#will I ever stop posting these? who knows

[prototyp013]

I absolutely agree. THINK BEFORE YOU POST! Some of you were not born behind the Iron Curtain and it shows! Just like Hitler, Stalin (and Mao) is responsible for millions of deaths! Ever heard of Holodomor for example? Most probably not because people 'in the west' don't even know what countries are to the east of them, even when it is the same continent, not to mention the history of those countries. People tend to also forget for example that Stalin was Hitlers ally when the war started. Or that Britain and France betrayed their allies before the war and let Hitler annex whatever he pleased because 'oh it's far from us, we are sure he will leave Us alone when we let him have those small insignificant nations no one cares about'. And after the war, they did the same again and let Stalin take whatever he wanted and that is how my country ended in 40 years of totality and Russian occupation with tanks on our streets. Only people who never lived through communists totality can think it's a good thing. Because in your privileged worldview, you never look into what it really is like. Gulags, police brutality, constant persecution of dissent, false accusations by neighbours just to climb up the horrible social ladder... To have your family almost starve to death because communists confiscated almost the whole harvest shortly before winter while your grandpa still remembers being arrested by nazis a few years prior when he had tried to earn some money in winter by selling wicker baskets and the nazis thought him a spy. When even now the current Russian president thinks of your country, and many others, as just another Russian guberniya, because Russian imperialism never stopped. So no, when you talk positively about USSR and Stalin, you do not hurt nazis. Who you actually hurt are the victims of Russian aggression and brutality...

think before you post 😔

[rcmclachlan]

I don't know if the comparison between Eddie and Tommy is intentional on the writers part, but they're turning me into an Eddie hater and I don't really want that, but it's so fucking hard to like Eddie at this point, even taking grief and regression due to grief into account. I mean am i supposed to like this fella who doesn't apologize or do what he promised and belittles his best friend? When I see that there's a Tommy who genuinely likes Buck and treats him well and risks his life and/or career willingly for his ex-colleagues and his ex-boyfriend? The contrast just highlights how much Eddie isn't bringing to the table in their friendship and it sucks so much because I do think he's an interesting character and I want to like him

PQ, I'ma be honest about something I've forced myself to downplay ever since I started watching 9-1-1 last May: I don't like Eddie, full stop. Never have. I just never clicked with the character, and the more I saw of him, the less I liked. But he's loved by so many in this fandom that I felt it prudent to keep my mouth shut about how much I don't like him—mostly because I was trying to make friends 'round these parts. Also, I'm not here to yuck on anyone's yum.

I really feel for the people who have loved this character, or at least loved the potential of what he could be, for years—and who have given him a lot more grace than I think he deserves—just to have him turn around and be the worst version of his worst self when faced with a supposed loved one's pain. To be deliberately cruel and weaponize the love Buck has for his son against him. To have the audacity to call Buck selfish for grieving his surrogate father's death.

Eddie's been a terrible friend to Buck from the get go and their relationship has always been incredibly one-sided, but this episode really exposed the imbalance. Like, Eddie may be Buck's best friend, but Buck sure isn't Eddie's.

And nothing made it clearer than 8x17's opening scene when Hen asks Eddie when he's going to tell Buck he's going back to El Paso. And Eddie asks Hen to do it. Actually, he doesn't ask Hen—he says something like, "I was hoping his acting captain would do it." Eddie wants Buck to hear the news in a professional capacity so he doesn't have to deal with Buck getting emotional about it. What kind of fuckass prick would do that to a "friend"?

I said to @screamlet a couple of days ago that if Eddie had posted any of this in r/amitheasshole, there'd be 6.1k comments all saying variations of "YTA, your friend should've left your ass in the dust ages ago, and you should probably live alone in the woods until you get that bitch-ass attitude under control."

Meanwhile, Tommy—who is operating under the impression that Buck feels nothing for him and that he's good for no-strings sex and nothing else—gets one (1) phone call from the man after weeks of radio silence and happily steals another helicopter so Buck can commit some light domestic terrorism.

Like, Tommy, my lad, you have nothing to worry about. There's no competition in this game. Eddie's name isn't even on the roster.

[versias]

Deadman’s Post

You know those gimmick twitter/tumblr accounts that ask a single question and then report the answer to it every day? The ones that are like, “is such-and-such politician dead yet?” or “is there a reboot for this franchise yet?” And then every post is “No”, every day.

Yeah. Danny has one of those. The question in his header is “Have the Anti-Ecto Control Acts been repealed yet?”

The answer, as with most of these accounts, is no.

Sometimes he’ll rephrase the question: “is it still legal to torture and experiment on ghosts?” (“Yes.”), “is being dead still a punishable offense?”, (“Yes”), “do ghosts have rights yet?” (“No.”).

