day you met him things he sidestepped, things he answered only in riddles. But if this was your only chance… if he truly meant only one question… You had to make it count. Your fingers curled against the table. “Were you always immortal?” Shadow Milk Cookie stilled. The glint of amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by something quiet.

For the first time, he looked… caught off guard. You had never seen him hesitate like this before. The weight of the silence between you thickened, pressing against your ribs. He did not scoff, nor tease, nor weave his way around the question like he usually would. Instead, he merely studied you, his golden eyes flickering with something distant. Finally, he spoke. “I was made this way.” His voice was softer than you expected. Not heavy. Not sad. But… thoughtful.

Carefully measured. You watched him, searching his expression. “You were made immortal?” He nodded, fingers tracing the edges of his parchment, though his focus was nowhere near it. “From the moment I came into being, time held no claim over me. It was never a question of fate or choice. It simply was.” The way he said it was almost… detached. As if he were reciting something from a book, something he had accepted long ago. Your heart thumped, but you pushed further. “So you’ve never known anything else?” A soft chuckle escaped him not mocking, but almost… amused by the idea itself. “No. I have not.”

You bit your lip. That answer felt so final, so matter-of-fact. But something about it gnawed at you. Because if he had never known anything else… had he ever wanted to? You hesitated, then asked the next question before you could stop yourself. “And do you ever wish you weren’t?” This time, he truly paused. His fingers stilled against the parchment. Golden eyes met yours, and for the first time, you weren’t sure what you saw in them. He did not answer immediately. The silence stretched not uncomfortable, not tense, but thick with something unspoken. Something considering. He exhaled softly, tilting his head. “You do not hesitate to dive straight into the depths, do you?”

“You said I was allowed to ask,” you murmured, voice steady despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “I had to make it count.”

Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a long moment before letting out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Ever the scholar, seeking the deeper truths.” He hummed, almost to himself. “And yet… you are the first to ask me this.” Your breath caught. The first? Before you could dwell on that, he leaned forward slightly, resting his chin against his steepled fingers.

“There are those who would envy my existence,” he said, voice measured. “To be free of time’s grasp, to witness centuries unfold like pages in a grand tome… It is a privilege few could even fathom.” You swallowed. “That’s not an answer.” His lips curved not quite a smile, but something close.

“No, I suppose it is not.” A flicker of warmth coiled low in your stomach. He wasn’t avoiding the question not exactly. But he was making you wait for it. So you did. You held his gaze, waiting. Finally he spoke. “There are moments,” he admitted, almost absently, “when I wonder.” Your fingers curled against the desk. “I do not regret what I am,” he continued, as if carefully choosing each word. “Nor do I mourn a life I have never known.” A pause. A slow inhale. “But to exist beyond time… is to be a witness, never truly a participant.”

A witness. Your stomach twisted at the weight of that. “How lonely,” you whispered. His eyes flickered. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Another silence stretched between you, heavier this time. And then slowly, deliberately his smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ah,” he mused, tilting his head. “And here I thought I was meant to be the enigmatic one.” You rolled your eyes, but your chest still felt tight. “You still haven’t really answered me.”

“Haven’t I?” You scowled. “Not properly.” A thoughtful hum. “Perhaps not.” You huffed, crossing your arms. “Then at least answer this if you could choose, right now, to be mortal… would you?” Another pause. A longer one. His gaze met yours, not just glanced, not just observed, but looked. As if he were weighing something unseen, something vast and unspoken. Then, very softly he answered. “I do not know.” Something in your chest ached at that. Since you met him, you weren’t sure who had truly won this exchange. You hesitated for only a moment before exhaling, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Well… if it makes you feel any better, we’re friends now...remember?."

A/N Sometimes it really is easier to put a band aid over it ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ In other news I did not do as great as I thought on that chem exam...However, I still have 2 more exams to lock in for...but I got a 93 on my philosophy midterm sooooo, it balances out sort of...

Anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

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neigepomme · 4 months ago

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˙ ✩°˖ ✈️☃️ triple silly / caleb x reader x zayne

synopsis; three high school friends eating apple flavored popsicles on the way home. surely, nothing too funny about that.. unless?

🍎 pomme's notes - an elaboration on this post from earlier! wrote this as a platonic fic, but interpret however you'd like!

