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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 23 hours ago

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Heart of the Matter—Chapter 9: Combustion

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burrow.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

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The air thickens with the smell of gas from the grill—hot and thick that makes it undeniable that summer has descended fully.

Joe waits for the speakers to beep, a series of four until it stops and he knows the device is on, and his phone is connected. The grill clicks, with a soft rumble, behind him, with the heat and the promise of sizzling meat. Joe pulls up his Groovy playlist, sets it to the shuffle and then slips his phone into the pocket of his shorts. The bass is thick enough that it rattles the case.

And when Joe turns, content now that even as the first few guests arrive they won’t be suffocated by the silence, he finds Marlowe already at work. His mother wasn’t able to occupy Marlowe for long. The moment Joe returned to the kitchen to get the food for the grill, Marlowe slipped next to him. He spotted the deep burgundy polish of her toes in his peripheral and turned to find her, still partially in the conversation with his mother, but with her hands out—waiting.

Joe told Marlowe he could handle it, but she remained undeterred. So, Joe found his navy blue apron, handed it over to her and gave her just enough time to grab her shoes from the front of the house—he enjoyed knowing Marlowe wasn’t helping just to keep up appearances but meant it genuinely. His mother grinned the entire time Marlowe was gone, her knowing having come to fruition. The kind of intuition one should never fight against.

Marlowe settled, with ease, behind the grill, where she still stands. “You really don’t have to do this.” Joe’s said it several times, and it’s not once changed her mind.

“I help my dad with it all the time. I like it. What’s first? The corn on the cob?”

“Yeah, since it takes a minute, that sounds like a good idea.”

They work together for a few minutes in a comfortable silence—placing items onto the hot steel. Joe takes her in again, the apron tied around her waist, hiding away the white halter top. The sun bouncing off her skin. “You look better in that than I do,” he whispers to Marlowe.

It’s just her palm. The same palm that slid across his jaw, cradled his face when they kissed, even as it trembled just a little. His lips still tingle at the memory of her lips—soft and plush and warm. The metal of her lip piercing shared her body heat so it was warm too; the bar firm and just hardly noticeable in the kiss. A sensation Joe’s never had before but he finds slightly addicting. Wonders what it would be like to swipe his tongue into her mouth and trace the bottom of the jewelry too. This touch is more confident, pressed into his bicep—searing his flesh to the point that when she pulls away Joe’s positive he’s going to have a print left behind.

“I’d have to see you in it before I agree or disagree,” Marlowe returns. “But I would have to disagree, I think.”

There’s something in the way that she says; voice low and playful. Joe’s not obsessed with his looks, but he is aware that the world perceives him as attractive. It just means more from Marlowe, makes him stand up a little straighter next to her. Marlowe thinks he’s attractive and that thought is nearly earth shattering, makes his stomach warm and his head a little fuzzy.

“I watched the dance lesson,” Joe offers after a few more moments of silence.

He watched after he’d given his manager his quote—wanting a little piece of calm— and hoped the video could help. He grinned watching Marlowe dance—ten times better than he ever could—trying with all her might to keep a straight enough face as Korey rendered her own versions of the moves. The frustration that bubbled, the intense annoyance that Joe felt festering, cooled watching the two of them. Marlowe’s quiet and sweet, Nice try, bug is tattooed into the curvatures of Joe’s mind. A sound so gentle that Joe thinks he could ascend this plane, if at all possible.

Marlowe snorts, as if already understanding what Joe’s saying underneath the sentence. “She’s got a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“Yeah, Korey does for sure,” Joe snickers. “Is she a fan of the lessons?”

“Oh, she has a ball,” Marlowe returns. Her palm slides, knuckles pressing into Joe’s ribs, her fingers now wrapped around the meat of his bicep. And she only holds Joe, gently. Every so lightly around the bicep while the meat sizzles.

“I still want a lesson. Whenever a guest spot opens up.”

“I will consult. I make no promises.”

Joe can take that, now that he has Marlowe. Now that she is his. The smell of the grill and the fire is sure to last in Joe’s nose for days at this point. Joe’s father returns through the backdoor, bags of ice in hand just as the first round of guests come peering in through the side yard. His mother follows behind, rolling the coolers. The work between Joe and Marlowe is a quiet clack of the tongs and the warmth of her gentle hold.

“‘Sup, man?” Tee greets. Marlowe’s hand eases down, fingers tracing down to his elbow before she lets go just as Joe’s pulled into the side hug from Tee.

Joe turns into the hug, briefly slipping an arm around Tee’s shoulders, careful of the spatula. “Glad to see you make it, brother.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now, who is this little lady on the grill?”

Tee’s grin is knowing and Joe glances to his side, Marlowe’s gaze intently watching over the hotdogs before she looks up. Her lips peel back with her smile. “Marlowe, formally.”

“Tee, Marlowe. Marlowe, this is Tee.” Joe’s positive he doesn’t need the introductions given Marlowe’s earlier confession that she was paying attention to the team. But it feels wrong not to do the introductions.

Another word dances on Joe’s tongue for Marlowe in the midst of said introductions—girlfriend— as he watches her turn a row of hotdogs with ease. Though Joe wants to say it, this is all still too new, still in the fragile stages of infancy—not even days old, just minutes.

