#we have lived in harmony all this time so let's keep it that way | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

covenofagatha · 20 days ago

Text

The Break Room

Harmony Cobel x female reader

You've been a Severed employee for two weeks now, and you are causing all sorts of problems with your unproductivity and your attempts to send a message to your outie. Ms. Cobel has no other choice but to see to it that you really learn your lesson in the Break Room

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: spanking (with a ruler), fingering, dub-con, mommy kink, bratty bottom reader, top Harmony, slight voyeurism (kind of?), no spoilers

A/N: wrote this to cope with finishing season two of Severance last night and I'm a sucker for a mean older woman (I'll be back to agatha shortly)

Ding!

The elevator doors open—you’re back again, like you never left. The white walls of the Severed Floor make you shudder as you step out. The seemingly infinite stretch of the hallways makes you want to scream. Every attempt at breaking out, of getting your outie to let you out, has been futile. Even your resignation attempt after your first day was denied.

You hear your first name and first initial of your last name being called and you turn around. Mr. Milchick, the supervisor of the Floor, jogs toward you with a dopey grin on his face. His cheerful demeanor does nothing to raise your sullen mood. You wonder if his superiors told him to be extra nice to you.

“Well, good morning to you too!” he says, chuckling at the frown that etches deeper into your face. “I just wanted to let you know how appreciative we are that you’re here with us. Lumon could not do it without you and we are eternally indebted to you for that.”

“I don’t even know what we’re doing here,” you scowl and he laughs joyfully, as if he didn’t hear anything you just said.

Mr. Milchick begins to talk about something else, but your mind is moving rapidly to figure out a way to get a message to your outie past the security detectors. Writing on yourself won’t work, swallowing a message won’t work. You hadn’t tried throwing a piece of paper into the stairwell and then stepping out to read it, but you suspected Lumon had detectors in that too.

Maybe…maybe if you could break up a message into parts and take them home one day at a time, it would be meaningless enough to get past the detectors. You’d just have to hope that your outie would be able to put it together.

A risky move, but it might be the only option. If that doesn’t work, you’re not sure what else to do.

“And here we are! Macrodata Refinement!” Mr. Milchick announces as he pushes open the white doors as he does every morning, like you’ve somehow forgotten where you live your small and meaningless life.

Your coworkers are already at their desks and they look up from their computers to smile at you. You give them a half-hearted wave as if to say yep, still here and briskly walk over to your seat.

The computer is already on and the rolodex flips to the second card. In the two weeks going on what feels like ten years that you’ve been here, you’ve gotten through one card. Everyone was so happy when you finally finished but it felt more like pity to you.

A sea of numbers stares at you, demanding to be sorted into four boxes. There isn’t much rhyme or reason to how to group them or which box to put them in; apparently you’re just supposed to know. It was explained on your first day that they evoke different feelings in you. You roll your mouse around aimlessly for five minutes—you know how long because you keep looking at the clock on the wall, willing time to move faster—looking for any sort of emotional response associated with the numbers, but there’s nothing.

Can the numbers sense your apathy at being here? Maybe you have to actually care about the job in order to get in touch with them.

That would certainly explain why Grant M. has the best performance in your department—he’s basically walking Lumon propaganda. You’re tempted to ask him how he comes to work every day so joyful: whistling down the corridors, bobbing his head to some imaginary tune while he sorts numbers, happily pouring the small container of dry roasted edamame from the vending machine into his mouth on breaks that he cuts short because he just can’t wait to get back to work. You’ve caught him reading the Lumon handbooks far too many times and he’s quoted it at you many times to show you why it’s a privilege and an honor to work here.

It’s even worse because Grant M. sits right to the left of you in the weird shape the desks are arranged in, so he’s able to peek over the mossy green partition at any point and make a passive aggressive comment about how he wishes his department members would take work as seriously as he does, or how he’s filled up fifty-seven percent of a box and he’d love to see that hard work from other people.

Even now, he’s peering over at you, just enough for you to see his messy brown hair sweeping across his forehead and the rim of his blue glasses that are too small for his face.

You roll your eyes and lower the partition and Grant lurches back like he’s been caught. His brown eyes meet yours, his lips curl into a sneer, and he jerks his head to the side to get his hair out of his face.

“Working hard or hardly working?” he asks in his voice that makes it hard not to slap him. It’s nasal and croaky and you repress a grimace.

You smile tightly at him. “Just getting into it.”

And before he can launch into a speech about the nine core principles of Lumon, you draw the partition back up and stare bullets at your computer.

As you absentmindedly draw circles with your mouse, you decide to try putting clusters of numbers into boxes at random, just to see what will happen. There’s a sick sort of pleasure you get from the thought of screwing up whatever data you’re supposed to be refining.

The numbers go into the box and your eyes widen—it worked. But then the box shakes from side-to-side and then throws up the six numbers, which slot neatly right back into the grid on your screen.

You slump back into your chair.

“Psst,” someone hisses and you look up to see your other desk neighbor, Nick S., looking over the partition at you. His straight brown hair falls to his shoulders and his eyes have a twinkle in them. He smiles at you, showing his crooked teeth, and you can’t help but grin back at him.

Nick is the closest thing to a friend you have. His rebellious streak calls to you, a twin flame to yours, and the two of you make it through the boring days together, mostly making fun of Lumon, or Grant when he’s not around.

“I can taste meat on my breath,” Nick whispers excitedly. “Do you think my outie had a date or something? Usually I taste nothing.”

You pretend to think about it before smirking. “Or maybe your outie just forgot to brush his teeth.” His face drops and you reach into the container of mints on your desk. It was a reward for being punctual every day your first week.

The participation prizes here are bleak.

Nick pops it into his mouth and crumples up the wrapper. “Hey, watch this.” He swivels around in his chair and tosses it in the direction of the trashcan about ten feet away.

The wrapper lands maybe five inches away and you cry out.

“Excuse me, some people are trying to work here,” Grant snipes and you and Nick look at each other, shoulders vibrating from your silent laughter.

“Can we all just please get back to work?” your other deskmate, Ryan W., asks exasperatedly. You’ve had the least amount of interaction with him. He’s the youngest and seems miserable, but it’s hard to tell if he’s miserable because of working here or because of the rift between you and Nick and Grant. He never picks a side, but you think you see him smirking sometimes when you and Grant are arguing.

Nick rolls his eyes but turns back to his computer so you’re left to your own devices. Because you’re still working through your new plan of how to get a message to your outie, you decide to shoot mints into the trash can while you mull it over.

The first one soars right in.

The second one misses by a mile.

The third one hits the edge of the can and bounces out and you groan audibly.

A warm hand touches your shoulder and you spin around. Mr. Milchick stands there, even his mustache looking displeased.

“Ms. Cobel would like a word with you,” he says. Grant snorts and you glare at him through the partition before standing up and smoothing your sensible gray dress. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to talk to Ms. Cobel, the manager of the Severed Floor. She’s intimidating, but there’s something about her cold exterior that does something to your stomach—like you want to get in trouble just to get her attention.

“Lead the way, then.”

You follow Mr. Milchick down the winding hallways, a right, a left, another right, another right, until you lose track of which way you’re even going. You suspect that he may have led you around in a circle a few times, just as retribution for the trouble you cause.

You finally get to the room with Mr. Milchick’s desk and then he knocks on the door to Ms. Cobel’s office.

“Enter,” a low voice calls out and Mr. Milchick gives you one last glance, maybe meant to be reassuring, before opening the door.

The office looks the same as it did on your previous visits: two chairs in front of the large wooden desk that Ms. Cobel sits behind, a few paper boxes stacked in the corner, the three piece artwork hanging behind the supervisor, depicting maybe a storm. On her desk is a thick computer, a speaker, a phone, and a small model sculpture of Kier Eagan’s head, the founder of Lumon Industries.

Ms. Cobel beckons you forward, her silvery hair, straight and falling past her shoulders, glinting in the light. She’s wearing a dark blue blazer over a dark blue turtleneck, which seems to bring out the color in her eyes. The swell of her breasts draws your gaze but then she says your first name and the initial of your last name in her slow, drawn out cadence, and it makes you shiver.

“It would appear that you are having trouble focusing,” she says quietly but commandingly. You look down at your black dress shoes against the blue carpet. “I know you are unhappy here, but you need to get your work done. It will do you no good to resist.”

You shrug and stay quiet. If you resist long enough, surely they’ll have no choice but to fire you.

Ms. Cobel’s lips draw into a thin line. “We have been patient with you these past two weeks. We at Lumon understand that it can be a tough transition for Severed workers. However, our leniency is waning. If you do not stop these foolish attempts to contact your outer self or to hinder your department’s progress, I think a trip to the Break Room will be in order.”

Mr. Milchick sucks in a breath next to you and you scoff. “What’s wrong with that?”

Your question is ignored and Ms. Cobel looks to the supervisor. “Mr. Milchick,” she says, her voice cutting deep, “can I trust that you will see to it that MDR has no more distractions?”

He nods and you half expect him to salute as well. “Of course, Ms. Cobel. You can rest assured that everyone in that department will be hyper-focused, absorbed, and concentrated on their work.”

Ms. Cobel tilts to her computer, no longer looking at either of you, and Mr. Milchick takes the dismissal as it is and leads you back to your office.

“It really is easier if you just do your work,” he tells you gently. “You need to accept that you’re a Severed worker now, and this is your job.”

You don’t answer and he stops walking, so you pause too. He steps closer to you and sighs heavily.

“I’m just—I’m just asking you to please try and make the best of it, okay? This can be a fun thing, if you let it. You have a great team in there, so let’s go in there with a new attitude and get some work done!”

It’s meant to be a pump-up speech, yet there is nothing it makes you want to do more than laugh hysterically. Did he really think that would work?

Mr. Milchick gives you what you think is meant to be a reassuring smile and resumes walking. It’s not much longer before you’re in front of the doors with Macrodata Refinement printed on the outside and he slips his keycard into the slot. The light flashes green and you reluctantly make your way to your desk, feeling the eyes of your colleagues on you.

Grant looks like he wants to gloat but you give him a nasty glare before he can open his mouth. Ryan turns back to his computer and you notice that his spiky hair is bleached blonde as opposed to the red it was before. His outie must’ve had a fun night.

“Everything okay?” Nick whispers and you nod, sitting down and pulling yourself to the desk. Mr. Milchick is standing in the corner of the room so you can’t say much more.

The numbers swim in front of you on your screen and you stare at them, trying to feel something. The only thing you feel is your eyelids starting to grow heavy.

What do the numbers represent?

Maybe they add up to a total for something?

Maybe they don’t actually mean anything and you’re getting paid to do meaningless work?

Maybe they represent letters—

You jolt, suddenly awake. Numbers representing letters. While you don’t know if that’s what it is, you just got an idea.

If you can figure out a way to get a number through the security detectors, one day at a time, you could spell out a message to yourself. You just need a way to make it look like not a message.

So that rules out writing numbers on scraps of paper, because they’ll argue that you had some sort of agenda by doing that and you’ll get caught.

But…

“I’m going to the supply closet,” you announce, shooting out of your chair. You hurry over and yank the doors open, switching on the lights. You grab a sticky note and look frantically because if they’re not here—and then you find them.

On the third shelf in the corner.

A mesh pencil cup containing four rulers sits sandwiched between glue sticks and tape dispensers. You grab one and walk back to your desk, trying to control your rapidly beating heart.

You write the numbers one through twelve on the sticky note and then the corresponding letters underneath. You can use the letter A through L to make a note.

How are you going to do this? Break the ruler into pieces? Make a little dash above each number and attempt to bring the whole thing out?

“Nick,” you hiss. He looks over at you. “Have you ever, like, brought office supplies home? From here?”

He leans in closer because Grant peers over the partition at you. “One time I forgot I put a pencil in my pocket when I left. It was there in my pocket the next day. I’m sure they checked it though.”

Your breath catches. So it’s possible, if it’s something mundane like that. Although you’re really regretting that you don’t wear a watch right now, because it seems much less of a risk to leave this kind of message that way.

But for the first time, you actually have hope.

You stare at the sticky note, trying to piece together what to say. You can’t spell OUT. You can’t spell HELP.

Something clicks and with a sharpie, you draw a dash above the eight, a dash above the five, and two dashes above the twelve.

H-E-L-L.

Will your outie understand what you’re trying to say? This might be your best shot. You just have to get lucky.

But the hand that clamps on your shoulder, the touch familiar at this point, drains you of all hope.

“Come with me,” he says, low in your ear, and your muscles tense. All his pleasantness from earlier is gone, replaced by a severe sternness he only has when someone is in trouble.

Nick gives you a compassionate look while you see Grant shaking his head at you. You’re tempted to throw the sharpie at him but you restrain yourself.

How’s that for exhibiting Benevolence, Grant? See, I know the nine core principles.

Mr. Milchick picks up the ruler and examines it, before sliding it into his pocket. He walks out and you get up and follow him. He takes you in a different direction than Ms. Cobel’s office and you get the strange sense that you’re descending, even though the floor is straight. The air seems to grow thinner and colder.

He pauses outside a smooth white door and inserts his keycard. On the wall next to is a plaque with the words Break Room. The hair on the back of your neck stands up.

The door opens, revealing a long, dark hallway, leading to another door.

Mr. Milchick gestures for you to go first and you hear his footsteps echoing behind yours as you walk down the corridor.

“We warned you,” he says gently before reaching around you to push open the door.

The room is dark, almost too dark for you to see anything, but you can make out the faint outline of a table and two chairs. You hear the faint sound of whirring and it’s familiar yet foreign all at the same time.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Milchick says, pointing to the chair against the wall. He sits in the chair on the other side of the table and there’s a click and then a bright light momentarily blinds you.

When you become adjusted to it, you realize that there’s a thick piece of glass between you and him with words written on it. He adjusts the knob of a machine on his side, the projector, you guess, and the words become more focused.

“You are going to read this statement to atone for your actions and you are going to mean it,” he instructs you.

Your forehead wrinkles as you scan over it. It’s a weird apology of sorts, but you’ll say anything at this point. You take a deep breath. “‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

Mr. Milchick purses his lips and there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach. “I’m afraid you did not mean that. Say it again.”

You laugh. “What? I’m not—”

“Say. It. Again.”

The words have burned themselves into your retinas and even when you close your eyes, you still see them. “‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

“You didn’t mean it. Say it again.”

This time, you slouch back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest. You’re not going to say it and you’re going to waste the rest of both your days. Will this be enough subordination to get fired?

“Say it,” he orders, his eyes glittering in the light.

“Or what?” you challenge. “Why the fuck am I going to repeat this stupid statement if I don’t mean it just so you can make me say it again?” You stare at him defiantly while he rubs his hands over his face, trying to figure out what to do.

And then the door opens.

It takes you a minute to make out the silhouette.

Ms. Cobel.

“Any chance you’re here to let me go?” you ask, voice cracking. She huffs and steps into the room, letting the door slam shut behind her, and you’re able to see the restrained fury on her face.

She slowly walks around to Mr. Milchick’s side until she’s behind him and rests her hands on his shoulders. “This must be a new record for the least amount of attempts completed before refusing to say the Compunction Statement.”

You shrug. “I aim to impress.”

One of the corners of her mouth quirks up, almost in amusement. “Well I’m afraid I will need to take matters into my own hands, due to Mr. Milchick’s incompetence.”

He splutters and looks up at her, agape. You watch her dig her fingers into his shoulders.

“Mr. Milchick, you are no longer needed here. Please attend to the rest of MDR and make sure none of them are attempting to write secret messages to their outies.”

He takes a deep breath, something looking a lot like contempt in his eyes, and stands up.

But before he can walk out of the door, Ms. Cobel adds one last thing. “Leave the ruler.”

Mr. Milchick freezes and withdraws it from his pocket before handing it over. Your eyes track the movement, feeling your heart race even more. There’s something happening in your stomach, a feeling you haven’t felt before, not in your two weeks of this Severed life.

He leaves and the door shuts behind him, leaving you alone with Ms. Cobel.

She tuts as she drags a finger down the length, pausing at each of the dashes you drew.

“This was a smart one,” she admits. “Took us a bit to realize what you were doing. But, as we’ve told you many times, any correspondence between your Severed selves is prohibited. So say it again.” She jabs the ruler at the projected words but you shake your head.

Ms. Cobel scoffs and stalks over. You watch until she’s right in front of you, and then her hand flies out to seize your hair. You let out a surprised gasp as she pulls you up.

But you’re only face-to-face for a moment before her hand moves to your back and she bends you over the cold table. You have to crane your eyes up to look at the words in front of you.

Your stomach is growing hot, an unfamiliar feeling between your legs, and Ms. Cobel chuckles from behind you like she knows.

“You could end this now,” she reminds you. “Just mean your apology and we can get back to work.”

“I can’t,” you choke out. “I’m not going to sit here and say it over and over again for the rest of the day.”

She sighs like she was expecting it and you feel the ruler against your spine. You suck in a deep breath. “Well, then,” she says quietly. “How about we make a deal?”

You don’t answer, but you tilt your head forward for her to go on.

The ruler moves lower. “You will say the Compunction Statement ten times, and after each time, you will receive a spank. After those ten times, your disobedience will be forgiven and you will be free to return to work. Or, you can just say it and mean it and I will spare you the physical punishment.”

You could fake it, you know. Maybe even pretend to cry a little bit so she’ll take you seriously.

But a part of you is curious. So you do nothing.

Ms. Cobel exhales slowly and the ruler is gone from your back. There’s a tense moment of nothing before you feel her fingers pulling at the hem of your dress. Your mouth parts but no words come out as she drags the fabric from your knees up until it’s hiked up around your waist.

Her breath hitches and she drags the ruler against the waistband of your underwear. “Well, well, well,” she drawls and you have no idea what she’s talking about. “That’s interesting.”

