#ask a jet wolf | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreaming-medium · 1 year ago

Text

Stray Kids Kinktober Day 9

Stray Kids Kinktober Masterlist

A/B/O - Lee Know

Word Count: 11.1 K

Summary: It’s not your fault the Orange Needle Lily only grows in a protected part of the forest. While trying to gather ingredients, you’re confronted by a pack desperate for a healer to aid their injured pack member.

—————————————————————————

Running, you were running. Sweat is pouring down your back and the sides of your face. But, there’s no time to stop and wipe it off.

Trees whipped past you with every step, branches caught on your clothes and tore small rips in the fabric, some leaving small slices in your skin.

But that was the least of your worries right now.

You knew you shouldn’t have been here. You knew.

How else were you going to get the ingredients you need? The Orange Needle Lily only grew in a remote area of the Enchanted Forest.

A very well protected area of the Enchanted Forest.

Normally, when you made these trips, you were able to sneak in, pick a large bundle of lilies and then slip out unnoticed.

But from the rain yesterday, the ground was still damp, so you slipped and fell and made one of the loudest noises of your life.

Every single nerve in your body lit up with fear the second it happened. Growls and howls sounded in the distance.

So, you took off.

The snarls have only gotten louder the farther you run from the original area.

Everyone in the Kingdom knew to stay away from that area of the Enchanted Forest. The wolf pack that lives there has made their mark very clearly. Do not enter their land.

And you fucked up.

Loud, heavy, galloping thuds gain on you.

Your eyes scan the woods wildly to search for any sign of familiarity. Are you even running the right way back to your village?

A log is in your way so you hurdle over the top of it.

You need to keep going.

Run, run, run. Keep running. Don’t look back. If you look back for even a second you’re dead meat.

A bone chilling bark comes from right behind you, two over snarls respond to it.

Your village is so close, you can smell the fresh bread being baked.

A dark figure jumps out in front of you and cuts off your path.

You scream and backpedal to get away from its gleaming yellow eyes.

When you turn around you see another dark figure already behind you.

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, pleas for your life are stuck in your mouth.

When the dark figures get closer, you realize they’re two enormous wolves. Of course the pack was chasing you. Of fucking course.

Faster and faster your heart begins to beat. You gulp, hands clutching at your skirts to keep them hiked up.

There’s two wolves encroaching closer and closer. Didn’t you hear three seats of snarls?

“Please,” you beg, your throat getting tighter and tighter with unshed tears of fear. “I was only trying to collect Orange Needle Lilies, look.”

To prove your point, you turn to reach into the pouch that’s hanging around your body.

The wolf in front of you lets out a bone chilling bark. You yelp in response, hands flying up away from your body to show you mean no harm.

“I am so sorry,” you plead, closing your eyes in fear and shrinking in on yourself. “I am a healer!”

With shaky knees, you take a step backwards and the wolf behind you growls.

There’s a long series of snaps and a whoosh to your left. Your head snaps over to look but the wolves keep their eyes on you like prey.

“You are a healer?” A male voice asks from behind a tree.

“Yes! I am from Beckinsale. Please, I mean you no harm.” Tears form in the corners of your eyes. “Orange Needle Lilies only grow within your lands. Please, I mean you no harm. I need them for a tonic.”

From behind a tree, a man with jet black hair and fair skin steps out. He’s only wearing tattered shorts on his muscular body. Dark brown eyes study you carefully.

“How high is your skill?” He asks with a raised brow.

“Very,” you answer quickly. “I am the village healer. All ailments are brought to me.”

He thinks for a moment, keeping his eyes trained on you. “Can you cure infections?”

“Yes, if I have the proper ingredients.”

Why is he asking?

Suddenly, the larger of the two wolves barks at the man and growls after.

“Easy, Changbin,” the man says. “She can heal Minho.”

The other wolf huffs, rolling its amber eyes.

“You have an injury among you?” Your hands grab at the strap of your pouch nervously.

“Aye, we believe it to be an infection.” He shuffles a bit. “Do you think you could take a look?”

A loud huff comes from behind you.

“What other option do we have?” The man grits out between his teeth to the wolf.

The wolf snorts once more.

The man stares directly into your eyes, “You are coming with us. And you’re going to heal our packmate.”

Chills rip down your body, danger is licking at the back of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch together and you swallow nervously.

“Are you going to kill me?” you whisper meagerly.

The man laughs, “We will see once our friend is healed, won’t we, Omega?”

Your jaw clenches with fear at the mention of your secondary gender.

Orange Needle Lilies were used for a specific purpose: scent blockers. Just this morning you had run out of your tonic without realizing your supply of the flower had run out.

The trip was necessary if you had hoped to block your scent at all.

But with the small amount of the blocker tonic and the sheer volume of sweat dripping down your body, there was no way you were going to be able to block your scent. Especially not from a wolf pack.

Lycans’ sense of smell were more powerful than humans. It’s most likely that even if you had put on the full amount of blocker, they would still be able to pick up on your scent.

“Come on, then,” the man says to you and there’s a sharp nudge at your back. One of the wolves was pushing you forward with his snout.

------------------------------------------

The man, who you now know is named Seungmin, walks on your left. The wolf known as Changbin is on your right, and Seungmin told you that the other wolf’s name is Hyunjin.

Neither of you have said a word since then, he just continues to lead you through the Enchanted Forest away from your village.

“You must have a death wish. An omega prancing into a pack’s known territory all by herself.” Seungmin breaks the silence.

“I told you it is the only place the Orange Needle Lily grows,” you murmur, clutching your satchel closer to your body.

“And it is worth your life?”

You answer without hesitating. “Aye.” The next sentence comes out quieter. “A scent blocking tonic saves the life of an unmarked omega.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the three sets of eyes shift to side-eye you. You keep your eyes forward and keep walking.

Eventually, you make it to a small clearing in the woods. Four different hut-like houses sat in a semi-circle. There was a garden off to the side with fresh fruits and vegetables, tables and a spit for cooking over.

“Seungmin!” A voice called over. It sent chills down your spine. Nervously, you look over to see a larger man stalking towards you.

Golden eyes trained on you with an overprotective glint to them. The wind carries past him and his scent wraps around your mind.

Pine and bergamot floods your system. Alpha . He is a pure-blood alpha.

You can’t hold his eye contact, you immediately look down at your shoes in the dirt. Instincts take over and you curl in on yourself in his overbearing presence.

“Who is this?” He growls when he gets closer to you.

“A healer.”

“You brought a stranger into our den?”

“I brought a healer to heal Minho.”

So many scents of different wolves wrap around your brain and overwhelm your senses. Alphas and betas, all of them, but no omegas. At least, none that you’re able to smell.

“She is not getting near Minho.”

“Chan, he is going to die if we do not have him healed!” Seungmin barks back at his alpha.

The pheromones that pour out of them make your skin crawl. Seungmin is only a beta, and yet he is standing up to his alpha so confidently.

He stands nose to nose with Chan, keeping his eye contact. Chan bares his teeth.

The same crackling and whooshing noise comes from behind you.

“Chan, someone needs to heal him. Our remedies are not working.” Changbin says to him.

Chan doesn’t break eye contact with Seungmin, but Seungmin doesn’t back down either.

“He will pull through, we do not need a healer.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your eyes on the dirt. Your voice comes out weak. “What are you using on his wound?”

Chan’s head snaps over to you. “It does not matter to you.”

“Your protective nature will be the death of him!” Seungmin hisses. “Let her heal him before we all lose him.”

Chan bristles and snarls at Seungmin, but he doesn’t flinch away, he stands firm in his stance.

“We are crushing up Snow Weed and laying the paste on the wound.” Hyunjin answers you finally.

You look up at the beta with alarmed eyes. “That will only create a cover over the wound, you are trapping the infection inside his system with no exit!”

Alarmed, you look over at Chan, who is eyeing you closely. “If there truly is an infection, your packmate is in dire need of care. Please, let me heal him. I mean you all no harm.”

The alpha stares at you. Ignoring your instincts, you hold his searing eye contact.

“Chan,” Seungmin draws his attention. Chan doesn’t look away from you but turns his chin slightly towards Seungmin to show he’s listening. “It is our only option.”

The alpha thinks for a long moment before he speaks. “You will heal him, then you will leave.”

“Aye, as you wish.”

“If you harm a hair on my packmate’s head, we will kill you, understood?”

You gulp. “Aye, understood.”

He eyes you closely for four more heartbeats. “Come then, omega.”

------------------------------------------

You could smell the infection before you saw it; you were also able to hear the sound of shallow, wheeze-like breathing the moment you stepped foot inside the hut.

A man lay on a bed in the back of the hut, a blanket covering him. A damp towel sat on his forehead to try and keep him cool. His eyes were squinted shut in pain, mouth open to intake each pathetic pant and gasp for air.

A thick layer of sweat covered his flushed face.

When you rounded the corner and took another step towards him, another person stepped in front of you with bared teeth. A beta– and a protective one at that.

“She is here to heal Minho, Jisung. Back off.” Seungmin called out quickly.

Jisung’s jaw clenches and he hesitates for a moment before taking a step away from you.

Quickly, you walk over to the edge of the bed. You go to reach for the blankets, but you stop your hands over the top.

You turn around and look at Chan, at the Alpha of the pack. “May I?”

His gaze softens for a moment at your sign of respect. Chan nods and you turn back, slowly peeling back the covers.

Minho’s eyes squint tighter and he winces in pain.

The gauze wrapped around his stomach is already soaked through with pus and blood.

Your heart drops to your gut and you place your satchel of healing ingredients on the bed next to him.

“I’m going to cut the gauze off,” you say out loud to the room before picking up a small dagger.

The air thickens in the room as your fingers curl around the weapon. Gingerly, you reach forward and slice through the soaked bandages.

Minho groans in pain and squirms a bit, he’s awake, but obviously feverish. Placing your hand on his cheek, it’s like you put your hands over a fire, he’s burning up.

Once the gauze is off a gasp catches in your throat. Yes, the wound is covered in crushed Snow Weed, but the infection is leaking out all around it.

The skin surrounding the wound is purple and angry. How has he survived this long?

“What happened to make him this way?” You asked, inspecting the wound.

“Arrow wound,” Jisung answers quickly. “He told no one about it until he suddenly collapsed in pain days later. The infection had already taken root by that time.”

You look up at his face, twisted in pain. So, he’s a stubborn bastard.

“I am going to need a fresh pale of water and a clean rag. Do any of you know of the Dusk Tulip?”

When you receive no response, you turn around and look over your shoulder. Five lycans stare back at you blankly.

“Do any of you know what a Tulip looks like?”

Hyunjin nods. You zero in on him. “It is a Tulip that grows at the base of Maple trees. Dark purple in color. I need as many as you can get me.”

Hyunjin nods and immediately turns around to sprint out of the shack.

Jisung moves quickly as well, gathering fresh water and a rag for you.

You move briskly, dipping the rag in the cold water and ringing out the excess.

“Hail, Minho,” you say to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know he can hear you. “My name is Y/N, I am the village healer for Beckinsale. And I apologize, this is not going to feel pleasant at all.”

Taking a deep breath, you bring the cloth down to wipe away the Snow Weed coating and the infection that’s seeping out.

Minho grunts and tenses up.

With great care, you clean his wound. The coolness of the water brings a slight bit of relief to his feverish skin.

“Jisung,” you say without looking over at him. “Can you fetch a second pail of water, please?”

Wordlessly, he walks away to grab it.

Chan has not left the corner of the room, he watches you work on Minho wordlessly. His amber gaze scrutinizes every single move you make.

With the wound cleaned off, you watch as the outside edges go from purple to a deep red. You’re giving the wound a few moments to breathe before taking the next step.

The pail of fresh water is placed next to you. You thank Jisung and dip the new, clean rag into it.

You take the sweat covered rag off Minho’s forehead and begin to dab away at his flushed skin. His breathing is extremely labored and hot against your bare arm.

You let your eyes roam over his face. Even pulled in pain, he’s absolutely gorgeous.

The rag with cold water runs all over his face. He keens and leans into it, eyes still closed. Your fingers push his hair off his forehead.

“Chan,” you address the alpha. “You may need to hold him down as I draw the infection out.”

“It will hurt?”

You bite your lip and look down at Minho’s pained face. “Aye, very much so.”

Chan’s boots thud against the wooden floor as he approaches the bed.

“Apologies, Minho. Please know my intentions are not ill.”

Reluctantly, you move away from Minho’s side after placing the fresh, water soaked rag on his forehead.

Chan stands over Minho, hands hovering over his shoulders, ready to grab him.

You move your palms to slightly waver over the wound. Slowly, your eyes shut and you concentrate on the energy within you.

Your hands begin to heat up and emanate a soft, yellow glow.

Within a few seconds, Minho begins to groan in pain. Since your eyes are shut, you’re not able to look at his face and see the way he writhes in anguish.

Chan grabs his shoulders tightly and keeps him down on the bed.

The heat from your palm draws out the infection slowly. With each passing second, Minho’s grunts and growls grow louder and deeper.

“How long will this take?” Chan asks through gritted teeth.

“Only a few more moments, apologies. The infection was in his system for days.”

Since Minho is so lost in the throes of his mind, he doesn’t fight back nearly as much as you thought he would. Either that, or his pain tolerance is something out of this world.

Sweat drips down your face from concentration.

Once you’re sure the entire infection is clear from his system, you drop the spell and take a deep breath. Your eyes open and you look down at the wound.

It looks entirely clean.

Hyunjin comes barreling through the door before you can say anything.

Both you and Chan’s heads whip around.

“Are these correct?” He holds out a bushel full of Dusk Tulips.

“Aye,” you say, relieved, and take them from him. “Perfect. I just need to stitch the wound closed first before I can use these. Thank you.”

Pulling out a needle and thread, you get everything ready to suture the wound shut.

“We did not shut the wound previously because we thought the Snow Weed took away infection,” Seungmin says from behind you.

“Snow Weed creates an impenetrable covering for wounds. You should use it for when large chunks of skin are missing and cannot be sewn shut.” The thread goes through the eye of the needle. “It is still a smart move to put Snow Weed over a wound, do not misinterpret my words.

“In the case of infection, you need to let it come out of the wound, you were mistakenly keeping it in.”

Chan huffs and takes a few steps away from the bed now that he doesn’t need to hold Minho down.

Minho’s face seems to have relaxed considerably. His eyebrows are no longer pinched together, lips parted in a sleeping manner.

“Just a few more moments, Minho. This will not hurt.” You whisper down to him before making the first stitch.

He doesn’t even flinch. But you were also known for being extremely gentle when it came to sutures.

You stick a hand full of Dusk Tulip petals in your mouth and start grinding them between your teeth. Spitting the mass in your hand, you start to press the paste down on the now-closed wound.

“Do you have any fresh bandages?” You turn to Jisung to ask. He nods and rummages through a drawer and gives you the roll.

“I can assist and sit him up.” Seungmin comes closer to the bed. He gently sits Minho up whose muscles are so limp he may as well be a ragdoll.

With the bandage secure around his stomach, Minho is laid back down on the bed.

You grab the rag and dip it in water once more, dabbing any excess sweat from his beautiful skin. You run the rag over his cheeks, down his neck and around the top of his chest.

After swiping over his scent gland, the smell hits you like a ton of bricks.

A fresh citrus and woodsy aroma wraps around you like a python. All of your senses light up like a flame.

Every muscle in your body seizes.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

No way. He’s your…

Quickly, you place the wet rag on his forehead once more and start gathering up your equipment.

“He should wake up in a few hours. Allow him to get plenty of rest. You can change his gauze twice a day. Apply more crushed Dusk Tulips to the wound if the infection persists, but it should be completely gone from his system.”