“Wait a second,” Tee starts just as Joe drops the gentle press into Marlowe’s back. When had he done that? Why was it so easy to do? “Wait a cotton pickin’ second!” Tee laughs, slapping at Joe’s shoulder. Hard enough for the thump to echo up Joe's chest, but not hard enough to hurt. “I saw that. You can’t hide it from me, man. Are we official?” Tee whispers the last word, his finger dancing between Joe and Marlowe.

Joe nods and can’t get a word out before Tee lets out a yawp—his cheer echoing above the rattle of the speakers. “Finally, oh finally,” Tee laughs.

“Did you have a bet too?” Marlowe teases but looks at Joe for a moment. “It makes me wonder if Robin coordinated with the entire team too.”

“I can confirm,” Tee answers, “Mama Burrow did not have a dating pool with us. But, I was this close,” Tee laughs, holding his thumb and forefingers together with just a sliver of space between them, “to asking you myself on his behalf. Because this man grinned like an idiot anytime he talked about you. Where is Ja’Marr? Has he popped up yet?”

Joe shakes his head. “Not yet. At least let me tell him.”

“Nah, nah, nah,” Tee mutters. His fingers are working over the screen of his phone. Joe can already picture the message to Ja’Marr now, Hurry yo ass up. Joe’s phone shakes in his pocket. The seconds pass, but only a few, then another shake. Then another.

Tee grins and looks beyond either one of Joe or Marlowe. “What’s this I heard about you, Joe?” Ja’Marr shouts from Joe’s right, from the side of the yard where the gate resides before it feeds into the backyard. “Someone put on their big boy drawls?”

Joe faces the burgers instead and flips them, his internal clock reminding him that no matter what he cannot burn these burgers. “Don’t start with the likes of that in front of my parents,” Joe returns in a shout, but he follows it up with a laugh.

“You do realize your ears are red, right?” Marlowe’s voice holds the sound of her grin, carries it through the rattle and bass of the music.

Joe turns to Marlowe just as her palm slips over his side, glides over the t-shirt to the small of his back, low enough down his spine that it makes his knees weak for just a second. But high enough that it’s not obscene. “You are not helping,” he hisses with a grin. But he winks at her—a secret between them. Marlowe only laughs, the pads of her fingers patting once, twice, and then a third time into his vertebrae.

“I’ve said worse shit,” Ja’Marr quips. “And I could’ve said,” he adds on, slipping an arm around Joe’s shoulders, his voice quieter, “that your balls finally dropped, but I was being polite.”

“Alright, alright,” Joe huffs. But his laughter bubbles from him in the embrace, the hook of Ja’Marr’s elbow around his neck and the teasing shake.

“I’m proud of you. I need the details later.”

The request is whispered and Joe nods, eyes cutting to see if Marlowe’s heard. If she has, she doesn’t let on, removing a row of finished hotdogs only to plop down a fresh row in its place. There’s not much to tell. It was all her, the way she grinned as she confessed it, But now, I have more reason to pay attention to all the rest of the seasons I’m around for.

And Joe knew. He knew it was her saying yes, giving him the chance he so desperately wanted. He does worry about August for Marlowe’s sake. Can only imagine how heavy it gets to have back to back losses. But he would be there for her—any and every way he could be. Because she deserved someone there for her and now that person can be Joe. Because he’s hers.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees with a tiny nod to Ja’Marr. “Marlowe, this is Ja’Marr.”

“I remember you. From the restaurant.” Her answer is confident as she smiles.

“Yeah? I remember you from all the times Joe talked about you.”

“Hopefully not all the time,” Marlowe grins.

“Most of the time,” Tee and Ja’Marr answer simultaneously.

Marlowe’s laughter bubbles from her chest before she turns the ears of corn on her side of the grill. “Well, I certainly can’t fault him. My friends are probably sick of me too. How are the two of you feeling? Close to the preseason games.”

“Pretty good,” Tee responds. “Ready to work.”

“Feels pretty good to be back in the saddle,” Ja’Marr adds on.

Their conversation is an easy volley. Tee and Ja’Marr ask Marlowe about Korey and her family. Marlowe asks them both about their families. All the while, Joe and Marlowe work seamlessly. Soft interjections about passing the aluminum foil back and forth. The work is easy though. Neither one of them is too distracted by the conversation that floats around them.

Most of the team that is coming has shown. A constant stream of Joe and Marlowe serving up freshly grilled foods. Time has left Joe behind. His mind fixated on getting the burgers done just right, listening to Marlowe’s laugh, her voice as she interacts with various teammates and friends. Time doesn’t matter here the same way it does elsewhere. All that matters is her, the two of them together in the quiet company of the other, flipping over foods, serving it up, brushing elbows, and exchanging smiles.

“Fix a plate,” Marlowe encourages, reaching for the spatula in his hand.

“I don’t want to leave you by yourself.”

“I’ve got it. Here.” Marlowe extends out a thick plastic plate. “At least one plate.”

“Who’s mac’n’cheese is this?” Tee asks, shuffling past with a heap on his plate. Joe’s pretty sure it’s Tee’s second helping.

“Mine,” Marlowe returns.

“Goddam. Put yo whole foot and ankle in this.”

”Thank you.” Her gratitude bubbles with amusement at Tee’s remake.

“At least we know our boy won’t be starving,” Ja’Marr tacks on. “I was informed you also made the cornbread.”

“She did,” Joe returns. “You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks over to Marlowe.

”I’ve got about twenty minutes before I need to head out. This is the last bit. I’ll be okay while you eat.”