⋆ 900 words / fluff / fem reader / 2nd person

it was stupidly hot today.

walking back home from school with zayne and caleb, you could feel yourself slowly melt under the warm weather — and judging from the sweat on zayne's forehead and caleb's flushed cheeks, you weren't the only one who thought so. panting, you stop in your tracks and call out to the two boys.

"i can't do this anymore. let's get popsicles from the convenience store."

the store was on your way home, and you could all get some (much needed) refreshments while replenishing your strength under the A/C. so with a nod, the three of you went to grab popsicles.

"pips come on, you know the apple one is my favorite — that was the last one! are you gonna let me suffer in this weather with no apple flavored ice cream?"

"that's too bad caleb, because last i checked, you also ate strawberry flavored stuff! my strawberry ice cream sandwich was gone when i got home yesterday and it sure as hell wasn't grandma!"

zayne smiled in amusement, wiping his face with a cloth as the two of you bickered. being a few grades ahead, he'd always have some trouble fitting in with his peers, and he didn't have many friends in his class. it was a stroke of luck when caleb saw him reading an anatomy book and asked about it — instead of the usual nerd comments zayne heard often, he was met with a curious purple gaze full of interest.

he found out that caleb was aiming to be a pilot and the two of them ended up hanging out often, studying and catching up together. eventually, he got to know who you were too ("you have to meet pipsqueak. she's really nice and kind but don't tell her i said that! that's totally against bro code and she'll annoy me forever."), and fast enough, the three of you were inseparable.

"zayne, tell him off! he's being insufferable!!"

your voice dragged him away from his thoughts, and he shook his head with a smile on his face, all while talking to the cashier.

"three apple flavored ice pops, please."

when the clerk handed him his change and the ice creams, zayne headed towards you and caleb. somehow, still bickering — but this time, the topic shifted from stolen ice cream sandwiches to stolen chips bag. it was the usual, and zayne wouldn't trade away the comfort he found in how casually you two treated him for anything in the world.

"zayne, she stole my chips last week! isn't it just cosmic justice if i steal her ice cream sandwich back?? come on, back me up here — wait, three apple popsicles? my man."

wrapping an arm around zayne's shoulders, caleb beamed. he opened his mouth expectantly when zayne handed him a frozen treat, and with a chuckle, zayne placed it up to the brunette's lips. you stomped your foot jokingly, a pout on your lips before you spoke.

"how come zayne feeds you but never me? life is so unfair."

"heh, that's bro code, pips. that and zayne can't even see you from all the way down there.. maybe if you grow a bit more, he'll consider it."

watching you glare at caleb with a soft chuckle, zayne hands you a popsicle and nods towards the door, encouraging you all to finally get back on the way home.

and it was just another summer afternoon, zayne observing silently as caleb picked at your height, and you tried to kick him in the shin. well, that was until you succeeded in your attempt, and caleb tripped forward, making his popsicle float with his evol, while he fell in a ridiculous pushup position. snickering at him, you don't notice zayne placing a hand over his mouth and trying his best to hold back laughter, not until you turn towards the older male.

"he's so lame — zayne? wait. are you laughing??"

somehow, your question was the thing that pushed zayne to the edge as he erupted in boyish laughter — a sound neither you nor caleb had heard before, a sound neither of you managed to pull out of him. caleb's ears reddened, though not without a smile growing on his face and a fake exasperated voice.

"come on, it was not that funny."

you quickly pushed caleb back down, trying to make zayne laugh more. yelping as he falls down again, the sound makes you laugh, thus making zayne laugh even harder — clutching his stomach at how silly the situation unfolding was.

caleb, embarrassed but in awe at how his usually serious friend was laughing, also started laughing, and you all made quick eye contact between yourselves. that didn't do much to re-establish a serious atmosphere, only encouraging the laughter to grow louder — until all that was heard was "it hurts, my stomach hurts, i can't breathe" from all three of you.

wiping a stray tear from your eye, you think to yourself that maybe you ought to trip caleb more often if that was the outcome.