“What?” you croak, mouth dry.

But she slips back into her role. “Say it.”

This time, you do with no hesitation.“‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

The ruler snaps against your scantily clad ass before you have a chance to prepare and the sting shocks you. You jolt forward against the table, a whimper tearing itself from your throat, and you close your eyes to stop the room from spinning.

“Again,” she orders quietly.

“‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

She hits you even harder this time and you wonder how they’re going to explain this to your outie self. You’re certainly going to be feeling this tonight and tomorrow and probably for the next few days.

Without being prompted this time, you read it again.

Tears spring in your eyes after the third hit and the slap reverberates around the small room. Your skin is burning and you can almost see the red welt that you’re going to have.

Again.

“You could’ve avoided this,” Ms. Cobel says. “It didn’t have to be this way. But you will learn your lesson.”

You cry out on the fourth spank, tears leaking down your cheeks. You stick out your tongue to catch the saltiness.

Again.

The fifth spank makes you scramble for purchase on the table, nerve endings lighting up all through your body, and your head starts to swim. Every inch of your body is on fire.

“Remember this pain and why you are receiving it. If you follow the rules, you get rewarded. But if not…Again.”

The six spank feels dull compared to the other ones, but maybe that’s just because your skin has been hit raw to the point of losing feeling. The hurt is bleeding and blending into something else and your body is throbbing now, hungry but you don’t know for what. The ache is coming from between your legs, radiating through you and making you pant desperately.

Your seventh repeat is much more broken and slurred and you think you skip over some words here and there but you can’t focus your vision enough to confirm.

She spanks you again, but this time it’s below your ass on the very highest point of your thighs, so it burns all over again.

“Just to make sure you’re not getting too complacent,” she whispers and you can barely hear her over the sound of your breathing. “It seems that you’re enjoying yourself a little too much.”

You barely get through the eighth attempt and your hips are bucking wildly the whole time, trying to get some sort of relief between your legs.

“Stop squirming,” she hisses and then spanks your ass again.

The nine repeat comes out in breathy gasps and moans and is this what it’s like to be drunk? Not being able to think straight or talk normally? There’s a fog in your mind that’s overwhelming you and all you can think is one more.

What are you supposed to do after this?

Ms. Cobel tsks lightly before spanking you for the ninth time.

You stutter through the statement for the tenth and final time, definitely skipping and combining words but you couldn’t care less. She should be happy that you can still talk right now.

But for the tenth spank, she grabs you by the hair again and spins you around. Your bare and bruised ass hits the edge of the table and you gasp in pain. Ms. Cobel stands in front of you, a dark look in her blue eyes, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips. The ruler is still clenched in her hand and you’re not sure what’s going on.

She pushes on your shoulder and nods down, and you piece it together slowly. You sit on the table, wincing again, and slide back until you can lay down comfortably with your legs bent up so your feet are on the table. You finally look down and see what caught her attention earlier—your underwear is black and lacy and fancy.

What was your outie doing when she put these on?

“Last one,” Ms. Cobel says and then smacks the ruler down hard against your cunt. It connects with your clit and your back arches painfully off the table as you let out a loud moan. Sparks fly through your body and you lay there for a moment in a stupor, dazed with pleasure. Your clit is pulsing and you feel more wetness gush into your underwear.

You lie on the table, completely spent. Your cheeks are wet and sticky and your vision blurs. There’s a mess in your panties, you can feel it.

“Very good,” Ms. Cobel purrs, sounding different than she usually does. Like she’s affected too. “Since you took your punishment well, I think it’s fair you get a reward. Lumon is all about rewarding excellence.”

Before you can ask what she means—or laugh at the ridiculousness of that—her fingers cup your cunt over your underwear. You gasp loudly as she rubs up and down and tuts condescendingly.

Which only makes the problem worse for some reason.

“With all the acting out you do, I should’ve guessed you were just looking for someone to put you in your place,” she croons.

You open your mouth to retort, but she finds your clit and presses against it hard, shooting down any thought in your head.

“Maybe you won’t find your work here so unpleasant now,” Ms. Cobel muses as she pulls your underwear to the side. She strokes her fingers through your folds, spreading your wetness all around, and the squelching sounds make your cheeks burn.

She seems to like it.

And then she pushes two fingers into you roughly while she examines your face. Your walls clench around her and your hips buck up again to get her inside you. There’s already a mounting pressure inside your core and when she rubs at your clit, it intensifies.

“Oh—fuck,” you whine and you think she almost smiles.

Ms. Cobel curls them further inside you and the whirring sound from somewhere in the room grows louder. “Such a naughty girl,” she tuts, “breaking the rules like you do. But it’s okay now, because I think we’ve figured something out that works.”

An explosion of flashes happens from behind your eyes and words fall from your tongue uncontrollably. “Yes, please, mommy—”

She gasps, completely unrestrained, and her thumb swipes hard against your clit. Her fingers twist roughly, stroking your walls, and your head drops hard against the table. Your ass is throbbing and sore and it only makes the growing feeling in your core worse.

“You’re going to be mommy’s good girl from now on, aren’t you?” she asks and you nod frantically.

Ms. Cobel pauses for just a moment and you clench around her to draw her back in, but then she fits a third finger into you. You take it easily, the stretch only giving you more pleasure, and you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get any work done ever again.

But why would you want to, if this is what it gets you?

Now the only message you want to give to your outie is to wear something a bit more scandalous tomorrow, rather than the business professional dress.

“When I count to three, you are going to come for me,” Ms. Cobel says, quiet but domineering. Heat flares inside of you. “You are going to come for mommy.”

“One.”

She thrusts inside you faster, waves of pleasure rushing over and over of you.

“Two.”

Her thumb circles your clit roughly and you let out a loud keen while trying your best to ride her hand on the table. You’re about to come, you’re struggling to hold it back, biting your lip until it bleeds, you can’t—you need—

“Three.”

You let go and your orgasm tears through you like an explosion, making your vision go blank and sending you into a state of euphoria you’ve never felt anything close to. She doesn’t slow down and keeps going and you choke out moans while you try but fail to catch your breath.

“I can’t take—please, mommy—too much,” you pant while she smirks wickedly, but slows and then stops.

Ms. Cobel pulls her fingers out of you and you feel a rush of liquid seeping from your cunt. She pulls your underwear back on and lays her hand on your thigh as a gesture of tenderness.

But she seems to realize what she’s doing once you sit up and she quickly steps back. “Get situated and then get back to work. I trust you’ll be able to focus much better now.”

In a haze, you nod and she forces a smile before picking up the ruler that she had thrown on the table beside you and then walks out of the room.

You carefully climb off the table and pull your dress down.

The clock above the door says that you still have six hours left in the workday.

——

Ding!

The elevators open—you’re back on the surface, back as your outie. When you step off, you notice the soreness in your backside.

The security guard scans you and permits you to go ahead into the changing room. You exchange your badges and grab your phone and keys and then go down to the parking lot.

There’s a note on your windshield, which will be the reason for your soreness.

Your full name is on the envelope and you open it.

While on the Severed Floor, your innie sustained a minor injury to her rear when she was reaching for paper clips in the supply closet, fell backwards, and hit the edge of a shelf. Included is a ten dollar gift card to a restaurant of your choice.

You snort. Surely that’s not really what happened.

But you know how to find out.

It’s a short drive home, only about five minutes since you live in the subsidized Lumon housing neighborhood. The white Volkswagen Rabbit is already parked in the driveway and you pull up next to it.

You unlock the door and step inside. The first thing you hear is the whirring of the coffee grinder and you smile to yourself. It’s a noise you’ve come to associate with home.

Kicking off your shoes, you walk into the kitchen, where your wife, Harmony, is cooking dinner and brewing a cup of coffee for herself. Her silver hair catches the overhead lights and contrasts nicely with her maroon robe. She smirks when you enter and you hold up the note.

“Apparently I hit my ass on the edge of a shelf in the supply closet,” you announce. “Seems like you had some fun. Is it bad that I find you fucking innie-me hot?”

“Oh, I did have fun,” she says, reaching into her robe and withdrawing a ruler. There’s a jolt inside you, like you recognize it but you don’t know why. “The underwear was a nice touch.”

You grin at your wife. “I’m glad you liked it. And I’m glad innie-me finally decided to act out enough to get your attention. I’ve been wearing lingerie for the past week ever since you said you like when she’s bratty.”

Harmony snorts and grabs her cup of coffee and walks over to the couch. You follow, still in your work clothes.

“Will you tell me about it?” you ask.

Her pupils dilate just a bit. “Oh yeah? You want me to tell you about how I bent her—you—over and spanked you with the ruler ten times? And how you got so fucking needy for me that I had to turn you over and fuck you with my fingers?”

Your breath catches. “Fuck.”

Harmony smirks. “You called me ‘mommy’. Like you fucking knew, even in there.”

A shiver runs through you, followed by a heavy heat. “Well, how about you, mommy?” you simper, fingers seeking her leg and pushing her robe up her thigh. “Did I take care of you?”

“That might be for tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll do something that warrants it,” she says, teasing slightly.

Your tongue pokes between your teeth and you move to straddle her. “Or,” you whisper, leaning down to nip at her exposed neck, “you could let me take care of you right now.”

Her underwear is already soaked through when you finally reach down between you.

“Yes,” she sighs and you can’t wait to hear about her and your Severed self more tomorrow.

#harmony cobel #harmony cobel x reader #harmony cobel x female reader #severance #harmony cobel smut #covsfics #the break room

134 notes · View notes

colebabey888 · 6 months ago

Text

It’s OK to Be a Girly Girl: "Embracing Feminine Energy?"| IT GIRL DIARIES

"omg i promise it's ok to like pink, you'll live"

In today's world, it seems that being a girly girl gets you side-eyed, dismissed, or even looked down upon. I’ve noticed that modernization has driven this new idea into our head’s that just because women now have the CHOICE to work, they are obligated to do so which is like.. idk there’s this weird expectation nowadays that if you don’t chase the career, take on heavy labor, and "prove" yourself in a man’s world, you’re incompetent, lazy, stupid, or too dependent. To me, without all the sugar coating of "women power", it seems like they're just asking us to be men..

What happened to staying home, having brunch with your girls, dressing up, looking cute, paying my parent’s to marry me lmaoo all jokes but seriously, just enjoying life’s pleasures without taking on traditionally masculine roles? Why has the desire to be cared for and pampered become such a bad thing? Pretty nails weren’t made to chip under pressure, and pretty feet weren’t made to trek through rough paths. Feminine energy thrives when it’s embraced – why must I pump even more testosterone into my body when it's naturally producing estrogen urg! I hope you get my flow, if not then whatever..

If we’re honest with ourselves, life flows smoother when we let nature take its true course. Feminine energy works best in harmony with masculine energy, and vice versa. It’s not about who’s better; it’s about understanding that each energy has its own role. Historically, men have been the alphas in relationships. They lead, take charge, and handle business – that’s their nature..

Here’s the thing, though: Yes, a woman can absolutely take on the alpha role and excel at it. We’ve seen it happen countless times. Women are more than capable of doing everything a man can do. But the question is – why would you want to do that lol? It’s like constantly stepping into a role that pulls you away from your true essence that leads to losing touch with your feminine energy, which is one of the most powerful tools you have as a woman in a man’s world.

We don’t always realize just how strong feminine energy is. It’s the core of what makes us powerful, magnetic, and influential in ways that transcend the physical. When we embrace this energy fully, we unlock our potential in ways that go far beyond mimicking masculine roles. It’s a waste to ignore or suppress that energy, thinking we have to “keep up” in ways that don’t resonate with who we truly are.

Now don’t get this twisted with the idea that you NEED a man to embrace your feminine energy (be and act like a girl) or sleep with any ugly rat. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Let’s hope you catch my drift..

mwah! xoxo, colebabey8.88

192 notes · View notes

voidsaez · 6 months ago

Text

◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ׁ ˙ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ׁ ˙ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ׁ ˙ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི ◞

— for eternity. ( gally tmr x reader ) abuse !!

a/n : monthly post coz i never use tumblr lol, anyways i rewatched the first tmr movie n i realized hes lowkey insane

summary : after thomas found a way out, you’ve been clung to his every word. your boyfriend, isn’t happy.

There was nothing more Gally could ever ask for. You, him, and the rest of the Glade living in peace—a perfect harmony.

For months now, everything had been great. The two of you became a rare constant in a world filled with uncertainty.

He’d never felt more secure, more alive, than with you by his side. That was, until Thomas arrived.

In less than a week, the newcomer had somehow found a way out—an escape. You were overjoyed at the prospect of freedom.

Gally? Not so much.

“We don’t need to leave!” His voice cracked with urgency as he cupped your face, trembling thumbs pressing into your skin.

“Isn’t this enough? You have me—we can stay here. Forever.” His words came out rushed, his tone laced with desperation.

You shove at his hands, trying to make him pull away. “Are you insane? We’ve finally found a way out! After three years!”

His gaze hardened, his grip tightening. “Don’t you see?” He pleads, his voice frantic and pleading at the same time.

“Out there, it’s worse! You’ll see! This place, the glade—it’s safe. We’re safe here.”

You could see his demeanor changing, his eyes wild. It was love—yes, but it was twisted, fevered, consumed by desperation.

“You think it’s better out there?” He spat out, his voice a harsh whisper. “You think you’ll survive out there? you won’t.”

His grip tightened, to the point you felt like your bones were about to crack. Like it was more a warning than a plea.

“Let go!” You yelled out, shoving at his chest, but he didn’t budge.

He laughed, hard, cold, humorless. “You think they care about you, huh? Thomas? Teresa? They’ll leave you to die once it gets hard.” He says.

“But not me.” He says, his voice softening, almost sounding tender. “I’d never let that happen to you, I’ll protect you.”

“Protect me?” You snarled, “This isn’t protection, Gally, this is madness!”

His jaw clenched, clear displease in his eyes. “Madness? no, no. Madness is trusting them.” He says, with a deranged smile.

“Madness is thinking they’ll get us out of here alive.” He continues on. “You don’t get it, do you?” He asks.

“Thomas. Thomas is the problem—him and Teresa, they’re the reason we’re suffering! If it weren’t for them, we’d be happy.”

What the hell is he trying to say?

He speaks with innuendo, his words starting to sound past insane. “What are you saying?” You ask, stomach twisting.

His smile widened, almost dangerously. “I’m saying,” he said slowly, “we don’t need them. The Grievers, they’re hungry.“

Your blood ran cold. “They’ll take care of Thomas and Teresa. All we have to do is offer them over to the Grievers.” He says.

“You’re not serious,” You whispered, horrified. He was starting to lose it.

“Why?” He asks, stepping closer again. “They’re a threat, baby. To me. To you. To us. I won’t let them take you from me.”

“Gally,” You breathed, your voice trembling. “This isn’t you. You don’t mean this.”

He reached for you again, his hands almost gentle this time, but the madness in his eyes didn’t fade. “I mean every word,” he said.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means sacrificing them. Even if it means..” He trails off, looking at you.

You used to love his smile, the way he rarely ever did made you feel special, like his smile was reserved for only you.

But then, he smiled again, sharp and terrifying. He’s gone. That isn’t him.

“Don’t do this, Gally, don’t make me hate you.” You say, stepping back away.

His expression softened, “You’ll thank me one day.” He says, simply.

The sound was sickening. His fist slamming into you. A sharp crack that echoed in your ears, while your body went limp.

You weren’t his partner anymore.

You were his prisoner.

#gally x reader #gally maze runner #gally x you #gally x y/n #gally x fem!reader #tmr gally #will poulter #will poulter x fem!reader #will poulter x reader #tmr

168 notes · View notes

the-cat-and-the-birdie · 1 year ago

Text

ATSV Fun Fact!! - Mumbattan Cultural Details

Gayatri & Inspector Singh follow the Sikh Religion

Have you ever heard of Punjabi Sikhs?

If you don't know - Sikhism is a religion that originates in northern India, specifically Punjab.

The turban Gayatri's father wears - along with his last name 'Singh' implies that her father is most likely a Punjabi Sikh.

I notice this the first time watching ATSV and was like 'wow that's so cool :)'

It only hit me today that 'Oh wait I don't think a lot of people know about this very-specific, rarely-mentioned religion maybe i should say something,'

And because I LOVE yelling about world culture, LET'S GO!!!

[a SHORT essay where I explain the basics of Sikhism, a religion built on equality and justice. And details in The Singhs design, and exactly why Sikh Representation matters]

So What's Sikhism about?

Often mistaken for Muslims - Sikhs are actually a non-Abrahamic religion, with 20 million followers worldwide.

But even with so many visible practicing members, most people know very very little about this beautiful religion!

Sikhs believe in equality and unity - and defending the oppressed. Their book of faith, The Guru Granth Sahib Ji, is called 'Guru' for a reason - Sikhs see the book as not just a code of conduct, but as a living, breathing teacher for every practicioner;

From Wikipedia on Guru Granth Sahib: Sikhs since then [1708] have accepted the Guru Granth Sahib, the sacred scripture, as their eternal-living guru, as the embodiment of the ten Sikh Gurus, the highest religious and spiritual guide for Sikhs. It plays a central role in guiding the Sikh's way of life.

The Guru Granth Sahib is the spiritual leader of Sikhism, and it's treated as such.

That's why in Gurdwaras - their place of worship - it's treated as such, being clothed and held in ornate structure, constantly fanned throughout it's readings (the fan you can see in the left picture).

They believe that by following the Guru Granth Sahib Ji, they can cultivate compassion, peace, and harmony in their communities, while diminishing 'Mara' - concepts like hatred or violence.

Sikhs believe that every Sikh should revere themselves as champions of unity. And because of this many Sikhs have the same last name -

Kaur for women (Meaning Princess) and Singh for men (Meaning Lion).

Having the same last name also does away with the Indian caste system, making it another point of equality.