”Are there any more hotdogs?” The question swallows up Joe’s objection as Marlowe serves up a freshly finished batch.

There are only a few pieces left—the last six patties and last eight hotdogs. There was little in the way of reserves. Joe didn’t want anything getting cold. It seemed to work well. But this is getting down to the wire—she did warn that she could not stay long, and it does not feel nearly long enough now that it’s barreling towards the conclusion. Most people have seemingly loaded up with all they care to eat. There’s still plenty of sides, chips, and drinks left.

He could eat fast. But still, Joe can’t stand to abandon her. Marlowe urges him again. “You have to eat, Joe.”

“So do you.”

“And I will. Later today. Eat. Don’t make me say it again please.”

It falls urgent and firm from her lips. A request he can’t really say no to. Joe settles in at one of the tables he and his dad put out earlier this morning—ensuring to put Marlowe’s side on first from the counter inside before reaching for his protein. At the table, he takes one last look over his shoulder to make sure she is okay.

“I got Marlowe,” Jimmy laughs, watching Joe’s gaze. “Sit and eat.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Happy to,” is the easy reply before Jimmy slides in next to Marlowe at the grill. Her gaze cuts even across the yard to Joe and with one quick snap of the tongs at Joe—I told you I had it—she relents to Jimmy’s help, handing over the spatula Joe used.

“So?” Ja’Marr grins, reclining into the chair next to Joe. “Details. Now.”

Joe takes a forkful of the mac’n’cheese first. The top still has a bit of the crust on it and the sound tells Joe before his bite that it’s going to be good. “Fuck,” he whispers around the bite. There’s several types of cheeses and it’s not sweet like desert—the savory amalgamation of the cheeses cuts through it—but there’s something about it, something different. But it’s really fucking good.

As if Joe could fall any harder. She can cook too to top it all off.

“It’s good, ain’t it?” Tee laughs. “Told you—whole foot with the ankle.”

“It is good. But let’s not cum our pants just yet,” Ja’Marr teases. “I still need details.”

“She came over earlier,” Joe starts, delving into the news about Paige, Marlowe’s reaction, her meeting his parents briefly as it was, Marlowe agreeing to date him, all the way up to—“and then I kissed her.” He does not need to recount in graphic detail the way she tasted, how her perfume and hair products wafted into his nose so deliciously that he fought back the groan as it beat at his chest. No, Joe keeps that to himself.

“Wait—so all that happened today?”

Joe nods at Tee’s question. “Today.”

“Hell of a day, if you ask me. And damn, I gave you too much credit. Told Ja’Marr you finally made the move.”

The ball was always in Marlowe’s court. He wouldn’t move until she moved. That much he had promised and that much he would see through. “I mean after what she told me I knew I couldn’t move faster than her,” Joe clarifies.

“So—what’s the move now? First official date?” The signature teasing grin is evident across Ja’Marr’s face.

“Ice cream. My treat.” It’s Marlowe who answers in that gravelly voice Joe’s chased after in his dreams.

Joe looks over his shoulder—catches briefly the same color from her toes on her nails dotted this time with navy blue designs as she settles her palm against his shoulder. “I’m not a cheap ice cream date,” Joe teases up at her.

“I can keep up. I’ve got to head out.”

Where had the twenty minutes gone? He’d just sat down. Though his plate is picked clean; admittedly Joe hadn’t quite realized how ravenous he’d gotten. Joe nods all the same though, easing his chair back from the table. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I would say you don’t have to. But that won’t stop you.” It’s more of an observation than anything. A statement of fact. Joe only stands in return as she takes a step back to let him.

“Go? You just got here? Party’s just started,” Ja’Marr pouts. “I have so much dirt to tell you about Joe. Starting with his locker. It’s a mess.”

“My family’s starting their cookout at 3.”

“Y’all gon have more mac’n’cheese over there?” Tee questions. “Because I’ll hop in the passenger seat with a quickness.”

“I got keys and gas,” Marlowe answers, pulling them from her front pocket. “And I’ll have words with Joe about his locker.”

“My locker isn’t that messy,” Joe defends.

“Your mother would be disappointed if she saw it,” Ja’Marr huffs. That part is true and not even Joe can deny it. “But it’s nice to meet you officially, Marlowe. We’ll have to catch up without Burrow here.”

“Nice to meet you both too. I look forward to more. Now, you coming or not Tee?”

His laughter is bright and he shakes his head. “I am tempted, next time though. Next time I’m getting a whole separate dish.”

“Joe has the address in case you change your mind. I’m happy to feed anyone who needs or wants.”

Marlowe and Joe weave their way to the gate—with one singular pitstop to his parents for her departure.

“No, you can’t leave,” Robin laughs, winding her arms around Marlowe’s shoulders.

“I can always come back.” The response makes Joe’s throat spasm, heart ramming into his ribs. Marlowe would come back. She could. She has a reason now. She always has the option to come back. Joe ensured to leave that door open. But it would always be her choice.

“Maybe we can grab lunch? Come up or something. A girls day?”

“I would be happy to.”

“I’ll get your number from Joe. My phone is somewhere in the house. God only knows where I set it down.”

“Dining room table,” Jimmy answers. “Next to mine.” He eases in—one arm slung over Marlowe’s shoulder. “We’re happy to meet you. Drive safe back home.”

“I will.”