🍎 pomme's final notes - please infold give us zaynecaleb as besties im begging i want to see them being bros together i want my bromance NOWWW

#⋆ pomme writes #caleb x reader #zayne x reader #caleb #zayne #zayne x you #caleb x you #lads zayne #lads caleb #lads x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads #love and deepspace #what the hell is the black hair equivalent to brunette #can you tell i struggled to find epithets for them because this is set in high school #so there was no “the doctor” or “the pilot”#I DIGRESS!! zaynecaleb childhood best friends peak

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urfavnewgirl · 5 days ago

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BLÜDHAVEN. EIGHT PM.

“I am going to murder him. Stick one of his own arrows up his ass so he gets a taste of what betrayal truly feels like.”

“Your vulgarity is off the charts today, sweetheart.” You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, neatly places it on top of the singular bed in your shared hotel room.

You were meant to finish this job with Roy. After all, the two of you had started working on it together months ago, and everything had led up to this very moment in time. The next two days or so were meant to be simple, really: find the precise location of the drug lord you had been tracking and were finally able to identify, get familiar with his habits, and strike.

Except, never the reliable one, your red-haired friend had a “thing to deal with”, one that was supposedly “much more urgent” and thus, forced you to play through the perfectly planned grand finale with Jason fucking Todd, of all people.

Admittedly, you always worked well together, even when he was purely the Red Hood to you, a man clad in maroon and several layers of deflection. And yes, maybe your dislike for him has dwindled into a rather small flame compared to the bonfire it was at the beginning. Maybe he was sweet sometimes, even. But that didn't mean you were comfortable with your current predicament.

“You're taking the couch.”

He scoffs, eyes widening in disbelief. “And what makes you think I'm gonna agree to that?”

Wordlessly, you meet his gaze, then plop down on the bed, nuzzling into the covers. You know it's unfair of you. Jason is big. Ridiculously so. And the couch is tiny. He'd have to curl up into a ball to even fit on it, and you bite back a grin at the mental image. Let him suffer a little. You don't want to give in to a man this easily.

He squints at you, shakes his head. Similarly to you, he lets the moment pass by in silence. His stare alone is enough for you to pull the comforters completely over your head, and because he doesn't retort, you allow yourself to relax in the safety of your hiding place, your body limp.

That's when you feel it. One hand, large and calloused, slides under your knees, the other finds your upper back. He had touched you before, of course. It came with the job. You knew he ran warm. Except, right now, it was not the vigilante pulling you into an alley, hiding away from bad guys - it's Jason's gloveless skin on yours, and he's a damn furnace. He pulls you out from under the covers in a torturously slow, careful motion, mumbles “you leave me no choice”, and places you atop the dull-looking two-seater.

You wait for the goosebumps to disappear, for your vocal chords to realign themselves before you reply. And even then, it's a weak sound, half the air in your lungs absent, stolen by him. “...Asshole.”

He grins down at you, walks over to mimic your previous position on the bed. “At least I'm a comfortable asshole.”

You know he's right, and you know you can't do anything about it, not when your fatigued state robs you of your usual strength. So you merely shoot him the finger, turn the nightlamp on, and face the backrest of your less than lovely frame of cushions.

TEN PM.

“So, what are you reading, anyways?”

“Not talking to you right now.”

“And here I thought our relationship was getting better.”

“Fuck you, Todd.”

He laughs at that. His voice is deep, gravelly. It's a harsh sound that slices through the air, and you frown at the way it makes you feel.

You turn the page, purposefully dragging the movement into an unnecessary length before shooting him the briefest of looks, your tone seeped in annoyance. “The Haunting of Hill House.”

There's a scoff of disbelief as you hear him shift on the bed, a pair of eyes digging into your back. “You brought a horror novel to a creepy motel?”

“Yes. Problem?”

“Do you ever read any other genre?”

Placing your book on the nightstand, you turn around to face him, the street lamps allowing in just enough light for you to make out the contours of his face. With his eyebrows set into a frown, glossy, wide eyes and the rest of his body hidden under pink covers, he almost looks cute. Almost.

“I do. Do you ever read anything other than Austen?”

“I do.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like Frankenstein. Dracula, too.”

“But those are-”

His eyebrows raise, “Your favorites, yeah.”

“...sap.”