Your voice wavers and everything falls out quickly. Clearing your throat, you throw everything back into your satchel.

Minho shifts around on the bed, his nose twitching.

“ M…Mate… ”

You cough loudly and turn around to face the other lycans.

“May I please return to my village now?”

Chan eyes you closely, then Minho, then back to you. With each moment, you can feel your heart rate increasing. He’s deadpan for a second and then nods.

“Aye, we will have someone accompany you back to Beckinsale.”

“No need,” you blurt out quickly and walk briskly towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you all.”

Before they can respond, you’re out the door, and back into the Enchanted Forest.

Back in the hut, Jisung walks back to Minho’s side and sits on the stool next to the bed.

“Thank the Gods we crossed paths with her,” he says, adjusting the blanket around Minho.

“I have a feeling it will not be the last time we see her,” Hyunjin says cockily, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What do you mean?” Jisung turns to him.

“You will find out soon enough.”

------------------------------------------

Minho was floating in a pool of pain for so long. His mind kept coming in and out to the sound of his pack member’s voices.

They were talking to him, trying to get him to open his eyes. He just couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried.

The infection took him by the heart and had him in its evil grip.

For days he went in and out, he had no idea how much time had passed since he was shot with that arrow.

All Minho knew was that he was going to be dead soon. That much was certain.

Until the door to the hut opened and it was like he walked into a Holiday Bakery; cinnamon, apples, and vanilla twisted around his soul and sped up his slowing heart rate.

What was that beautiful smell?

“She is here to heal Minho, Jisung. Back off.”

Who? Who was here to heal him? They brought a healer in? Chan allowed them to bring a healer to their den?

The scent gets stronger and stronger. It’s almost enough motivation for Minho to pry his eyes open.

“May I?”

Oh, that sweet, melodic voice. Angels are jealous of that sound, Minho is certain of that.

Your touch is so ginger, he could cry. Minho’s almost forgotten all about the wound drawing his very soul down to the Underworld.

“Hail, Minho.”

Every nerve in his body sings at the sound of his name tumbling from your mouth. He’s not even sure what you look like, but he knows you’re gorgeous. An angel, you have to look like an angel. If he was able to open his eyes, you would have a halo above your head.

“My name is Y/N, I am the village healer for Beckinsale. And I apologize, this is not going to feel pleasant at all.”

Beckinsale? Are you sure you’re not a being of the afterlife here to hold him and keep him safe?

Y/N from Beckinsale who smells like the sweetest pastry he could ever hope to sink his sharp teeth into.

A rag is dipped into water and the cool bite brings relief over his feverish skin. A sigh of relief comes from his nose.

He falls into the feeling of you surrounding him. The way your scent wafts through his body and soothes his very soul.

The pain of his wound is long forgotten about.

“Apologies, Minho. Please know my intentions are not ill.”

Whatever you say, Angel.

Minho is vaguely aware of the pain that grips his stomach, it’s searing, like it’s being cauterized.

But your scent, your beautiful, angelic scent keeps his mind distracted and in the clouds.

Second by second, the pain gets less and less. The weight that’s been sitting in his chest begins to lift. Heat still hovers over his body, but it only feels like he sat a bit too close to a campfire.

Then, for the first time since his injury, Minho begins to drift off to a peaceful sleep. Not one where he’s riddled with fever dreams and infection induced nightmares. No, a dreamless sleep surrounded by cinnamon, apples, and vanilla.

Will you still be here when he wakes up?

He needs you there.

He hasn’t even seen your face! You’re his fated other half!

Minho tries with all his might to wake up, but the comfort of sleep finally wins when you run your beautifully soft fingers through his sweaty hair.

There’s a slight spike in your scent.

You pull away from him quickly.

No, no, no.

Come back. No, please.

“M… Mate.”

You don’t hear him, you mustn’t have. You’re still leaving, please don’t go. No, please.

Your scent gets weaker and weaker. It no longer sits in the room with you.

Minho gives up and falls asleep on the sweat covered bed.

Y/N from Beckinsale.

It definitely won’t be the last time he’s in a room with you.

------------------------------------------

“Now,” you put your hands on your hips after tying the tiniest bandage around a little boy’s knee. “What did we learn about running in the alley?”

“Not to…” he sniffles and wipes the snot leaking from his nose.

You laugh and reach forward, wiping the tears from his eyes gently.

“Exactly, now go on back home for dinner.” You laugh and ruffle his hair. “There’s a basket full of sweets by the door, make sure you grab one. I read in a book somewhere that they make wounds heal faster.”

His eyes light up and he hops off the table, running towards the door and grabbing an entire handful of sweets.

“Thank you, Y/N!” he yells as he runs outside.

Another laugh falls from your lips and you clean up the patient table he was sitting on.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see an almost empty tonic bottle sitting on your workbench.

It’s been three weeks since you healed Minho in the middle of the Enchanted Forest. It’s been three weeks since you had access to Orange Needle Lilies

And it’s been three weeks since you’ve found your mate.

You need more flowers for your own safety. But if you venture back into their land, would they let you leave this time?

Biting your lip nervously, you pace around the floor.

You should’ve asked. You should’ve said that was your one condition for healing him. But were you really in the position to be making demands?

“Shit,” you mutter, still staring at the bottle.

Not having the scent blocker is not a chance you’re willing to take. Especially since there’s an alpha in your village that has been eyeing you up like fresh meat for months now.

You need those flowers.

If you run into the pack, maybe they’ll spare you. You did save Minho’s life after all.

Within a few moments, you have your travel boots laced up and your satchel across your body. A dagger sits comfortably in your pocket.

You’re out the door and walking into the enchanted forest before you can think twice about it.

The air gets thicker the deeper you get into the woods, that’s something you always noticed. It gets heavier and inflates your lungs differently.

A hum rings low through the trees.

Get in, pick the flowers, get out. Get in, pick the flowers, get out.

Your usual area is a clearing in the trees by a babbling brook. The sound of the water flowing over the rocks is usually enough to help conceal your presence to the wolf pack.

You will not slip and fall again.

With a racing heart, you lean down and start clipping the Lilies out of the ground. All of your senses on high alert to your surroundings.

After only about 4 flowers, a twig snaps behind you.

All of your muscles freeze, your blood runs cold.

Slowly, you stand up and look around. Maybe it was just an animal that ran by. Could’ve been a rabbit, or a squirrel.

“You have a lot of nerve coming back here, I will give you that.”

Or a wolf.

“Seungmin,” you gulp and look at the ground nervously. “I apologize, I truly mean no disrespect, I just need these-“

“Flowers, yes, I understand.”

He walks closer to you, face completely unreadable. You look up from the ground at the beta.

Tattered shorts and a mostly ripped shirt adorn his body.

“You cannot keep coming here, Y/N.”

“Please, you do not understand I-“

“Y/N.”

His tone is somewhat begging.

“Seungmin, they do not grow anywhere else.”

“You will have to find an alternative.”

Your jaw clenches and your heart squeezes. An alternative to a scent blocker?

“I do not see the harm in my being here. I only require flowers.”

Your own bravery surprises you.

“If we let you galavant all over our land, we would have to let everyone do so.”

“Galavant? I am picking flowers!” You sputter and frown, an angry look begins pulling at your face. You take a few steps closer to Seungmin.

The beta bristles outwardly at your confrontation but holds his ground.

“Do you forget that I saved your packmate’s life? I am only asking to come pick flowers. Flowers that will save my life.”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Your life?”

“I am unmarked, Seungmin. If he catches a whiff I-“

You cut yourself off. Looking down at the ground, you sigh, throat constricting with frustrated tears.

“Just forget it. I will not bother your pack anymore.”

Both of you stand in silence for a long moment before you gather yourself and brush past Seungmin.

You bump your shoulder into his.

It’s petty, but you do it.

“By the way,” you start without looking back. “I can tell by the redness of your eyes you are beginning to fall ill with a seasonal sickness. Chew on onion stems to help keep the symptoms at bay.”

And with that, you walk away from the clearing. Only four Lilies in your satchel.

------------------------------------------

“I am fully healed and you know it, you should have let me go with Seungmin.” Minho’s voice has a sharp bite to it.

Chan continues walking away, not giving Minho the time of day. But the younger wolf walks after him.

“Seungmin can handle one person by himself,” Chan responds, picking up the ax to cut firewood.

“I am aware of that, but you will not let me leave the den. Why am I some sort of prisoner now?”

“Drop it, Minho.”

He splits a log in half with a mighty swing.

“One measly little injury and suddenly you imprison me!”

“Minho.”

Another swing.

“It has been weeks and every time I try to go anywhere you look down upon me.”

“You almost died!” Chan whips around at him, fire in his eyes. “And if it were not for that human you would be dead.” He spits at him.

The way he sneers when he mentions you has Minho’s blood boiling. Anger creeps up under his collar and into his mind.

“Do not speak of her as if she is scum,” Minho growls.

Chan’s eyebrows furrow further in anger. “I never said she was scum, you made that jump yourself.”

Both lycans stare each other in the eye, neither wanting to be the one that breaks the intense eye contact.

“You do not even know her, Minho.”

“I do not need to!”

A whoosh followed by snapping comes from the edge of the woods.

“Another pissing contest?” Seungmin sighs as he walks closer to the two brooding Alphas.

Chan glares at Minho for a moment longer before looking at Seungmin, who was chewing on an onion stem.

“Did you take care of the problem?”

“Aye, it was only-“

“Good.” Chan interrupts him and turns to walk away. He only just started chopping wood; why was he leaving already? And why did he cut Seungmin off?

“Who was it?” Minho presses, lips pursing in confusion.

Seungmin’s eyes flicker from Minho, to Chan, then back to Minho before shaking his head.

“A stray beggar. I took care of the problem.”

He shifts from foot to foot and then walks past Minho. The wind kicks up at that moment.

That’s when Minho smells it.

Cinnamon, apples, and vanilla.

Acting on instinct, Minho’s hand flies out and grabs Seungmin’s tattered shirt in a death-like grip.

He yanks him to be nose to nose.

“It was her,” he grits out between his teeth. “Y/N was there.”

Surprise flickers through Seungmin’s eyes. His hand comes up and grabs Minho’s to try and get him to release his collar.

Chan stops mid step and turns to look at them.

“My mate was here. That’s why you would not allow me to go with Seungmin. Not because you were concerned about my health.”

Minho grips Seungmin even tighter.

“What did you do to her?” He barks. “Did you hurt her? If you even laid a hand on her, I swear to the Gods, I will-“

Seungmin shoves his shoulder roughly. “You will do what? Nothing, now back off. I did not even touch her, she pushed into me as she was leaving.”

“Why was she here?” Minho presses.

“Drop it, Minho.” Chan growls.

He ignores him, “Why does she keep coming here?”

“Flowers.” Seungmin snaps at him, walking away from the two bristling lycans. “She comes here for Orange Needle Lilies, she uses them as a scent blocker.”

“A scent blocker?” Minho asks. Chan doesn’t respond. He stares him down, his alpha gaze does nothing to unnerve his packmate.

A feeling of dread begins to crawl up his spine and settles at the back of his neck.

Minho turns on his heel, his mind made up.

There’s a rough yank on the back of his collar. Involuntarily, Minho growls and turns, teeth bared at whoever grabbed him.

Chan looks down at him with an equally challenging look.

“Where do you think you are going?” Chan barks.

“To Beckinsale,” Minho answers dangerously.

“No, you are not.’

“You are not my father. I am going to see my mate.” Minho shoves away from him.

“I am your pack leader and I am saying no , Minho.”

“To Hell with you, Chan.”

With one last push against his shoulders, Minho frees himself from Chan. They both stare at each other for a long moment, neither wolf saying anything, and neither want to give up.

Eventually, Minho bares his teeth and rolls his eyes before walking away back into the hut.

That nagging, anxious feeling continuously pricks at the back of his neck, making all of his hair stand up on the end.

Something is happening, something is wrong, he just knows it.

------------------------------------------

The last of your scent blocking salve was used three days ago.

Since then you’ve rarely left your home and if you did, you wore a high necked blouse or scarf. You made yourself scarce around the village.

You’re going to have to return to normal life soon, and you will. But not now.

Not when your heat is only a day or so away. It could hit any second now, you can feel the beginning stages thrumming within you. Your skin crawls with tiny pin pricks.

This will be your first heat without scent blockers. And the thought of it is making you a humming ball of anxiety.

There was only one problem– you needed food to make it through the next few days, and that meant leaving your home. Any other alpha or beta will be able to smell you from miles away. As soon as you step outside your door, you’re surely done for.

You bite your thumbnail and pace right by your front door. A tight, high-collared sweater adorned with a thick knit scarf on top rests on your body.

Why didn’t you go out earlier?

Staring down out the window, you find your courage– you need food to get through this, there’s no way you’ll make it through without proper nutrition.

Without another moment to hesitate, you open the door and make your way down to the local market. You wrap the scarf even tighter around your neck and keep your head down.

The sun set about twenty minutes ago, darkness creeping through the sky.

You decide to take back alleys and less populated streets to the market– at the time, it seemed like the best idea.

It wasn’t until you passed by someone and a low growl came from their throat that you realized that it was, in fact, the worst decision you could’ve ever made.

The growl was followed by a deep inhale.

Gulping, you try to walk faster to the market, the end of the alleyway was only about fifteen meters away.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’ You think to yourself.

“Mmm,” the male hums from the back of his throat. “If it isn’t the village healer.”

Your blood runs cold. Out of all the people in Beckinsale, it had to be him. The Blacksmith’s son who had been eyeing you for months, maybe even years– preaching around the village about he was going to lay claim to you one day.

Deciding to ignore him and keep walking, you pick up the pace, your legs carrying you faster down the alleyway.

“Do not be daft, girl, I know you heard me.”

Fear creeps up the back of your neck and into your hair. Just keep walking, Y/N. Get into a more populated area.

A strong, vice grip snatches your wrist and yanks you backwards.

Before you could scream, a hand clamps over your mouth and your body is slammed backwards into the alleyway wall. The stone connects with the back of your skull with a crack.

Rotten, nasty smells surround your nose and your body physically recoils away from it. The Blacksmith’s son was a huge, stocky man whose outward appearance accurately reflected his strength. The hand over your mouth was about as big as your face.

“Is that a heat I smell, little omega?” He leans down further, crowding your space. His greasy hair hangs in front of his eyes.

Alpha eyes getting darker and darker as the smell of your heat seeps through the collar of your shirt and scarf.

His other hand comes up and rips the scarf away from your neck.

You squeal behind his hand and reach up, trying your hardest to pry it off your mouth to scream for help. Your nails scratch at his leathery skin, your entire body writhes around against the stone.

Please, anybody come into the alley, please.

His head ducks down and goes right into the crook of your neck and takes a deep inhale. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you hear the dark growl rumble in his chest.

You shove as hard as you can against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. All those years working as a blacksmith has left him built like a brick wall.

“Holy fuck you smell so good,” he moans into your ear taking in your scent. You’re sure you couldn’t smell that good, not with the fear you’re feeling coursing through your veins and souring the scent.

He leans back, eyes completely black. The tears in your eyes spill down your cheeks.

“Cannot wait to claim you as my omega.”

Thick fingers reach up to the top of your shirt and in one sharp movement, he tears open the front, all of the buttons pop open and fly out onto the stone.

Another cry is muffled by his hand.

Your scent seeps through the alley, filling the cracks in the pavement.

Sobs wrack your chest.

“Good little omega…” His disgusting fingers trail down your neck.