Joe’s not sure how he missed the tattoo on Marlowe’s back earlier. But he traces it with his eyes down her spine as they slip through the gate. The leaves are dark, and the lines thick. There’s dot work too, spots of a softer grey wash over her skin. Joe can’t place the plant but it feels right for her. Like it’s grown with her.

The music and chatter don’t fade once they’re through the gate, only feels quieter now on the other side. “I’m glad you came today,” Joe confesses, fingers threading through hers again.

“I am too. Thank you—for being patient with me.”

He’d be patient a thousand times over if that’s that Marlowe needed from him. “Thank you for giving me a shot. I can’t imagine it’s easy. But it’s not taken for granted.”

“I want to say don’t thank me yet. But that wouldn’t go well.”

“No, absolutely not.”

The pair walk hand in hand around to the front. The surge of electricity up his arm never dulls. Like being struck with lightning with full intensity over and over again. If the feeling never dulls, Joe would be happy to bear the wait. The street in front of his house is littered with cars. He worries she won’t be able to get out but she stops in front of a dark gray SUV and the end of the street, a several feet back from the stop sign. An easy in and out for her.

“Text me when you get home.” It’s a simple request—him just wanting to know she got home safely.

Yet it feels sizable when Marlowe looks up, face softening at the words. Disbelief and wonder painting her features. Then it shifts, a soft smile settles onto her face. Her free hand cups his jaw. The inches are swallowed until her lips are on his. Marlowe’s press is confident and assured this time. Kisses him like she’s done it a thousand times. Like she already knows how to slot her lips around his. Like she already knows how to hold him just so to make him melt.

The kiss doesn’t last nearly long enough. Joe thinks he could kiss Marlowe for hours and it would only feel like seconds. But Joe’s not going to get ahead of himself. Not ahead of her. Instead he squeezes at her palm, a quick two pumps as he exhales. Knows his lips are probably now glistening with her gloss. He’d wear every gloss and lipstick stain as a badge of honor though.

“I will,” Marlowe agrees.

Joe watches Marlowe take off, her brake lights flashing twice at him before she rolls to the stop. Her right turn takes her away, towards the gates and onwards. But he watches, waits just a few moments to let the last bits of her presence stay with him. Lets himself grin at the memory of her lips on his until he turns back to the house.

When Joe’s phone buzzes again, in the midst of a round of black jack, he knows it’s Marlowe before he reads it. His stomach settles knowing that she’s safely back home, the message short after his holds his hand this round, Home.

2PM tomorrow cannot come soon enough.

___________________________________

Joe’s up later than he means to be after the festivities. His parents helped him clean up— dragging the bags of trash to the bins and returning the kitchen to its normal state. The grill cooled down enough to clean and cover it. They’re settled now a few doors down the hallway. His nearly daily call to Marlowe after his shower was brief due to Marlowe still hosting— a quick hi and bye situation. By all accounts, Joe should be settled, under the sheets, halfway asleep.

And yet the glow of this laptop illuminates his otherwise dark room. Burrow Speaks, reads the headline—the exclusive article Frank mentioned was being worked on.

Earlier this week, a scandalous tell-all was released about the Cincinnati Bengals quarterback. Joe Burrow, 28, and Paige McAllister, 25, a social media influencer and model, made waves on the internet after McAllister spoke out about their 8 month long arrangement.

She mentioned in her original statements that Burrow ‘was hiding her’ and insinuated the franchise golden boy isn’t all that he appears to be with late night texts and secret rendezvous.

However, just 24 hours after the piece hit the web, McAllister issued an apology on Instagram: “I was deeply hurt by the way our arrangement ended and by some of the actions done throughout those 8 months. Rather than dealing with these feelings and concerns with the person directly, I ran to the press in the hopes of hurting and harming them. An eye for an eye is not the way I want to operate in this world. My concerns are better handled by those directly involved. I sincerely apologize for retaliating rather than trying to communicate and heal.”

Burrow—known for his intense dedication to privacy—remained silent on social media. However, we did reach out directly for a response.

Burrow provided an answer to our inquiry with the following: “I am more than willing to admit my faults and shortcomings. This is one of those times where my actions caused harm and heartache to someone. I do not wish to undermine the feelings of anyone. Nor will I do so now. My actions have consequences—direct and indirect. It is my goal to handle these matters privately and to learn from my mistakes, so I do not hurt anyone else in the same manner.”

We hope that the pair are able to work through things as needed.

Joe pages back to his original search. There are more articles—a few that talk about his comments on Marlowe’s page and their connection. He doesn’t read them fully, takes in the headline and the byline. But most of the noise is about him and Paige. Regret’s not an emotion Joe likes to carry. He rather enjoys morphing it, channeling it into something more productive. But part of him does regret commenting on Marlowe’s page. Wishes he’d waited, that he had some kind of sign of what Paige has planned to do just so it was only him in the depths of the rocky waters. Joe’s going to do what he can. He’s going to make sure Marlowe is safe though in all this.

Something tells me you might still be awake.

The text from Marlowe pops up on the side of this screen. He clicks onto it, watching the message app bounce before it loads. His fingers work over the keys. That something might be correct.

I really didn’t think you’d be awake; you’ve shocked me. Can’t sleep? I’ll talk you to sleep if you need.

He dials without hesitation his earbuds already connected to the laptop. The call connects, the lines bounce with the crackle of Marlowe’s voice. “I’d ask if you missed me but the answers seem obvious.”