In ATSV Gayatri last name is Singh. However from my understanding, her name would most likely be Gayatri Kaur in reality.

I think they kept her last name as Singh as a deliberate choice to keep her initials as GS, like Gwen Stacy.

So is Gayatri Sikh?

Maybe - most likely.

But we can't be sure. Mainly because of her hair.

Gayatri has a short bob haircut, and while that might not seem like it matters, it does!

In Sikhism there are the '5K's - different aspects Sikhs wear to show their faith.

Notice the first one?

'Kesh' is the practice of leaving ones hair completely uncut. That's why you may see a lot of Sikh men with long, long beards!

And hence, the large turbans.

It's done as respect for God's creation - leaving it unaltered.

[Fun Fact! - Rastafarians, a Jamaican religion, also don't cut their hair for this reason. Think Bob Marley. Rastas call God - Jah]

So, Gayatri having short hair means she doesn't keep Kesh.

However, Sikh is a super accepting and open religion, and it's main focus is on acceptance of difference, not conformity - so she could entirely follow the faith without doing all of any of the 5Ks.

Also, if you're curious about the steel sword K - Kirpan, yes that's a thing!

Sikhs of all genders are encouraged to carry a small ceremonial blade with them.

Instead it's a symbol of the commitment to fighting for what's right - and defending those who cannot defend themselves.

A Kirpan can ONLY be used to defend the life of yourself or others, which is incredibly rare.

Why is this all so rad, cool, and important?

If you haven't noticed by now, Sikhism is a religion driven by justice. Not just in theory, but in really life as well.

That's why you may see many Sikh police officers and politicians, even here in the West. Most of them wearing the emblem on their turbans.

In fact, Canada has SO MANY Sikh politicians, that in 2019 they elected 18 of them.

For centuries Sikhs have been dedicated to justice, and developing systems of support, whether that be political involvement or feeding those in need.

The biggest Gurdwara (a place of Sikh worship) The Golden Temple feeds over 100,000 people A DAY.

For FREE.

It's a practice called Langar. A communal meal anyone can enjoy. And of course, Langar food is vegetarian.

Making Inspector Singh a Sikh - and showing him saving people and being warm to his daughter on screen is great representation for a community so often overlooked! Despite the fact they are over 20 million practicing Sikhs.

It's a great detail for Indian and Punjabi representation in specific. It accurate shows their beliefs and commitment towards helping others, no matter the cost.

And from what we can tell, this choice came later in development. We know this because ALL of his concept art shows him with a turban, not keeping Kesh.

It seems like someone later on down the line said 'Wait if his name is Singh I think he's Sikh and if he's Sikh then we're gonna have to redesign him and make that obvious oops'.

That, dear audience, is why you always have an Anthropologist in the writing room. Or some amateur anthropologist like me :)

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

I hope you enjoyed reading this, I really enjoyed writing it!! Sikhism is one of my favorite religions and if you have never heard anything from the Guru Granth Sahib I HIGHLY recommend it, it's very optimistic and compassionate. Sikhnet(.)com is also a great resource!

I have no idea if this will pique anyone's interest, but I hardly ever see Sikhs reflected in media and I know many many people may confuse them with Muslim, especially since many women Sikhs keep kesh and cover their hair as well.

But if you ever wanted to know the difference, here it is! If you read this far, thank you SO MUCH. And if you're a Sikh and reading this, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

As usual, here's a photo of Hobie for your travels.

BYE.

523 notes · View notes

mrs-delaney · 20 days ago

Text

Hide | Vegas Rules | Chapter Eight. One

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 16.3k Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, intimate moments, jealousy, bathroom encounters, and the complicated feelings that emerge when privacy meets passion

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: I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter! It didn't feel quite right and I was making last-minute edits right up until now. This one's going to be split into two parts due to Tumblr's word count limits.

There's something profoundly revealing about watching someone navigate distance and desire. This chapter explores what happens when the bubble of Cincinnati bursts—when color-coded calendars collide with 3AM studio sessions, when shared intimacy must stretch across time zones, when private moments face the prospect of public scrutiny.

For Joe, it's about confronting the boundaries he's always maintained—both literally and figuratively—between his carefully compartmentalized worlds. His phone becomes both bridge and barrier, bringing Riley's voice into his ordered space while highlighting the miles between them. The jealousy that flares in Vegas reveals a possessiveness he didn't know he harbored, forcing him to question why keeping her separate matters so much.

For Riley, it's discovering the vulnerable edges beneath Joe's controlled exterior. It's recognizing the fear behind his hesitation—not that he doesn't want her enough, but that he might want her too much. It's understanding that his reluctance isn't about hiding her, but about protecting something still fragile and unnamed between them.

I wanted to capture that essential tension between connection and distance—how proximity intensifies while separation clarifies. Their different approaches to privacy aren't just practical disagreements; they're fundamental expressions of how they move through the world. His instinct to shield versus her desire to live authentically becomes the first real test of whether love alone is enough to bridge their differences.

As they circle each other in Vegas, we glimpse both the power and fragility of what they're building. The physical connection remains undeniable, but underneath lies a deeper question neither is ready to face: can two people who love in such fundamentally different ways find lasting harmony, or are some differences too essential to overcome? Sometimes the very qualities that draw us together most powerfully are the same ones that may eventually pull us apart.

Their promise to truly talk "after the fight" feels both hopeful and weighty with unspoken fears. It's the beginning of a journey that will test them both—asking whether passionate connection can withstand the practical challenges of merging two vastly different lives, or if even the deepest love sometimes requires more compromise than a heart can give.

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! 🎲🥃💋

I hear you all about the Sydney Sweeney face claim for Riley! I've put up a poll asking for your input on this, so please weigh in if you have thoughts about it.

Poll Link

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

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

Joe stood in his kitchen, coffee in hand, staring at the empty space where Riley's mug had been just days ago. The turntable in the corner stood silent—no music filling the house that had briefly felt alive. He ran a finger along the counter's edge, the cool granite a stark reminder of the order that had returned to his life. The silence didn't used to bother him. Now, it pressed in, hollow and sharp, like something had been carved out of his routine.

He took a sip of his coffee—black, no sugar, back to his routine—and tried to shake the odd feeling that had settled over his house since Riley had left. The place looked exactly as it always had. Riley had taken most of her things when she left.

Most, but not all.

On the counter sat a silver alligator ring that she must have forgotten. He'd found it that morning after her flight left, tucked against the bathroom sink where she'd probably taken it off before showering. He picked it up now, turning it over in his fingers—the detailed scales catching the morning light, the small reptile curved into a perfect circle. It was uniquely Riley—a little wild, unconventional, with personality.

He opened their message thread, scrolling back to the photos she’d sent the night before. In one, she was in the studio, headphones around her neck, eyes tired but bright with creative energy, giving the camera a peace sign and sticking out her tongue. His old LSU bracelet was still on her wrist, the faded purple and gold standing out against her skin.

Riley: 3am and still going. Pete keeps threatening to quit but I know he loves it. Send caffeine. And maybe sleep. Miss your stupid face and clean countertops.

Joe hesitated, then typed simply-

Joe: Miss you too.

The words felt foreign on his screen—honest but still new enough to make his pulse quicken. His thumb hovered before swiping to his color-coded calendar, the switch from her chaotic warmth to his structured routine jarring.

Color-coded blocks filled his screen: training in green, media in blue, and sponsor obligations in yellow. The system had guided him through college and into the NFL, ensuring nothing fell through the cracks.

But now there was Riley—vibrant, unpredictable Riley—who didn't fit neatly into any color-coded box.

He tapped back into their text thread, scrolling past more photos. In one, she was hunched over a notebook, unaware of the camera, all focus and motion. Nothing like the curated images he’d grown used to from other women.

His thumb hovered over the phone icon, then retreated. It was still early in L.A.—she’d probably just crashed. Her world moved to the rhythm of inspiration, not structure.

Back to the calendar. The order of it usually gave him comfort. Today, it felt more like a cage. He wondered what her day had looked like—messy, spontaneous, creative. All the things that had drawn him to her in the first place.

His life had always been compartmentalized—football, personal, public. Riley didn’t fit into any box. She bled through them, chaotic and thrilling. The one thing he didn’t want to compartmentalize—and the one thing he kept trying to.

Across the country, Riley was living in another rhythm entirely. No longer the same house, the same routines, the same air. What had felt intimate in Cincinnati now felt fragile over miles of distance. He was good at managing space—games, press, fans. But not with her.

She was the one thing he didn’t want to compartmentalize—and the one thing he kept trying to.

* * *

Joe was at Black Sheep Performance, muscles still burning from the workout, when he spotted Mark waiting by the equipment racks, phone in hand and a familiar set to his jaw.

"We need to talk," Mark said as Joe toweled off, not bothering with pleasantries.

"About?" Joe asked, though he already had a good idea.

"Body Armor wants to increase your involvement in the campaign," Mark said, falling into step beside him as they headed toward the locker room. "They're pushing for more social media content, additional appearances."

Joe gave him a sidelong glance. "And?"

"And I'm just making sure your head is in the game," Mark replied carefully. "Last time we discussed Riley Carter, you told me to drop it. But now you're rearranging training with Dak to accommodate trips to New Orleans, private flights to Cincinnati..."

"Is there a question in there somewhere?" Joe asked his voice level despite the growing tension in his shoulders.

Mark sighed. "Look, Joe. Bill and I have the same concerns we did before. Riley has a certain... reputation in the industry. Free-spirited, unpredictable. We're not saying she's not great, but—"

"We've had this conversation," Joe cut him off, stopping at his locker. "My personal life is my business."

"It becomes our business when it affects scheduling, appearances, and partnerships," Mark countered. "You've built your brand on consistency and preparation. That's what these companies are investing in."

Joe started changing, deliberately taking his time. "Have I missed any commitments?"

"No," Mark admitted. "Not yet. But—"

"Then there's no problem," Joe concluded, pulling on a fresh shirt. "Set up the additional content shoots. I'll be there."

Mark looked like he wanted to say more but recognized the set of Joe's jaw. "Fine. Tuesday at 10."

As Mark walked away, Joe checked his phone to find a text from Riley. She'd sent a selfie from Pete's pool house studio, chopsticks poised over a container of sushi, making a dramatic face.

Riley: Studio lunch upgrade courtesy of Scout. Says we need "brain food" for mixing which apparently means fancy tuna rolls. Not complaining.

Despite the lingering tension from Mark's concerns, Joe found himself smiling. He typed back:

Joe: Definite upgrade. Those actually look edible.

He pocketed his phone, finished changing, and headed out to his car. The conversation with Mark wasn't anything new—just a variation on the same theme Bill and he had been pushing since Riley first entered the picture. Joe understood their perspective, professionally. But they weren't seeing what he saw.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Riley was hunched over the mixing console in Pete's pool house studio, headphones on, fingers moving with practiced precision across the board. They'd converted the space years ago when they decided to take control of their recording process, adding professional-grade soundproofing, equipment racks, and a collection of instruments that rivaled many commercial studios.

"Try pulling back the reverb on the bridge vocals," she instructed, making minute adjustments to the EQ. "I want that section drier, more intimate."

Pete nodded, making the change while Andy and Daniel listened intently, all of them focused on the detailed work of fine-tuning their sound. When Riley spoke in the studio, everyone listened—her ear was uncannily precise, able to pick out frequencies and textures most people missed entirely.

After running through the section again, Riley nodded, satisfied. "That's it. Now it breathes better." She slipped off her headphones and stretched, rolling her neck to release the tension that came from hours of focused work.

"I still think my guitar solo needs more bite," Andy said, arms crossed over his chest.

"It's perfect where it is," Riley countered. "Any more, and it would overshadow the vocal line, which is the whole point of that section."

Andy opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, recognizing that particular tone in Riley's voice. When it came to production decisions, she had an uncanny instinct that had guided their sound from the beginning.

Riley checked her phone, a small smile playing on her lips when she saw a text from Joe.

"Earth to Riley," Pete said, nudging her shoulder. "We're not done yet. Still have to decide on the final arrangement for the outro."

"I'm here," Riley replied, tucking her phone away. "Let's add those backing vocals we talked about—layer them three deep, panned wide."

As they dove back into the work, Andy kept shooting her knowing looks. Finally, during a break, while Daniel stepped outside to take a call, he couldn't contain himself any longer.

"So, how's the long-distance thing going with Quarterback Ken?" he asked, sprawling dramatically across the couch.

Riley rolled her eyes at the nickname. "It's going fine."

"Even with your vampire studio hours and his crack-of-dawn training schedule?" Pete asked, genuinely curious.

"We make it work," Riley said simply. "He stays up late, I set alarms for ungodly hours. Sometimes we just leave voice memos."

Pete studied her for a moment. "You really like this guy, huh?"

Riley bit her lip, fighting a smile that threatened to give too much away. "Yeah. I do."

"Careful, Riles," Andy warned, though his tone was more teasing than genuinely concerned. "Next thing you know, you'll be trading in your leather jacket for a Bengals jersey."

Riley flipped him off casually. "Says the guy who wore a KISS costume for three straight months when he dated that tribute band guitarist."

"That was different," Andy protested. "Gene Simmons is rock royalty."

"And Joe Burrow is football royalty," Pete conceded with a shrug. "Man's got game, can't deny that."

“Still,” Andy said, “we’re kind of a lot, don’t you think? Loud, messy, overly attached to vintage gear and each other. Not exactly easy to drop into.”

"He handled me in Cincinnati just fine," Riley said, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. "Better than fine, actually."

“So he survived your ‘leave it where it lands’ home aesthetic?” Andy teased, clearly fishing for details.

"Actually, my chaos seemed to be exactly what his place needed," Riley replied with a smirk. "And no complaints whatsoever."

"So he actually color-codes his schedule?" Pete asked, twirling a drumstick between his fingers as they took a break from recording.

Riley laughed, opening her phone to the shared calendar they’d synced. “Green for training, blue for media, yellow for sponsors. It’s like the world’s most organized rainbow.”

"And I thought you were bad with your Google calendar reminders," Andy teased Pete before turning back to Riley. "So what's your color in his perfect system?"

The question caught Riley off guard. "I... don't know. We haven't gotten there yet."

"Probably pink with little hearts," Andy suggested with a smirk.

"Or maybe she doesn't get a color," Daniel observed quietly from behind his coffee mug. "Maybe she's the thing that doesn't fit in the system."

The observation hung in the air, uncomfortably perceptive.

"Hmm," Andy mused, clearly not convinced. "Well, when you drag him to a last-minute 3 AM inspiration session, let me know how that goes."

Meanwhile, across the country, Joe sat in the locker room, half-listening as his teammates discussed weekend plans.

* * *

"Yo, Burrow, you've been glued to that phone all week," Trey called out. "What's got you so distracted?"

Joe pocketed his phone where Riley's latest text waited for a reply. "Nothing. Just checking the time."

"Right," Ja'Marr said with a knowing look. "That's why you've been smiling at 'nothing' for the past five minutes."

"Leave it, dude," Joe replied, his tone friendly but final.

Later, when Ja'Marr caught him alone, his friend's expression turned serious. "You know, it's okay to admit you're into someone. Won't kill your focus."

Joe adjusted his gym bag on his shoulder. "It's complicated."

"Always is," Ja'Marr replied. "But maybe it's worth mentioning to the guys if she's important enough to have you checking your phone every five minutes."

Joe considered this. There was safety in privacy, in keeping Riley separate from his football world. But as the distance between Cincinnati and LA stretched between them, that separation was beginning to feel less like protection and more like denial.

He stared at the shared calendar on his screen, then back at the last photo Riley had sent. Her chaos didn’t clutter his life—it cracked it open.

Before he could overthink it, his thumb was already pressing her name.

* * *

Riley was about to fire back when her phone buzzed with a call. Joe's name lit up the screen.

"I need to take this," she said, already heading for the pool house door. "And we're done with this conversation."

"Tell the quarterback I said his spiral is tight!" Andy called after her, making crude gestures until Pete smacked him upside the head.

Outside by the pool, Riley leaned against a deck chair, phone pressed to her ear. "Hey you," she answered, her voice softening instantly.

"Hey," Joe replied, the familiar warmth in his voice making distance feel less significant. "Bad time?"

"Perfect time, actually," Riley said, glancing back at the pool house. "You just rescued me from the peanut gallery in there."

"Giving you a hard time about us?" Joe guessed.

"Andy's just being Andy," Riley said with a sigh. "What about you? How's the training going?"

"Good," Joe replied. "Making progress on the mobility drills Dak added."

Riley sensed something in his tone. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Joe said after a brief pause. "Just the usual stuff. Mark asking questions about scheduling."

Riley frowned slightly. "Because of me?"

"No," Joe said quickly—too quickly. "Just regular season prep things."

Riley knew better but didn't press. "When are you done with training today?"

"Just finished," Joe replied. "Heading home now. You guys making progress on the album?"

"Absolutely," Riley said, letting him change the subject. "Just nailed down the bridge section after hours of tweaking. Now we're just finessing the outro."

"Sounds technical," Joe observed.

“It’s all in the details,” Riley agreed. “When we’re done today, want to FaceTime? I’ll catch you before bedtime—reasonable Joe Burrow evening hour.”

"I'd like that," Joe said, and Riley could hear the smile in his voice.

"It's a date," she said. “Now I should get back before Andy starts claiming his solo is ‘spiritually essential’ again.”

After they hung up, Riley stood by the pool a moment longer, turning her phone over in her hands. Despite Joe's deflection, she'd picked up on the undertone in his voice. His team had concerns about her—that much was obvious, even if he wasn't saying it directly. And despite her casual brush-off of Andy's teasing, his words had touched a nerve. She and Joe did come from different worlds, with different rhythms and different expectations.

Riley twisted the LSU bracelet on her wrist, the familiar weight of it grounding her. She wasn't going to let other people's doubts creep into what was still so new, so fragile.