Right as they’re about to touch your scent gland, one of the deepest, darkest, strongest growls shoots down the alley.

Both of you jolt.

Your eyes frantically look over at the source; scream after scream being muffled by the Blacksmith’s hand.

Bright, amber eyes glare down the alleyway with murderous intent.

The very sight of them fills you with an unreal level of relief.

“Get your vile hands off my mate .”

His voice is like a balm over your fear. You’ve never felt such instant relief to your emotions in your life. It’s like putting a safety blanket over your shoulders. A haze falls over your mind at the melody.

Mate, alpha, mate, safe, mate.

“Get the fuck outta here, she is unclaimed,” your captor snarls back.

Another snarl comes from the other man.

He begins to take step after step towards the two of you, each one faster than the other.

Once his face is visible, your heart leaps in your chest.

Minho.

Your mate came to save you.

His eyes lock with yours, they soften considerably as they gaze upon your fear twisted face, the tears still stream down your cheeks.

It’s the first time he’s seeing your face. His entire world seems to stop.

You try to whimper his name but it’s still muffled.

Minho’s eyes flicker back to your captor, darkening once more.

“I am giving you one last opportunity to let her go before I tear your throat out.” Minho snarls, still striding towards you. His boots click on the stone.

“I would love to see you try–” The Blacksmith is cut off when Minho punches a sharp right hook into his nose. He stumbles and falls to the ground, clutching at his face. Blood oozes through his fingers.

You’re able to breathe through your mouth finally.

“Alpha.” Is the only word you’re able to utter at Minho, chest rising and falling with heavy pants. Your mate’s eyes snap to yours.

He takes in your form carefully, sweeping over each of your features lovingly. Your eyebrows pull together, your skin begins burning with a need to be touching him. You need him to hold you, touch you, kiss you– anything.

“Alpha, please,” you hiss.

He steps closer to you, taking his cloak off from around his shoulders. He wraps it around you carefully, closing the front.

Fresh citrus and woods envelopes you and you could cry even more from the relief his scent brings you. A gentle kiss is pressed to your forehead.

“Just one moment, dear.”

Minho steps away from you, face immediately morphing into one of murderous intent as he looks at the Blacksmith.

The pathetic man looks up at him with a frightened yelp. “Get away from me!” He cries out.

Minho’s scent invades your senses, wrapping around you and putting you in a protective bubble. You’re vaguely aware of the sounds of Minho beating the living daylights out of the Blacksmith but you couldn’t care less.

Your heat decided to hit you like a brick wall the moment Minho stepped into your senses. Suddenly, he’s the only thing your brain knows.

You sink down onto the ground, shrinking in on yourself inside Minho’s warm cloak.

Muffled screams and muted punches ring out in the background. But you can only mewl softly, curling further and further into the fabric.

You don’t even register when the fighting stops. Two warm hands are grabbing you gently, bringing your chin up to meet dazzling brown eyes.

Minho looks over every inch of your face, his thumbs come up and wipe the tear streaks off your cheeks.

“Did he hurt you?” Everything about his voice is so tender; its a complete one-eighty from the way he was speaking to the Blacksmith.

You shake your head, unable to tear your eyes away from his. Your lids droop, chest still heaving with pants.

It’s like an unscratchable itch settles in your smalls.

The longer you surround yourself in Minho’s scent, the wetter and wetter your slick gets the fabric.

“Alpha,” you murmur again, leaning into his touch.

His jaw clenches and he cups you closely, his thumb swipes back and forth over the soft skin of your cheek. Every ounce of his self restraint is being tested.

Minho’s cock jumps in his pants at the sight of you desperate before him.

His resolve on following Chan’s wishes broke about two hours ago when his wolf kept screaming at him to find you, that something was wrong.

Chan be damned, his instincts kept you safe.

“Let’s get you home, Y/N.” He reaches forward and scoops you up into his arms.

As the fabric of his cloak shifts around, your scent mixed with his puffs out and into his nose. An audible moan pulls from his throat and he has to shut his eyes and focus on staying calm lest he wanted to take you against the alleyway wall.

The way your warm, homey smells blends together seamlessly with this outdoorsy ones sends Minho’s brain into a frenzy.

Mate, claim, mate, mark, mate. HIs wolf howls at him.

He takes a deep, shaky breath and stands up with you in his arms. You whimper and curl into him further.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck, your nose nudging at his scent gland.

It’s driving him insane.

“Y/N,” he strains out. “Where– Which way?” He asks.

You moan into his neck, rubbing your head all over him, further blending your scents. His knees almost give out right then and there.

“Need you, Alpha.” Your hand comes out of the cloak and grabs at his shirt.

“I am right here, my little omega.” Minho presses his lips to your forehead. “Please,” he whispers into your skin. “Let me get you home and I will do whatever you need, Y/N. Your alpha will take good care of you.”

Releasing his shirt, you point in one direction down the alley.

Minho doesn’t hesitate, he briskly walks in that direction, keeping you close to his chest. Throughout the entire walk, you motion in vague directions while nosing at his neck, leaving small pecks that make his legs turn to jelly.

You coo softly against him, squirming around every few seconds as your heat takes a hold of your body.

The timer on his self control is ticking down by the second.

He’s been dreaming about you ever since you took care of him like some angel from the afterlife, and now that he finally has you in his arms, he never wants to let go.

Finally, you point to a small cottage tucked away in the corner of the village.

Minho heaves a sigh of relief and almost sprints up to the door, opening it and stepping inside so fast you would think someone was chasing him.

The entire cottage smells like you in the best way.

After spending night after night trying to recall just how sweet you smell, being inside your cottage feels like a dip in a hot bath.

He makes his way through the house and into a room that holds a large bed in the middle.

How can a cottage he’s never set foot in feel so familiar ?

With great care, he lays you down on your bed. When he goes to stand up, your arms lock around his neck.

“No, Alpha, please,” you whine into his neck. “Need you so bad. I need my alpha.”

Minho audibly groans, he has to place a hand on the bed to stop his body from crumpling.

“I will be right back, my dove. I only need to check the locks on the door.”

He buried his own face in your neck, inhaling your gorgeous scent. You keen and coo at his attention.

“You will come right back?” You ask.

“Aye, I will. You will not even know I left the room.”

You press one long, last kiss to the crook of his neck before slowly unwinding your arms from around his neck.

Minho peels himself away from you and goes back to the front door, checking each and every lock on the door and windows.

He should take more time to really inspect each one, but his inner wolf is absolutely clawing at his self control.

Mate. Mark. Claim. Mate. Mine.

Sweat drips down the back of his neck, his hands shaking.

But as much as his wolf wanted to claim you, he also wanted to protect you and never let a single thing ever happen to you again. He would make sure that you were never put into harm's way.

The last lock is inspected and secure.

Minho turns on his heel and practically runs back to your room.

The smell of your arousal permeates the air thicker and thicker the closer he gets to your room. You smell so sickeningly sweet, he can’t wait to sink his teeth into you.

Tiny whimpers invade his ears and each one sends a shot of arousal to his cock.

He knocks on your door before entering.

His mouth goes dry, his inner wolf howls.

In the time that it took for him to check the locks, you pushed pillows and blankets into a nest, his cloak right under your head.

You also stripped yourself of all your clothes. Your beautiful nude form right in the middle of the bed.

Fingers buried deep into your cunt.

Slick drips down your folds and onto the sheets.

Your fingers seem to be doing nothing to help your hazy state. There was only one thing that could help.

“Minho,” you moan out, turning your head to look at him. A thin sheen of sweat covers your body. �� Please. ”

His instincts decide to push him into the passenger’s seat.

He’s striding to you as fast as his legs would take him, his hands already working on ripping his own shirt off.

A growl tears from his throat as he climbs on the bed, stalking up your body with predator-like eyes.

“Did you make a pretty nest for us, little one?”

You nod with a scarlet haze over the bridge of your nose and up your cheeks to your ears.

Minho wastes no time smashing your lips together. He licks and sucks your mouth like it’s candy.

He cages you down on the mattress with his strong arms. Your free hand threads into his hair and keeps him as close as possible.

It’s sloppy and disgusting, spit leaks out down your chin. Your tongues dance with one another, he licks around your mouth while you whimper and suck on his tongue.

Neither of you can control the noises you’re making.

Your walls clench down on your own fingers.

“Been dreaming of you every single night, omega.” He growls against your lips before capturing them again. “Your scent has been driving me wild.”

Mewing, you bite his lower lip and pull back for it to snap back against his teeth.

Slowly, Minho can feel the itch of his own rut beginning to tickle at the base of his spine. Your heat must be triggering it.

“I have never smelled anything as good as you do.” Minho trails his wet kisses down your neck to lick all over your skin. He stops at your scent gland, his tongue raking over it in slow, long, wet, strokes.

He’s taking his time like he would with a dessert.

Every single lick makes you moan and keen into his touch. Your fingers start thrusting in and out of yourself faster and faster. But it doesn’t help, it only makes you burn even more.

“Minho,” you pant, pulling on his hair. He fights against your pull, not wanting to be parted from your scent gland. “Minho!” You try again, whining.

He growls low in his throat, one of his hands coming down to glide down the side of your body to your hip. His large palm rests against your red hot skin.

The licks and sucks are sending you wild.

“Alpha!” You cry out, his body jolts a bit and he finally lifts his head. Blacked out, hazy eyes watch you closely. “Need you to touch me please. ”

Minho smirks and keeps eye contact with you while kissing down your body. He bites your collarbones, kisses the skin between them, then underneath them.

When he gets down to your breast, he envelopes an entire nipple in his mouth and sucks hard .

You cry out, your head tilting back to arch off the bed.

Minho has none of that, this alpha wants eye contact, he wants submission to him. He fists a hand in your hair and yanks your head so that you look at him.

“Eyes on me, Omega.” He licks around your pebbled bud again, sucking harshly. “Perfect,” he says around your nipple. “Perfect for our pups to suckle on.”

Pride rips through you at your alpha’s words. Your heat has you in its clutches, the only thing your body wants is to make pups, breed, fuck, get pregnant.

Minho switches to the other nipple, keeping his eyes on you. Your hand still in his hair cards through gently, pushing the strands off his forehead.

After a harsh bite, you grab a fistful with a moan.

Meanwhile, your slick is dripping down your fingers and staining the sheets underneath you. Every flick of his tongue makes you clench around your fingers.

You start to thrust in and out in time with his licks.

It’s still not enough.

Your eyebrows knit together and you whine, trying to curl your own fingers to make you feel good.

Minho notices your struggle and smirks. “Do you need your alpha to touch you?”

“Yes!” you cry out, frustration creeping down your collar. “I need my alpha so bad!”

Minho hums and runs his hand down your body to grab your wrist. He sits up after leaving one more mark on your chest.

Carefully, he pulls your fingers out of your cunt with a wet squelch.

“Fuck,” he groans under his breath as he watches your slick drip down your folds. The smell is absolutely intoxicating.

Minho brings your hand up to his mouth, he licks all the way up your forearm, up your hand, to take your fingers into his mouth.

His hips jolt forward at your taste.

If he thought your scent was amazing, then your taste was otherworldly.

His eyes close and he loses himself in your taste, suckling on your lithe fingers, tongue swirling around the digits.

You’re panting while watching him. Wherever he touches you is the only place that stops burning with need and desire.

“Minho…” you coo and your hips wiggle around impatiently.

Bringing your hand out of his mouth, he stares directly at your glistening folds.

“Need to taste you more.”

He practically dives in, tongue licking a long strip from bottom to the top, circling your clit to lap back down at your hole.

Your entire body arcs and you scream out in pleasure. One hand flies down to pull at his hair again, your hips grind into his face.

It feels so good .

Minho grabs your hips, thumbs pressing down on the bone to keep you still.

He’s losing himself second by second in your juices. It’s like he’s drinking a honeyed ale, he’s getting absolutely drunk on you.

The entire world could collapse around the two of you right now and he wouldn’t stop.

His rut seems to have taken full control of his body.

Mate, mark, claim, taste, fuck, breed.

His cock is so fucking hard in his trousers but he doesn’t want to take his mouth away from you, not for a second.

Over and over again he laps at your clit, each time you moan and pull his hair.

Incoherent babbles fall from your lips telling him how good he’s making you feel, how much you need him.

“Close, close, close,” you repeat like a prayer, a rubber band pulling tighter and tighter inside you.

One of his hands moves from your hip to thrust two fingers into your pulsing hole. Minho’s eyes roll back in his head at how soft and velvety you feel around his fingers.

His wolf howls at him to fuck you already, to sink his cock inside you and cum over and over again until it takes hold.

But the man wants— no, needs— you to cum in his mouth.

His tongue flicks over your clit at the same time he curls his fingers up to hit a spot within you and your body tenses.

Instead of crying out, your mouth stretches open and no sound comes out.

Your walls clamp down on his fingers and pulse as your orgasm rips through you. The grip on his hair tightens so much.

As your juices leak out around his fingers, he laps it up greedily.

Once the main waves of your orgasm pass, you finally let out a strained grunt, chest heaving with pants and moans.

His name falls from you like a mantra.

The itch within you was scratched, but just for a split second. The moment you come down from your orgasm, that burning begins once more.

He knows it. He knows the only thing that’ll make it go away is his knot.

His fingers slide out of you and he crawls over you to hover over your panting form.

Your hair is frizzy and messy, eyes hazy and fucked out, swollen lips parted. Minho desperately wants this image of you to stay burned into his memory.

“Minho,” you moan to him.

“Taste how delicious you are.” Gently, he pushes his fingers past your lips.

Immediately, your tongue licks around his digits. The feeling causes him to buck his hips forward into yours. His clothed cock ruts into your soaking cunt.

Both of you moan together.

You suck on his fingers and taste whatever you can.

He can only take it for a few seconds before he pulls them away and replaces them with his tongue.

The taste of your juices is swapped between your tongues.

“Need you,” you moan between kisses. “Need my alpha.” Kiss. “Need your knot.”

Once more he bucks into you involuntarily. He needs you just as bad as you need him.

“I will give you what you want.” He bites your lip. “My little omega.”

He pulls away from you. “Flip over for me, little one.”

Immediately, you do what he says.

Minho stands up from the bed to shuck off his trousers and heavy boots. His cock springs free and he strokes himself a few times, eyes following how you arch your back on your hands and knees, presenting yourself for him.

His tongue licks his lips and then it pulls between his teeth.

You’re so fucking gorgeous.

“Alpha, please ,” you whine and look back over your shoulders.

He crawls back onto the mattress and gives your ass cheek a sharp slap.

“Be patient.”

Minho lines up behind you, fisting the base of his cock. He rubs it up and down your slick.

The two of you moan out in unison.

Mewling, you push your hips backwards to try and spear yourself on him. Minho is quick to slap your asscheek again.

“Omegas who do not behave do not get their alpha’s knots.” His hand rubs over where he slapped.

You whine and bury your face into his cloak still bunched underneath you. Your back arches more and you can’t keep still.

Your hips twitch, hole clenching around nothing the more he rubs his cock head in your slick.

“Minho!” You whine, the frustration is killing you.

He clicks his tongue at your impatience. “Fine, then. I will give you what you want.”

His tone is dark and he shoves into you without further notice.

Your walls stretch around him deliciously. He’s so big you think you can feel him in your throat. The pleasure shoots right into your thighs.

Minho’s eyes roll back in his head at the feeling of your wetness surrounding him.

He doesn’t even try to take it slow. His wolf holds the reins tightly and begins slamming into you over and over again.

He’s thrusting so hard, his hips slap into your ass with each stroke.

More babbling comes from your mouth.

Minho reaches forward and grabs a fistful of your hair, lifting your head up from the cloak.