“Maybe a little bit.” Joe’s not even ashamed to admit that. There’s a brief crackle again, the sound of air blown out from pursed lips. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s the last drag here. Sorry.”

“Didn’t know you smoked.” She’s never smelt like cigarettes. Not that it would change much for Joe. It’s just not something he pegged her for.

“Social smoker; used to smoke more often before Korey was born but Malia said she didn’t want ash in her baby’s head. So I gave it up—mostly. If I drink, I’m more inclined to want one. And I’ve definitely had more than my fair share of shots tonight. I’m in people’s space too much to smoke regularly.”

“How often do you drink?”

“God, that’s rare. Maybe one drink every couple of months. I need at least two drinks to want a smoke.”

“Do you not like drinking?”

“Not really. Not anymore.”

“Because of Malia?” Joe’s cautious about using her name. Knows that August is hanging for Marlowe like a death sentence. He is curious to know how she died. Marlowe mentioned that pregnancy was not safe for Malia, so he doubts it’s actually alcohol. Joe’s just trying to fill in the blanks; put together the full picture that is Marlowe.

“Because of Korey,” Marlowe answers. “I don’t want to miss time with her because I was too fucked up. I’m gone half the damn year as it is. No need to take away any more time.”

“Korey, I’m sure will appreciate it.” Joe slips down into his bed, resting his head against the pillows and turns to face the laptop screen. “Did you have fun?”

“A lot of fun. Most was my mom’s family. Some was my dad’s that came in to visit. Some cousins I haven’t seen in a while. And I got a boyfriend. So it’s a major win today. How was it after I left?”

Joe grins at the sound of boyfriend, tries to imagine how Marlowe’s mouth circles around the word. “I got dogged hard because of the lip gloss stain.”

“Be careful. I wouldn’t give me any ideas. The stain can and may be much worse next time.”

“I’ve said too much as is. It’s time for me to be quiet. I’ll listen to you talk about anything.” It’s a gentle prompt, the work to get Marlow back on track with the texted promise.

“I’m never doing shots of Henny again. I’m outside right now to sober up.”

“You don’t sound that far gone to me.”

“I can hold my liquor now,” she laughs. “I don’t know what to say to your mother. She texted me earlier and I’m terrified to reply.”

“Well, not right now. Wait until you’re sober.”

“Didn’t you just say that you were going to be quiet.”

“That might be true,” he laughs—though it’s really a giggle—at her huffed annoyance. “Okay, I’m listening. I’m listening.”

Marlowe meanders, rattling off the text his mother sent, the spare plate she intends to stow away for Tee with the leftover mac’n’cheese. Her voice is a soft rumble in Joe’s ears. A melodic cadence that he follows as she talks about Miami—again though Marlowe told Joe about it in pieces the first time—all the way into sleep. The slow slip sleep, the kind of sleep that Joe doesn’t even realize he’s fallen into until the clinking of pans wakes him up—the strong waft of bacon just behind it. It shocks Joe, at first, to see the streak of sunlight, to hear voices deep in the belly of his house—he so distinctly remembers how late it was, how he’d been listening to Marlowe talk about the first thing she did before getting the boat for Q’s birthday was get the shells that Korey asked for.

His laptop is dead when he presses at the spacebar. The charger warning blinks at him before the screen goes dark again. In his sleep, he hadn’t moved, so Joe reaches behind himself and finds his phone. It lights up at him with a litter of text messages and notifications about recurrent charges to his card, emails that have come through on a battery close to death too. But there’s one text thread that he checks first, her name simple in the contact list, but makes his chest flutter.

I hope you sleep well. Save space for a sundae.

I will.

___________________________________

Malowe’s early. Which is not a new thing for her. She prides herself on being punctual. But she is earlier than usual.

A byproduct of the teasing anxiety at the back of her brain. She crawled into bed just after 1 AM. The world no longer wobbly to her and with hopefully enough air outside to dissipate the smell of the cigarettes she and her cousins smoked in the backyard. She doesn’t keep a pack on her, not even a lighter knowing that it’s only inviting temptation in. Though she slept late and hard—a rare combination as Marlowe’s used to sleeping hard but not late or sleeping in late but never super deeply— she felt an undercurrent buzzing in her belly.

She’d bet money that it’s just the day, a surge of electricity under her skin at the knowledge that when Marlowe pulls up to Joe’s place, she’s not just a friend, not just someone teasing on the edge of something more, but that is she is more. It makes her head dizzy and her chest warm. So she’s early, hoping the extra few minutes is enough to bring her a sense of calm. The doorbell chimes again. There’s no SUV in the driveway, just text messages she’s finally responded to and the slight eek of the door’s hinges as it opens.

Joe’s big smile greets her. “Hi, Marlowe.”

“Hi, Joe.”

He waves her in; the house still feels big, unsettled but not eerie. For a moment, it’s just them, and the echoing of their breathing. His smile beaming down; hers beaming up. It feels silly, feels like a teenager again. Giddy at the promise, knowing it’s all different but still being awkward and unsure.

He slides his arm around her shoulders, tucks her into his chest and she inhales. The t-shirt is soft against her cheek. The fabric holds his faded cologne and the scent of the detergent—fresh and a little musky, heavy without being overpowering. Marlowe’s careful of the plate in her hand, but she tightens the free arm around his waist, lets herself revel in the feeling of him solid and strong beneath her skin.