With renewed determination, she pushed off the deck chair and headed back into the studio, ready to finish the track and get to her FaceTime date with Joe.

* * *

Later that night, Joe settled on his couch, laptop balanced on his knees as he reviewed game film from last season. The analyst in him couldn't help but dissect each play, mentally cataloging what he'd do differently next time. It was his nightly ritual—part of the discipline that had carried him to the highest level of the sport.

His phone chimed with a text from Riley.

Riley: Finally escaped the studio prison. Andy and Daniel nearly came to blows over a drum fill. Just need to shower off the day before our FaceTime. 30 min?

Joe responded immediately.

Joe: I'll be here.

He tidied the already clean living room out of habit. She couldn’t see it through the phone. Didn’t matter. Some routines were hard to break.

Her face filled the screen—damp hair, old band shirt, no makeup. Freckles he’d noticed the first night and kept coming back to, like a habit he hadn’t meant to form.

"Hey, babes," she said, her smile tired but genuine.

"Hey," Joe replied, something in his chest loosening at the sight of her. "You look exhausted."

"Thanks. Always know how to charm a girl." Riley repositioned herself, curling into what appeared to be the corner of her couch, a colorful throw pillow tucked behind her. "Three days straight in the studio will do that to you."

"The album's coming along, though?"

"Yeah. It's close. We're in that maddening phase where everything's ninety percent done, which means we fight over the tiniest details." She brushed the damp hair from her face. "How was your day? Besides the Mark interrogation."

Joe hesitated. "It wasn't an interrogation. Just the usual."

“Which means he’s worried about me distracting you.”

She watched him for a beat—how his eyes shifted, the way he didn’t quite meet hers. “Did I get it right?”

Joe shrugged one shoulder. "He's doing his job. Making sure I stay focused."

Riley studied him through the screen, her expression unreadable for a moment. "And are you? Focused?"

"Always," Joe said simply. Then his expression softened. "Except when you send photos of yourself eating sushi."

That earned a genuine laugh, the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "The great Joe Burrow, distracted by raw fish. Headline news."

"Not the fish," Joe corrected, his voice dropping slightly. "Definitely not the fish."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that didn't need to be filled immediately. Joe watched as Riley reached for something off-screen, then returned with a mug that she cradled between her hands.

"So," she said after taking a sip, "your place still standing without me wreaking havoc on your countertops?"

"It's too quiet," Joe admitted, surprising himself with his honesty. "Keeps feeling like something's missing."

Riley’s expression softened. “Yeah. I know what you mean. My place was the same—messy, loud, alive—but it felt off. Like the room shifted while I was gone.”

Joe nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. They'd only spent a few days together in Cincinnati, yet her absence had left a noticeable void. It wasn't logical—they barely knew each other in the grand scheme of things—but it was undeniable.

"I found your ring," he said, remembering the silver alligator. "By the sink."

Riley's hand flew to her wrist as if just noticing its absence. "My alligator? I've been turning the house upside down, looking for it."

"I'll send it back."

"Or you could just hold onto it," Riley suggested, tucking her legs beneath her. "Give me a reason to come back."

"You need a reason?" Joe raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"No," Riley admitted, her voice softening as she met his eyes. "But I like knowing a piece of me stays with you when I go." She brushed her thumb across the back of his hand. "Something to remind you I'm coming back."

"I don't need a reminder," Joe said quietly, turning his hand to catch her fingers with his. "But I'll keep it safe until you do."

Their conversation drifted easily between topics—Riley's progress on the album, Joe's upcoming schedule, and casual observations about their days apart. Time slipped away as they fell into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural, given the screens between them.

"So," Riley said eventually, stifling a yawn, "any travel coming up for you? I assume you're pretty tied to Cincinnati through training."

"Actually," Joe replied, "I might be heading to Vegas in a couple weeks. UFC fight. Nothing official, just something Ja'Marr's been wanting to do."

"Vegas, huh?" Riley said, her voice carefully neutral. They were on FaceTime, Joe propped up on his kitchen counter while she sat cross-legged on her studio couch.

"Yeah, Ja'Marr's been wanting to see this fight for months," Joe explained. "Henderson versus Chandler. Should be good."

Riley's expression brightened. "Wait, that fight? Pete and Andy have been talking about it non-stop. They're going too."

The coincidence hung between them for a moment. Joe should be pleased—it was a perfect opportunity to see each other, a natural intersection of their separate worlds.

Instead, he felt a cold knot forming in his stomach. Vegas was a fishbowl, especially during fight weekends. Cameras are everywhere, and social media is ready to pounce on any hint of a story. The carefully maintained distance between his public and private selves would be impossible to protect.

"That's... quite a coincidence," he managed, his tone not quite matching the words.

Riley studied him through the screen, her expression shifting as she read something in his face. "It is. Might be fun if we all ended up there the same weekend."

The tentative suggestion hung in the air. Joe knew what she was asking without her having to say it directly. Could they see each other? Spend time together? Acknowledge whatever was growing between them in a space that wasn't carefully controlled by phone calls and private visits?

"It would be pretty chaotic," Joe said finally. "Fight weekends in Vegas are intense. Not much privacy."

Riley's eyes never left his face. "And that would be a problem?"

It was a simple question, but they both knew it carried weight far beyond Vegas plans. This was about what they were to each other—and whether Joe was ready to let the controlled, private bubble they'd created expand into the messy reality of public life.

"Not a problem exactly," Joe hedged. "Just complicated."

"Right," Riley said, her voice cooling slightly. "Complicated."

Joe didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched, not hostile, just… stuck.

They kept talking—about timing, about travel, about how easy it was when they were in the same room. And how nothing felt simple anymore.

Somewhere along the way, the conversation stopped being careful.

"I don't understand why it has to be all or nothing with you," Joe said, frustration evident in his voice despite the poor connection. They'd been talking for nearly an hour, circling around the Vegas issue without resolving anything.

Riley sighed on the other end of the phone. "That's not what I'm saying, Joe. I'm not asking for some grand public declaration. I'm just questioning why we need to pretend we don't know each other if we're in the same place."

"I'm not suggesting we pretend anything," Joe countered. "I just think there's value in keeping some things private."

"There's a difference between private and secret," Riley said after a pause. "Private is not posting every detail on Instagram. Secret is acting like we're strangers in public."

The distinction hit Joe harder than he expected. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Keeping you a secret?"

"I don't know," Riley admitted, her voice softening. "Sometimes it feels that way. Like you're fine with me existing in this careful bubble you've created, but you're not sure you want me in your real life."

"That's not fair," Joe protested, even as an uncomfortable truth nagged at him. "My life is complicated, Riley. Everything I do gets scrutinized, analyzed, turned into some narrative I can't control."

"You think mine isn't?" Riley challenged. "I've lived through public dissection, Joe. Remember the Ethan situation? Every detail of our breakup splashed across music blogs, his side of the story accepted as gospel because he got there first with his PR team?"

Joe hadn't considered that angle—that Riley's desire for authenticity wasn't naivety but hard-won wisdom.

"The difference is how we handled it," Riley continued when Joe remained silent. "You build walls. I learned to live honestly despite the scrutiny."

"And you never worry about what people might say? What they might assume?" Joe asked.

"Of course I do," Riley said. "But I refuse to let that fear dictate how I live my life. The minute you start hiding parts of yourself because you're afraid of what people might say—that's when they win."

“I’ve spent years keeping my personal life separate,” he said. “Blurring those lines isn’t easy for me.”

"I know," Riley said, her voice gentler now. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I'm just asking you to consider that maybe all that careful separation isn't protecting you—maybe it's just keeping you isolated from the parts of life that matter most."

The slight withdrawal was subtle but unmistakable. She was giving him space—exactly what he thought he wanted—yet somehow, it felt like losing something precious. The conversation shifted to safer topics, but something had changed. A quiet politeness had crept in where the rhythm used to be. By the time they said goodnight, the connection felt thinner, like something unspoken had settled between them.

After they hung up, Joe sat staring at his dark phone screen, replaying the conversation. He hadn't handled that well. Maybe he should have just invited her to join them. But the thought of Riley in Vegas, cameras everywhere, speculation about their relationship splashed across sports blogs and gossip sites—it twisted something in his stomach.

It wasn't that he was hiding her. Not exactly. He just needed... control. Time to figure out what this was between them before the whole world weighed in with opinions.

He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the day's stubble against his palm. Why did it have to be so complicated? Football made sense. Clear objectives, defined strategies, measurable outcomes. This—whatever was growing between him and Riley—operated by different rules entirely.

* * *

Three days passed with superficially normal communication between them—texts about their days, brief calls when schedules aligned—but Joe couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. Riley was still Riley—quick-witted, warm, engaged—but there was a new carefulness to her interactions, as if she were minding an invisible boundary he'd drawn.

Joe was heading into his regular session with Dak when his phone buzzed with a call from Ja'Marr.

"What's up?" Joe answered, nodding at Dak as he entered the gym.

"Vegas fight," Ja'Marr said without preamble. "You still in? Need to lock in the suite reservation by tomorrow."

Joe hesitated. "Yeah, I'm in. But listen, there's something I wanted to run by you."

"Shoot."

"Riley might be there the same weekend. Some guys from her band are going to the fight."

Ja’Marr nodded. “Cool. Been wanting to meet her anyway—hang out a little, see what she’s about.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, then paused. “That’s the thing. Not sure it’s smart—public-wise.”

"“Okay, yeah—you’ve always been careful,” Ja’Marr said, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “But maybe you don’t have to be this time. She ain’t some random girl.”

"It's complicated," he finally said.

"Look, not to overstep," Ja'Marr said carefully, "but if you really like this girl, maybe don't overthink it. Vegas is Vegas. Everyone's too busy doing their own thing to care who's there with who."

Joe considered this. Maybe he was overthinking it. "Let me figure it out," he said finally. "But yeah, keep me on the list for now."

"You got it. Let me know if you want me to add one more."

After hanging up, Joe stared at his phone for a long moment. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he typed out a text to Riley.

Joe: Been thinking about Vegas. If you want to come, we can make it work.

He hit send before he could overthink it, then tucked his phone away and turned his attention to Dak, who was waiting with the day's training plan.

Two hours later, muscles burning from a particularly brutal workout, Joe checked his phone to find Riley's response.

Riley: Already got a flight with Pete and Andy. But I appreciate the thought. Maybe we'll run into each other there.

Joe frowned at the screen. The message was friendly enough, but something about it felt off. Like she was deliberately creating distance. Before he could respond, a second text came through.

Riley: For what it's worth, I get it. Privacy matters. No pressure either way.

Joe stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This was exactly what he'd wanted—understanding, no pressure, keeping things private. So why did it feel like he'd somehow screwed up?

He was still trying to formulate a response when Bill appeared at the gym entrance, clipboard in hand and expression grim. Whatever this conversation about Vegas would become, it would have to wait.

“Vegas? The same weekend Riley Carter will be there?” Bill’s voice rose as he paced Joe’s kitchen. “With those bandmates of hers? The ones who trended last month for that club incident in Atlanta?” He stopped, holding up his tablet like it proved something. “Mark mentioned it this morning. Tell me he got it wrong.”

"It's a coincidence," Joe said, his voice level despite the tension building between his shoulders. "A lot of people go to these fights."

But even as he said it, Joe felt the familiar weight of expectation pressing down—the constant awareness that his choices were never just his own, that every move was observed, analyzed, categorized. The weight he'd carried so long he barely noticed it anymore. Until now. Until Riley made him question why he accepted it at all.

"Coincidence or not, it creates a situation," Bill interjected, more measured but equally concerned. "Joe, we've talked about this. The optics—"

"The optics of what? Two adults who happen to be at the same event?" Joe challenged, his patience wearing thin. "We're not in high school, Bill."

Bill stopped pacing to face Joe directly. "Have you seen the latest on her bandmate—the one with the hair? Three clubs in one night last weekend, photographed with models at each one."

"Andy," Joe supplied. "And what does that have to do with Riley?"

"It's the company she keeps," Bill explained, as if talking to a child. "These are people who live their lives completely in the public eye, who court the kind of attention you've always avoided."

"She's not responsible for her bandmate's choices," Joe countered.

"No, but she's part of that world," Bill said. "Look, Joe, no one's saying she's not great. But the Riley Carter who appears in those music videos, who hangs out with people who trend on Twitter for their exploits—that's a very different image from what we've built for you."

Bill nodded, pulling out his tablet and swiping to a saved article. "Remember this? Her ex, Ethan Mills, claimed she 'lived for the party' in that Rolling Stone interview after their breakup."

Joe felt a flash of anger. "An interview where he was clearly trying to damage her reputation after she left him."

"Maybe," Bill conceded. "But perception is reality in this business. We've spent years building you as the focused, disciplined leader. The reliable one. The guy sponsors trust to represent their brands."

"I'm not changing who I am just because I'm seeing someone," Joe said firmly.

"No one's asking you to," Bill said, his tone softening slightly. "We're just asking you to be careful. Vegas is a fishbowl on fight weekends. If you and Riley are seen together, that becomes the story—not your training, not your recovery, not your preparation for next season."

The frustrating part was that they weren't entirely wrong. Joe had witnessed firsthand how quickly narratives could form and calcify in the public consciousness. One weekend, a few photos, and suddenly "Joe Burrow, focused quarterback" could become "Joe Burrow, distracted by rockstar girlfriend."

"I'm still going to Vegas," Joe said, the quiet finality in his tone ending the discussion. What he didn't say—what he was still reconciling himself—was whether he was ready to let Riley fully into that part of his life, or if he would continue trying to keep these worlds separate even when they inevitably collided.

* * *

Riley set her phone down on the countertop with deliberate care, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest. She'd spent three days trying to convince herself that Joe's hesitation about Vegas meant nothing—that his desire for privacy was reasonable, expected even. They were still new. Still figuring things out.

So why did it still sting?

"Everything okay over there?" Laura asked from the couch, where she was editing footage for a documentary project. "You look like someone canceled Christmas."

"Everything's fine," Riley said automatically, then reconsidered. "Actually, no. Not really."

Laura closed her laptop, giving Riley her full attention. "Quarterback troubles?"

Riley sighed, joining Laura on the couch. "Is it stupid that I'm bothered by this? We've been seeing each other for what, a month? It's not like we've had the exclusivity talk or anything."

"What happened?" Laura asked, concern evident in her voice.

"Joe's going to be in Vegas the same weekend as Pete and Andy, for that UFC fight they've been obsessing over. When I mentioned the coincidence, he got all weird about us being seen together there." Riley picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "He just sent this very careful text about how 'we can make it work' if I want to come, but it feels...I don't know. Like an obligation."

“And you’re already locked in to fly with the guys?”

Riley nodded. "After our FaceTime call the other night. Andy's been begging me to come for weeks. I figured, why not? It'll be fun."

"So what's the real issue?" Laura asked, studying Riley's face. "That he didn't invite you first?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Riley pressed her palms against her eyes. "It's more that I feel like he's keeping me in this separate box away from his real life. Like he's not sure I fit."

Laura was quiet for a moment, considering. "Do you remember how private you were after Ethan? How you wouldn't even let us tag you in photos for months?"

"That was different," Riley protested. "Ethan had just—"

"Publicly humiliated you, yes," Laura finished. "And it made you careful. Made you build walls. I'm not saying Joe's situation is the same, but privacy means different things to different people."

Riley absorbed this, twisting her bracelet—Joe's bracelet—around her wrist. "I guess I'm just scared he's embarrassed by me. That I don't fit into his perfect, orderly world."

"Did he say that?"

"No," Riley admitted. "He said it wasn't about me. That it was about control, about keeping things private until we figure it out."

"That sounds...pretty reasonable, actually," Laura observed. "And very different from 'I don't want to be seen with you.'"

Riley sighed, letting her head fall back against the couch. "Why am I making this into a bigger thing than it is?"

“Because you really like him,” Laura said. “And because after Ethan, you promised yourself you’d only do real. Not curated. Not performative.” She gave Riley a look—gentle but clear. “So now, when someone asks for privacy, it feels a little too close to being hidden—even when it’s not.”

Riley nodded, turning Laura's words over in her mind. There was truth there. Privacy was what she'd sought after Ethan, a shelter to heal wounds that had been inflicted in public view. Maybe Joe needed the same thing—space to let whatever was growing between them take root before exposing it to public scrutiny.

"So what are you going to do about Vegas?" Laura asked.

Riley squared her shoulders. "I'm going to go with Pete and Andy. Have fun. And if I run into Joe, great. If not..." She shrugged, affecting more nonchalance than she felt. "Then I'll handle that too."

Laura studied her friend's face. "Just be careful. Don't punish him for Ethan's mistakes."

Riley nodded, the wisdom in those words hitting home. She was determined not to let past hurts cloud what was happening now. Joe wasn't Ethan. She knew that. This relationship—or whatever it was becoming—deserved a clean slate.

Still, as she returned to the kitchen to finish making dinner, Riley couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that Vegas would either bring them closer together or push them further apart. There would be no middle ground.

* * *

It was early April in Cincinnati, and the private training facility carried that in-between feeling—winter barely behind them, the promise of spring still damp in the air. Joe sat on the edge of a turf mat, shoulders tense, sweat cooling on his back as the other guys filtered out. The off-season rhythm was different—quieter, less structured—but somehow, it still didn’t leave much room to think.

“You make up your mind about Vegas yet?” Ja’Marr asked, casual.

Joe didn’t look up. “Not really a choice anymore.”

Ja’Marr turned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s going,” Joe said, finally meeting his friend’s eyes. “With her band. Decided after our last call. She was pissed. Rightfully.”

Ja’Marr raised a brow. “You invite her after we talked?”

“I tried. Kinda backpedaled and said if she happened to be there, maybe we could meet up.” Joe scoffed at himself. “She basically blew me off.”