It takes a while for the account to get any traction. Most people encounter the posts when people share the more humorously phrased ones. Most people think it’s a joke. Despite the fact that Danny has the text of the AECA hyperlinked in his bio, people rarely consider it to be a REAL issue. How could it be? It’s absurd! The US government criminalized being a ghost? In what world would that even be an issue? What’re they gonna do? Arrest a ghost? Handcuff a zombie?

Danny has a scheduled post made, one set to go out a week after his last post, if he ever stops posting. As insurance. Or maybe a cry for help. Or a final defiant statement, saying he mattered. He was a person, even if he wasn’t completely alive.

Then he stops posting. Those who followed the account out of curiosity or because whoever ran it was always funny in the replies don’t notice it’s stopped posting until the final post is sent as scheduled.

The account and the final post go viral:

“If you’re seeing this message, I haven’t been able to make a post in a week. Given that I’ve posted from different dimensions and while impossibly injured (thanks ghost hunters! [sarcasm]), the only reason I have stopped posting is because I’ve been caught. I am likely being held against my will by government agents, possibly being experimented on or otherwise Ended.

Please don’t forget me.

Sincerely, Danny Phantom”

Accompanying this post is a picture of Danny giving the camera a peace sign and a link to a drive containing all the documentation Team Phantom managed to put together on their own, as well as recorded interviews by both ghosts and humans in Amity Park.

People take notice when a kid goes missing and, apparently, tells the authorities exactly what happened to him on social media.

It was probably inevitable that some of those people would have the power to DO something about it.

[postgamevibes]

Summary: You convinced Will to film one silly TikTok trend. Now he’s viral. Sharks Twitter has made memes. His teammates won’t let him live. And honestly? You’re loving it.

*********************************************************

You didn’t mean for it to go viral.

Truthfully.

It was just supposed to be a dumb little TikTok, a 15-second clip with your boyfriend and a trending audio that made you laugh. Something for your private account, your close friends, maybe a few likes from people who didn’t even know who Will was.

You definitely didn’t expect the Sharks official Twitter to repost it.

Or for the clip to hit 2.3 million views overnight.

Or for Will to become a meme.

But we’ll get to that.

It started on a slow Tuesday, the kind of day where Will was in sweats, lying upside down on the couch with his legs over the back cushions and a protein bar balanced precariously on his chest.

He’d had a morning skate, then an afternoon nap that bled into a mid-afternoon zone-out session. You were stretched out on the rug, scrolling TikTok with a mischievous grin tugging at your lips.

“Babe?” you said.

Will hummed without looking away from the ceiling.

“Do you love me?”

That got his attention. His head popped up like a gopher. “What kind of question is that?”

“A serious one.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “…yes?”

You grinned. “Perfect. I need you to help me film something.”

“Nope.” He immediately flopped back down. “Not happening. I know that voice.”

“Will.”

“Last time you said that, I ended up dancing to Beyoncé in my boxers.”

“And it was iconic.”

“It was character assassination.”

“Come on. It’s just a trend. You barely have to do anything.”

He groaned but tilted his head to look at you again. “What’s the trend?”

You held up your phone. The video played: one partner is recording while the other one walks into the room, unsuspecting, and the person behind the camera hits them with a cheesy pick-up line or embarrassing confession. The hook? Their reaction.

Will watched three of them. Laughed at one. Gave a slow side-eye during another.

“Okay,” he finally said. “But if I end up a GIF, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“You already are a GIF,” you teased. “The Sharks fanbase is unhinged.”

Will raised a brow. “And you’re making it worse.”

“Damn right.”

You waited until he was in the kitchen, humming quietly to himself while making his post-nap smoothie. He was in his go-to gray joggers and a Sharks hoodie, hair a mess, but you didn’t think he’d ever looked more dateable in his life.

You propped your phone against the salt shaker.

Started recording.

Walked up behind him, trying to keep a straight face.

“Hey Will,” you said sweetly.

He didn’t even turn around. “Yeah?”

“If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

Will slowly turned his head toward the camera, blinked twice, and deadpanned, “I regret everything.”

You couldn’t stop laughing.

He reached for your phone, but you snatched it away before he could stop the recording. “Nope! It’s perfect. That face? Oscar-worthy.”

“I will end you.”

“You love me.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to be TikTok famous.”

Famous, no.

But viral?

Absolutely.

You posted it an hour later with the caption: he’s gonna kill me for this later 🍍 #finapple #nhlboyfriend #hockeysoftie

You didn’t even tag his name.

But the internet has ways.

By the time you woke up the next morning, the video had exploded.

Sharks Twitter had reposted it.

Will’s deadpan expression was a meme.

Someone had edited him in a Hawaiian shirt holding a pineapple smoothie with the text: “San Jose’s finest fruit.”

And your phone?

Blowing up.

You rolled over in bed and opened your notifications.

“Oh no.”

Will was still asleep, one arm thrown over your waist, mouth slightly open. Completely unaware that the internet had crowned him the NHL’s newest reluctant heartthrob.

You snorted and scrolled through the top comments:

“why is this the most boyfriend behavior i’ve ever seen”

“the way he didn’t even blink. iconic.”