Your tongue lulls out of your mouth.

“Fucking look at that,” he moans in awe. “Only inside you for a minute and you are already cock drunk.”

Your eyes glaze over and you lose yourself in the feeling of him abusing your little hole.

“Feel so fucking good wrapped around me. You were made for me, little omega.”

The only sound you are able to muster is a tiny ‘ mhmm! ’

“So fucking good for me, good for your alpha.”

“Only for you, Alpha!”

A sharp smack lands on your ass again, you cry out.

“That’s right. Just for me. Just for your alpha. No one else. This cunt right here is all mine. ”

He looks down at where he can see his cock disappearing inside you to come back out coated in your delicious slick. It makes him feel insane.

Minho can’t control himself anymore, not that he would want to.

It’s animalistic, the way he wants to devour you.

He tugs on your hair and brings you up so your back is flush with his chest. The hand in your hair moves around to grab your throat. His other hand splays out on your lower stomach.

“Can fucking feel my cock fucking you right here.” He presses down on your stomach and your head falls back against his shoulder.

The moans you’re making are so involuntary.

“Going to stuff you so full of pups. You’ll look so fucking good pregnant, carrying our children. So swollen and full.”

At the base of his cock, Minho can feel his knot begin to form, it prods and catches on your entrance more every stroke.

“Please, please, please,” you cry like a mantra.

“You want that, little girl? You want to carry my pups? You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

“Yes! Please! Please, Minho! It feels so good!”

His inner wolf howls at your pleasure. It’s all he wants.

“Close, Alpha. Please, mark me, please, please.”

Minho’s hips stutter at your words, but when his tempo comes back, it’s rough . Every stroke is unforgiving, he’s racing towards the finish line as fast and hard as he can.

Fuck, he wants to claim you so bad. It’s all he’s wanted for weeks since you first set foot in the hut.

“My omega wants my mark? She wants me to claim her as mine?”

You nod in his grasp, he feels you gulp. “Yes! I need it. Need everyone to know I’m yours.”

Minho growls, his nose buries into the crook of your neck right at your scent gland.

The idea of you wearing his mark proudly makes him feral: you in low collared shirts to purposefully parade your mating mark, you nursing your pups with that bite inches away.

He needs it like he needs air to breathe. How can one person make him feel this way?

His hand squeezes a bit on your throat.

“I’ll give you my mark, Omega. I’ll claim you. You’ll be mine forever.”

He feels you clench down more. The knot at the base of his cock inflates more and more.

His orgasm is dangling in front of him teasingly. But he needs you to cum again, he needs to feel you clench down around him.

The muscles in his abdomen are painfully tight.

The hand on your hip moves to rub circles on your clit in time with his thrusts.

“‘M close, Minho, please. Bite me, please. My mate, please. ”

His mind whites out.

Sharp canines sink into your flesh around your scent gland.

One of the loudest cries of pleasure ever comes from deep within your chest. Your eyes squeeze shut and your walls clench around him as your second orgasm tears through you like a train.

Minho’s knot shoves inside you as his own pleasure peaks and hits him like a ton of bricks. The sweet metallic taste of your blood flooding his mouth, your scent keeping his brain on Earth.

Cum shoots from his cock and floods your walls for what feels like forever.

Neither of you have ever felt something so heavenly before. Two souls merge into one.

Slowly, you both start coming down to earth. Minho’s hand around your neck starts massaging at the sensitive skin.

You whine when he removes his teeth from your skin.

He coos and laps up at the blood streaming down your body. Small kisses pepper the outside of the mark.

Sweet nothings tumble from his lips. “Beautiful, beautiful mate. All mine. So sweet, so beautiful.”

Carefully, he maneuvers the two of you to lay down on your sides, his knot still buried within you. He has a feeling it will be there for a while.

He brings the blankets up over your exhausted bodies.

Your skin is no longer burning with need, instead you’re in a content, happy bubble, your mate’s arms wrapped around you safely.

Never in your life have you felt such comfort. You’re floating on a cloud.

His woodsy smell acts like a second blanket.

Small hums leave you as you snuggle back into his chest more.

Minho chuckles and kisses your bare shoulder.

Your brain comes out of your heat-induced fog. But, instead of panicking, you find yourself happier than ever.

One of your hands comes up to play with the fingers of the hand that’s by your head. His arm acting like a pillow.

“I would have gotten shot with an arrow sooner if it meant I would find you.” He jokes, breaking the silence.

You giggle. It’s music to his ears.

He continues. “Your voice broke through the delirium of the infection.” Another kiss to your shoulder. “I remember thinking you were an Angel here to bring me into the afterlife.”

You flush, embarrassed at his sweet words.

“And I remember thinking you were the most handsome man I have ever seen, even laying on your deathbed.”

He hums happily and leans up on his elbow. You turn around as much as you can to look up at him with a happy smile.

“It is nice to officially meet you, Minho.”

Your fingers come up to brush over his cheek gently.

His heart swells, eyes shine in the candlelight of your room.

“My beautiful mate.” He leans down and kisses you softly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

You’re hardly able to continue the kiss, you’re smiling too much. “And thank you for saving mine.”

His nose rubs against your cheek in a display of affection.

“No one will ever harm you again, my dove.”

You laugh and brush your fingers through his hair. Kiss after kiss lands on your bare skin. He focuses more on your mating mark.

It makes you feel giddy.

“Well,” you giggle. “I think you may need to protect me from your pack leader.”

Minho chuckles. “He will get over it. I would like to see him try and keep us apart now.”

He leans down and presses your lips together. “My beautiful omega.”

“My handsome alpha.”

#lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know smut #lee know x y/n #lee minho smut #skz x reader #skz kinktober #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut

2K notes · View notes

mrs-delaney · 7 days ago

Text

Hide | Layover In Cincinnati | Chapter 7

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 14.9k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, intimate moments, jet lag kisses, borrowed clothes, and that bittersweet ache when saying "see you later" feels harder than you expected

A Few Quick Notes:

📝 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

🔔 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 💌

Requests: Open

Author's Note:

There's something transformative about seeing someone in their natural habitat. This chapter explores what happens when Riley steps into Joe's carefully ordered world—when vintage vinyl meets meal prep containers, when wet footprints disrupt pristine hardwood, when birthday cake appears in a minimalist kitchen.

For Joe, it's about creating space—both literally and figuratively—for something he never knew he needed. A turntable that doesn't match his decor becomes the perfect metaphor for Riley's presence in his life: unexpected, slightly out of place, yet somehow completing the picture. The house that always felt like a showroom begins to feel like a home when her coffee mugs are left without coasters and her laughter fills the high ceilings.

For Riley, it's witnessing the depth beneath Joe's composed exterior. It's discovering the thoughtfulness behind his gestures—a teal SpongeBob cake, a rare Howlin' Wolf pressing, a Bengals hoodie waiting after a transatlantic flight. It's realizing that his minimalism isn't coldness; it's simply a different language of care.

I wanted to capture that delicate dance of navigation when two people with fundamentally different rhythms try to harmonize. The contrast between Joe's structured existence and Riley's creative chaos isn't just a source of tension—it's the spark that makes them work. She teaches him to feel music rather than analyze it; he shows her the comfort in certain kinds of steadiness.

As they explore Cincinnati together, the seeds of future tension begin to take root. In the Range Rover with tinted windows, in Joe's careful statement about keeping things private "at least for now," we see Riley's quiet discomfort. She understands privacy—but there's a fine line between protection and hiding, one that triggers whispers of doubt. Though unspoken in the moment, her distinction between privacy and secrecy hints at challenges they'll need to navigate when their bubble eventually bursts.

Their honest conversation in Kentucky reveals their different perspectives while reinforcing their commitment to try. It's not perfect resolution, but rather the beginning of an ongoing negotiation. As they say goodbye at the airfield, the promise "This isn't it for us" feels both genuine and weighty with the unresolved questions that linger beneath the surface.

Thank you all for your incredible comments on the last chapter! Each one fills my creative well in ways you can't imagine. Your insights and reactions keep me going through every writing session.

I can't wait to hear what you think of this one! 🎵🏈🎧🌃

Asks are open, let's talk about this one.

Put on Massive Attack’s Mezzanine while you read. Let it fill the quiet spaces between the dialogue. Let it linger in the background like the feeling of someone’s hands on your hips, waiting for the next song to begin.

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123

Riley gazed out the window as the private jet began its descent toward Cincinnati. The city sprawled beneath them, sunlight glinting off the river, sprawling neighborhoods framed by trees just starting to show signs of spring. She rarely opted for private flights despite having access to them—usually saving them for impossible tour schedules or desperate situations. But Joe had insisted, not as a display of wealth but because he'd genuinely wanted to make her journey easier after the long haul from Italy.

"You'll be exhausted enough without dealing with connections and crowds," he'd said when she'd protested. The thoughtfulness behind the gesture touched her more than the luxury itself.

She’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight—from the final night in Italy to the early morning drive to Rome, followed by the eight-hour flight to JFK. Her body clock was completely scrambled, her mind foggy with travel exhaustion. But beneath the fatigue was a nervous energy that buzzed through her veins. In less than fifteen minutes, she’d be seeing Joe again.

The decision to come straight to Cincinnati instead of going home to LA had just made sense, even if it felt a little impulsive. Her friends had backed her up without hesitation.

“I’ll still make it to LA for the studio session on Thursday,” Riley had assured Laura as they hugged goodbye.

“I know you will,” Laura had replied, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Just be present in it, Ri. You deserve this.”

Now, as the pilot announced their final approach, Riley glanced down at her wrinkled outfit with a grimace. Between the Italian laundry schedule and the last-minute flight change, she was arriving in Cincinnati wearing yesterday's clothes and carrying a suitcase full of items that desperately needed washing. Not exactly the impression she'd hoped to make, but her options had been limited."

"She'd texted Joe about this predicament from JFK.

Riley: Just a heads up - arriving with exclusively laundry-deprived clothing. Expect me looking significantly less put-together than you. Also haven't slept in 24 hours so I may be slightly delirious. Still want me to come?

His response had been immediate.

Joe: Yes. And handled. Just get here.

The plane touched down smoothly on what appeared to be a private airstrip adjacent to the main airport. As they taxied to a stop, Riley peered through the window and saw a sleek silver Porsche waiting on the tarmac. And leaning against it, arms crossed casually over his chest, was Joe.

For a moment, Riley just watched him through the window, heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Then the pilot opened the door, and the crisp March air rushed in, making her pull her inadequate jacket tighter around herself."

The flight attendant handed Riley her carry-on with a smile. “Enjoy your stay in Cincinnati, Ms. Carter.”

“Thanks,” Riley said, ducking her head as she made her way down the steps.

Joe looked up as she descended, pushing off the Porsche to stand straight. He wore jeans and a simple gray henley, looking far more put-together than anyone had a right to after what she assumed had been a full day of training.

His face transformed with a smile that hit Riley like a punch to the chest—unexpected and so damn genuine it made the exhaustion slip away.

As she reached him, Joe didn’t lunge or make some big, sweeping gesture. Instead, he stepped forward with that steady, confident ease he always had, and cupped her face with one hand, brushing his thumb along her cheek. He leaned down and kissed her, soft but sure, lingering just enough to make her stomach flip.

When he pulled back, his smile softened, eyes scanning her face like he was still processing that she was actually here.

“Hi,” Riley managed, suddenly breathless.

“Hi,” Joe replied, his thumb brushing her cheek once more before he let his hand drop. “You made it.”

“I did,” Riley confirmed, huffing out a laugh. “Though I may actually be a zombie at this point. Not entirely sure.”

Joe smiled, taking her carry-on. “You’ll survive. Let’s get your bag and get you home.”

“Even with Italy’s chill, I forgot how cold Ohio can be,” Riley said, pulling her light jacket tighter as they walked toward the car. The Tuscan countryside had been brisk in the mornings, but Cincinnati’s damp cold had its own biting quality.

“Different kind of cold here,” Joe agreed, opening the passenger door of the Porsche. On the seat was a neatly arranged shopping bag.

Riley glanced at it, curiosity piqued. “What’s this?” she asked, picking it up as she slid into the butter-soft leather seat.

“For you,” Joe said as he settled into the driver’s side. “Thought you might want something more comfortable than whatever you’ve been recycling for the past week.”

Riley reached into the bag, pulling out a Cincinnati Bengals hoodie and a pair of chestnut Uggs in her exact size. The hoodie was plush and oversized, the kind you wanted to live in. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it.

“How did you know my shoe size?” she asked, already picturing herself burrowing into the warm hoodie and feeling a little more human again.

“Sarah reached out to Scout,” Joe explained, referring to their assistants. “Hope that’s okay.”

The thoughtfulness of the gesture hit Riley with unexpected force. After days of wearing the same few outfits, she was beyond ready for something fresh, even if it was just a hoodie and a pair of boots. More than that, it was the effort Joe had put into making her feel comfortable. It wasn’t flashy or over the top—just practical and thoughtful, exactly what she needed.

“Thank you,” she said softly, pulling the hoodie over her travel-worn top and letting out a contented sigh as the soft fabric hugged her skin. “You have no idea how good this feels.”

Joe gave her a quick glance, a satisfied hint of a smile on his lips. “Figured you might appreciate it.”

He pulled the car smoothly away from the airstrip, the engine purring as they merged onto the main road. Riley leaned back against the seat, already feeling a little more settled, a little more herself.

“We’ll be at my place in about twenty minutes,” Joe said, his voice relaxed, like he was already falling back into his usual routine.

Joe glanced at her, already knowing the answer. “Jet lag hitting you yet?”

“Definitely hitting,” Riley admitted, leaning her head back against the seat. “Feels like my body’s still somewhere over the Atlantic.”

"Somewhere between time zones," Riley admitted, leaning her head back against the seat. "I think my body thinks it's still somewhere over the Atlantic."

"You can crash when we get to the house," Joe offered. "No rush to do anything today."

"I appreciate that," she said, fighting another yawn. "Though I'm determined to at least stay conscious for a few hours. It'd be a shame to waste our first actual day together in weeks."

"So," she added, perking herself up, "I'm excited to see your space. Been curious about it since New Orleans."

Joe glanced at her briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "It's nothing special."

"I doubt that," Riley replied, studying his profile as he drove. "Everything about you is deliberate. I'm betting your place is the same way."

Joe's hands shifted slightly on the steering wheel. "May not be what you're used to," he admitted. "Not like your place in New Orleans."

There was something almost vulnerable in his tone—a hint that he'd been thinking about the contrast between their homes, about what Riley might think of his space.

They fell into easy conversation as Joe navigated through Cincinnati, Riley taking in the increasingly upscale neighborhoods as they left the city proper. Twenty minutes later, they turned onto a private drive lined with mature trees, ending at a contemporary house set well back from the road. The architecture was striking but not ostentatious—clean lines, large windows, natural materials blending with the wooded surroundings.

"Wow," Riley said, genuinely impressed. "This is..."

"Home," Joe said simply, pulling the Porsche into a three-car garage.

They entered through a mudroom that led into a large open-concept kitchen and living area. The space was modern and minimalist, with that distinct “recently purchased furniture all at once” look. The kitchen featured high-end appliances, most of which looked barely used except for the protein shake blender on the counter. A massive TV dominated one wall of the living room, flanked by an impressive sound system.

There was little that felt lived-in about the space—no clutter, no accumulated decorations or mementos, just a few framed photos (mostly football-related) and what looked like a decorator’s idea of what should be in a successful young athlete’s home. A large sectional faced the TV, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a backyard that someone else clearly maintained.

Riley took it all in, raising an eyebrow. “This is… very bachelor pad.”