Ja’Marr made a face. “Can you blame her?”

Joe ran a hand over his jaw, tension in every line of his body. “I’m fucking this up.”

“Yeah, a little,” Ja’Marr said bluntly. “Why though? You like her. She likes you. What’s the holdup?”

Joe exhaled hard. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is, but come on—”

“She’s got a past, man. High-profile ex. Party history. Her face has been in more gossip headlines than some of our teammates.” Joe looked away. “She’s loud. Public. I don’t want to live like that.”

Ja’Marr crossed his arms. “So what—you don’t want to be seen with her?”

Joe’s jaw tightened. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that once it’s out, it’s out. People have opinions. Narratives. Everyone decides what our relationship is before we do.”

Ja’Marr blinked. “Okay, but what does that have to do with you? You like her. You trust her. That’s what matters.”

“There’s no middle ground with her,” Joe said quietly. “She’s all in or she walks. And I don’t blame her for that, I just…” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to be what she needs in public when I’m still figuring it out in private.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Ja’Marr studied him.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said finally. “She’s not asking you to stand on a stage and announce you’re in love. She just doesn’t want to be treated like a secret.”

Joe looked away again. “Yeah. Well. I already made her feel like one.”

Ja’Marr sighed. “Then go fix it.”

Joe didn’t respond.

Ja’Marr grabbed a towel, slung it over his shoulder, and started walking away. “Or don’t. Just stop acting surprised when it falls apart.”

Joe nodded absently, watching as Ja’Marr walked off toward the recovery room.

He stayed seated for a beat longer, letting the quiet hum of the facility settle around him. Not long. Just enough.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her—but maybe he had. Maybe all his careful control, his need to keep things private and protected, had sent the wrong message. Not that she mattered, but that she didn’t matter enough. That was never true. But if he didn’t figure out how to show her that soon, he was going to lose something that didn’t come around twice.

* * *

The sprawling Las Vegas skyline came into view through the jet window—a gaudy, glittering oasis rising defiantly from the desert floor. Joe watched it approach, the ordered grid of streets somehow containing the world's most deliberate chaos. A city of calculated risk, where every spontaneous moment was carefully engineered. A city of contradictions. Like him, lately.

"We land in ten, Mr. Burrow," the flight attendant informed him as she collected his untouched champagne glass.

Joe nodded, closing his tablet and gazing out the window. The desert landscape stretched endlessly, punctuated by the gaudy oasis of the Strip. Any other time, he might have appreciated the stark contrast. Today, his thoughts were elsewhere—specifically, on whether Riley had already landed.

Beside him, Ja'Marr tucked away his headphones. "Man, I can't wait to hit the blackjack tables. You in?"

"Maybe later," Joe replied, noncommittal. "Want to get settled first."

"Settled," Ja'Marr repeated with a knowing look. "That code for 'check if Riley's here yet'?"

Joe shot him a warning glance but didn't deny it. There was no point—Ja'Marr had become increasingly adept at reading his moods since their conversation in the weight room.

The landing was smooth, and within minutes they were descending the stairs to the private tarmac where a sleek black SUV waited. The Vegas heat hit Joe immediately, a dry wall of warmth after the artificial cool of the plane.

"Aria first, gentlemen?" the driver asked as they slid into the leather seats.

"Yeah," Joe confirmed, already reaching for his phone. He'd had it off during the flight—another routine, another small piece of control in a life full of distractions. Now, he found himself uncharacteristically impatient as it powered on.

Three texts loaded: one from Bill about a sponsorship call, one from his mother checking he'd arrived safely, and one from Riley.

Riley: Landed in Vegas with the guys. Pete already plotting how to lose his money at the craps table. We're staying at the Cosmopolitan. Let me know when you're here.

The message was friendly but careful—none of the warmth or playfulness that had characterized their earlier conversations. Joe stared at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard, aware of Ja'Marr watching him with barely concealed interest.

"Just text her, man," Ja'Marr said, breaking the silence with the directness that had defined their friendship since LSU. "This brooding thing doesn't suit you."

Joe ignored him, though he knew Ja'Marr was right. Since college, he had been the one person who called him on his bullshit, who saw through the composed exterior everyone else accepted at face value.

Joe: Just landed. Heading to the Aria now. Any chance you want to come by? Just to talk.

He pressed send and set the phone down, not because he doubted what he said, but because the silence afterward was loud. The message was deliberate—he needed to talk to her. Still, his heartbeat kicked up as the three dots appeared, disappeared, then flickered back to life.

Riley: Give me two hours. Need to check in and get settled.

Simple. Direct. No emotion. But she was coming. That had to mean something.

* * *

Two hours later, Joe stood at the window of his expansive suite, gazing out at the Strip stretching below. The room was immaculate—king bed, separate sitting area, marble bathroom with a shower big enough for a linebacker. Standard luxury that would normally fade into the background of his consciousness.

Today, he noticed everything. The placement of the chairs. The minibar stocked with premium liquor. The subtle scent of the room—some generic "luxury" fragrance designed to mask the lingering cigarette smoke permeating every surface in Vegas.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Joe took a breath, running a hand through his hair before crossing to answer it.

Riley stood in the hallway, one shoulder leaning casually against the doorframe. She wore an oversized Iron Maiden tee, soft and faded with age, the kind of shirt that had clearly lived a few lives before ending up in her closet. It hung loosely over black leggings, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and her scuffed white sneakers looked like they’d carried her through more than one impulsive night. A fuzzy leopard-print tote hung off one shoulder, absurdly cozy against the rest of her edge. Her hair was pulled into a loose, effortless bun, a few strands falling around her face in the kind of way that looked accidental but perfect. She smelled like vanilla and something warm—maybe sandalwood, maybe just her—and it hit Joe like muscle memory, yanking him straight back to Cincinnati.

"Hey," she said, her voice neutral but her blue eyes sharp, assessing.

"Hey," Joe replied, stepping back to let her in. "Thanks for coming."

“Nice place,” she said quietly, eyes moving across the room. “Kind of cold. But you make it feel less like that.”

There was an edge to her tone that hadn't been there in Cincinnati or New Orleans, a careful distance that felt foreign after the easy intimacy they'd shared.

"How was your flight?" Joe asked, moving toward the minibar. "Water? Or something stronger?"

"Water's fine," Riley replied, setting her bag on a side table. She didn't sit, instead moving to the window to look out at the view. “Flight was good. Andy spent most of it critiquing the liquor selection, but what else is new.”

Joe filled two glasses with water and brought one to her, careful to maintain some space between them as he handed it over. Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, and he felt the familiar spark of connection despite the tension hanging in the air.

"So," Riley said after taking a sip, her eyes meeting his over the rim of the glass, "Vegas."

"Vegas," Joe agreed, unsure how to navigate this new, careful version of them. He set his untouched water down on a nearby table. "This feels weird."

Riley's lips curved in a small, sad smile. "What does?"

"This," Joe gestured between them. "Us being so... formal with each other. It's not us."

"And what is 'us', exactly?" Riley asked, setting her glass down with deliberate care. "Because I've been trying to figure that out for a week, and I'm still coming up empty."

The directness of the question was pure Riley, cutting through his careful defenses with unsettling accuracy. Joe ran a hand through his hair, buying time.

"I didn't handle the Vegas thing well," he admitted finally. "When you mentioned being here the same weekend. I was focusing on all the ways it could go wrong instead of just... being glad to see you."

Riley's expression softened slightly. "And how do you feel now? About me being here?"

"Glad," Joe said without hesitation. "Relieved, actually. The distance this past week—the texts that felt like we were strangers, the phone calls where we both pretended everything was fine—I hated it."

"Me too," Riley admitted, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "But it wasn't just about Vegas, Joe. It was about what it revealed."

Joe knew she was right, but hearing it spoken aloud made his chest tighten. "Which was?"

"That you want me in your life, but only on your terms. In controlled environments where you don't have to worry about what anyone else might think or say." Riley's voice was even, not accusatory but matter-of-fact. "And I'm not sure I can be that for you—this separate, hidden piece of your life that doesn't touch anything else."

Joe took a step toward her, unable to maintain the physical distance between them any longer. "That's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?" Riley challenged, her blue eyes intense. "Because I've been trying to figure it out, and I still don't know."

The question hung between them, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex. Joe looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the familiar constriction in his chest. She'd somehow worked her way into parts of his life he'd always kept carefully separate, and that terrified him as much as it exhilarated him.

Joe took a step toward her, unable to maintain the physical distance between them any longer. The space between them felt charged, dangerous—like the moment before a blitz, when everything slows down and speeds up simultaneously.

"I want you," he said, the words rough with honesty. "But I don't know how to do this, Riley. How to balance what's happening between us with everything else."

She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, like the words needed somewhere to land.

“That’s the thing, Joe, there is no perfect balance. Life is messy. Relationships are messy." She gestured between them. "This is messy. And you can't control it, no matter how hard you try."

Her words hit uncomfortably close to the truth. Control had always been Joe's foundation—in football, in his public image, in his private life. Riley represented a disruption to that control, a beautiful chaos he both craved and feared.

"I know," he admitted quietly. "And that scares me."

Riley took a step closer, close enough that he could see the flecks of darker blue in her irises. “It scares me too. After Ethan, I swore I wouldn’t let anyone close enough to hurt me again.” She glanced down for a second, her voice quieter now. “But then you happened.”

Joe reached for her hand, relieved when she didn't pull away. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "That's the last thing I want."

"I know," Riley said, her fingers finally curling around his. "But you might. And I might hurt you too. That's the risk."

Joe nodded slowly, understanding what she wasn't saying. There were no guarantees, no perfect game plans for this. Just two people trying to navigate something neither had expected.

"So what happens now?" he asked. "We're both here in Vegas. Do we just... figure it out as we go?"

Riley studied him, something unreadable in her expression. "Maybe. But I need to know that you're actually trying, Joe. That you're not just going to pretend you don't know me if we run into each other at the fight tomorrow."

"I would never do that," Joe said firmly.

"Wouldn't you?" Riley challenged, though her tone held more sadness than anger. "Because it feels like that's exactly what you've been doing—keeping me separate, compartmentalized, away from your real life."

Joe wanted to argue, to defend himself, but the truth in her words stopped him. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hand, drawing her slightly closer. "I'm trying," he said, offering what he could. "I know that's not enough, but it's the truth."

Riley nodded slowly, a mix of emotions crossing her face. "At least that's honest." She gently extracted her hand from his. "I should go. Pete and Andy are waiting for me. We have dinner plans."

Joe felt a flicker of panic at the thought of her leaving with so much still unresolved between them. "When will I see you again?"

"I don't know," Riley said, retrieving her bag from the side table. "Maybe at the fight tomorrow. Maybe after."

The uncertainty in her voice twisted something in Joe's chest. This wasn't how he'd imagined their conversation would go.

"This isn't what I wanted," he said quietly as she moved toward the door.

Riley turned back to him, her expression softening slightly. "What did you want?"

Joe closed the distance between them, unable to maintain the space any longer. "I wanted to fix this. Whatever's been off between us since that call."

"Some things can't be fixed with one conversation, Joe," Riley said gently. "Some things take time. And maybe more than we've been willing to give."

She reached for the door, but Joe caught her arm, turning her back to face him. The tension between them had shifted, electric in a different way now. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the air heavy with everything still unsaid.

Then Riley made a small sound—something between frustration and surrender—and closed the remaining distance between them. Her hands came up to frame his face, and before Joe could process what was happening, she was kissing him.

Unlike their previous kisses, this one wasn't tentative or sweet. It was hungry, almost desperate, as if Riley was trying to convey through touch what words had failed to express. Joe responded instantly, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair.

The kiss deepened, months of tension and connection pouring into a single moment that felt both like a reunion and a goodbye. Riley pressed herself against him, her body familiar yet somehow new in the intensity of this embrace.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Riley's eyes were dark, her lips slightly swollen. She took a step back, her hand coming up to touch her mouth briefly.

"Just so you don't forget what you're risking," she said softly, her voice a little unsteady. "While you're trying to figure out what this is."

Before Joe could respond, she was out the door, leaving him alone with the lingering taste of her on his lips and the unsettling awareness that for the first time in his life, he had no playbook for what came next.

* * *

The hostess led Joe, Ja'Marr, and two of their friends through the crowded restaurant at the Cosmopolitan. The place was buzzing with fight weekend energy, exactly the Vegas atmosphere they'd come for.

"This spot is perfect," Ja'Marr said, scanning the crowd. "Good call coming here."

Joe nodded, but his attention had already locked onto a booth across the restaurant. Riley sat there, surrounded by friends, laughing at something the wild-haired guy next to her had said. She wore a simple black dress that left her shoulders bare, her hair swept up elegantly. The sight of her – vibrant, relaxed, in her element – made his chest tighten.

What caught his attention more was how close she sat to the lanky guy with black hair. He had his arm draped casually behind her on the booth, leaning in to speak directly into her ear. The familiarity in their body language was unmistakable.

"Mr. Burrow, your table is right—" The hostess stopped when she realized Joe wasn't listening.

"Joe?" Ja'Marr followed his line of sight. "Oh, your girl's here."

Joe nodded, still watching as Riley playfully shoved the guy away from her, laughing at whatever he'd said.

"Let's go say hi," Joe decided, looking at Ja'Marr and their friends.

"I'm down," Ja'Marr agreed immediately, always ready to be social. "Might as well see what's got you so distracted."

Their other friends, Mike and Derrick, nodded in agreement, curious about the woman who'd caught Joe's attention.

As they made their way across the restaurant toward Riley's table, Joe felt a flutter of nervousness that had nothing to do with approaching strangers and everything to do with seeing Riley after their tense conversation earlier.

"Don't look now, but Joe is heading this way," Pete said under his breath, reaching for his drink.

Riley had already spotted Joe coming toward them with Ja'Marr and two other guys. Despite everything, her pulse quickened. She hadn't expected him to approach them – not after how they'd left things in his suite.

"This should be interesting," Haley murmured, subtly adjusting her position to better observe the approaching quarterback.

"Who's Joe?" Dom asked, arm still casually draped behind Riley on the booth.

"The guy I told you about," Riley answered quickly. "The quarterback."

"Right, the American football one," Dom nodded, though his expression suggested this meant little to him. "The serious bloke."

Before Riley could respond, Joe reached their table with his friends. Up close, the contrast between him and her crew was even sharper—Joe in a crisp t-shirt and black jacket, dark jeans that fit just right. Composed, understated. Dom beside her was all colorful chaos in a patterned suit and platform boots.

"Hey," Joe said, his eyes finding hers before briefly scanning the table.

"Hey yourself," Riley replied, surprised by how naturally her smile came. "Didn't know you'd be here tonight."

“Didn’t know you’d be here either,” he said. “Good timing, I guess.” He gestured to his companions. "This is Ja'Marr, Mike, and Derrick."

Ja'Marr stepped forward with an easy smile, extending his hand to Riley. "Nice to finally meet you. Joe's been completely useless at conversation since we landed in Vegas."

Riley laughed, immediately warming to his straightforward charm. "Glad to know I'm not the only one he's been distracted around."

"I just wanted to come say hi," Joe said, his eyes returning to Riley. "Didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."

"You're not interrupting," Riley assured him. "Joe, these are my friends," she said, gesturing around the table. "Pete and Andy from the band, my friend Haley, and this is Dominic and Colson."

Dom extended his hand, flashing his characteristic wide smile. "Dominic Harrison. Pleasure."

Joe shook his hand with a nod. "Joe Burrow."

"Burrow?" Colson leaned forward with sudden interest. "The Cincinnati quarterback? Man, that Super Bowl game was insane."

Joe nodded, clearly used to being recognized. "That's me."

"Impressive," Colson said, studying Joe with new respect.

Riley noticed Joe's eyes flick briefly to Dom's arm, still draped casually behind her on the booth. She shifted slightly, creating a small but deliberate space between herself and Dom.

"You here for the fight tomorrow?" Pete asked, addressing Joe and his friends.

"Yeah, can't wait," Ja'Marr answered enthusiastically. "Should be epic."

"We'll be there too," Riley said. "Ringside seats."

"No way," Ja'Marr responded with genuine enthusiasm. "We're ringside too. First row."

"Same." Andy added. "Perks of the job, I guess."

"Sounds like we'll be seeing each other tomorrow then," Joe said with a small smile.

The prospect hung between them, tentative but hopeful. Riley found herself nodding. "Looking forward to it."

With a final nod to the group, Joe and his friends returned to their table. Riley felt everyone's eyes on her as she took a long sip of her drink.

"So that's the quarterback," Haley said, a hint of approval in her voice. "He's got that whole strong, silent thing going on."

"His friends seem cool," Pete offered.

"That Ja'Marr guy is definitely cool," Haley agreed. "Very charming."

Dom leaned in, his voice low enough that only Riley could hear. "He didn't much like me having my arm around you."

Riley gave him a warning look. "Don't start."

"I'm just saying," Dom continued with a mischievous grin, "man definitely has feelings for you. The way he looked at me—if looks could kill..."

Riley rolled her eyes, though she'd noticed it too – that flash of something possessive in Joe's eyes when he'd first approached.

"Ancient history, you and me," Dom said, reading her expression. "But he doesn't know that, does he?"

"It's not relevant," Riley said firmly.

Dom raised his hands in surrender, but his grin remained. "Whatever you say, love."

The conversation moved on, but Riley found her attention repeatedly drawn to Joe's table across the restaurant. Once or twice, she caught him looking back at her, their eyes meeting briefly before both looked away.

After their third round of drinks, Riley stood up. "I'm going to the restroom," she announced, needing a moment away from the group's scrutiny and her own conflicted thoughts.

"Want company?" Haley offered.

"I'm good," Riley replied, grabbing her small purse. "Be right back."