“petition to start calling him fineapple smith”

“sharks players dating people with tiktok accounts should be ILLEGAL. my heart.”

You nudged Will gently. “Babe. Wake up.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled.

“Nope. You’re famous.”

His eyes cracked open. “What?”

You flipped the phone around.

He blinked at the video. Then the comments. Then the tweet from the Sharks’ official account.

Then he groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “This is my villain origin story.”

By the time Will got to practice, it was already too late.

The boys knew.

They all knew.

“Yo Fineapple,” Bordy chirped the second Will walked into the locker room. “Where’s your tropical smoothie?”

Will glared. “I will drop you in warmups.”

“Oh my god,” Eklund laughed. “Are you blushing?”

“You’re dead to me.”

Zetterlund poked his head around the corner, holding up his phone. “You really said ‘I regret everything.’ Bro, that delivery was Emmy level.”

Will walked straight to his stall, sat down, and sighed so dramatically you could hear it over the music.

Someone changed the locker room playlist to “Escape (The Piña Colada Song).”

He didn’t talk to you for twenty minutes after practice.

You were waiting outside, leaned against your car, sipping your coffee with a smug little smile.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, squinting into the sunlight.

“I think you’re trending on Twitter. Sharks fans are obsessed. They’re calling me ‘pineapple girl’ in the replies.”

He opened the passenger door and slid in. “I hate everything.”

“You love me.”

“I like you less today.”

“You’re grinning.”

He tried to stop, but a little smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Shut up.”

That night, you sat on the couch with Will’s head in your lap as the Sharks game recap played in the background.

You ran your fingers through his hair, scrolling through the comment section of the video for the hundredth time.

“Someone just posted fanart,” you said, showing him.

Will squinted. “Why do I have sunglasses and a lei?”

“Because you’re Fineapple Smith now. It’s canon.”

He groaned but didn’t move. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Never.”

He tilted his head, looking up at you. “Fine. Then I get to post the next one.”

Your hand paused in his hair. “Wait. Really?”

“You started this. I’m finishing it.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Two days later, Will posted a video with the caption: revenge is sweet 🍍

The audio was from some dramatic soap opera moment, and the video was him walking into frame shirtless with a pineapple in one hand and your bathrobe over his shoulders.

He winked at the camera.

It got 5 million views.

You were toast.

But at least you were his toast.

And if being TikTok’s favorite hockey couple meant living in a world where people made fruit puns about your boyfriend on the daily?

Well, you figured there were worse kinds of trouble to be in.

[captainpriceslilwife]

pt. 2 of the well-loved gaz x insecure!reader post!! (This is kind of a bridge to pt. 3, so bear with me PLEASE! I have more ideas for the next part, but I needed to get there first lol...hopefully this is good idk im nervous abt my newfound audience)

The rest of his night passed in a daze. He couldn’t stop stealing glances at the tiny little picture on your license while Johnny and Simon argued with each other about what he should do to try to win you back - but he could barely hear a word they were saying as he wiped away the sticky-sweet drink that was still dripping down his face.

“Ah’d give her a second ta calm down, ya ken? Go in the mornin’ and give her a chance to find her head.” 

“Showin' up at her place unannounced after hanging onto her shit all nigh'? Yeah, that’d leave a good impression, wouldn’ it? No wonder you can’t get a bird, Johnny. Scarin’ ‘em all off.” 

“Ach, ye’d know what tha’s like, wouldn’ ye? Spooky fuckin’ bastard. Ah bet women run the second they see tha' stupid fuckin' mask-” 

"Whatever. Gaz, just give it to the bartender, yeah? Clearly she doesn't like ya'. She'll come back for it."

In the end, he ends up taking Johnny’s advice and decides to return your wallet in the morning – which maybe wasn't his smartest move. Especially since now he doesn’t have a lick of alcohol flowing through his system to calm him down as he walks along the sidewalk towards your place. He’s sure he looks crazy to everyone he passes – muttering to himself to try to coach himself through what he’ll say to you. 

“Hey! Nah, uh…hello, how are you? No, I- fuck…” He shakes his head as he looks down at your wallet, twiddling the zipper between his fingers as he mumbles under his breath. “Hi, I’m Kyle…I’m the one who, um…who made you...cry last night. Ah, shit.” 

He's never felt this way about a girl before - like a nervous, stuttering schoolboy. His heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, and he can feel the sweat beading on the back of his neck when he suddenly finds himself standing in front of your door.

You've got a sweet little welcome mat - covered in sunflowers and loopy letters - and he notices all the pots filled with plants and flowers that scatter around near your door. God, he's already thinking that you're the most precious thing in the world.

He doesn't know what it is about you that's affecting him so much. Is it because you rejected him? Is it a challenge to him? Does he just feel guilty? Or maybe it's because, for the first time ever, he's gone after a girl that he actually has to figure out. Women have always thrown themselves at him the moment he flashed a smile their way. But you...all you did was throw a drink in his face.