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Haven’t really had time to do much with it. Season, then rehab, then…”

“No, it’s nice,” Riley assured him. “Just very… clean.”

“There’s more downstairs,” Joe added. “Basement and gym. I can show you later.”

As she ventured further into the space, her gaze caught on something completely incongruous with the rest of the decor—a high-end turntable set up in the corner of the living room, surrounded by a carefully arranged stack of vinyl records. Unlike everything else, which looked like it had been there since move-in day, this setup was clearly brand new, the console still smelling faintly of wood varnish.

“You got yourself a record player?” Riley asked, moving toward it with interest. “Since New Orleans, I mean.”

"Yeah," Joe said, his tone deliberately casual even as his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Got it yesterday."

Riley ran her fingers over the selection of records beside it, her breath catching slightly as she recognized title after title—an eclectic mix of vintage jazz, indie folk, classic rock, and even some obscure blues artists she'd mentioned loving during their conversations. She pulled out a Howlin' Wolf album identical to the rare pressing she'd shown him at that little record store in New Orleans.

"Did you..." she began, looking between Joe and the collection.

"Sarah knows a guy at a record store," Joe explained, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Told him to put together something you might like."

The gesture hit Riley with unexpected force—not just the expense, which was considerable, but the thought behind it. Joe hadn't merely bought her a gift; he'd carved out a physical space for her in his meticulously ordered world. A space that hadn't existed before she'd entered his life.

"You didn't even own a turntable before New Orleans," she said softly, the realization making something warm bloom in her chest.

Joe met her eyes with that direct gaze that never wavered. "No. I didn't."

Riley set the record down carefully, momentarily speechless. The contrast between his impersonal living space and this deliberate addition—this one corner that screamed of effort and intention—made it more meaningful than any grand gesture could have been.

"Thought you might like it," he said simply.

"I do," she said softly, something shifting between them as the weight of the gesture settled. "I really do."

Riley stood there for a moment, her fingers still resting on the album cover, suddenly aware of the weight behind this gesture. Joe had created this space—this piece of her world—within his carefully controlled environment. For someone as deliberate as Joe, this wasn’t just a purchase—it was a statement.

Rather than overthinking it or turning it into something awkwardly serious, Riley just followed her instinct. She crossed the distance between them in a few quick steps and wrapped her arms around his neck, rising on her tiptoes to pull him into a kiss that said everything her travel-addled brain couldn’t quite articulate.

When they broke apart, she kept her arms looped around his neck, her smile soft and genuine. “You keep surprising me,” she said, her voice light but threaded with something deeper.

Joe's hands settled naturally at her waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of her shirt. There was that quiet confidence in his eyes, but something else too—a hint of vulnerability that he rarely allowed anyone to see.

"After we decided you were coming," he said, voice low and matter-of-fact, "I kept thinking about your place in New Orleans. All those records. How alive it felt." He glanced toward the turntable, then back to her. "Thought you might want to come back if there was music here."

It wasn't poetic, wasn't wrapped in flowery words, but it was honest in a way that was quintessentially Joe—direct and unvarnished. He was telling her, in his own way, that he'd been thinking about how to keep her in his life.

Riley's expression softened as she took in the meaning behind his straightforward admission. She didn't make a big deal of it, knowing that would only make him retreat.

"It's working," she said simply, holding his gaze. "Already mentally planning my next visit."

She glanced back at the turntable, her fingers trailing over the edge of the console. "We're gonna break this in later—I'll pick out something that suits the mood..."

Joe watched as her eyelids grew heavier, the way her shoulders softened with each passing moment. Despite her obvious effort to stay present with him, travel exhaustion was finally catching up to her.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle. "You're exhausted," he said softly, not a question or judgment, just a simple observation. "Let me show you upstairs."

"I wanted to stay up," Riley admitted, leaning slightly into his touch. "First night here and all."

"We have time," Joe said, his voice low and reassuring. He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. "Come on."

Riley nodded, finding herself oddly comforted by his steadiness. As they moved through the house, she let her fingers trail along the walls, taking in details she'd explore more fully tomorrow when her mind wasn't clouded with jetlag.

He led her to a large primary bedroom with a wall of windows overlooking the backyard. The space was simple but intentional—a massive bed with gray bedding, nightstands with books that looked actually read, and a sitting area that caught the natural light.

"Bathroom's through there if you want to shower," Joe said, setting her suitcase on a bench at the foot of the bed. "I'll get you some water."

Riley watched him leave, taking in the fact that he'd brought her straight to his bedroom without hesitation or discussion. The assumption that they'd share a bed should have felt presumptuous, but instead just felt right. Natural, after New Orleans.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. The mattress was ridiculously comfortable, the sheets obscenely soft. She ran her hand over the duvet, wondering absently if this was what thread counts were actually about.

Joe returned with a glass of water and some Advil. "Thought you might need this too," he said, setting them on the nightstand. "Jet lag."

"You're amazing," Riley said, already kicking off the Uggs and crawling fully onto the bed. "I'm sorry I'm so useless right now."

"You've been awake for a day," Joe pointed out reasonably. "Sleep. We've got all weekend."

As Riley slid under the covers, too tired to even consider unpacking or showering, Joe leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm glad you're here," he said quietly.

"Me too," Riley murmured, her eyes already closing.

As she drifted toward sleep, she was vaguely aware of Joe moving around the room, drawing blinds, adjusting the temperature. Her eyes fluttered open one last time to see him standing by the window, silhouetted against the fading light, the strong lines of his profile etched against the glass. That was the last image she saw - Joe in his element, solid and certain, watching over her as she slept in his bed.

---

Riley woke slowly, cocooned in warmth, her senses adjusting to the unfamiliar stillness. The room was dim, bathed in the soft gray light of early morning. Outside the windows, the sky was just beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn barely breaking through. She blinked sleepily, taking in her surroundings—a room too neat and orderly to be hers, too spacious and modern to belong to anyone she knew back home.

Then it clicked—Joe’s house. Cincinnati. She’d made it.

She shifted under the thick duvet, the sheets cool on her bare shoulders. The room itself felt both intentional and effortless—crisp lines and neutral tones, with a sense of balance between minimalism and comfort. A pair of sneakers were kicked off near the door, one overturned on its side. A dark gray hoodie hung over the arm of a low, modern chair near the window. An abandoned hat sat on the dresser, slightly crumpled at the bill. On the floor beside the bed, a pair of socks were left carelessly tangled.

On the nightstand, a piece of paper caught her eye, folded neatly with her name scrawled across the front in Joe’s familiar handwriting. She reached for it, fingers brushing the corner as she picked it up, her pulse quickening just a little. Unfolding the note, she leaned back against the pillows, a small, sleepy smile forming before she even read the words.

Went for a workout. Help yourself to anything. Chef prepped meals in fridge. Back soon. - J

Stretching in the Bengals hoodie Joe had given her when she arrived—the one she'd fallen asleep in—Riley padded barefoot through the unfamiliar hallway, taking in the details she'd been too exhausted to notice the night before. The house was beautiful—modern, expensive, tastefully designed—but also strangely impersonal, like a high-end model home waiting for someone to actually live in it.

Except for one corner. The turntable.

Riley made her way directly to it, running her fingers over the sleek equipment, remembering how touched she'd been last night when she'd noticed the records. The Howlin' Wolf album—identical to the rare pressing she'd shown him in that tiny New Orleans record store—caught her eye again. She carefully slid it from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable.

The raw, gravelly voice filled the silent house moments later, the blues echoing off the high ceilings, transforming the sterile space.

She headed for the kitchen, humming along, her socked feet sliding on the hardwood floors. The open-concept kitchen gleamed with high-end appliances that looked barely touched, except for a protein shake blender that stood at the ready on the counter, clearly Joe's most-used kitchen tool.

Riley opened and closed cabinets at random, investigating. Unlike her jam-packed New Orleans kitchen cupboards stuffed with mismatched mugs and inherited dishes, Joe's contained neat rows of matching glasses and plates, many still looking fresh from the store. The minimalism wasn't meticulous organization so much as the result of someone who simply didn't accumulate things.

After some searching, she found coffee and wrestled briefly with his elaborate espresso machine. The kitchen was the domain of someone who didn't really cook—clean, precise, and equipped with everything necessary, but lacking the lived-in feeling of a space where meals were regularly prepared with love.

She opened the refrigerator, curious about these "chef prepped meals" Joe had mentioned. Inside were stacked containers—not obsessively labeled but clearly professional, sectioned with proteins, vegetables, and carbs. Athlete fuel. She grabbed what looked like breakfast, ignoring the neat stack order completely.

As she searched for cream for her coffee, Riley opened what appeared to be a second, smaller refrigerator tucked into the corner. Instead of finding more meal prep containers or sports drinks, she discovered a cake.

Not just any cake—a bright teal-frosted creation decorated with colorful flower shapes in red, purple, orange, and blue. The text across the top made her heart skip: "26 years later..."

Riley stared, coffee forgotten in her hand. The SpongeBob reference couldn't have been clearer—they'd quoted it to each other that first night in New York when he'd cooked for her in his apartment, both of them laughing until they couldn't breathe when they realized they shared the same ridiculous sense of humor. He'd remembered not just her birthday, but a moment that had first connected them.

She set down her mug and carefully lifted the cake for a closer look, fighting a sudden, unexpected tightness in her throat. This wasn't some extravagant, showy gesture meant for Instagram or public consumption. It wasn't Ethan's elaborate surprise party with photographers. It was small, private, and exactly right.

Riley set the cake back carefully and pulled out her phone, taking a quick picture before returning to her coffee. She cranked the music a little louder, smiling to herself as she leaned against the counter, letting Howlin' Wolf's voice wash over her.

She didn’t know how much time she had before Joe got back—could be minutes, could be hours. Either way, she figured she’d make herself at home, take a shower, maybe explore a little. She left her coffee mug on the counter without a coaster, a small rebellion against the perfect order of his space. A part of her wondered if he’d notice, but another part knew he’d probably just smile and shake his head. She was bringing chaos to his world, and somehow, she knew he'd welcome it.

With Howlin' Wolf still playing downstairs, Riley carried her coffee upstairs and wandered into Joe's bathroom. Like everything else in his house, it was pristine and minimal—glass shower, matching towels, expensive products neatly arranged. She turned the water on as hot as it would go, letting steam fill the space.

Shedding the Bengals hoodie and what remained of yesterday's travel clothes, she stepped into the scalding shower and let the water wash away the last traces of jet lag, singing loudly over the sound of the spray, her voice echoing off the tiled walls.

For once, she wasn’t rushing—no band waiting, no session to get to. Just the quiet luxury of time and space and hot water. Even after the week in Italy, something about being here felt different. She used Joe’s shampoo, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent that clung to him, then wrapped herself in one of the oversized towels hanging on the rack.

Back in the bedroom, she contemplated her suitcase, still unpacked from the night before. The thought of putting on any of her wrinkled, worn, Italy-recycled clothes was distinctly unappealing. Instead, she headed straight for Joe's closet.

It was almost exactly what she’d expected—but with more flair. Everything was organized, yeah, but not obsessively. A row of hoodies and jackets ran from deep neutrals to loud, cocky prints—leopard, camo, something that looked like velvet. Button-downs in unexpected shades—burnt orange, lavender, emerald—hung beside LSU gear and a few Bengals warm-ups. On the floor, sneakers lined up in pristine order: high-tops in every color imaginable, a couple rare pairs she was pretty sure sold out in five minutes online.

She skimmed a hand along a shelf of neatly folded tees and grabbed a soft gray one, worn thin and printed with a faded vintage logo. It hung like a dress on her, mid-thigh and a little stretched at the collar. Perfect.

She slipped it on, added a pair of her own underwear, and headed back downstairs, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood. Her hair dripped down her back as she made her way to the turntable to flip the record. The house was starting to feel different already—less like a showroom and more like a place where someone actually lived.

She was in the middle of rummaging through his kitchen again, hunting for breakfast and singing along with the music, when she heard the front door open. Glancing at the clock, she realized it was barely 10:30 AM—Joe was back far earlier than she'd expected.

She turned, coffee mug in hand, to find him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was still damp from a shower, his expression a mixture of amusement and something softer as he took in the sight of her in his t-shirt, music playing, coffee mug balanced precariously on the edge of the counter, signs of her already scattered throughout his carefully ordered space.

“You’re back already?” she asked, a smile spreading across her face.

Joe's eyes moved deliberately over her—bare legs, wet hair, his shirt—before returning to her face. "Didn't want to waste the day," he said simply.

Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary, the meaning behind his words hanging in the air between them. He'd cut his workout short. Joe Burrow, notorious for his rigid routines, had changed his schedule.

"I found the cake," Riley said, setting down her mug and moving toward him.

Joe's expression shifted slightly, a hint of self-consciousness crossing his features. "I know a bakery," he said, downplaying it in his typical fashion. "Thought you might like it."

Riley stepped closer, until she was directly in front of him. "Twenty-six years later," she quoted softly, watching his face.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in that half-smile she'd come to cherish. "Seemed fitting."

She reached up, hands finding the back of his neck, pulling him down to her level. "Thank you," she murmured, just before her lips met his.

Joe's gym bag hit the floor with a thud, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. There was hunger in his kiss, in the way his fingers tightened against her hips, hunger that matched the growing sense of urgency in her own body.

He tasted like mint and smelled like his shampoo—the same one she'd just used. His hands slid lower, finding the bare skin of her thighs beneath his shirt, and Riley gasped against his mouth.

Joe's hands slid lower, finding the bare skin of her thighs beneath his shirt, and Riley gasped against his mouth. The hunger between them had been building since New Orleans, intensified by distance and anticipation. Now, with nothing standing between them, that hunger consumed them both.

In one fluid motion, Joe lifted her, hands gripping the backs of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her wet hair fell forward, creating a curtain around their faces as he carried her backward until she felt the cool surface of the kitchen counter against her skin.

Joe broke the kiss, his breathing ragged as he looked at her—really looked at her—hair wild from the shower, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, perched on his kitchen counter. His eyes took in the scene around them—the music filling his usually quiet house, her coffee mug on the counter, evidence of her presence transforming his space.

"I like seeing you here," he said, something warm and open in his expression that she rarely got to see.

Riley smiled, reaching to touch his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Joe confirmed, his voice low and certain.

He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear that he'd discovered in New Orleans. His hands slipped under the t-shirt, tracing up her sides with deliberate slowness that made her shiver. The gentleness of his touch contrasted with the intensity in his eyes when he pulled back to look at her again.

"I missed you," he admitted, the words simple but weighted with meaning.

Instead of matching his seriousness, Riley lightened the moment with a smile. "Enough to skip part of your sacred workout routine?"

Joe's lips quirked in that half-smile she found so endearing. "Sacrifices had to be made."

Riley leaned forward to kiss him again, deepening it immediately as her hands found the hem of his workout shirt, tugging it upward. Joe helped her, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion and tossing it aside without a second thought.

As Riley ran her hands over his chest, Joe moved closer, fitting himself between her legs. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the t-shirt higher with each movement. She raised her arms, allowing him to pull it off completely, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.

"I've been thinking about this since New Orleans," Joe said, voice rough with desire as his eyes moved over her.

Riley smiled up at him, deliberately provocative as she tugged at the waistband of his athletic shorts. "Show me."

The last thread of Joe's restraint snapped. He captured her mouth in a kiss that was all heat and urgency, all the distance and waiting of the past weeks pouring into a single moment of connection.

His hands were everywhere—her hair, her neck, her breasts—touching her like he couldn't get enough, like he'd been starving for her. Riley matched his intensity, her fingers slipping beneath his shorts, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist to pull him closer.