As she wound her way through the crowded restaurant, Riley felt a strange mix of emotions. Joe's gesture tonight had surprised her – it was a small step, but an important one. Yet their fundamental issue remained unresolved. The question of whether they could bridge their different worlds, different needs, still hung between them.

She pushed open the door to the restroom, grateful to find it relatively empty. Leaning against the counter, Riley took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. But all she could think about was Joe – the guarded hope in his eyes when he'd mentioned seeing her at the fight, the unmistakable tension when he'd seen her with Dom.

* * *

From his table, Joe watched as Riley disappeared down the hallway to the restrooms, the sway of her hips drawing more than just his attention. The colorful-haired musician—Dom—watched her go with a familiarity that made Joe's jaw clench.

"You gonna sit there staring after her all night?" Ja'Marr's voice cut through his thoughts.

"What? No," Joe replied, turning back to their conversation, though his focus remained elsewhere.

“Man, you know you want to,” Ja’Marr said with a knowing grin. “Just go already.”

Joe hesitated only briefly before standing, surprising himself with the decision. The Joe Burrow the world knew—disciplined, methodical, controlled—didn't follow women to bathrooms in Vegas restaurants. But the Joe Burrow sitting here, watching another man touch Riley with casual intimacy, wasn't feeling particularly disciplined or controlled.

Joe hesitated only briefly before standing up. "I'll be back."

As he walked toward the hallway where Riley had disappeared, Joe wasn't entirely sure what he planned to say. Their earlier conversation in his suite had ended with more questions than answers. But seeing her tonight, surrounded by her friends, so vibrant and alive, had crystalized something for him.

He wasn't ready to let her go. Not without at least trying to figure out what this was between them.

With that thought in mind, Joe rounded the corner into the hallway, determined to find some resolution – or at least a path forward – before the night was over.

Riley stood at the marble sink, letting the cold water run over her wrists, a trick she'd learned years ago to cool down when her mind was racing. The bathroom was mercifully empty—one of those ridiculously opulent Vegas restrooms with plush seating areas and soft lighting.

The door opened behind her. She glanced up at the mirror, expecting another patron, but instead saw Joe's reflection. Their eyes locked in the glass, and something in his expression made her pulse quicken.

Without a word, Joe reached behind him and turned the lock.

"Women's bathroom," Riley said, turning to face him. Not a question, not a protest—just a statement of fact.

"I don't care," Joe replied, his voice low and intent as he crossed the space between them.

There was something different about him—a rawness she'd never seen before, the carefully maintained composure completely gone. Joe Burrow looked like a man who'd made a decision and was done overthinking it.

“Looked like you were real close with that guy." Joe said, stopping just inches from her.

"With Dom?" Riley raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

Joe stopped just in front of her, close but not touching. His voice was low.

“You and him. What’s the deal?”

Riley tilted her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He glanced toward the lounge behind them, jaw tight. “He had his hands on you like it wasn’t the first time.”

She let out a quiet breath. “You jealous?”

“I’m asking.” His eyes didn’t move from hers. “How well does he know you?”

Riley blinked, her mouth tightening just slightly. “Why does it matter?”

Joe’s jaw flexed. He didn’t look away.

“Because I fucked up this week,” he said, the words quieter than she expected. “And you’ve put space between us ever since.” He shook his head, almost like he was tired of himself. “You barely text back. You dodge calls. And now you’re here, looking at someone else like it’s easier.”

She didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait.

“Because I feel like I’m already losing you,” Joe said, low and unguarded. “And I haven’t even had the chance to call you mine.”

The honesty in his voice struck her more powerfully than any practiced words could have. This wasn't careful, controlled Joe. This was something raw and real—jealousy and desire and frustration all mingled together.

Before Riley could respond, Joe closed the final distance between them. One hand curved around the back of her neck while the other gripped her waist, pulling her against him as his mouth found hers. There was nothing careful about this kiss—it was hungry, possessive, demanding.

Riley responded instantly, her fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. This wasn't the controlled, measured Joe she'd known in Cincinnati. This was something else entirely—raw and unfiltered, all restraint abandoned.

She felt herself being lifted onto the counter, cool marble shocking against her heated skin as Joe's hands gripped her thighs. The contrast between the cold surface and his burning touch made her gasp. Riley wrapped her legs around him, drawing him against her as the kiss deepened. She could taste the faint bitterness of whiskey on his tongue, feel the controlled strength in his hands as they moved beneath her dress—always measured, always deliberate, even now.

Joe’s mouth traveled down her neck, beard scraping lightly against her sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” he murmured, his voice lower than she’d ever heard it, vibrating against her collarbone.

Riley tipped her head back, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Then let’s lose it together.”

He laughed against her collarbone, a low rumble she felt more than heard. His hands found the edge of her underwear, fingers hooking around the delicate fabric. "Can I?" he asked, voice rough with desire.

"Yes," Riley breathed, lifting slightly to help him.

Joe knelt, drawing the fabric down her legs with agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving hers. The sight of Joe Burrow on his knees before her, looking up with undisguised want, sent heat coursing through her body.

"Fuck, look at you." he said, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh that made her breath catch.

Joe’s lips skimmed the inside of her thigh, warm breath ghosting over her skin as he dragged his mouth higher—soft, open-mouthed kisses that made her tremble. He didn’t rush. Didn’t tease. Just took his time, like he was mapping her. Like he was making sure she’d feel this later, when they weren’t touching anymore.

Riley bit her lip, her hand slipping behind her to grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the marble. Her other hand threaded into his hair, tugging gently—half to anchor herself, half to ground him there.

“Joe,” she whispered, not as a plea, but a reminder. That she was here. That this was real. That she wanted him as wrecked as she was.

Her voice made him groan, low and guttural, against the inside of her thigh. She felt it reverberate straight through her core. His grip tightened. Not rough, not yet—but urgent. Like if he didn’t hold her steady, he might lose the thread of himself completely.

And then—he gave in.

Joe pressed his mouth to her with a hunger that didn’t ask for permission. No hesitation. No tease. Just the full weight of everything he’d been holding back—weeks of restraint undone in a single, claiming sweep of his tongue.

Riley gasped, her spine arching off the mirror-backed wall. The cool air met her skin where her dress had bunched around her hips, but all she could feel was him. The heat of his mouth. The grip of his hands. The sharp edge of his stubble scraping in places that made her thighs tremble.

He licked into her like he was angry about it—like he hated that anyone else had touched her, seen her, heard the sounds she was making now. He was careful, yes—but not gentle. There was nothing soft about the way his mouth moved. Nothing patient in the way his tongue circled and pressed and devoured.

“Jesus,” she breathed, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other threading into his hair. He made a sound at that—something low and possessive—and doubled down, tongue flicking hard against her clit until she whimpered.

The kind of sound that sounded like surrender. And maybe it was. But not to him—not entirely. She was giving herself to this, to them. And fuck, he felt it.

Joe’s fingers flexed against her thighs, thumbs digging in just enough to mark. She felt him adjust slightly, then suck—hard—and her hips jerked in his hands.

“Joe,” she gasped again, shakier now. “Fuck—please—”

That did something to him. She felt it in the way his tongue dragged lower, slower, thicker—like he wanted to wreck her. Like he needed to be the one who took her apart first, before anyone else could try.

He groaned again—louder this time, almost a curse—burying himself deeper, eating like he was trying to erase whatever version of her had existed before this.

And when she cried out—louder than she meant to, thighs shaking, back bowed—then he looked up at her.

Eyes wild.

Breath ragged.

Mouth wet.

He didn’t say it out loud, but she could feel it in the heat of his stare.

Mine.

“This is so fucked,” he muttered, voice gutted. His forehead dropped to her thigh, eyes squeezed shut, hands still gripping her like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

She looked down at him, eyes glassy. “Then show me how fucked it is.”

“You’re shaking,” he rasped, dark and satisfied.

“Because you won’t fuck me,” she panted, half-laugh, half-plea.

He lifted his head at that. His mouth was swollen, his eyes wrecked—pure heat and hunger and a little bit of madness. His jaw clenched as he took her in.

“Jesus, Bird,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t handle you like this.” It slipped out, unguarded. “Not tonight.”

She slid her fingers into his hair, tugging gently but firm—until his gaze snapped back to hers.

“I’m not trying to break you, Joe,” she said softly. “I just want to be close.”

Joe didn’t move at first. Just stared at her—like he was trying to memorize this version of her, flushed and reckless, daring him to lose control.

Then he rose.

Not fast. Not slow. Just with purpose. Like he’d finally given in.

The second he was standing, Riley reached for him—no hesitation, no nerves. Her fingers found the button of his jeans, popping it open with a sharp flick. The zipper followed, slow and deliberate. Then her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around him with shaky, unflinching precision.

The sound Joe made when she touched him was raw—broken open at the seams, like it had been waiting to escape all night.

He kissed her hard, deep, his hands bracketing her thighs like he needed her pulse to anchor him.

And then—

A knock. Sharp. Too real.

“Riley?” Haley’s voice called from outside the door. “You still in there?”

Riley froze, her hand still inside Joe’s jeans, his fingers digging into her thighs. They stared at each other, breath shallow and ragged, the air between them thick with heat and hesitation.

“Yeah,” she called back, remarkably steady, like her heart wasn’t slamming against her ribs. “Just fixing my makeup. Be out in a minute.”

“Dom’s looking for you,” Haley replied. “Getting kind of pushy about it, actually.”

Joe’s expression darkened at the mention of Dom’s name. His grip tightened, possessive and unthinking, like some part of him couldn’t help it. Something flickered in his eyes—jealousy, raw and unfiltered.

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Riley said, not looking away from Joe.

“You want me to wait?”

“No, I’m good. Go ahead.”

Haley’s footsteps faded. Neither of them moved. Joe stayed pressed against her, pulse hammering under her hands, both of them strung out and teetering.

“Dom’s looking for you,” he repeated, voice low, controlled—but barely.

Riley didn’t flinch. “I’m not with Dom.”

“But you were.” He wasn’t accusing—just stating it. Like it had been living under his skin for too long.

“A long time ago,” she said quietly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Joe’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t look that way tonight.”

“Well, I’m not the one in here with him, am I?” she said, her voice sharpening just slightly. Her hand flexed where it still held him, and Joe’s breath hitched, involuntary and wrecked. “I’m here with you.”

That seemed to crack something open in him. He kissed her hard—no pretense, no restraint, just full possession. His hands slid under her thighs again, lifting her slightly, pressing in like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

Riley rocked her hips into him, body still trembling from earlier, still open and aching for more. Joe’s hand moved between them, fingers slipping over her, slow and sure, drawing another soft gasp from her lips.

The door was still locked.

But the night had already come undone.

Joe dragged her closer, his grip firm at her waist, every line of his body tense with barely restrained frustration.

“He was touching you like he doesn’t know it’s over,” Joe said low, mouth brushing her skin. “Like I wasn't standing right there.”

“He doesn’t get to touch me,” Riley whispered, nails digging into his back. “Not anymore.”

Joe’s jaw flexed. “But he has.”

Riley nodded once, breathing uneven. “Yeah. He has.”

Joe stilled—just for a beat. “I fucking hate that.”

She tilted her head, met his gaze. “Then make me forget him.”

That did it.

He shoved her dress up with both hands, guiding himself with a roughness that bordered on desperate, but never careless. He pushed into her in one long, devastating stroke, the stretch so sharp and full it knocked the breath from her lungs.

"Christ, Bird," he rasped, forehead pressed to hers, his voice breaking open. "He ever get you like this?"

Riley gasped, hips rolling into him, her body already trembling. "No. Never like this."

Joe growled low in his throat, hips snapping forward again, harder this time. "Say it again."

"Never like this," she moaned, gripping his shoulders, holding onto him like the truth. "No one but you."

His mouth crushed hers, tongue sweeping in with a heat that stole what little breath she had left. He fucked her like it mattered. Like every thrust was a statement. A claim. Like jealousy had burned a hole through his restraint and all that was left was this—raw, unfiltered need.

Riley’s head fell back, hands tangled in his hair as her body clenched around him, already spiraling again. “Joe—fuck—don’t stop.”

“I’m not fucking stopping,” he growled. “Not when you’re saying my name like that.”

Her legs tightened around his hips, dragging him deeper. Their bodies were slick with heat, the rhythm a little brutal now, like he was trying to bury every trace of Dom beneath her skin and replace it with him.

“Say it again,” he gritted.

“Joe,” she sobbed, “It’s only you.”

His hands were everywhere—her waist, her thigh, her jaw. His breath hot at her ear as he ground into her with every ounce of want he’d held back until now.

And somewhere between the bite of jealousy and the softness of her saying his name like that, he unraveled.

Riley clung to him, nails scoring down his back, her cries muffled against his mouth as her orgasm surged through her—sudden, fierce, overwhelming.

She shattered around him, her body trembling with it, breath catching in a sharp, helpless gasp. Joe groaned against her throat, his rhythm faltering as she clenched tight around him.

“Fuck, Riley—” His voice cracked, ragged. “God, I—”

He followed with a broken sound, burying himself deep one last time as he came hard, his whole body tensing, jaw locked, breath ripped out of him.

For a long moment, they didn’t move.

Their foreheads pressed together. Chest to chest. Breathing hard. The bathroom quiet except for the sound of the air conditioning humming faintly through the vents and their harsh, stuttering breaths.

Joe was still inside her, his grip firm but not desperate now—like he didn’t know whether to let go or hold on tighter.

Riley’s body shook against his, still pulsing with aftershocks. Her head dropped to his shoulder, breath warm and uneven against his neck. Joe didn’t move. Couldn’t. His jeans were shoved halfway down his thighs, her dress still bunched up around her waist, their bodies tangled and pressed tight against the bathroom door.

His hands stayed where they were—one gripping her hip, the other braced against the door like he needed it to stay upright.

His forehead pressed to hers, lips brushing her cheek as he caught his breath.

And then, quietly—like it scraped something raw on the way out:

“This doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

Riley’s eyes fluttered open. She didn’t pull back, didn’t move. Just stayed wrapped around him, cheek to his jaw, heartbeat loud in her ears.

“No,” she said, soft. Honest. “But I'm not sorry it happened.”

Joe exhaled, rough. His hands curled a little tighter around her.

“We saw you with him.”

A breath.

“It fucked with me.”

“I wasn’t trying to mess with you.”

She held his gaze. “But I get why it did.”

“I hate that he’s touched you,” he said, voice low, like he hated saying it out loud even more. “And that you let him.” Riley pulled back enough to look at him, flushed and wrecked and wide open.

“It didn’t.”

She held his gaze.

“It didn’t mean what this does.”

That seemed to steady him, just barely. His jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then he rested his forehead against hers again.

For a beat, neither of them spoke. Her dress still hiked up. His jeans still undone. Breath still shallow, skin still flushed, everything still echoing

Joe didn’t move.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

But for a moment—just one—they stood there, forehead to forehead, hearts still pounding, tangled up in the mess they’d made together.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Riley,” he murmured finally, voice barely above a whisper. “How to be the man I’ve built myself to be… and still be what you need.”

Riley’s fingers curled around the fabric of his t-shirt, soft and rumpled between them.

“Maybe it’s not one or the other,” she said quietly. “Maybe you don’t have to choose. Maybe you just need to be you. The real you.”

Joe let out a rough exhale. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

She leaned in, brushed her lips to his cheek—gentle and grounding.

“You’re still you,” she said quietly. “Even like this.”

His eyes closed for a beat, like that idea scared him and settled him all at once.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, really look at her, flushed and messy and still radiant under the flickering bathroom light.

“Tomorrow,” he said, more certain this time. “After the fight. Let’s talk. Really talk.”

Riley nodded once. “Okay.”

They stood there a moment longer, then quietly started to pull themselves back together—straightening clothes, wiping smeared lipstick, running shaking fingers through tangled hair. The heat of what had just happened still clung to the walls, but something else sat underneath now. Not regret. Not exactly clarity either. But maybe a beginning.

Joe reached for the lock.

And just as he twisted it and pulled the door open—

Haley stood there, hand raised, mid-knock, eyes wide like she’d just caught them mid-crime.

Riley blinked.

"Oh," Haley said, her expression shifting from concern to delight. "Well, this explains a lot."

Riley felt her face heat up, but couldn't quite manage to feel embarrassed. "Haley—"

“Don’t even try,” Haley said, grinning. Her eyes flicked to Joe. “We technically met, but now I feel like I've got a better read on you.”

“Hope it’s not a bad one,” Joe said, a small smile pulling at his mouth. There was the faintest hint of color in his cheeks, but he held her gaze.

“Didn’t say it was bad. Just clearer.”

"I should get back," he said to Riley, his hand briefly squeezing hers. "Ja'Marr's probably wondering where I disappeared to."

"Though probably not wondering very hard," Haley muttered, eyes twinkling.

As Joe slipped past them into the hallway, Haley watched him go with undisguised amusement. The moment he was out of earshot, she turned to Riley, eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline.

"A bathroom? Really?" she whispered, her voice a mixture of scandal and admiration. "How very rock star of you."

Riley couldn’t help but laugh. “Shut up.”

Haley raised a brow, delight dancing in her eyes. “Please. Like this is the first time you’ve pulled some chaotic shit in a public bathroom. If anything, I’m disappointed it took this long.”

As they made their way back toward the table, the buzz of the restaurant filtering back in, Haley leaned in close. “So, for the record? I think I’m Team Quarterback now.”

Riley didn’t answer right away. Her heart was still thudding in her chest, her lips swollen, her body thrumming with the echoes of everything Joe had made her feel. Want. Fear. Hope. A dangerous, heady cocktail she hadn’t quite figured out how to hold yet.

She exhaled a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-confession. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Haley glanced sideways at her, reading more than Riley had meant to give away, but didn’t push.