“You smell good.”

Marlowe hums at the rumble of his voice, turns her head and her nose brushes at Joe’s throat. “The trick is a little oil roller right behind the ears. You smell better.”

“Deodorant—wish it was more exciting.”

Marlowe snorts at the shy honesty, brushes her nose at his jaw. The stubble is only a couple days old she’d guess, not enough to hurt but enough to be felt. “That’s still pretty exciting. Just please tell me you use two separate bottles of shampoo and conditioner.”

“I used to be in need of saving but thankfully, not anymore. Shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner are all separated out.”

“Thank God for that.”

Both of them peel out of the embrace at the same time—slowly but not fully out of the other’s arms— Joe’s icy blue gaze dancing with amusement. “Would that plate be for Tee?”

“I meant what I said about feeding people.”

“He’ll be charmed. Not that I think he needs it. C’mon. This last load of laundry is almost done and then I just need to get my shoes on. Someone decided to show up early.”

“It’s fifteen minutes.” It’s important to be punctual. Though she tries not to show up obscenely early to most things. Fifteen minutes isn’t her standard—ten usually is. Yet both are still more than enough time. Enough to help in case she ever managed to get lost—that’s only happened once to her— and short of enough that she never feels like she’s intruding if she’s early.

“Did you talk to Korey about an additional dance class member?”

“She was stolen from me today by Dad. But I will.”

“Stolen? From you?”

“I know; it shocked me too. She found me this morning and after breakfast, poof, gone. Only wanted PopPop.” It’s not exactly theft. It just makes Marlowe feel better if she calls it that. Whenever Marlowe leaves, she worries more and more that Korey will feel like Marlowe doesn’t care. When the truth is the exact opposite. She wants every second she can get with Korey, but Marlowe’s still filled to the brim with work—avoidance. A tactic that hasn’t really worked for the last two years. Marlowe doubts the third one will be the charm but working means she doesn’t have to think really.

Joe tugs at the door of the fridge. It hisses with its release. “I hate to tell you Marlowe, it sounds like Korey chose her granddad.”

“No—stolen.” It’s silly. Terribly fucking silly, but stolen hurts less than choice.

Joe nods, lips curled as he takes the plate and places it inside the fridge. “Alright, if you say so, stolen.” His agreement is soft, filled with the laughter he doesn’t spill. But he watches. Marlowe sees the second look, the darted gaze over her face as if trying to make sure even in the jest that there’s not more. Even if Joe sees that there is, he doesn’t not speak on it.

Marlowe’s grateful for it as the room settles again, Joe’s fretting now with the last few bottles to ensure the door to the fridge will close. She takes him in—slow, now that she has time for it. Joe’s much too handsome for his own good. A fact Marlowe’s known since they met back in January. Out of his pads, and helmet, he still stands tall, but his face opens up more. His eyes always dazzle but the cut of jaw, the tiny quirk of lips stand out more. His nose slopes and perks so perfectly in the center of his face.

Joe’s just, “So fucking handsome.”

The flush is immediate—his cheeks turning a faint faint pink. The tips of his ears glow too. “Thank you.”

Marlowe sees the shy little kid he might’ve been in the duck of his head—the younger him that was dubbed Joey makes a lot more sense. “You’re blushing, you know?”

“You are most certainly not helping my case.”

“Joey makes sense as a nickname, seeing you like this.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, turning towards the fridge door.

Marlowe laughs at the sight, easing closer to him. “A good oh my god?” The kitchen is quiet for a moment, a soft exhale of the ice maker settling new pieces of ice into the bin.

“Yes,” he nods and then shivers just as Marlowe’s hand slides across his back. The ‘s’ sound falters but only for a second. “Hearing you say that nickname is…it just sounds right. I don’t know how to explain it. Just sounds so right.”

Marlowe’s heart thunders at the confession. His words are goey, fall from his lips and chest slowly and all exhaled. The words don’t clatter to the ground—instead they hang and float all the way down. Marlowe could melt in them, because of them, melt with them into the crevices of the flooring.

The dryer honks, a softer sound than the old dryer at Marlowe’s place but a honk all the same. Joe exhales at the sound, lifting his head from the steel door. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Do you need help?” She doesn’t want Joe to go, even if it’s just to the laundry room. It reminds her of when her new toy at Christmas would need batteries and she’d follow her parents into the kitchen to watch them. Joe’s no new shiny toy, but this is new—and she does not want to fracture such a new and fragile thing. Wants to cradle it in her palms and nurture it.

“If I don’t come back in ten minutes,” Joe starts at pressing a kiss to her temple, “assume I was eaten by the dryer. Dial 911 and start a rescue party.”

“Can do.”

He pulls away slowly, slipping from around Marlowe. Then she’s alone, the only sound is the shuffle of Joe from deeper in the house. Marlowe takes in the kitchen. It’s white too, like the living room. She’s careful in her inspection—white countertops, white cabinets, stainless steel appliances, a trimming and accent that looks like it’s been professionally staged in the house—unsure now if she cares to disturb anything. The kitchen exhales the kind of feeling of someone young wanting desperately to look older, more mature. There’s clear signs of life—the few dishes still lingering in the sink, the smell of coffee grounds still lingering in the air.