With quick, efficient movements, Joe helped her push his shorts and compression shorts down just enough, and then there was nothing between them but the electricity of anticipation. Riley's underwear was the last barrier, which Joe removed with a swift, practiced motion, dropping it carelessly to the floor beside them.

When Joe finally pushed into her, they both gasped at the sensation. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against hers, breathing her in. Then he began to move, setting a rhythm that had Riley clutching at his back, her nails leaving crescent marks on his skin.

The pristine kitchen filled with the sounds of their breathing, of skin against skin, of whispered encouragements and half-formed pleas. Riley lost herself in the feel of him—the strength of his body moving against hers, the precision of his movements, the way he watched her face for every reaction.

As the tension built within her, Joe's movements grew more urgent, his breathing more ragged. He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes locked on her face with that intense focus that was uniquely his.

"Fucking come," he breathed, his voice strained with his own approaching release.

"I am," Riley gasped, her body tightening around him as the wave crashed over her.

Joe followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buried his face in her neck, a deep groan escaping him as he held her tightly against him.

For several long moments, they just held each other, breathing hard, neither wanting to break the connection. Riley's hands smoothed over his back, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles, the racing of his heart against her chest.

Finally, Joe lifted his head, his expression softer than she'd ever seen it. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

"Officially welcome to Cincinnati," he said, a rare, full smile lighting his features.

Riley laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Hell of a welcome committee."

Joe's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Wait till you see the rest of the tour."

"Is it as hands-on as this part?" Riley asked, deliberately provocative.

"If you want it to be," Joe replied, his expression serious despite the lightness of their banter.

Riley studied his face, recognizing something deeper beneath the surface. This wasn't just about physical attraction—there was an understanding forming between them, a bridge being built between their different worlds.

"I think I'd like that," she said softly.

"Want to break out that cake now?" he asked against her lips.

Riley's eyes lit up. "You're actually suggesting cake before noon? Who are you and what have you done with Joe Burrow?"

Joe shrugged, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Maybe he's evolving."

He moved to the small refrigerator, retrieving the teal-frosted cake she'd discovered earlier. To her surprise, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a single candle, placing it carefully in the center of the cake.

"You got a candle too?" Riley asked, something catching in her throat at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"Can't have a birthday cake without a candle," Joe replied simply, lighting it with a match from the same drawer.

The simple act was so deliberate and sweet that Riley felt momentarily speechless. Joe set the cake on the counter between them, the candlelight illuminating his features.

"Make a wish," he said quietly.

Riley looked at him across the flickering light—at his expression, unusually soft and open—and knew exactly what she wanted. She closed her eyes briefly before blowing out the flame.

"What'd you wish for?" Joe asked, cutting them each a slice.

"Not telling," Riley replied with a smile, taking the plate he offered.

Joe watched her take the first bite, satisfaction evident in his eyes as he picked up his own fork.

Together, they leaned against the counter, eating birthday cake while Howlin' Wolf continued playing in the living room. Outside, Cincinnati waited to be explored, but for now, this quiet moment of connection—of worlds colliding and finding unexpected harmony—was all that mattered.

"So," Riley said, setting down her fork, "how about that house tour you promised me?"

Joe's eyes darkened slightly as he remembered his earlier words. "The hands-on tour?"

"That's the one," Riley confirmed, a smile playing at her lips.

Joe nodded, his gaze never leaving her face, that focused intensity making her feel like the only person in his universe. "Whatever you want."

---

Joe led Riley through his house, their fingers intertwined as they moved from room to room. The tour started casual enough—Joe pointing out the living room features she hadn't noticed the night before, explaining how he'd chosen the place, describing the backyard that swept down to the small lake visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Downstairs, the media room felt darker, cozier—oversized recliners lined up like thrones in front of a massive screen. Joe was mid-sentence, explaining how the surround sound worked, when Riley tugged him down into one of the seats, pulling him close with a mischievous grin. She climbed into his lap without hesitation, straddling him as his hands slipped beneath her shirt. They lost themselves in each other there, slow and unhurried, the dim light and heavy silence cocooning them. When it was over, they stayed tangled together for a while, catching their breath, before eventually finishing the rest of the tour—hands still linked, smiles softer, something new settling quietly between them.

The basement gym—Joe's sanctuary—became the setting for a different kind of intimacy. Riley wandered among the equipment, trailing her fingers over the weights, examining the detailed workout plans pinned to a corkboard.

"So this is where the magic happens," she teased, but her voice held genuine interest as she studied the space where Joe spent so many hours.

"Just work," Joe replied, leaning against the doorframe, watching her explore his domain.

Riley caught something in his tone—not defensiveness, but a quiet pride. This space, more than any other in the house, reflected the discipline that defined him. The careful organization of weights, the clean lines of expensive equipment, the posted schedules and progression charts—all of it spoke to the methodical approach he took to his career.

She turned to face him, seeing him differently in this context. "You really love it, don't you? Not just the game—this part. The work."

Joe considered her question with that characteristic thoughtfulness. "It's the only way I know how to do it," he said finally. "Be prepared for everything. Control what I can control."

Riley nodded, understanding something fundamental about him in that moment. Where she thrived in creative chaos, found inspiration in the unexpected, Joe built his success on structure and preparation. Different approaches, both valid.

As they made their way back upstairs, the tour continuing, the contrast between their worlds became not an obstacle but a fascinating exploration—each room revealing more about Joe, each touch between them deepening their connection, each moment together bridging the space between order and chaos.

By the time they circled back to the main floor, Riley's energy was noticeably waning. The adrenaline that had carried her through their enthusiastic reunion was giving way to the reality of her transcontinental journey. Joe noticed immediately—the slight slowing of her movements, the way her sentences trailed off, the brief moments where her eyes would unfocus.

"You need to rest," he said, not a question but an observation, his hand finding the small of her back as they entered the kitchen.

Riley gave him a small, grateful smile. "Maybe. But I don't want to waste our time sleeping."

Joe opened the refrigerator, retrieving two bottles of water. "You crossing multiple time zones to be here isn't wasting time," he pointed out, handing her one. "It's just part of it."

She accepted the water, their fingers brushing. "Listen to you being all reasonable."

“One of us has to be,” he replied, that half-smile making her heart skip.

Riley took a long drink, then set the bottle on the counter. “Maybe a movie? Something we can watch together that doesn’t require me to be fully functional?”

Joe nodded, leading her to the living room where the massive TV dominated one wall. “I can work with that.”

The simple domesticity of the moment struck Riley as she curled into the corner of his oversized sectional, legs tucked beneath her, still wearing just his t-shirt and a pair of leggings she'd finally unpacked from her suitcase. Joe moved around the space with practiced efficiency, dimming lights, adjusting the sound system, finding the remote.

He settled beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him but not crowding her space. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Something I don't have to think about," Riley admitted. "I can't promise I'll stay awake for anything with an actual plot."

Joe scrolled through the options, finally settling on an action movie they’d both seen before—something familiar that didn’t demand full attention. As the opening credits began, Riley shifted closer, tucking herself against his side with her head resting on his shoulder. His arm came around her automatically, like it was second nature—like they’d been sitting like this for years instead of just a handful of days.

The steady rhythm of Joe's breathing and the familiar dialogue of the movie created a cocoon of comfort. Riley found herself drifting in and out of consciousness, catching fragments of the plot between moments of sleep. Each time she startled awake, Joe's hand would stroke her arm gently, anchoring her.

“Sorry,” she murmured after the third time, blinking sleepily up at him. “I’m terrible company right now.”

Joe pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. “You’re exactly where you should be,” he replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble that she felt more than heard.

Something about those words settled deep inside her, giving her permission to just exist—no pressure, no expectation. Relaxing fully against him, she let her eyes close, trusting him to hold her there as sleep finally pulled her under.

The next time she opened her eyes, the movie was over, the screen displaying menu options, and Joe was looking down at her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher—tender but intense, like he was committing something to memory. His fingers traced slow, absent circles on her shoulder, and she could feel his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

“What?” she asked, her voice scratchy with sleep.

Joe hesitated, his mouth curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing,” he said, then reconsidered. “Everything. Just… this.”

Riley understood. This quiet moment, unremarkable by any external measure, felt significant in ways neither of them could articulate. Joe Burrow, a man whose life was measured in achievements and statistics, was finding value in stillness. Riley Carter, who thrived on movement and expression, was learning the beauty of pause.

"Hungry?" Joe asked, breaking the spell of the moment.

Riley smiled, her hand resting lightly on his chest. “Yeah. But not enough to move.”

"Good thing a chef stocks my fridge," Joe replied, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on her arm. "Pick your protein and we'll go from there."

"Hmm," Riley murmured, eyes still half-closed. "What are my options?"

"Chicken, salmon, steak," Joe listed off. "All prepped, portioned, and ready to heat. I can throw something together."

Riley tilted her head up to look at him. "Meal prep, huh? That's very... quarterback of you."

"Efficient," Joe corrected with a slight smile. "I save my cooking experiments for special occasions."

"Like pasta in New York," Riley remembered.

"Exactly. But right now, we've got professional-grade fuel waiting to be heated."

"In that case," Riley said, finally sitting up, "I'll take the salmon. And I promise to be impressed by your microwave skills."

Joe stood, offering his hand to pull her up. "You laugh, but there's an art to properly reheating chef-prepared meals."

"Is there now?" Riley took his hand, allowing him to lift her to her feet, her body gravitating naturally toward his.

"Timing. Temperature. Presentation," Joe said with mock seriousness as they headed toward the kitchen. "It's basically cooking."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Burrow," Riley teased, bumping her shoulder against his arm.

They ate at the kitchen island, perched on the sleek barstools that Riley had noticed earlier. Despite Joe's claims about "the art of reheating," he'd simply transferred the chef-prepared meals to actual plates, though he did add a sprig of fresh herbs from a small container in the refrigerator.

"Very impressive plating," Riley teased, cutting into the perfectly cooked salmon. "The garnish really elevates it."

Joe shrugged, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Presentation matters."

The food was surprisingly good—simple but well-prepared, the kind of clean, nutrient-dense meal that fueled a professional athlete without sacrificing flavor. Riley found herself hungrier than she'd expected, the combination of jet lag and their earlier activities having depleted her energy reserves.

"So," Joe said after they'd eaten in comfortable silence for a few minutes, "how weird is it being here? Scale of one to ten."

Riley considered this, twirling her fork between her fingers. "In your house specifically, or Cincinnati generally?"

"Both. Either."

"Your house... maybe a six?" she decided. "It's definitely not what I'm used to. Everything is so..."

"Clean?" Joe supplied.

"I was going to say empty," Riley corrected. "Like you moved in but never quite finished unpacking."

The simple honesty of his response caught Riley off guard. Joe wasn't prone to flowery declarations or exaggerated compliments. When he said something, he meant it exactly as stated. The implication that she had affected his perspective on his carefully constructed world carried weight.

"I'm honored that my chaos has been granted entry," she said, deflecting slightly to ease the sudden intensity.

Joe accepted the shift in tone. "Your chaos is welcome anytime."

Riley smiled, pushing her empty plate away. "Careful what you wish for, Burrow."

Joe stood, collecting their plates and carrying them to the sink. Riley watched him rinse them methodically before placing them in the dishwasher at precise angles. Even in this mundane task, his movements were deliberate, economical.

“You really move like someone who’s always thinking two steps ahead,” she said, almost to herself.

Joe glanced over his shoulder. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not bad,” Riley said. “Just… different. It’s like everything you do has a reason. Nothing wasted.”

Joe turned to face her, leaning against the counter. “I guess I’ve always been like that. Especially once football got serious.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “It’s fascinating. Like watching someone exist in real time, but on purpose.”

Joe gave a quiet laugh at that, something soft settling in his expression. “You make it sound poetic.”

“You kind of are,” Riley said, her tone warm. “Just… in a really quiet, deliberate way. Like you don’t waste energy on things that don’t matter.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking away like he was thinking. “I think for a long time, I’ve just done what works. Kept things simple. Structured. Predictable.”

A pause passed between them. Riley didn’t push—just waited.Joe looked back at her. “Safe, I guess. That’s what it’s been. And then you show up, and none of it feels… safe anymore. But it feels real.”

Riley slid off the barstool, moving toward him. “Real’s better than safe.”

Riley stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body but not touching. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Yeah," Joe said, his voice dropping lower. "It's good. Different, but good."

"Different can be good," Riley agreed, finally reaching out to place her hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her palm.

Joe's hands found her waist, his thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of her borrowed shirt. "I like seeing you in my clothes," he said, his voice lower. "Makes me feel possessive in a way I've never felt before. It's... new."

Riley smiled, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. "Just the clothes? Because I was planning on making myself at home in every room of this house."

Joe's grip tightened marginally on her waist. "That can be arranged."

The tension between them shifted, the easy conversation giving way to something more electric. Riley was acutely aware of every point of contact between them, of the steady rhythm of Joe's breathing, of how his eyes never left hers.

"What do you normally do after dinner?" she asked, her voice softer now. "In your very structured life?"

"Film study," Joe replied honestly. "Or reading. Sometimes both."

"Exciting," Riley teased gently.

"Functional," Joe corrected, but there was no defensiveness in his tone. "But tonight... I was thinking you could walk me through that record player Sarah bought. Give me an education on the vinyl collection."

Riley's face brightened. "Now you're speaking my language, Burrow."

Joe led her to the living room, their fingers intertwined. The stack of records waited beside the new turntable, still pristine in its setup. Riley approached it with reverence, running her fingers over the carefully curated collection.

"So, where do we start?" Joe asked, watching her assess the options.

Riley pulled out an album—vintage soul that she'd mentioned loving during one of their late-night calls. "Basic music appreciation 101," she said, carefully removing the vinyl from its sleeve. "First, we establish your baseline knowledge."

Joe settled on the couch, content to watch as Riley placed the record on the turntable with practiced ease. As the opening notes filled the room, Riley moved to join him, curling against his side in what was already becoming their natural position.

"What am I listening for?" Joe asked, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.

"Not for," Riley corrected. "With. Just... feel it first. Analysis comes later."

Joe nodded, his body gradually relaxing as the music continued. They sat in comfortable silence through the first track, Riley occasionally glancing up to gauge his reaction, Joe listening with the same focused intensity he applied to everything.

As the second song began, Riley shifted to look at him properly. "Verdict?"

"It's good," Joe said simply. "Warmer than digital. More... present."

Riley smiled, pleased with his assessment. "Exactly. There's a depth you don't get from streaming. A texture."

"Is this what drew you to vinyl?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "The sound quality?"

Riley considered this, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his chest. "Partly. But it's also the ritual of it. The intentionality. Having to choose an album and commit to it. Having to flip it over halfway through. It forces you to be present with the music."

"Intentionality," Joe repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. "There's something to that."

"What?"

"Being deliberate about what matters," Joe explained. "I do it with training and game prep. You do it with music."

"I guess we're both intense about our passions," Riley agreed, surprised by the parallel. "Never thought of it like that before."

"We're not so different after all," Joe said softly, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair.

"Just different areas of focus," Riley murmured, settling back against him as the music swelled.

They stayed like that through the remainder of the side, conversation flowing easily between tracks. Riley sharing stories about the first time she'd heard certain songs, Joe asking questions that revealed his genuine interest not just in the music but in what it meant to her.

When the record ended, Riley made no move to get up and flip it. The silence felt comfortable, weighted with a growing understanding between them.

"Thank you," Joe said suddenly.

Riley tilted her head to look at him. "For what?"

"For coming here," he said. "For bringing... this into my house."