“Okay,” she said lightly. “But I’m still ordering us a celebration drink. For, you know—bravery. Or reckless sex. Whichever.”

Riley snorted. “Same thing, really.”

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

Riley slid back into her seat like nothing had happened, smoothing her dress with the grace of someone who had absolutely just had sex in a bathroom and was committed to pretending otherwise.

Haley followed a second later, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she might bleed.

When they got back to the table, Haley plopped down in her seat with exaggerated satisfaction, took one long look at her, and said cheerfully, “Wow. You look incredible. Honestly, great call taking twenty minutes in the bathroom to fix your face. So natural. So radiant. So… freshly rearranged.”

Riley arched a brow, sliding into the empty chair next to her. “You done?”

“Oh, not even close,” Haley whispered, sipping her drink like it was her job.

Pete nodded, eyes narrowing like he was analyzing her under a ring light. “Yeah, real radiant. Freshly flushed. Like you just discovered the perfect highlighter.”

Across the table, Dom blinked. “Wait. That was a makeup fix?”

“You guys are hilarious,” Riley said flatly, reaching for her drink like she hadn’t just committed a felony against public decency.

Dom looked at her. Then at Joe—just settling back into his seat, hair clearly mussed, trying so hard to look normal.

“No,” Dom said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Nooooo.”

Haley sipped her wine like it was piping hot tea. “Say it with me, Dom. Bathroom. Bang.”

Dom let out a dramatic groan, flopping against the back of his chair like he’d just been stabbed. “You left me. To get fucked in a bathroom. With a fuckin’ jock. I feel personally victimised.”

“I didn’t leave you,” Riley said dryly. “I excused myself.”

“To go get railed by the quarterback in the ladies’ room!” Dom cried, scandalized. “Have some respect. At least sneak off to the service hallway like a proper slut.”

Pete raised his glass solemnly. “Honestly, we support you. But also, I’d like to file a formal complaint on behalf of the rest of us who now have to sit here and pretend Joe Burrow didn’t just raw dog our singer in a public restroom.”

Haley grinned into her wine. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

* * *

Joe slid back into his seat like nothing had happened.

Ja’Marr raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Joe reached for his water, nodding once. “Yep.”

A beat of silence.

Mike looked him up and down. “You come back looking like that and expect us not to ask questions?”

Derrick blinked at him. “Your curls are fucked up.”

Ja’Marr didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Bro. Did you just hit a bathroom quickie? Like… you?”

Joe didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Ja’Marr let out a low whistle. “Duuuude.”

Derrick leaned back in his chair, grinning. “In the bathroom, my guy?”

Mike just shook his head, half impressed, half horrified. “That’s not even your style. You good?

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look unbothered. “What do you think?”

That sent Derrick into full wheeze-laugh mode. “I think you’re fucked, is what I think.”

Joe gave them all a look, the kind that was supposed to say drop it—but with his hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, and mouth still red around the edges, it didn’t land the way he wanted it to.

“Man,” Mike said, shaking his head slowly, “I thought we were the bad influences on you.”

“She’s got him moving reckless,” Derrick said, grinning. “Whole vibe changed. That’s rockstar influence, bro.

Ja’Marr pointed his fork at Joe, eyes gleaming. “You’ve known her for what, two months? And you’re already out here throwin’ away your whole brand in a damn bathroom stall?”

Derrick nearly choked on his drink.

Joe shook his head, making no effort to fix his hair or straighten his shirt. "We done talking about this?"

"Oh, we're just getting started," Ja'Marr said, his grin widening. "Joe Burrow throwing caution to the wind? This is historical."

"Man's out here living," Derrick added, raising his glass in mock salute. "One minute he's worried about someone taking his picture, next he's—"

"Next round's on me if we change the subject," Joe cut in, his expression deadpan but eyes betraying a hint of amusement.

Mike leaned back, studying Joe. "Never thought I'd see the day. Miss Riley's got you breaking your own rules."

Joe's phone lit up with a text. He glanced down, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"There she is," Ja'Marr said, nodding toward the message. "What's she saying? 'Thanks for the quickie'?"

Joe pocketed his phone without responding, but the slight flush creeping up his neck told them everything.

"Y'all finished?" Joe asked, picking up his fork and knife to return to his barely-touched steak.

"Not by a long shot," Mike said, "but I'll save the rest for when you've had a few more drinks."

As the conversation reluctantly shifted to tomorrow's fight predictions, Joe found himself glancing across the restaurant, catching Riley's eye just as she returned to her table. She shot him a tiny, secret smile that made his heart slam against his ribs.

Derrick noticed the exchange and shook his head. "Man, you are so far gone."

This time, Joe didn't bother denying it.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind them with a thud, and Riley immediately kicked off her heels, one landing under the credenza and the other bouncing off the edge of the sofa. Haley followed suit, letting out a dramatic sigh as she tugged off her lashes and stuck them to the edge of a lamp.

“Water,” Riley groaned, stumbling toward the minibar. “Where the fuck is the water.”

“There was some in here earlier, I swear,” Haley muttered, yanking open drawers like she was disarming a bomb. “I will drink out of a flower vase if I have to.”

Riley finally pulled out two half-warm bottles and held them up in triumph. “Not cold, but we’ll survive.”

They collapsed onto the bed, chugging like they’d just crossed a desert, legs tangled, dresses wrinkled, adrenaline still humming low beneath the exhaustion.

For a beat, they just sat there, catching their breath in the quiet.

Then Haley glanced sideways, a slow grin spreading. “So… bathroom bang?”

They lay there like that for a minute, chests rising and falling, the city glittering behind the curtains. The quiet wrapped around them like an old song, familiar and warm.

Then Riley exhaled. “You know me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Haley turned her head. “Yeah. I do.”

“I mean—like, I’m not new to… bathrooms and making questionable decisions in semi-public places.”

Riley. You once left Ethan with a hickey and a black eye in the same weekend and called it foreplay.”

Riley cracked a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. And then he left me on read for three days and told Rolling Stone we were ‘exploring different energies.’”

Haley’s expression softened. “This isn’t that.”

“I know,” Riley said quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

“I really like this guy,” Riley said quietly, staring up at the ceiling like the truth might sting less if she didn’t look at anyone. “More than I’ve ever let myself like anyone. Not even Ethan—not like this.”

Haley didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Just let Riley keep going.

“When it’s just us, it’s… different. He’s present. Soft. Like he’s in it with me. Like he wants it just as much as I do.” She exhaled slowly. “But then we step out into the world, or I try to talk about how we actually do this, how we share space between his life and mine—and it’s like he disappears behind some wall. He pulls back. And I don’t know why.”

She paused. The words felt like they were unspooling from somewhere deep.

“I spent so long after Ethan reclaiming everything he chipped away at. My voice. My name. My fucking agency. I told myself I’d never let anyone make me feel small or invisible again.”

Her throat tightened.

“But this is starting to feel like I’m getting jerked around in a different way. With Ethan, everything was public. All the chaos, the performance—it was always for show. With Joe, it’s the opposite. He wants me in private. Quietly. Like he’s afraid to want me out loud.”

She turned her head, finally meeting Haley’s eyes.

“And I don’t know what that means. Or what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Haley didn’t speak right away. She just looked at Riley for a long moment, the kind of look that came from knowing someone too well to bullshit them.

Then she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. “Okay, first of all? You’re not crazy.”

Riley let out a shaky breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

Haley continued, steady and sure. “What you’re describing? That dissonance—that whiplash between how he is with you alone versus how he is out there? That matters. It’s real. And it doesn’t make you needy or dramatic for noticing it.”

She paused, her voice softening. “I watched Ethan mess with your head in front of a million people. I watched you claw your way out of that, step by fucking step. So yeah, maybe Joe’s not doing the same thing—but it still feels like you’re being asked to live in the shadows. And that’s not nothing.”

Riley’s eyes stung, but she didn’t blink.

“I think he cares about you,” Haley said gently. “Like—really cares about you. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to carry all of it. The public part. The risk. The letting go of the version of himself he’s spent years curating.

She reached out, tugging lightly at the sleeve of Riley’s sweatshirt. “But the thing is, you already know who you are. You’ve done the work. You’re not the girl who bends to fit anymore.”

She tilted her head. “So the question isn’t whether he wants to be seen with you. The question is whether you are willing to disappear again.”

Riley swallowed hard, her throat thick. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Just stared up at the ceiling, eyes glassy, chest rising slow and uneven beneath the hoodie she’d stolen from Joe days ago.

“No,” she said finally. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just certain. “I’m not.”

Haley didn’t press her—just waited.

“I worked too fucking hard to get here,” Riley said, voice gaining shape now, steadier with every word. “To be proud of who I am. To take up space without apologizing. To sing what I want. Wear what I want. Love how I want.”

She paused, pressing her knuckles to her lips like the truth might fall out too fast.

“I want him. God, I do. But I’m not going back to hiding just because it makes someone else more comfortable. I can’t be the secret. I won't be.”

She turned her head toward Haley, eyes still burning. “I want all of it. I want to feel like I can stand next to him and not wonder if I’m too much or too loud or too visible.”

Haley reached over, linking their pinkies without looking. “Then he’s either gonna meet you there… or he’s gonna miss out.”

Riley exhaled slowly, her chest loosening just enough to breathe.

“But,” Haley added, voice softer now, “give him a little time, okay? Not forever. Not enough to make yourself small. Just enough to see if he figures out what’s right in front of him.”

Riley nodded, barely. “Yeah.”

“‘Cause I like this one,” Haley said, tugging their pinkies. “But I like you more.”

Riley smiled at that—wobbly but real. “Thanks, YeaYea.”

“Anytime, slut.”

Riley huffed a laugh and let her eyes drift shut, Haley’s hand still looped through hers. The hotel room was quiet now, the chaos of the night behind them. But the clarity lingered, sharp and necessary.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. Joe stepped into his suite, the hush of the hallway replaced by the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled thump of bass still lingering in his chest. His jacket was already off, shirt untucked, the top two buttons undone. His fingers ran through his hair—restless, aimless—before he dropped the keycard on the table and stood there for a beat too long.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The bathroom mirror caught his reflection—hair mussed, collar wrinkled, lips still faintly swollen from kissing her like he’d never get another chance.

He exhaled through his nose and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. He could still taste her. Still feel her under his hands. Still hear her saying “Then make me forget him.”

And that look in her eyes when she said it—like she saw all the cracks he’d tried to hide and wanted him anyway.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Took a long sip from the bottle of water someone had left beside the bed. It didn’t help much.

Everything he’d worked to build—every careful, quiet, calculated piece of his life—felt suddenly unstable. Like it couldn’t hold her. Like it couldn’t hold this.

She made him reckless. But she also made him honest. And that was scarier.

Joe picked up his phone. Opened their thread. Paused.

Then began typing.

Joe stared at his phone. The quiet in the suite was heavy—too heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, opened their thread, and started typing.

Draft 1:

You know I didn’t mean to be like that tonight. I just—

[Backspace. All of it.]

Draft 2:

Sorry if I made things worse.

[Delete.]

Draft 3:

I shouldn’t have lost it like that. Dom isn’t the problem. I am.

[Still wrong. Too clinical.]

Draft 4:

I want you. That’s all I know. I want you and I don’t know how to do this right but I’m trying.

[He stared. Shook his head. Deleted it.]

He tossed the phone down. Paced. Picked it back up.

Deep breath. This time, he didn’t overthink.

Joe (sent): I know I was outta line tonight. I was jealous and I took it out on you. That’s not who I want to be, and you didn’t deserve that. I know the bathroom didn’t fix anything. And I don’t have the right to ask you to be patient with me. But I’m asking anyway. I’ve never felt like this before. Never wanted something like this before. I want to talk tomorrow. Really talk. After the fight. He stared at the screen.

Sent.

Then tossed the phone on the nightstand like it burned.

Riley’s phone buzzed on the comforter between them.

She reached for it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen. Her brows lifted as she read, and she didn’t say anything at first—just blinked, like she wasn’t expecting to hear from him. Not tonight.

Haley clocked the shift immediately. “What?”

Riley handed her the phone without a word.

Haley read it once. Then again. Her mouth opened, then closed. “Okay… damn. That’s…” She blinked. “That’s actually kind of hot. In a ‘men and their damage’ kind of way.”

Riley didn’t smile. Not yet. Her eyes were still on the screen. “He’s never texted me like this.”

“Do you want to respond?”

Riley took the phone back, staring at the message. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. For a second, her face was unreadable.

Then she texted.

Riley: You were outta line. But don’t twist it—I wanted you. That wasn’t a mistake. You got me all messed up too, Joe.

She set the phone down on her chest and exhaled slow, like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

Haley didn’t press. She just sank deeper into the pillows beside her, nudging a bottle of water into Riley’s hand.

“Get some sleep,” she said softly. “You’ll need it.”

Riley didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes and let herself hope.

Riley set her phone down on the duvet and stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths that didn’t feel entirely steady.

Haley watched her for a beat, then nudged her gently with her elbow. “Hey.”

Riley turned her head. “What?”

Haley offered a small smile—softer than before, stripped of all the teasing. “I know it’s messy. But a guy doesn’t send something like that if he doesn’t care.”

Riley didn’t say anything.

Haley reached over and plucked the bottle of water from the nightstand, handing it over. “You don’t gotta know how it ends tonight. But that text? That was a man trying. And that matters.”

Riley took the water but didn’t drink it. Just nodded once, slow. Like she was filing it away somewhere private.

“Sleep,” Haley added, curling back into the pillows. “Tomorrow’s gonna be long.”

Riley whispered, almost to herself, “Yeah. But maybe good, too.”

Neither of them said anything after that.

The room went quiet, lit only by the glow of the city outside, and for the first time in days—Riley let herself believe it might not all fall apart.

youtube

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fanfiction #jiley #hide fanfic #joe burrow fluff #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfic #nfl fanfiction #nfl series #Youtube

70 notes · View notes

kirlicues · 2 months ago

Text

Quaint Country Cottage | Sims 2 Lot Download

This sunny little cottage features 4 bedrooms, 3 baths, and plenty of country charm. It is built on a 2x3 lot and costs $123,593. This lot comes partly furnished.

I have gotten so many sweet comments from the community on these lots and how they remind you of houses and places you've seen in real life. Thank you! But I will admit that at least 95% of my lots are not based on any house plans, they were just built off the top of my head, so any likeness to anything you've seen on TV or driving around in your neighborhood is purely coincidental since I don't really watch TV either. 💕

With all that being said, this house is inspired by my grandparents' place even though it doesn't look a thing like their single-story, ranch-style home. 🤭

Here's what this home looks like from the back:

Keep scrolling down for the lot download, or if you have a moment or 5, you can read some about the inspiration behind this home, first. 😄

When my grandma was still alive she was an avid seamstress who sewed many beautiful dresses for my cousins and I when we were growing up, and I'm blessed to still have a couple of them in my possession.

My grandparents' home was filled with all the kinds of things you'd expect to find in a house that had been lived in for 30+ years (and 60+ by the time they passed).

Why do I bring this up? Well, let me show you the floor plans and I think you'll see the connection! ❤

1st Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: dining room, kitchen, laundry/mudroom, living room, entry way, and bathroom.

This section doesn't look very lived-in, so let's head upstairs...

2nd Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: Master bedroom, bathroom, kids bedroom 1, upstairs landing, kids bedroom 2, kids bedroom 3/sewing room, and master bathroom.

There's that lived-in, well-loved look! 🥰

The other major difference between this house and my grandparents place is that they only had 1 bathroom for 6 people(?!). That would never work in the Sims game, so you, fortunately, get 3!

I used "moveobjects", the quarter-tile placement cheat, and the 45-degree angle cheats freely. I also have the Object Freedom mod in my game. Most things should be functional and accessible, but you may need to have that Object Freedom mod to get the home to look like this (the worst thing that will happen if you don't have it is objects may not be placed quite right on the walls or floors). If you notice an object blocking something feel free to move/remove it.

And as always, if lived-in/well-loved isn't your style feel free to redecorate it to fit your sim family's needs.

Quaint Cozy Cottage: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run this lot through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home has 4 pieces of CC, 2 of which are Maxis pre-order bonus items which you may already have in your game. These can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want them though.

CC List (Included): -Functional Washer and Dryer by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims -Seasons Pre-Order Bonus "Garden Swing of Bliss and Harmony" -Teen Style Stuff Pre-Order Bonus "Pennelle by Top Shelf Toys" stuffed giraffe

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some “Lost & Found” Maxis objects? Check out this post.

143 notes · View notes

bitchlessdino · 2 years ago

Note

okok i'm here for a request

wonwoo as your coworker who you've been having an office romance with - which you have been taking as a joke. everyone thinks you'll get together, and you play along with that. but wonwoo is very serious.

so late night booty call from coworker!wonwoo? or maybe drunk dial to wonwoo and the aftermath the next day (fucking in the office)

Pairing: wonwoo x afab!reader

Genre: smut

Word count: 3.9k

tags: office au, feturin bartender!chan and coworker!mingyu, mentions of alcohol, exhibitionism, manhandling, unprotected sex, creampie, pet name

author note: hi bee ily bee, you're messed up for this bee. but im worse for producing it gdjgwkjg. anyways enjoy wonu rot

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @homerunhansol @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @6969lilithcat @wonuhour @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro

Wonwoo is a handsome guy and it was clear as day to everyone in the office. You like having a bit of his attention. He’s funny and quite friendly with you, but that is perhaps because the first time you met you had the courage to fight with him over the last jam-filled donut in the break room. Since then, there’s never not been a reason to talk as if you’ve known each other forever.

You admit some of the socializing you’ve been having with Wonwoo is more than what you do with any other coworker, let alone friend, but you were just playing along and it was too late to go back. Besides, both of you know what this is. All this talk was simply harmless flirting, playful jokes, and lively banter. You make it clear at the end of it all that there is nothing between you and Wonwoo, that things are as platonic as two subordinates can get.