It takes him nearly a full minute before he finally knocks on your door, and he can't seem to figure out what to do with his hands as he waits for the sound of your soft, thudding footsteps to reach the door.

You're still puffy from crying yourself to sleep last night, but you open the door with a polite smile anyway - donned in your oversized cat pajamas without an ounce of makeup on - but your smile quickly falls when you recognize the man standing on your doorstep.

The unfortunately beautiful man who had woken up every insecurity you had in less than a minute of talking to you.

Your expression seems to cycle through a million emotions as you try to comprehend how he could possibly be here, but once you notice the teal wallet clutched in his hand, realization settles on your features as the embarrassment hits you.

He stands silent for a moment as he takes in how gorgeous you are despite your slightly disheveled appearance, and he can barely form a sentence as he lifts up your wallet with a sheepish smile. "You, uh…you left this at the bar, um…last night. Got your address from your, uh...your I.D.” Christ, he's lost all sense of charisma hasn't he? He holds onto the wallet for a horrifyingly awkward amount of time as he stares blankly at you, but he finally comes to his senses when you mumble out a quiet 'oh, thanks' and reach out to take it.

“I’m Kyle, by the way.” 

He's never seen a girl look at him with such guardedness before - with your arms crossed protectively over your chest as you give him a tense smile. He can't tell if it's because of the whole incident from the night before, or if you're just freaked out that a total stranger went through all the effort to bring your wallet directly to where you live.

Probably both.

You clearly return his greeting just to be polite, murmuring your name quietly as you place your wallet off to the side.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He lets out an awkward laugh, but quickly backtracks when you shoot him a funny look. “I mean, from your license! I-It’s got your name on it. I only know it because it's...it's on the license.” He stutters out quickly as he shoves his hands into his pockets. God, he's losing it. His heart feels like it's going to explode. “I, um…it’s a gorgeous name, by the way. Suits you, you know?” 

The compliment slips out naturally, but it only makes you tense up even more, and you suck in a tight breath as you begin to shift on your feet. Your fingers are itching to reach for the door to slam it in his face - arrogant prick thinking he can keep up his act from last night even though he practically sent you into a fit - but he interrupts your spiraling thoughts with a heavy sigh as he drops his charming smile.

“Hey, I...I just really wanted to say that I'm sorry, love. I didn’t mean to upset you like that last night.” His demeanor changes so drastically that you can't help but soften a bit, melting underneath his warm, pleading eyes enough to listen to him. "I think we had a bit of a misunderstanding...I wasn't making fun of you, love. Honest."

He seems so genuine about it that you can't help but feel a bit guilty. You had tossed and turned all night thinking about how shocked he had looked after your little outburst. You tried to stave of your regret by telling yourself that he had come over to you only to make fun of you like everyone else does, so technically he deserved it - but now you weren't so sure.

“Oh, well…I’m sorry for, you know…throwing my drink in your face.” You murmur sheepishly as you look down at your welcome mat - tracing one of the flowers with your fuzzy slipper before tilting your head back up to look at him with burning cheeks. “Wasn’t very mature of me."

“No, no, no...it's fine, really! If anything, I'm sorry you had to waste your drink on me. I mean, I know how pricey that place can get.” He lets out another laugh, but it's a bit less tense this time, especially when he sees the way your lips almost quirk up into a smile. It makes him feel bold enough to try to bring back the charm, and he can't stop himself from asking you, “You know…maybe I could, um…make it up to you sometime? Could buy you another drink?” 

But once again, you pause. His persistence only makes you more suspicious of his motives, and it shows in how you tighten your arms across your chest. He can see your eyes flash with a pang of hurt, and he feels his heart clench as he fumbles over himself, growing less sure by the second. “O-Or just a coffee, maybe?” 

“...Look, Kyle…” His heart leaps in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips, but your guarded tone is enough to smother the warm, fluttery feeling that had been building in his stomach. “Thanks for bringing me my wallet, but you’re wasting your time. I don’t know what kind of bet you have going with your friends, but I’m not going to fall for it, okay? I'm not...I'm not stupid.” 

Stupid? His expression falls once more, and he gives you the most genuine look he can muster as he speaks up quietly. “I...I don't think you're stupid. There’s no bet, love. Honest.”

“A dare, then.” 

“No dare, either.” 

You let out a frustrated sigh and roll your eyes a bit before resting your hand on your hip, but your irritated demeanor doesn't hide the way your eyes are beginning to grow a bit watery and bloodshot as you murmur quietly. “Well, why are you doing this, then?” 

His eyebrows furrow as he looks down on you, and he can't help but shake his head in disbelief as he takes a small step towards you. God, you were absolutely breaking his heart. Did you really think it was that unbelievable that he could like you? “I already told you, love. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous…and I know you don’t seem to like hearing that, but it’s true. And I know you're not just a pretty face, I just...I don't know anything else about you. But I'd like to...I'd like to get to know you.” 