The simplicity of his gratitude touched something deep in Riley. Joe wasn't talking about the physical presence of the records or even her companionship. He was acknowledging how she'd shifted something fundamental in his space, in his carefully constructed world.

"Thank you for making space for it," she replied, reaching up to touch his face, her thumb brushing along his jaw.

Joe turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm. The gesture was tender, unhurried—different from their earlier urgency. His eyes held hers, asking a question without words.

Riley answered by leaning up to press her lips to his, a kiss that started gentle but deepened as Joe's hand came up to cradle the back of her neck. There was no rush to it, no desperate need to make up for lost time. Just a slow, deliberate exploration, as if they were memorizing each other.

When they finally broke apart, Riley rested her forehead against his, eyes closed, breathing synchronized. Outside, the last remnants of daylight had faded, the room now illuminated only by the soft lamps Joe had turned on earlier.

"We should put on another record," she said, her voice a little husky.

Joe watched as she stood and padded barefoot across the room to the turntable, admiring how completely at home she looked in his space, wearing nothing but his t-shirt.

She bent over the record collection, fingers trailing over album spines with familiar ease. She paused at one, pulling it out with a small sound of satisfaction. The lamplight caught the edge of the vinyl as she placed it on the turntable, dropping the needle with the care of someone who'd performed this ritual thousands of times before.

The room filled with sound—low, throbbing, sensual. A steady pulse threaded through velvet layers of bass and synth, slow and deliberate, like the music was breathing. It wrapped around them like smoke, thick with tension and intimacy, every note dragging just enough to make the air feel heavier. It didn’t ask for attention—it seduced it.

Riley turned to face him, her expression transformed. There was something hypnotic in the way she began to move, her body swaying with subtle confidence to the rhythm. She made her way back to him, each step deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.

"Next part of your music education," she said, standing between his knees, "is learning all the other ways you can feel the music."

Joe reached for her, but she caught his hands, placing them at his sides with a shake of her head. "Not yet. Just watch."

His eyes darkened as she moved to the beat, her body telling a story with each shift and sway. It was nothing like her stage performances—this was private, unfiltered, meant only for him. The t-shirt she wore rose and fell with her movements, revealing glimpses of skin that made his breath catch.

“Music isn’t just sound,” she said, her voice low, syncopated to the rhythm pulsing through the room. “It’s a physical thing. It moves through you.”

Joe watched, transfixed, as she demonstrated exactly what she meant. Her hips swayed in perfect synchronicity with the bass line, her shoulders rolling with each smoky guitar riff. He'd seen athletes with perfect body control before, had that kind of precision himself on the field, but this was different—this was someone becoming the music itself.

The singer hit a low, raw note that vibrated through the room. Riley moved forward and straddled him in one fluid motion, settling on his lap with her thighs bracketing his.

She took his hands in hers, placed them on her hips where the t-shirt had ridden up. His fingers found warm skin.

"Here," she said simply, guiding his hands.

Joe's breath caught as she rolled her hips against him, the movement perfectly synchronized with the bass line pulsing through the room. The friction between them sent heat spreading through his body.

His hands tightened on her hips, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin as she moved. He'd always approached things with precision, analysis – football, training, even sex. But this was different. Immersive.

"Stop thinking," Riley murmured, noticing the familiar focus in his eyes. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Just feel."

So he did. He let go. Let her lead. He surrendered, letting the rhythm take over. His hands moved up her sides, dragging the t-shirt higher. The music flowed through them, connecting them in a way he couldn't have articulated.

When they kissed, it wasn't calculated or measured like so many things in his life. It was instinct, raw and unfiltered. He felt her smile against his mouth.

"More," was all he said when they broke apart.

Riley's response was to reach down and pull his shirt off, tossing it aside. Her palms spread flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat picking up tempo to match the drums.

"Close your eyes," she said, and he did – relinquishing control in a way that would have been unthinkable weeks ago.

He did—relinquishing control in a way that would have felt unthinkable only weeks ago.

With his eyes closed, everything intensified. The bass vibrated through the couch into his bones. The guitar seemed to curl around them both.

Riley's mouth found the sensitive spot below his ear, her breath warm against his skin. She moved with the drum pattern, hips rolling in a perfect rhythm against his. His hands instinctively tightened on her waist.

She reached between them, unbuttoning his jeans with deft fingers.

"Lift up," she instructed, and he raised his hips to help her slide his jeans and boxers down just enough.

Her body was warm against his, skin against skin as she pulled the t-shirt over her head. Though his eyes remained closed, his hands mapped her – the curve of her waist, the smoothness of her back, the places where her breathing changed when he touched her.

The song shifted into a bridge, tempo changing. Riley moved with it, lifting slightly before sinking down onto him in one fluid motion that pulled gasps from them both. The sensation was overwhelming – her heat around him, the vibration of the bass through the floor, the guitar notes seeming to dance across his skin.

He felt rather than heard her inhale sharply, felt the slight tremor in her thighs against his.

"Feel that?" Her voice was barely audible over the music, but he felt the words against his throat.

"Yes," he answered, the word more breath than sound.

The music flowed through them both, dictating the pace, connecting them in ways he'd never experienced before. This wasn’t just sex—it was communion. Wordless conversation. He followed her, then guided her, their movements finding a shared language beyond anything he’d known.

As the song climbed toward its peak, so did they. Joe opened his eyes—needed to see her. And there she was: flushed, golden in the lamplight, moving with a sensual grace that felt elemental.

Her eyes locked onto his as the final swell of the song crested. The moment shattered through them both.

The track faded into silence as Riley collapsed against him, her forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath hot against his skin. They stayed like that, connected, as the needle found the brief silence between songs. Their heartbeats gradually slowed to match the new, gentler rhythm that began to fill the room.

After a moment, Riley lifted her head. The look in her eyes was equal parts satisfaction and something deeper, something that felt dangerous and necessary all at once.

Joe traced a hand down her spine, something reverent in the gesture. “I get it now,” he said softly.

A smile tugged at her mouth. "You sure? This album has like eight more tracks."

He answered by pulling her closer as the next song began.

By the time the album reached its final track, they had explored each other thoroughly on the couch, finding new rhythms with each song, discovering how different melodies called for different touches, different tempos. The record played its final notes before the gentle hiss of the needle in the empty grooves filled the room.

They lay tangled together on the couch, Riley draped across Joe's chest, a throw blanket haphazardly pulled over them. Joe's fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine as their breathing synchronized.

As the needle lifted and returned to its cradle, a comfortable silence settled over them. Joe reached behind the couch, his movement careful to avoid disturbing Riley, and pulled a soft throw blanket from where it had been draped over the back. With deliberate gentleness, he spread it over them both, coccooning Riley against his chest.

"Should we head upstairs?" he murmured against her hair, his voice low and rough with approaching sleep.

Riley nestled closer, her body heavy and relaxed against his. "Too comfortable to move," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. Her fingers traced absent patterns across his chest, slowing as exhaustion from travel and their activities finally caught up with her.

Joe tightened his arms around her, one hand continuing its gentle path along her spine. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept anywhere but his bed—deliberate choices, structured routines—but somehow the thought of disturbing this moment felt wrong.

The city lights cast soft shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting Riley's skin in a gentle glow. Joe watched as her breathing deepened, felt the exact moment when sleep claimed her. Her weight against him was substantial and real—evidence that she wasn't just a figment of his imagination, a fantasy constructed from late-night calls and memories of New Orleans.

As his own eyes grew heavy, Joe found himself cataloging small details—the light floral scent of her hair, the way her leg intertwined with his, how perfectly she fit in the space against his chest. His precisely ordered world had been upended in the span of a few weeks, yet never had chaos felt so right.

The disciplined part of him—the quarterback who tracked every statistical variation, who studied film until his eyes burned—understood that this wasn't logical. They barely knew each other. Their lives existed on separate trajectories. But as sleep began to claim him, that voice grew distant, drowned out by the steady rhythm of Riley's heartbeat against his own.

Just before consciousness slipped away, Joe pressed a kiss to the top of Riley's head and surrendered to sleep, his carefully constructed world giving way to something messier, warmer, and infinitely more real.

---

Riley woke to the gentle sensation of fingers brushing hair from her face. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the living room in a warm glow. For a moment, she lay still, orienting herself—the firm chest beneath her cheek, the steady heartbeat against her ear, the throw blanket tangled around their legs.

She tilted her head to find Joe already awake, his eyes meeting hers with a softness that made her breath catch.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.

"Morning," Joe replied, his fingers tracing a lazy pattern along her shoulder.

Riley shifted against him, stretching slightly. "You could've woken me up. We didn't have to sleep out here."

"I didn't mind," Joe said simply, his gaze steady on her face. Something in his expression made her pause—a quiet intensity she was beginning to recognize as Joe working through his thoughts.

They lay in comfortable silence for a moment, neither making any move to disturb their position. Outside, birds called to each other, and somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower hummed.

“Last night…” Joe began, then paused. His eyes found hers again, steady and intent. “That was different for me. In a way I don’t really have words for.”

Riley waited, giving him space to continue. Joe wasn't someone who spoke without purpose.

"I've always approached everything from here," he tapped his temple lightly. "Even when it's not about football. Analyzing. Planning. Staying a step ahead." His voice remained steady, though something flickered in his eyes. "Last night was different. It wasn't about thinking at all."

"It felt right," Riley said softly.

"Yeah," Joe agreed, his hand finding hers, fingers intertwining. "That's what surprised me. How easy it was to just... be there. With you."

Riley squeezed his hand gently. "You've never felt that way before?"

"Not like that," Joe said. "Not where everything else just... disappeared."

There was no embarrassment in his admission, just honesty—the same straightforward approach he brought to everything. It was one of the things she'd come to appreciate most about him.

"It sounds silly when I say it out loud," he continued, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Guy discovers how to live in the moment. Breaking news."

Riley smiled back, but her eyes remained serious. "It's not silly. It's real."

Joe's thumb traced circles on her palm, his gaze shifting to the windows, to the morning light filtering through. "When I found out you were going to Italy, I kept checking my calendar. Trying to figure out when I'd see you again."

"I noticed," Riley said, remembering the texts he'd sent while she was away.

"It bothered me more than it should have," Joe admitted. "The thought of waiting a month. Didn't make sense why it hit me that way."

Riley understood. She'd felt the same way in Italy, checking her phone more than she cared to admit, feeling his absence acutely despite the short time they'd known each other.

"Since New Orleans," Joe continued, "everything's felt... I don't know. More alive, somehow." He looked back at her, his eyes direct. "Like I've been going through the motions without realizing it."

Riley felt something in her chest tighten at the raw honesty in his voice. This was Joe Burrow—measured, deliberate, controlled—telling her she'd woken something in him.

"I know what you mean," she said quietly. "I'm always myself with everyone. It's not like I put on an act. But after Ethan..." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I started being more careful about who I let get close. Still Riley on the outside, but keeping the important parts protected."

Joe nodded, understanding without her having to explain further. "Different approaches, same result."

"And now?" Riley asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

Joe's expression softened. "Now I want to try something new." He brushed his thumb across her cheek. "With you."

There was nothing dramatic in the way he said it—no grand declaration or flowery words. Just that steady certainty that was uniquely Joe. Yet something about the simple honesty of it made her heart race more than any elaborate speech could have.

"I'd like that," Riley said, her voice quiet but sure.

Joe pulled her closer, his lips finding hers in a kiss that felt different from any they'd shared before—unhurried and gentle, yet somehow more meaningful than all that had come before.

When they finally broke apart, Riley rested her forehead against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet morning air.

"So," she said after a moment, a smile playing at her lips, "what does the Joe Burrow schedule look like today?"

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. "Wide open," he said, his arms tightening around her. "For you."

The implications of those words settled between them—not just about today, but about what might come next. Neither pushed nor retreated from the moment. Instead, they lay together in the growing light, two people from different worlds finding unexpected common ground.

They lingered on the couch until the growl of Riley's stomach made them both laugh. Joe finally disentangled himself, pressing a kiss to her forehead before standing.

"Breakfast," he declared, extending a hand to help her up. "Then I want to show you something."

They moved through the morning with easy domesticity—Riley borrowing Joe's clothes again, Joe making them protein-rich smoothies and avocado toast. They ate at the kitchen island, their conversation drifting between trivial topics and deeper ones, the comfort between them growing with each passing hour.

After breakfast, Joe led Riley to the garage, where his collection of vehicles waited. She followed him past the sleek Porsche they'd driven yesterday, raising an eyebrow when he stopped instead beside a more understated black Range Rover with tinted windows.

"We're taking this one?" she asked, running her fingers along the glossy exterior.

Joe nodded, unlocking it with a click of his key fob. "Lower profile," he explained, opening the passenger door for her. "I was thinking we could explore a bit without the whole city knowing about it."

Riley slid into the seat, watching as Joe circled to the driver's side. The interior was immaculate—black leather, minimal personal touches, everything in its place. So very Joe. But his words lingered in her mind. Lower profile. As if the Porsche would draw too much attention. As if they needed to avoid being seen.

Joe settled into the driver's seat, starting the engine with a quiet purr. "I thought I'd show you some of my favorite spots in the city."

"Sounds perfect," Riley said, but her eyes caught the way his gaze checked the mirrors, the careful way he looked around before backing out of the garage.

They drove out of his neighborhood, the massive houses set back from the street behind manicured lawns and security gates. Joe seemed focused on the road ahead, following the main routes toward downtown Cincinnati.

"Here," Joe said, handing her his phone after unlocking it. "You pick the music."

Riley took his phone, quickly scrolled through his library, and selected something upbeat for their drive. She set the phone in the console between them, letting the music fill the comfortable silence.

As they entered the city proper, Joe's demeanor shifted subtly. His eyes checked the mirrors more frequently, his awareness of their surroundings more pronounced.

"I'd like to still keep this—us—private. At least for now," he said suddenly, his voice casual but deliberate as they stopped at a red light.

There it was. The knot in Riley's stomach tightened slightly. She understood privacy—lived with the same invasive public attention he did. But something in his tone, in the careful way he'd chosen the Range Rover with its dark windows, triggered a deeper uncertainty.

She let the silence stretch between them, processing her reaction. It wasn't that she wanted to be photographed or generate headlines. Fame had taught her the value of guarding certain parts of her life. But there was a difference between privacy and secrecy, between discretion and hiding.

Riley glanced down at herself—the borrowed clothes, her tousled hair, the chipped nail polish on fingers that bore tattoos and calluses from guitar strings. Then she thought of the women Joe had been linked to in the past. Polished sorority girls. Sleek influencers with perfect blowouts and designer wardrobes. Women who looked like they belonged in his carefully ordered world.

She was nothing like them. Her entire existence was a chaotic counterpoint to the disciplined structure of Joe's life. A part of her wondered if that was exactly why they needed to stay "private"—because she didn't fit the image everyone expected from Joe Burrow.

"I know some places we can go where we won't be bothered," Joe said, breaking into her thoughts. His voice was casual, matter-of-fact, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for him, it was.

Riley nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet. She was overreacting, wasn't she? They'd known each other for what—a month? Of course he'd want some privacy while they figured things out. It wasn't about her specifically; it was about protecting something new and fragile from external pressure.

“There’s a spot just outside town I want to take you,” Joe said, glancing over at her. “Kind of a hole-in-the-wall, but they make the best burger I’ve ever had.”

Riley raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That so?”

“You’ll see,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s nothing fancy. Just real good. Quiet.”

As they drove, Riley's mind kept circling back to the contradiction of their situation. Last night had felt so open, so real—Joe letting his guard down in a way that seemed rare for him. The turntable he'd bought specifically for her. The way he'd cut his workout short yesterday just to spend more time with her. Those weren't the actions of someone ashamed or uncertain.