You turn around to hide your blush. So he had taken your recommendations, at the end of the day. There's something fuzzy blossoming right where your heart is at the realization. You wait for it to somewhat sizzle out, and then, quietly, speak.

“I read Emma, too. And Pride and Prejudice.”

Jason Todd catches himself smiling at your words, and he's glad you can't see his face.

ONE AM.

No rest for the wicked, and for those forced to lay on rock-hard couches in inexplicably cold motel rooms.

You've spent the last few hours in a statuesque state, unmoving, because you don't want to wake him, desperately trying to get your body to give in and fall asleep. One look at the time, however, is enough for you to finally take action.

With a frustrated sigh, you stumble into a somewhat upright position, nearly crawling over to the radiator. Your fingers find the knob, and when you realize it's rusted right into a non-functional mess, you have the urge to cry out loud, head in your hands, but he breaks the silence before you do.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You nearly tear your hair out at the question. “What does it look like I'm doing, Red? This room is worse than Antarctica.”

��'s not that bad.”

“Yeah, because your body temperature runs way above average. Plus, your ass is on the bed. I'm pretty sure that sofa was made of actual ice.”

He sighs. Speaks, quietly. “So get in.”

You turn towards him fully, head tilted in confusion. “What?”

“The bed.”

“But–”

“Get. in. the. damn. bed.”

Not wanting to risk a repeat of his earlier actions (his big, strong arms, hauling you up, leaving you a blushing mess), you comply, hesitantly get into the bed. You make sure to leave enough space between you, your bodies separated by at least a foot. Even at a distance, you feel his warmth, but it is not enough to eradicate your shivering completely.

It's only around two minutes later when you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pull you into the safety of his own form, and your chattering teeth finally come to a rest. His nose meets your neck, nuzzles into your shoulder, your hands run across his. This is the most physical contact you've ever had with him, and yet, it's not awkward - it feels almost as natural as breathing. You relax into it. So does he.

“Too stubborn for your own good.” He says, and you drift off to sleep with a grin plastered to your face.

EIGHT AM.

Your eyes flutter open, adjust to the light, yet when you try to move, you're pulled right back.

Seven hours have passed, and you don't know if it is due to the early morning sleepiness still lingering in the air, or for reasons you don't let your mind wonder about, but he refuses to let you go.

He shifts slightly, forehead against you, a groggy mumble hitting your skin. “Missions at nine. We've time.”

So you let him hold you for a little while longer, leave your actually awake self to deal with the consequences of your actions some other time.

can be read as pt. two to this

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd headcanon #jason todd fluff #dcu fluff #dcu x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x gn!reader #jason todd one shot #jason todd fic

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vacate-et-scire · 5 months ago

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BREAKING NEWS; 'i love you'

The smell of coffee and something sizzling on the stove pulls Jason from the last remnants of sleep as he slouches at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. He flips a page, brows furrowed as he skims through the headlines.

You, meanwhile, are by the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, occasionally glancing over at him. “Anything interesting?”

Jason grunts. “Mm. Some billionaire jackass bought another company. City council’s still useless. Oh—guy in Blüdhaven swears he saw an alien at a gas station.”

You snort. “That one’s probably true.”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing this week,” he mutters, turning the page. His jaw tightens as his eyes land on the next headline. "Triple homicide downtown— Yeah, okay, that’s enough of that."

You glance over your shoulder. “Too depressing?”

"Too early for this shit," he mutters, flipping past the bad news until he lands on something less soul-crushing. “Alright, switching gears. Trivia time. What’s the capital of Mongolia?”

You hum, setting a pancake onto a plate. "Ulaanbaatar."

Jason blinks. "Shit. Alright, brainiac. How about—oh, here’s a good one. What’s the most stolen food in the world?"

You pause, thinking. "Cheese?"

He squints at you. “How the hell did you know that?”

You grin, sliding a plate in front of him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Jason eyes you suspiciously but takes a bite of his pancake anyway, grumbling about how unfair it is that you’re better at trivia than him. But there’s a small, fond smile tugging at his lips as he reads you the next question.

#🌟 drabbles #this was NOT fact checked at all I was just watching one of those stupid 'did you know' vidoes from like 2018 or something #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff #jason todd x reader #🌟🦇 DC-BATFAM

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honeyncherry · 20 days ago

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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.

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