You don't seem moved by his words, but he can't see how your heart begins to pound wildly in your chest, grasping onto the small bit of hope that you had desperately tried to push down. You'd spent so long trying to protect yourself from feeling this way about someone, and he's already managing to sneak past those walls you had built up.

But your mind keeps replaying every moment of disappointment you felt when it came to men 'asking you out' - how people would laugh behind your back when you would get excited for a date with a guy they all knew was just messing with you, or how a boy in your class straight-up laughed in your face when you thought he was being serious about being his date to the prom. 'Shit, she actually fell for it! Damn, I didn't think she'd have the nerve to say yes! Ah, right, well...sorry love...just havin' a bit of a laugh, yeah? All in good fun.'

No, no, no...you couldn't fall for something like this again.

He can see the look in your eyes as you stay silent, and his heart pangs with guilt when he realizes how much he's probably torturing you. He decides to put you out of your misery, so before you can open your mouth to reject him again, he raises his hand to stop you. "Yeah, alright...I understand." A pathetic smile graces his features, and you can't help but feel a bit guilty at the look of disappointment on his handsome face. "Can't blame a guy for trying though, aye?"

You can't even tell if you're disappointed or relieved that he's finally given up, but you give him a grateful smile as you nod your head in understanding. Couldn't expect a guy that looks like that to put in too much effort with someone like you, right? "Right...yeah...thank for um, understanding."

"Of course..."

God, this is awkward.

The both of you stand and stare at each other for another moment longer before he turns to leave. But just as he turns to go, he stops in his tracks and thinks to himself for a second before letting out a puff of air before turning back to you. "Don't happen to have a pen, do you, love?"

You blink in surpise at the randomness of his question, but eventually nod your head and disappear for just a second before returning with one in hand.

If only you could see how nervously he tapped his fingers against the side his leg while he waited for you to come back - a habit he only ever indulged in when he couldn't contain his anxiety on missions. Something his captain always ragged on him for.

Yeah, he was absolutely hung up on you.

He tries to ignore how soft your hand is when he takes the pen from you, but he can't ignore the way your touch zaps up through his arm and straight to his heart. And from the way you tuck your arm back against your chest with hot cheeks, he can't help but wonder if you felt it, too.

He pulls a crinkled receipt from the pocket of his jacket as he gives you a nervous smile, almost like he's waiting for you to scold him for trying again. And if it isn't the most charming thing you've ever seen... “Listen…if you change your mind-“ His hand moves quickly to scribble something on the small piece of paper, and when he hands it to you, you see his number written in handwriting that is frustratingly neat for a man in a rush. “-just let me know. No pressure, of course. I’ll fuck off if you want me to, but…just thought I’d give you the option. Don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t at least offer to make it up to you.” 

And you take that stupid, crinkled piece of paper from his hand against your better judgement, and to your chagrin you can feel your cheeks burning brightly enough for him to see. Luckily for you, he can't see the way your heart is dancing around in your chest at the prospect of actually having a chance with him.

"Right...ok." You mumble quietly as you stare down at his number, toying at the edges of the paper with your thumb before his voice catches your attention once more.

“Well, um…I should get going. I hope you have a good day, darling.” A part of you was horrified to realize that you didn't want him to leave just yet, but you just nod your head stiffly as he backs away from your doorstep. And god he gives you that handsome, charming smile one more time before he turns on his heel and calls over his shoulder. "I hope I get to see you again."

And you wave at him so awkwardly as he walks away, like a deer caught in headlights, but it makes his heart flutter all the same. He hopes that even if he doesn't get a chance with you, someone else will realize what a catch you are. Someone who will treat you the way you deserve. Someone like him.

It's not until much later in the day - when he's stuck in a briefing and trying not to fall asleep with Price's voice droning on johnny's already drooling on the table - that his phone vibrates in his pocket. He sneaks it out underneath the table to take a quick glance to see who could be messaging him, and his heart practically leaps out of his chest when he sees an unfamiliar number.

‘ok...maybe just one coffee.’

He can't help but smile to himself as he reads it, and before he can begin to type out a response, another message pops up on his screen. And another. And another.

'i mean, only if you're still interested, of course.'

'no pressure or anything :)'

'oh, this is y/n by the way!'

Yeah, you might be the sweetest girl he's ever met.

A/N: do I like this that much??? eehhhhhhhhhh idk. but i kept going back and forth and rewriting and deleting and i finally decided to put myself out of my misery. again, i'm so so so grateful to everyone who requested a part two for this and left support on the original post so i hope this meets everyone's standards! pls feel free to leave suggestions in my inbox or in the comments if there's anything specific you want to see (or request something else entirely)! i also wouldn't mind writing any alternate parts of the story if ppl request it so pls dont hold back! pls stay with me for pt. 3!!! also sorry if you requested to be tagged and i missed you!