Yet, Marlowe still finds herself looking for Joe in all of it. Perhaps, it’s unfair to wonder where he is in his own home. If he didn’t like something, surely he could change it, find the thing that he does like. And maybe it matters less to him, but the house feels like an inhale, a waiting, waiting, and more waiting.

“Dryer put up a fight, but I survived.”

Marlowe smiles as she turns to face Joe again, her attention previously caught on the soft silver handles on the cabinet doors. He stands now at the threshold, in sneakers, sunglasses pushed up into his hair so it holds back the front few curls, watch dazzling on his wrist. A few streaks of blonde hold onto the bottom ends of his strands, clinging with spite.

“Glad you survived. Ready?”

”Yeah. I am.”

Marlowe pushes up from the counter and crosses the few feet to him. “There’s a lot of white.” Her finger circles the air around her for emphasis on the decor.

His eyes dart, taking in the kitchen and then the living room. “I paid someone to do the decor because the thought terrified me. I guess I’m just used to it now.”

”I guess I keep waiting to see Stars Wars posters.”

Joe huffs, taking her hand. It’s a smooth movement, his hand stretched out behind him as Marlowe closes the gap—her hand stretching out in front of her—and pressing. Palm to palm before Joe slips his fingers through hers. “You’re ridiculous. Those would clearly only be in the bedroom.”

“Hopefully not. I could stomach it if you have them in your office.” The banter is easy, carries them with no strain across the hardwood floors to the front doors.

“Has the marathon started yet? I could spare you.”

“Not yet. It’s not time.” That too is saved for the fall, for the part of the year that it all goes quiet. But it’s not August. It’s not and Marlowe’s not going to focus on that until it comes for her. Perhaps all she could at this point is prepare for the inevitable wave.

“Oh, wait,” Joe returns, pausing them at the front door. “That was a stupid question. Considering what you mentioned before. I’m sorry.”

“Not stupid, Joe. I’m not going to hold it against you. Did you save space?” August is already going to be rough; there’s no reason to pretend it won’t be. There’s certainly no need to make Joe feel bad either. Marlowe wants to at least enjoy as much as she can of July.

“Yeah, tons of space. But I want you to know I am paying attention. I care about you.”

Four little words. Joe cared about the Marlowe in front of him. Not the Marlowe she once was; not the one she kept trying to get back to. That assumption is not going to have legs if Joe continues on this way. “You’re good at that,” Marlowe returns her own throat squeezing tight.

“Oh, my angel, no. I don’t like making you upset.”

My angel. Marlowe’s no saint. She knows that. She’s not an angel but the nickname makes her stomach jump—quiver with promise and want. Marlowe shakes her head to center herself and to refute Joe’s statement. It’s not upset. It’s unraveling. It’s the legs of all her assumptions wobbling again. He keeps finding the hole in her armor. Joe knows how to slip in between the cracks.

Joe’s closing in, cups her jaw. His gaze is earnest and sad. He looks more distraught than he did yesterday—yesterday looked like he was carrying something that was heavy, strained with the weight of the truth. This distraught is frantic, like something slipping through his fingers, it’s like he’s losing control.

Marlowe’s exhaling before she realizes, rushing to clarify so he doesn’t have to be worried. “It’s not a bad thing. You just keep hitting the right spot. You just know what to say.”

“I’m just being honest. I do care about you. And I do hate making you upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You’re crying,” Joe counters, stating it like Marlowe’s truly lost all her marbles. It’s a fact from his lips. Sounds like he wants Marlowe to refute him.

She knows she is—the sting is evident enough. “Good tears,” Marlowe returns, refuting him.

“Marlowe.” Her name is a warning—be honest says the arch of his brow.

“Joe.” It’s just as firm, equally of a warning—I am. Because these are good tears. These are tears that could mean more and more of the armor comes off. The pads of his thumbs are warm over her cheeks, a steady brush back and forth.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“If that ever changes, if they’re no longer good tears, you let me know.”

“I will.” A promise Marlowe knows she can keep.

“Come here.” The plea is just two words, words that don’t really need to be uttered. Marlowe’s already gripping his sides, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline. But she shuffles forward, takes those three little steps closer to him.

Only three little steps before Joe’s cradling her face, head dipping down. Sweet—such a sweet and slow kiss, shaky around the edges because she keeps pressing up closer and Joe’s trying not to press too hard. But such a tender exchange that echoes down to Marlowe’s toes. There is just ache by the time the kiss is over. Not a throbbing, just a low grade realization as Marlowe follows Joe to her car—she’s had her first taste of something that didn’t feel like it could float away. Like she could actually hold it in her hands. And she’s praying August doesn’t fuck it up.

The ice cream parlour is cold—a harsh bite once the glass doors swing open. Joe lets her through first, sunshades pulled down over his eyes now—slipping them down before Marlowe settled into her parking space. It was a long drive, Marlowe took into consideration that anything in town would most certainly mean attention would fall onto Joe. Attention she isn’t sure he wants, but given the way he talked about fame in California, Marlowe hedged her bets and opted to find a shop further out of the city, secluded, hoping the odds of a crowd would slim down.

“Welcome!” A cheery but shaky voice calls from the depths. The counter is glassed away, a chalkboard decorated in various colors with specials and combinations.

The tandem, “Hi” is soft in return to the voice as Joe and Marlow ease in closer to the counter. Marlowe spies the banana sundae in a soft brown on the board and grins before turning to Joe.

“You see it too?”