You can’t say the rest of the office believes that though, seeing as so many of them with jealous glares in your direction or the nudges from the suspecting coworkers that ‘lowkey ship’ you two together as if you were some characters in television.

“Ugh, you two make me sick. Just get together and have beautiful children already.”

You and Wonwoo shared a harmonious chuckle together, one louder in humor and it wasn’t the man dashing in a silk silver necktie.

“I wish I could, but they like to sleep on the left side even though I also sleep on the left side and I don't know how that would work,” Wonwoo knocks against your shoulder

“Not to mention he likes cats way more than dogs and the fact that we could never really be together because we’re just good coworkers.”

“Right,” he lightly punches, indicating agreement. “It’d be a really bad idea if we were actually together.”

You raise your brows, almost offended. “Woah, woah. I never said it was really bad.”

“But you were thinking about it.”

“Lover quarrel I hear?” Mingyu butts in after getting his morning joe. “They’re always at it at this time of day.”

You roll your eyes at the giant. “All I’m saying is. I and Wonwoo are good together at work. Just work. Dare I say he’s a good work husband, even if he steals the last of the pastries—“

“Will you ever let that go—“

“No—and that’s all there is everyone. Sorry to disappoint.”

The crowd gives their share of snide smirks before dispersing. Mingyu is the last to stay behind, a Cheshire smile on his face. “Sure, you two. Just keep your hands to yourself around here…if you can help it.”

You were about to throw a light kick at the man before he started scurrying off, leaving you and Wonwoo in your lonesome as always.

“They mean no harm by the way,” Wonwoo points out, “but if it bothers you that much, I can tell them to lay off.”

“Nu-uh,” you reply, shaking your head, “and make me look like a buzzkill? I don’t mind the back and forth. Just don’t anyone get the wrong idea that our jokes are actually serious?”

“Yeah, because it’d be just awful to be caught dating someone like me.”

You groan at his choice of words. “That is not what I said. Stop putting words in my mouth. This is why we wouldn’t work together.”

Wonwoo shrugs, a smile on his face that truly does brighten up a whole room. God, no wonder people think you’re dating him. What single man smiles like that? “Alright, sweet face. Fine. Who cares what they think? We know left from right, okay?” There’s a hint in his tone that says otherwise but you decide to ignore it.

“Okay, good. Anyways, what are your plans tonight? Up for another night of Valo queue?”

“I actually have plans tonight.”

“Oh?” You say wiggling your eyebrows. “Hot date?”

“Maybe? Haven’t met them yet.”

You’re playful expression fades. “Oh, actually? Wow. You must be…excited.”

He shrugs, freshening up his mug. “It’s nice to have plans outside of binge-watching TV at home, so a little bit.”

Your smile can’t seem to reach your ears until you’ve found a way to find the humor out of it. “That sounds nice. I wanna be set up—Wonwoo don’t you have any hot friends?”

Wonwoo feigns thought, clicking his tongue, now noticing the watch on his wrist. “Well, would you look at the time? Back to work.”

You sneer at him leaving you unanswered, following after him to continue the rest of your day. This is how most days went. Outside of work, you shared your personal interests with him, such as video games—perhaps adding to the assumption that you both seem very couple forward—but otherwise, that was all. There was nothing else that made you more than people who work in close proximity together, and not by your own fault either.

Despite this dynamic, Wonwoo is a private person and you only know what he lets you know. Perhaps, that’s why you are so dead set on keeping the formality the way it is. Who knows the type of person he is behind doors?

You try not to be curious about him for the sake of your circumstance, but the thought of Wonwoo and his date stays in the back of your mind, pestering you like an insect well into the afternoon until after work. That’s when you decide to hit up the local bar, grab a drink—or 5–and catch up with your favorite bartender, Chan, to see what he’s up to. He’s normally a good distraction, seeing as he can talk circles around any subject while jumping from one to the other, and you think it starts to make you forget why ever you came in the first place.

However, ‘drunk you’ does whatever the fuck they want, even if ‘sober you’ says otherwise. You seem to forget that every time you go out, perhaps because you think you’ve overcome that part of you after a while of not drinking. Truth was you haven’t.

“Hellooo…”

The dial tone plays on the other end and you continue your incessant greeting until you’re met with a familiar and confused sound. You automatically grin, clutching the device close to your ear in hopes of hearing his voice again.

“Wonwoo…are you and you having fun…”

You hear shuffling in the background, unaware it was Wonwoo checking caller ID to make sure it was you. “Are you doing okay?”

“Me? I’m great…how are you bud? Buddy? Companion? Bestie?”

“Okay. Where are you right now?”

You chortle, glancing back at Chan who is preoccupied with other customers but watching you from the corner of his eye concerned. “Hehe, I’m with a friend. A very handsome friend…”

Chan lets out a light chuckle before finishing up the drink and handing it to the person waiting. He strolls out to you, listening in on the rest of your call as he pretends to clean up glasses.

“Handsome friend?” Wonwoo repeats.

“Very handsome.”

You aren’t sure what’s going on with you, but you feel the urge to simply narrate everything around you, making sure the man on the other line hears every word.

“Is there a reason you’re calling me, Y/n?”

You hum against the phone in pondering. “Just…because. It’s you.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Chan lightly scoffs at the scene, almost seeing the pink in your eyes as you speak to whoever is on the other end and politely asks for your phone. You pout at him, denying him the device, but with a stern look, you melt into mush and soon obliged.

“Hi, you must be Y/n’s friend right? They’re at the Carat Club right now and it looks like they’ve had enough to drink.”

Wonwoo hums into the phone before responding back cautiously. “Are you the handsome friend?”

Chan grins hearing the hint of jealousy. “Why yes, I am.”

“You don’t sound that handsome.”

“Well, you can judge for yourself because I’m also the bartender here. If you aren’t too busy, I’d really appreciate you getting them home. I’ll keep an eye on them but I can only do that for so long with the rush we’re having.”

There’s a moment of silence on the phone that makes the young bartender think the calls have dropped until the gravelly voice on the other end begrudgingly agrees, quickly hanging up right after.

Chan sets the phone back to your side, doing what he’s promised to do. After some time, he recognizes Wonwoo right away by his frantic arrival and the bartender waves him over. Wonwoo scans your current state with a frown creasing his eyes. He tries shaking your sides, and see how little effect it makes.

“How much have they had to drink?”

“A couple of cocktails but by how early they’ve gotten here I assume they haven’t eaten. Best to take them home before it goes right through them.”

“Thanks,” Wonwoo, picks you up by your limp arms and supports your side in the direction of the door. When he’s out of sight, he quietly curses to himself about the accuracy of the bartender’s appearance before settling you in his passenger seat.

His goal is to get you rested and safe. Seeing as your driver's license is doctored from the city several hours from where they are, he assumes it is in need of an update, and tries to pry your address out of you. To no avail, nothing useful comes out from your drunk slurred lips and he ends up taking you to his home, dumping you on his bed, and tucking you in.

You don’t remember anything after the third drink: making that call to Wonwoo, or the debacle of trying to get you home, or his persistence in climbing up the flight of stairs in his own home with the extra body weight. You can only assume the worst when you wake up the following day in a foreign bedroom; your internal alarm was clock accurate as always. You jump from the sheets in pure fear, scanning your surroundings for an owner, when you realize you still have the clothes you wore to work the day before.

Promptly, Wonwoo walks towards the bedroom you occupy from the wide open door and greet you, a smile on his face. “Good, you’re up. Work is in an hour, I’ll get you there.” “Wonwoo, where am I?”

“My place. I would’ve taken you home if you had been more cooperative.”

It takes your eyes some adjusting but you soon realize the lack of clothing on his body, warranting the smooth, broad, and muscular appearance of a Jeon Wonwoo you wouldn’t dare dream of. You gulp at the sight taking it in before hearing him chuckle as he crosses his arms to obscure the view, forcing your eyes on his face that was bare of the thick pair of metal frames you are used to. Instead, you see his eyes, overflowing with warmth you worry you’d stumble upon seeing them. “Extra bathroom at the other end of the hall. I can lend you a shirt.”

“T-thanks.” You say before he disappears in order to get ready for another day.

You quickly finish what needed to be done, taking advantage of the oversized shirt Wonwoo left you behind and somehow making it work. Soon enough you’re off to the office, in his passenger, only time sober and a lot more self-conscious.

“Did I do or say anything weird?”

He lets out a deep, familiar chuckle. “Depends. What’s your definition of weird?”

You try thinking of an answer but none would come up, having you change your mind about getting his prompt response.

“If it’s any consolation, you didn’t get sick like I thought you would, and you were mostly asleep.”

“That just means I was a mess,” You whine.

“Perhaps, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Wait, what about your date? Don’t tell me you—“

“She canceled and I had nothing going on. You called at a good time.”

“I called you?” You question him in bemusement.

“Like I said, nothing I couldn’t handle.”

His repeating that phrase does something the chemical in your brain, retracing the dents of his torso as if they’re right in front you, glistening against the sun rays peaking out of the windows. The smile on his face makes your heart pound a little harder than you’re used to, and now you’re noticing the veins on his hands as he grips the wheel.

You feel yourself swallow. Hand to heart, you pat down as if trying to manually regulate it, but ultimately fail as Wonwoo continues to speak. This must be the embarrassment talking.

“For a second, I thought you called me to confess your undying love for me or something.”

“What?” You ask laughing a little too hard, for once grasping the humor in the situation with difficulty. “Why would you think that?”

“For one, you were drunk. It seemed likely.” He clears his throat, trying to focus on the road. “And maybe that’s what I wanted to hear.”

Those words settle into you like hot cement, frustratingly slow, and before you finally answer, you’re already back at work, following Wonwoo as you leave the car. When both obviously arrive together, the usual attention has multiplied by tenfold, and the treatment feels different than normal. More flustering a suffocating after the night you’ve had. Wonwoo is the only one to notice as he calmly escorts you to your cubicles, leaving the questions of your coworkers unanswered.

You aren't sure why they’re comments are getting you like this now, making you feel hot, hands clasped against your cheeks like a bashful child, but it bothers you throughout the day, forcing you to keep mostly to yourself. Its then Wonwoo, sends you a note, meeting him for lunch alone knowingly while everyone else planned a meal out. You hesitantly oblige to his request and when the time came around, it’s unexpectantly timid, awkward, and nerve-wracking. That’s not how monets with Wonwoo are supposed to go.

“You’ve been quiet.”

You bow you head. “Sorry.”

“Why are you being sorry?”

“I didn’t think I was bothering anyone.”

You don’t see it, but he rolls his eyes.“Well, you were bothering me. Talk to me, joke around with me, be mean to me I don’t know. The silence is annoying me.”

“...I’m sorry.”

“Apologizing again? Look at me.”

It was difficult given the predicament you’re in, but he forces you to anyways by lifting up your chin between his fingers. You watch a dark storm brew in his eyes and now you can’t bare to tear away.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong now?”

You don’t get it. For the past year, you’ve known him, there's only ever been amicable looks or gregarious smiles at a maximum, but in the deep pit of your stomach bubbles a new sensation that has finally festered enough to rise to the surface. You clench your legs in instinct, eyes fluttering back at him as you let each breath take a slow turn.

Intuitive as always, Wonwoo sees that shift in your eyes. It’s disturbing, daunting, and tempting all at once and he decides he can’t take it anymore.

With the break room wall behind you, he pushes you against it, claiming your lips and body until there is no way of escaping. His lips are soft against yours, but moves languidly and impatient, and the grip of his hands on your hips drains the energy out of your lower body. You attempt to chase his vigor, hands against your neck as you suppress your moans at how he kneads your flesh through your slacks only to press your thigh to his side.

“So I’m what’s wrong?” He asks in a low rasp against your lips.

You naturally hold him by the back of his neck, his nose nuzzling against yours. Wonwoo feels your lips part to speak, but he is in a daze by how soft they felt only seconds ago. “You are far from what’s wrong,” you finally answer.

Ridding of inhibitions and doubt, Wonwoo opens the storage closet behind you and shoves you in to lock you both inside. His hands run up your body needily, desperate to taste the skin underneath the shirt you’ve borrowed. You help him undress the same way he does to you, and your pristine pressed Van Hausens fall near your feet like rubble.

His lips then fall underneath your chin, trailing your neck, he refrains from leaving too much pressure but is almost swayed by your natural scent mixed in with his shampoo. He roughly plants you against a mostly empty shelf, the ice cold metal somehow burning your skin. He helps you tug off your slacks finding that sopping cunt that’s been dying to have him discover them since this morning.

“For me? Just for me?” He wastes no time shoving his hand down the frail fabric of your underwear and gliding his thick digits over your wet slit. “I don’t know if I can keep my hands to myself this time.”

Your voice reveals itself, saying his name in a way you wouldn’t dare let another person hear as long as you lived. He repeats the action, watching you crumble in front of him like award-winning cinema.

“I never heard you speak like that to me. I could get used to it.” He find your ear, his cat-like smile forming before his lips closes around your skin and his whispers cause the ripples of chills down your spine. “Say my name like that again for me, darling.”

You tremble under his touch, feeling his fingers dip into your heat enticingly. “Won…wooo…”

He lets out a soft and gentle moan, and the heat of his breath fans your pebbled skin. “Such a pretty little thing. I’ve dreamt how you’d be like this for me so often.”

“You…have?”

He presses a lingering kiss on your neck. “More than I can be proud of.” He curls his digits before taking light jerks, his thumb rubbing your arousal around the circumference of your clit. He drinks in your pretty pants, teeth grazing back at your skin. “You like me touching you? Aren’t I being such a good work husband?”

Your eyes screw shit, mouth etching open to give him a well-deserved praise, “So goo—“

“Where are my keys,” a voice breaks outside the door.

Wonwoo seizes his fingers from you and clamps them over your mouth, your arousal basically coating your lips and his eyes staring back at you intently.

“Where did they go anyway?”

Wonwoo shushes you with pursed lips. “Better be quiet.” His tone is stern but his actions say otherwise as his zipper comes down in a fraction of a second. “It’s in our best interest not to get caught, right?”

His name muffles under his palm, squeezing the life out of your cheeks as he exposes the bulging cock that’s been fighting away at him since he kissed you. Your eyes dart in their direction, beading perspiration across your forehead, and you feel yourself clench around nothing as his cock draws closer to your fluttering heat.

Your eyes double their size and then shrink to half the size once he’s inside you. His raw, long heat pushes into your core inch by inch, and you feel the necessary evil to bite down his palm. If Wonwoo was bothered by it, he doesn’t show it as he claims you with deep strokes, having your hands rest against his firm pectorals in reluctant trust. His low grunts can only be heard by you and the slight fog in his glasses is apparent the closer he thrust into you, even in the dim closet lighting,

Outside these walls still is a confused Mingyu, not foreseeing the event occurring behind a door mere feet away. “Maybe, they went somewhere else for lunch.”

You audibly squeak within the tight space and Wonwoo shushes you again, knocking back into with a curt but harsh slam before forcing your walls to hold his cock inside you like a natural plug. “You’re gonna get us in trouble, darling. I’m not done with you yet.” An accumulated thrill runs through your veins at the thought of being caught, taking every thrust with pressure and liquifying at the devious smile on your rumored boyfriend’s face.

“No they’re not here,” the intruder says to a voice unheard from their distance. “…Coming!”

His footsteps noticeably scan the perimeter once last time before they retreated further and further away.

“Finally,” Wonwoo breathes out, “now I have you all to myself.” Although he states that, he doesn’t let go of your mouth, in fact, you swear his hand is getting tighter and now his face closer, finally processing the spearmint on his breath “We should still be careful. Can you be quiet for me?”

You quietly nodded, grasping at his body desperately, gesturing for him to keep going.

He scoffs. “My darling being impatient?” He pulls out almost his entire length before shoving back into you, earning a feeble tremble. “My. Cock. Making. You. Needy. Hm?”

You nod back at him, holding back your tears, nails digging into his shoulder blades.

“Eyes on me, darling. Your work husband is need of your attention while I fuck you senseless.”

Shallow breaths escape your nostrils, finally meeting his eyes, which seemed to have lost the thick barrier of his glasses somehow already set on the shelf behind him. “Would you like for me to cum in you?”

You gingerly nod.

“Will you listen to everything I say when I let go of your mouth?”

Like a glitch, you nod the same exact way.

“Such a good little darling.”

His cock fills you up as naturally as breathing does. While his lips are home against yours, tongue entangling to the point it becomes sex itself. Your hushed moans are music to his ears and bear motive as his cock plunges deeper and harder inside you. He doesn’t mind how you bit his lips, nor how your nails drag against his back, rather he revels in it, doubling over you to push his cock inside you deeper until you're unable to contain your screams and he’s forced to silence you again.

You whisper how you’re close and it’s a natural drug, encouraging him to only ram inside you and claim the sweet sound of your orgasm coating decadently around his cock. He handles it rather gentlemanly, fairly as his cock is next to ripple in climax, shooting his thick over churned honey until it fills your heat until the point of fully occupancy. His arms come around you in a firm grasp, bruising your lips until you’re imprinted with the memory of him.

You let out light pants, awkwardly thanking his promptly done tasks before you’re whisked away again by his perfect, salvia-sheened lips. “That was very…superb.”

Strange adjective but it’s done the job, you think.

“I’m glad you think so,” he chuckles in a way that tells you things are far from over and you’re proven correct when he brings up your legs, thighs crushing his cheeks that splays the most impish smile. “But we still have 15 minutes of our lunch and a man’s gotta eat.”

Part of my 3K Follower StayCation!!!

#svthub #seventeen smut #wonwoo smut #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo #seventeen wonwoo #seventeen #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fanfic #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x you #wonwoo x y/n

2K notes · View notes