Tag list: @vixyyvix, @little-mini-me-world, @miyo-0oo, @milanriol, @z-wantstowrite, @nexthyperfix

[that-smallinjured-bowylamb]

how do you think Riddle, Lilia and Azul would deal with having a wife who is dedicated, sweet, loving and a bit scatterbrained sometimes… but they’re also scary protective, mama bear instincts. Someone hurt her man and she’s gonna end your whole career. . (If they ever have kid together, some fae or human or mer person tries kidnapping their kid, they sneer at the wife and the boys, and wife comes flying in with murderous energy, and scares the shit out of the kidnappers (scared the husbands too). and wife goes over to their kid and hugs them while the kidnappers flee, kid hugs mom, while crying “mama” happily)?

A/n: SRRY FOR THE LATE REPLY I WAS TLAKING WITH SOME OF MY FRIENDS AND COMMENTING ON SOME POST !!! BUT ANYWAYS IVE BEEN DAYDREAMING OF THIS FOR DAYS ON END AND IM SO HAPPY SOMEONE MENTIONED IT !!! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING AGAIN @nesting-dreams !!!

💋🪽Wifey material, but can still kick ass💋🪽

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts, Lilia Vanrouge [💋🎀], Azul Ashengrotto

Warning ⚠️: slight cussy, Reader could be fem but I'm using "you", reader kicks ass, I'm bad at describing fights helpp, reader taking a slipper and chucks it at a mer (Azul's part), reader does a suplex on somebody (Riddle's part), Reader went full-out on brawling (Lilia's part), OOC bc future, you have a child (scary), and ofc, my Grammer is so indescribably amazing.

Summary: You are a dedicated, sweet, a little bit of a scatterbrained wife. You've sworn to be with him, always and forever, taking responsibility for bearing a child as well, you were such a sweetheart, despite being a little forgetful, he still loves you very much. Oh, and your child as well, "Hehe, silly momma!" [Insert name].

But... what happens if your man/kid gets hurt/kidnapped? Oh, suddenly, those perpetrators are in a boxing ring with you.

Riddle Rosehearts

You and Riddle were a happy married couple, sure you get into quarrels but you've managed to work it out somehow, despite for your scatterbrained-self, you were dedicated and sweet. Slightly protective of him, he didn't really know about that part, really. Especially when you stare into a woman's soul for flirting with him, he didn't take notice at all. So, when he turns around, your there, all sweet and flowery with that cute tendency to forget something or another. He's blushy around you, just like the day he caught feelings for you. And, your child [insert name] really loves you! You're the best momma! So what happens if...

Your man gets hit:

•Riddle was surprised by the sudden punch this guy made. He stood up, wobbling from the sheer impact, pointed his wand (or whatever he could use as a Harry Potter stick)and was ready to say the magic words (Miska, muska! Mickey Mouse!), "Off with your!-" another sudden move. It was you.

•Man's just watched his wife, throwing herself to that man, round-house kicking him, with a straight face. Then suplexing that guy with raw strength.

•He's not sure if he's the wife or nah.

•So, in the end. He has to be the one that stops you from beating the guy to the dirt and turning the guy into a DIY plant (Aye, at least it counts as a breathing organism that you surely took out to harvest).

•He gifted you, [your favorite chocolate in a box and your favorite flowers in a bouquet], [the clothes you've been eyeing out for months in your favorite color], [the food you wanted to try out again bc it was so good], [your favorite limited edition shirt], and lastly the dinner he paid for you.

•...Not before calling the cops on this guy's ass.

When your kid almost got kidnapped:

Listen, you're kid is intelligent, but got SOME of your genetics (Rosehearts blood is strong, damn), the kid was left-handed (<-at least how I picture it, you can imagine smth else, though), smart, and almost mature (<- that is, until you arrive at home and the kid did a 180° switching back to a playful kid), and was almost sweet to every stranger (but gives nasty side-eyes at suitors that tries to flirt w/ you whenever you both go shopping), so imagine to your surprise you see your child being DRAGGED by the arm bc of SOMEBODY (And Riddle is a witness before he could do sht cuz your faster):

Lilia Vanrouge [Hanafubukki PLEASE NOTICE ME 🙏🙏🙏]

•What the fuck. Why does he ALWAYS deliver LATE? And why do you turn into Sonic the Hedgehog whenever something happens?? This, has gotta be from the time you were at NRC weren't you? (Or nah, and it was smth else completely)

•Nvm that. Now he's wondering where you've even learned these things.

• "Mommy!!" Cried [insert name], running straight at you, and you, of course, hugged your child back.

•Man, Riddle loves a good wife that knows how to kick ass. And maybe, he could break the cycle with you.