It’s the question that let’s Marlowe know he’s been looking at her the whole time—the black of the lenses clouding his eyeline. “Still game for it?” Marlowe inquires with a nod up towards the sign.

“Absolutely, I am.”

“What can I do for y’all today?” The older woman asks. Her smile stretches across her whole face, the collection of lines around her eyes and mouth illuminates the years she’s been on the earth—a soul full of joy as she looks up at them.

“The classic sundae please. Two spoons. And a root beer float,” Joe answers.

“A sweet tooth, huh?” The woman laughs. Her fingers peck at the keys of the register.

“A tiny one,” Marlowe tacks on. “Anything else, Joe?” The parlour is quiet—only a young family with a double seater stroller at the end of their table. The hum of the A/C is the loudest noise around them.

“No, nothing else. Anything you want?”

“Can I get a waffle cone—just the cone?”

The woman nods. “I reckon we can fork over a naked cone.” It comes out with a laugh—the lines etched back across her face.

Before Joe can pull his hand out from the depths of his pocket, Marlowe slips the cash across the counter. A planned tactic. After breakfast but before fixing the extra plate for Tee, Marlowe made a trip to the local branch, knew Joe would try to beat her to the punch. She would need to be faster. He’s not the only one that will do what they said they’d do.

“At least let me cover my float.”

“I meant what I said about this being my treat.”

“Feel free to sit wherever and we’ll be right out with it. And if I were you,” the older woman grins, a gentle tap to Joe’s arm, “quit while you’re behind. She has cash. In the year using the cellphone to pay, she went to a bank. Thinking several steps ahead.”

“I have a feeling you’re right.” It’s a jested return, but Marlowe catches the cut of his gaze towards her. “I’m planning the next date. Just so you know. Leave all cards, cash, and plans at home when I do, okay?”

There’s a finality to his tone—not a dare for her to object, but confirmation. She takes hold of the counter, tries to play it off like she’s pressing her hip into it—casually. But her knees are a little wobbly at the determined edge around his words.

Marlowe nods, her voice softer than usual as she returns, “Okay. I look forward to it.”

Joe leads them from the counter to a table—tucked in at the back, away from the windows. Her legs still feel unsteady but his hold around her hand is firm—a sure and quiet confidence. Someone that knows exactly what they want, exactly want they will do. A reassurance Marlowe’s not sure she deserves but is grateful to have.

“Any more travel for you?” The question comes after they’ve settled—Joe across from Marlowe, his back facing the rest of the parlour.

“Not much in August, no. It’s kind of quiet right now but will pick up again in September and October a little.”

“So not a lot booked on your schedule or is it all local?” he questions, pushing the shades up and into his hair.

Marlowe inhales. Joe’s really fucking good at that, teasing out the quiet part, unearthing like excavators. It never feels like he’s digging. It’s like he’s already anticipating the answer. He’s only seeking to know he’s right. “Busy, just all local,” she returns.

“It’s okay to do it scared.”

“I don’t think scared’s a word in your vocabulary.” She’s sure he might get scared but Marlowe imagines it does not last long.

Joe shrugs, fingers drumming over the white table top. A tap, tap, tap, in succession one finger after the other. “Steel nerves still shake sometimes.”

“When’s the last time you were scared?” It’s maybe too much to ask, too far to go but she is curious. Joe’s not unreadable, not here at least to her. It just takes time. A careful assessment really get all the details together.

“Yesterday.” His answer is swift, the rap of his fingers ceases. His eyes are direct—blue flames as they settle onto her. “Not that you wouldn’t listen to what I had to say but because there was still a chance that I’d ruined my opportunity.”

“I’m not that much of a scaredy cat,” Marlowe laughs. She has her moments for sure.

“No, because you’re always paying attention. Even when I don’t think you are.” The lines of her brow deepen, the confusion etched into her face. “You took us almost an hour outside the city for ice cream. When there’s like 5 different places within a ten minute drive.”

“It was an educated inference.”

Joe snorts but nods, his tuft of laughter disintegrating around his words. “Hell of an inference.”

“I like you best when you’re comfortable. At ease. I don’t mind it if it’s a little extra to do it. That’s easy.” People who cared about each other would go the extra mile—that’s the way it works.

“And you say I’m good at that. But goddamn, Marlowe, you’re good at that.” The ‘T’ falls off his tongue with a bit of a hiss, his hand gesturing over towards her.

The question burns the tip of her tongue but Marlowe waits, noticing the slightly stiff waddle of the worker, approaching with the tray. “We got the classic sundae, two spoons, a root beer float, and a naked waffle cone. Enjoy, you lovebirds.”

Once the coast is clear, the float pushed over to Joe and Marlowe’s cracked a piece of the cone apart to get her first scoop, she looks up at Joe. His gaze is sharp, even with the purse of his lips over the straw. “What do you mean I’m good at that? Good at what?”

“Good at making it sound so simple. Like you’re not exposing every nerve.”

“I’m just being honest. That’s what you said, right?” It’s not Marlowe doing anything. Not her consciously thinking about how Joe will react. She just wants him to feel cared for, listened to thoroughly. She’d do that over and over again.

Joe’s tut of laughter is short and fast. “I guess I did say that. Care to hand me a piece of that cone? Looks like you’re onto something with the crunch aspect.”

“Happily, Joe.”

#joe burrow #joe burrow fic #joe burrow series #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow x black oc #h writes #heart of the matter #heart of the matter series

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