Yet here they were, in a vehicle chosen for its anonymity, headed to places selected for their seclusion. Private, not secret—that's what she needed to remember. There was a difference.

Wasn't there?

Joe's hand found hers across the console, his fingers intertwining with hers in a gesture that felt both intimate and grounding. "You okay?" he asked, glancing at her briefly before returning his attention to the road. "You got quiet."

Joe smiled, that genuine expression that transformed his entire face. “You’ll like it. It’s a different kind of quiet.”

---

The Range Rover smoothly navigated the Cincinnati streets, Joe at the wheel with the easy confidence of someone who knew every turn by heart. Instead of heading toward downtown, he took them across the Taylor-Southgate Bridge into Kentucky.

"I thought we were seeing Cincinnati," Riley teased, watching the Ohio River pass beneath them.

Joe's mouth quirked into that half-smile she was growing to love. "Sometimes the best view of Cincinnati is from somewhere else."

As they crossed into Kentucky, the urban landscape gave way to less developed areas. Joe seemed to relax more with each mile they put between themselves and downtown, his shoulders loosening, his grip on the steering wheel becoming less precise.

"I come this way sometimes when I need to clear my head," he explained, taking an exit that led away from the main highway onto quieter roads. "Just drive with no particular destination."

Riley watched the scenery shift around them – small towns, patches of forest still bare from winter, occasional farmland coming to life with early spring. The music played softly between them, a playlist she'd selected from his phone that somehow managed to bridge their musical tastes.

"I love this," she said, rolling down her window slightly to let the fresh air in. "Reminds me of the backroads around my grandfather's fishing camp in Louisiana. I go there whenever I need to disconnect."

Joe glanced at her with interest. "You get out to the countryside a lot?"

"Whenever I can," Riley admitted. "In New Orleans, I know all the back routes. Even in LA, I've found some incredible drives up in the canyons where you can escape the chaos. Something about being on the road, windows down... it's freedom."

Joe nodded, understanding in his eyes. "That's exactly it."

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, Riley content to watch the passing landscape, to observe Joe in his element – focused but relaxed, navigating without needing GPS, making occasional turns that seemed intuitive rather than planned.

Eventually, they pulled into a small riverside town, the main street lined with brick buildings that spoke of the area's history. Joe parked in front of a small restaurant with a weathered wooden sign and windows that looked out onto the water.

He killed the engine. “You’re gonna like it. I promise.”

Inside, the restaurant was warm and inviting – worn wooden floors, mismatched tables and chairs, local artwork hanging on exposed brick walls. A few patrons sat eating late lunches, none giving Joe and Riley more than a passing glance as they found a table by the window.

They ordered burgers and local beer, their conversation flowing easily between childhood memories, music discoveries, and ridiculous tour stories Riley shared that had Joe laughing more freely than she'd seen before. Here, away from the pressures of their public personas, they were just two people getting to know each other, finding unexpected connections in their different worlds.

As their plates were cleared away, Riley found herself staring out at the river, suddenly aware of how little time they had left together. She was leaving tomorrow, back to LA for studio sessions, back to her world while Joe remained in his.

"What are you thinking about?" Joe asked, noticing her distant gaze.

Riley turned back to him, debating whether to voice what had been circling in her mind. "Tomorrow," she admitted finally. "Leaving."

Joe reached across the table, his fingers brushing against hers. "Let's not think about that right now."

Riley smiled, but the shadow lingered. "Hard not to."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their impending separation settling between them. Riley took a deep breath, deciding to broach the subject that had been simmering since their earlier conversation in the car.

"About what you said before, about keeping us private..."

Joe tensed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Riley had come to recognize the subtle shifts in his posture. "What about it?"

"I understand it," she said carefully. "I do. After Ethan... well, having everything so public added pressure we didn't need." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "But my career is different from yours. It's built on people feeling like they know me, like there's an authenticity to who I am and what I share."

Joe's expression remained open, listening, though she noticed a slight tightening around his eyes.

"I'm not saying we need to do some big announcement or anything," Riley continued. "I don't want what happened with Ethan and me, where our relationship became this public spectacle. But eventually, I'd like there to be a middle ground."

"What does middle ground look like to you?" Joe asked, his tone careful, measured.

Riley shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the importance of the conversation. "Not hiding if we're seen together. Not structuring our entire relationship around avoiding public attention. Just... living our lives, acknowledging what we are to each other when it naturally comes up."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his eyes dropping to their joined hands. When he looked up, she could see he was choosing his words deliberately.

"I hear you," he said finally. "But I'm not there yet, Riley. My privacy isn't just a preference—it's how I've survived in this league, how I've kept parts of myself separate from the quarterback everyone thinks they know."

Riley nodded, feeling a twinge of disappointment but appreciating his honesty.

"I'm not saying never," Joe added, seeing her expression. "Just... not now. Not when we're still figuring out what this is. Can you be okay with that for now?"

There was a vulnerability in the question that caught Riley off guard. Joe Burrow, always so certain, was asking rather than telling.

"I can," she said softly. "I'm not rushing anything. I just wanted you to know where I stand."

Relief flickered across Joe's features. "Thank you. For being direct about it."

"Well, you're rubbing off on me," Riley teased, lightening the moment. "All this straightforward communication."

Joe's smile returned, though not quite reaching his eyes. "For what it's worth, it matters to me—that you understand. That you're willing to give this time."

They lingered over dessert, neither wanting to rush back to Cincinnati, both acutely aware of the limited hours they had left together. When they finally left the restaurant, the day was waning, the light turning golden as they walked back to the Range Rover.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Riley said as Joe opened her door. "For sharing your escape route."

Joe paused, his hand still on the door. "I've never brought anyone else here," he admitted quietly.

The significance of that statement settled between them – not just words, but another piece of evidence that whatever was growing between them mattered to him, enough to share parts of himself he usually kept separate and private.

The drive back to Cincinnati was peaceful, both of them content to let the music fill the comfortable silence between them. As they crossed back into Ohio, Joe took an unexpected turn off the main highway.

"Where are we going?" Riley asked, glancing over at him.

"Thought we could stop at this nature preserve before heading back," Joe replied. "There's a short trail with a decent view. Unless you're too tired?"

Riley smiled, touched by his reluctance to end their day together. "A hike sounds perfect."

The preserve was quiet at this hour, most visitors already gone for the day. They followed a winding path through the trees, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they walked side by side. The trail wasn't challenging��just enough elevation to feel like they'd earned the view when they reached the clearing at the top.

Cincinnati sprawled before them, the late afternoon sun gilding the buildings and the river beyond. They stood for a while, taking in the vista, neither feeling the need to fill the silence with words.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Riley said finally, leaning slightly against Joe's solid frame.

Joe's arm came around her shoulders, drawing her closer. "Wanted to show you a different side of the city."

They lingered until the sun began its final descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. As they made their way back down the trail, Riley found herself mentally cataloging these moments—storing them away like photographs to revisit when they were apart again.

"You want to head home?" Joe asked as they reached his Range Rover. "Open a bottle of wine, just hang out?"

The casual suggestion carried weight in its simplicity—no elaborate plans, just the two of them enjoying each other's company in the hours they had left.

"Sounds perfect," Riley agreed.

---

Back at Joe’s house, Riley headed straight for the record collection while Joe opened a bottle of wine. She selected something different from last night—not the dark, hypnotic pulse they’d melted into, but something warmer. Softer. Music that invited closeness without urgency.

When Joe walked back in with two glasses, he paused, leaning against the doorway to watch her. Riley caught his eye and gave him a playful smile. “You just gonna stand there and watch?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t usually dance,” he admitted, but his tone wasn’t resistant—more like he was giving her fair warning.

“Good thing I do,” Riley shot back, holding out her hand to him. “C’mon.”

Joe set the glasses down on the coffee table, hesitating for just a second before stepping forward. As soon as he took her hand, Riley pulled him in, guiding his hands to her waist. At first, he just followed her lead—letting her sway against him—but it didn’t take long for his natural athleticism to kick in.

Once he felt the rhythm, he started to move on instinct, taking control of their pace. His hands stayed steady on her waist, guiding her effortlessly as he adjusted to the beat. It was almost unfair how easily he picked it up—like his body just knew how to respond. He spun her unexpectedly, pulling her back to his chest in one smooth motion, and she couldn’t help but laugh, caught off guard by how effortlessly he took over.

“What was that?” she teased, turning to look up at him.

Joe’s lips curved into a half-smile, his hands still anchored on her waist. “It’s not that different from footwork drills. Just gotta feel it out,” he said, but there was a hint of pride in his tone, like he knew exactly how good he was at it.

Riley shook her head, letting herself lean into him as he moved with more confidence now, guiding her in a slow, effortless rhythm. “You’re a natural,” she said, half impressed, half charmed.

Joe just shrugged.

She smiled, rolling her eyes, but didn’t bother trying to take the lead back—mostly because he was doing a damn good job of it. He kept her close, guiding her through a lazy turn before pulling her back against him, and she couldn’t help but lean into the steadiness of his frame, enjoying the way he seemed so completely in control.

By the time the song ended, they were both a little breathless—more from being close than from the dancing itself. Joe grabbed the glasses from the table and handed her one, their fingers brushing.

“Not bad for a guy who ‘doesn’t usually dance,’” Riley said, taking a sip.

Joe just smirked. “Guess I needed the right partner.”

They settled on his couch, Riley curled against his side, contentment settling over them like a warm blanket. The conversation flowed easily between them, jumping from topic to topic without effort—stories from Riley's tours, Joe's college days, childhood memories, future dreams.

As night deepened around the house, they eventually made their way upstairs, their touches becoming more purposeful, their kisses more lingering. There was a sweet urgency to their connection this time—awareness of tomorrow's separation lending weight to each moment together.

Later, as they lay entwined in his sheets, the house quiet around them, Riley traced idle patterns on Joe's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

"Your flight's at eight, right?" Joe asked, his voice rumbling under her cheek.

"Yeah," Riley murmured, her arms tightening around him involuntarily.

Joe's hand stilled on her back, then resumed its gentle path along her spine. "We're going to figure this out, Riley," he said, certainty in his voice. "The distance, the schedules, all of it."

Riley lifted her head to look at him, finding his eyes steady on hers in the dim light of his bedroom. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Joe replied without hesitation. "This matters. We'll make it work."

In the simple conviction of his words, Riley found the reassurance she needed. Joe Burrow didn't make promises lightly. When he said they'd figure it out, it wasn't empty comfort—it was a commitment.

She settled back against his chest, a small smile playing on her lips. Tomorrow would come with its inevitable goodbye, but it wasn't an ending. Just a pause in something that was only beginning to take shape between them—something worth the effort, worth navigating the complications of their different worlds.

---

Morning came too quickly, the early sun filtering through the blinds of Joe's bedroom. They moved through a routine that felt both new and strangely established—shower, coffee, last-minute packing of Riley's scattered belongings. The conversation stayed light, deliberately skimming the surface to avoid the reality of her imminent departure. Neither of them wanted to touch the weight pressing down on the morning.

Joe loaded Riley's suitcase into the Range Rover while she took one last look around his house, already missing the space that had briefly become a part of her world. Her fingers trailed over the turntable he'd bought for her, a tangible symbol of the unexpected connection they'd built in such a short time. She traced the edge of the vinyl that still sat on the player, the album from last night—a reminder of how they'd felt the music together, like they were tuned to the same frequency.

The drive to the private airfield was quiet, Riley's hand resting on Joe's thigh, his thumb occasionally brushing over her knuckles at stoplights. Cincinnati was still waking up around them, the early morning streets largely empty, giving them one last pocket of privacy before reality stepped in.

When they reached the airfield, Joe drove directly onto the tarmac, where the sleek private jet was already prepped for departure. He parked near the stairs and cut the engine, and for a moment, they just sat there—neither one making a move to break the fragile silence.

"So," Riley said finally, forcing a smile. "This is where I say something profound and memorable, right? Should I quote Shakespeare or go with a Taylor Swift lyric?"

Joe gave her that half-smile that always made her heart skip. “Or you could just say you’ll call me later,” he said, voice quiet. His hand tightened slightly on hers, like he wasn’t quite ready for her to get out of the car yet.

She took a breath, her voice dropping the humor. "I'm really bad at goodbyes."

Joe turned toward her, his gaze steady and direct. "It's not a goodbye," he said, with the same quiet certainty he used when calling a play. "Just a see you later."

The words should have made it easier, but they didn't. Riley nodded, but to her embarrassment, her throat tightened and her eyes grew wet. She glanced away, wiping quickly at her cheeks. "God, ignore me. I cry at literally everything. Commercials, cute dogs, when I'm hungry. It's annoying."

Joe didn't laugh or brush it off. Instead, he just leaned over and brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching a stray tear before it could fall. "Hey," he said softly. "You don't have to pretend it doesn't suck."

Riley managed a wobbly smile. "I just hate leaving like this. We just figured out how to be in the same place without driving each other crazy, and now I have to go."

Joe was quiet for a second, like he was weighing his words carefully. Then he just looked her right in the eyes, his tone steady. "I've never done this before," he admitted. "Not like this. I keep things separate. Football, personal life, all of it. But with you..." He paused, choosing his words with precision. "It doesn't matter how complicated it is. We'll figure it out."

Riley swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "You sure? I'm bringing chaos to your very structured world, Burrow."

Joe gave her that look—the one that was so direct it almost made her nervous. "Good," he said simply. "I want that."

She exhaled slowly, the honesty in his eyes hitting her harder than any flowery declaration. Riley leaned in, her hand slipping to the back of his neck as she kissed him—a kiss that held everything she couldn't quite say. When they pulled back, her forehead rested against his for a moment.

Finally, Riley forced herself to pull away, the reality of the waiting jet breaking the moment. "Get used to the crying, by the way," she said, attempting to lighten the mood. "It comes standard with the package."

"I like the package," Joe replied, his voice low and certain.

Joe got out and retrieved her suitcase from the back, then walked with her to the foot of the stairs. The cool morning air whipped around them, but Joe seemed unbothered, standing tall and steady as always.

She turned back to him, hesitating on the first step. “I don’t want this to be one of those things that fades out when we go back to real life.”

Joe’s eyes softened. “It won’t be,” he promised, no unnecessary words, just certainty. “This isn’t it for us.”

One last kiss, brief but carrying a promise of more, and then Riley forced herself to move up the steps, pausing at the top to look back. Joe was still there, hands in his pockets, that steady, unmovable presence that had become so familiar. He didn't wave or make some grand gesture—that wasn't Joe—but he didn't move either, just stood there, grounded and waiting until the very last moment.

Once inside, Riley sank into the plush leather seat, glancing back out the window to see him still rooted in place, watching the plane prepare for takeoff. As the engines rumbled to life and the jet taxied toward the runway, she couldn't help but feel like she was leaving a piece of herself behind with him.

Closing her eyes, Riley leaned back and let herself feel the ache of missing him already. But beneath it was something else—something that felt less like loss and more like potential. She didn't know how, but she knew they'd find their way through this. Whatever had sparked between them wasn't something that could be easily extinguished.

Different worlds, maybe. But somehow, in ways that defied logic, they'd found a way to orbit each other. And if there was one thing she knew about Joe Burrow, it was that once he set his mind on something, he didn't quit.

She just had to trust that this—whatever it was becoming—was one of those things.

youtube

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fanfiction #jiley #hide fanfic #joe burrow fluff #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfic #burrow #joe burrow smut #joe brrr #Youtube

75 notes · View notes