You and Lilia had a very interesting history together (just imagine with me, okay?) And he could never ask for anything else, when he gets nightmares of the war, you somehow know this, always wake up and stay beside him as long as needed until both of you fall asleep. Always there when he needed help but never spoke aloud about it, and always tending to his needs while he tends to others and yours. You, were his great balance in life, though he never showed the signs he was hurting, maybe it dulled overtime, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. So, you were there, you've helped and that was enough for him. And the two of you had a child, [insert name]. The child took their mischief, playfulness, and maturity from their father. While they've taken your dedication and sweetness from you, of course. But the thing is, you and [insert name] were both forgetful of things. But, don't worry, the three of you can be one, happy, but clumsy of a family. So, when the time some random fuck-ass fae comes to hit/kidnap your man/kid? Nah, I'll win.

When your man gets hit:

•The fae had the audacity to flirt with you, now had enough audacity to hit THE general of Briar Valley? HECKS NAWH. The fact is, either the fae didn't realize it was Lilia or was a drunk. [<-but even so, no one can deal with Vanrouge even if they aren't sober]

•As soon as he was about to retort, you came into his vision...

•And round-house kicking the fae with raw strength, even going as far as to tackle him down, stomp on his crotch, and molly-wap the guy towards the air.

•So, let's do a 2nd marriage but this time he's the bride and you're the groom.

•Hmmmm... That strong ass gorilla-like grip you had there... he's thinking he'll be put into his place if he ever dare to cross you.

•Which, will never happen, of course. (Fortunately.)

•Welp! He's doing the chores this time! Please don't look so stern my dear! You'd get wrinkles if you do! Here, a kiss might help you! *Ignoring the guy who is in a current state of physical and psychological pain.*

What if your kid almost gets kidnapped by a fae?:

Now, I'm not saying your kid might be dumb, but although getting genes from Lilia and all. The kid still has some of your genetic, otherwise, that ain't your kid. So, imagine looking away for 1 millisecond, only to see your kid following a man with candies in his pocket, Lilia had already halted the fae, but that didn't stop you from bolting over.

•When Lilia saw you running over like a mad bull, he knew he had to step aside.

•That fae almost met their creator.

•The fact that your child was encouraging and cheering you on was funny to Lilia. Look at his child, aren't they so cute? Aww! And look!- *You bitch-slapping the fae on the ground.* A strong wife he has! Hah! All of you must be jealous he pulled a baddie. (And totally not trembling in fear)

•So after that, you all went back to being that wholesome family that went out for a very wholesome outing together.

Azul Ashengrotto

To start off, Azul had become a successful shady- business man, you became his wife, then the two of you had a child. Which, uncle Floyd and Jade loved to play with and prank Azul. Oh, but this time? Your genes got HALF of the child and HALF of Azul's. And I'm talking abt appearance. So they kinda looked like you, but in mer version. Not sure if they had your eyes or Azul's eyes bit no matter what, your child has the charm of that of a merfolk from the deep-sea. So what will you do, if your man/kid gets hit/kidnapped?

Your man gets hit:

•In no fucking way did that mer just TAINTED your beautiful husband with that hand.

•So when Azul regains composure and sees you holding a slipper, "Honey... What in the fucking sevens are yoU DOING!?-" *Cue to the slipper at max velocity like it's in a speeding dial to contacting the great sevens up above, then gets CHUCKED at the mer in the face, the air vibrating within vicinity.*

•.... babe, what are you exactly? What if our child has that same strength as you- *Gets interrupted by you hugging him.* "Aww, Zuzu, are you okay? You're not hurt anywhere are you?" ... Yes he's fine, just a little bit shaken... [<-Literally]

•So fast forward to him spoiling you in a way someone gets threatened at gunpoint. It's like your the mafia boss instead of him.

•Yeah, his clients are NOT going to mess with Azul's husband. (Did I say husband? Yes. So is he the wife now? Also yes.)

What if your kid gets kidnapped?:

Your child isn't dumb, nor smart. But your child still has underdeveloped strength, so in comes Azul with his two big-ass blueberry popsicle giants. But before they could do anything, a terrifying aura comes rushing in and Azul froze recognizing it was you, as the Tweels witness a practical murder in glee from the usually sweet and dedicated 'wife' of Azul, wondering if they'll ever find the same type of wife like you.

•Holy sevens, here we go again. Didn't this happened last time?

•You were there, forcing the mer to get tf out of that forsaken water, but even if the mer tried to escape under water, you followed with abnormal strength and speed.

The mer kidnapper: "WHAT THE FUCK IS THATTT????" *He said while swimming away from the oncoming silhouette of an angry mother.*

•Yes, your child is safe. Just witnessing you shoving a rock in the mer's throat, flipping him twice, spinning him across the air, and throwing him upwards into the sky, then blasting his dehydrated ass towards the sun.

•Yea, you were officially the man of the house. Not him, damn.

THE END!

A/n: sorry if it took awhile!!! @nesting-dreams !!

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Part One

Reader Request: Reader has been working for the bengals since Joe got drafted. She can be a social media admin, public relations liaison or even a physical therapist. She’s been in love with him but it is unrequited while he was with Olivia and when they break up she thought that she had a chance but he starts seeing the influencer but please make it a happy ending. Angst as fuck but happy ending.  I want to see this girl yearning for fucking years before she gets him and I want him to realize that she is the love of his life. 

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 20k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Slow burn, unrequited love, emotional repression, late-night work sessions, professional boundaries being pushed to their limit, that sick feeling when you realize he’s seeing someone else, and the kind of yearning that makes you spiral in your group chat. No resolution yet, just a lot of tension, timing issues, and feelings no one wants to name.

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 for now, but it may take a minute to get to them, I’ve got several in the inbox.

Author's Note: So here’s Part One. I’m hoping this will be a two-parter, but let’s be real, I’m long-winded so we’ll see. My goal with this section was to really sit in the unrequited part. The slow burn. The quiet ache. The years of showing up, holding back, staying professional, and still falling deeper anyway. The almosts. The not-quites. The timing that never seemed to line up.

I’m also a little nervous because this is my first request and I really hope I got it right. Fingers crossed it hits the way it’s supposed to.

If you’re here for the angst, the emotional spiral, the girl who’s been in love with him for years while pretending it’s fine, this part’s for you. The heartbreak isn’t over yet, but the foundation is laid.

* * *

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility

The media room buzzed with activity, camera equipment being assembled, lighting adjusted, and PR staff running through talking points. First overall draft pick. Heisman Trophy winner. The savior of Cincinnati football. The narrative had been constructed well before Joe Burrow ever set foot in the building.

Y/N Y/L/N checked her camera settings for the third time, methodically working through her mental checklist. First official shoot as a Bengals staff member, and they'd assigned her to the franchise quarterback. No pressure.

Her phone vibrated against the table. Three texts in a row from the sibling group chat that hadn't stopped since she'd landed the job two weeks ago.

Matt: Don't drop the camera when you see him

Aaron: Ask him if he'll sign my jersey

Lucas: Remind him that the Y/L/N family has survived a lot of bad quarterbacks

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling as she typed back a quick response.

Y/N: I'm a PROFESSIONAL. Unlike some people I know.

Lucas: I’m professionally jealous that you're breathing the same air as our franchise savior

Growing up with three football-obsessed brothers in Louisville had prepared her for this world in ways her master's degree in sports management never could. She'd spent her childhood being dragged into backyard games, learning to throw a perfect spiral out of self-defense, and developing an encyclopedic knowledge of plays and statistics just to hold her own at the dinner table.

"He's on his way down," announced Kayla from PR, clipboard pressed against her chest. 

"Everyone ready?"

Y/N nodded, adjusting her Bengals polo, still crisp and new against her skin, and straightened her posture. The room settled into expectant silence, cameras at the ready, the culmination of months of draft speculation about to materialize in the doorway.

When Joe Burrow entered, there was none of the fanfare his status might have suggested. He walked in with a quiet confidence that seemed to belong to someone much older than twenty-three. Dressed in Bengals gear that still looked just slightly unfamiliar on him, he surveyed the room with calm, observant eyes. His expression remained neutral, but there was something assessing in his gaze, taking in details and remembering faces.

"Good morning everyone," he said, nodding to the room.

Y/N watched through her viewfinder as PR staff introduced themselves, directing him to his mark for the initial photoshoot. She captured his handshakes, his nods, the way he listened carefully to instructions. Professional, focused, but with none of the arrogance that often accompanied first-round quarterbacks.

"We'll start with some standard shots," Kayla explained. "Then move to action poses with the ball."

As if on cue, an assistant hurried forward with a football, but in his eagerness, he fumbled the toss. The ball spiraled awkwardly through the air on a collision course with an expensive light setup.

Without thinking, Y/N stepped forward from behind her camera, catching the ball one-handed before it could cause any damage. The leather felt familiar against her fingers, a muscle memory from countless backyard games. She transferred the ball to her right hand in one fluid motion and sent a perfect spiral directly to Burrow.

He caught it easily, but his eyebrows lifted slightly, and that subtle Joe Burrow expression of being impressed without overstating it. The hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"Nice hands," he commented.

Heat rushed to Y/N's cheeks, but her voice remained steady. "Growing up with three brothers," she explained, already retreating to her camera. "You either learn to catch or get hit in the face a lot."

Something flickered in his eyes, recognition, maybe, of someone who understood the language of the game beyond the surface. He spun the ball in his hands, considering her for a moment longer than necessary before turning his attention back to the waiting PR team.

As the photoshoot continued, Y/N fell into the rhythm of her work, directing Joe through various poses with professional efficiency. However, something had shifted in their interactions, and a natural ease was developing between them. He responded to her cues without question, seeming to trust her judgment on angles and lighting in a way that surprised the more veteran staff.

"Can we get a few looking directly into the camera?" Y/N requested, adjusting her position.

Joe locked eyes with her through the lens, his gaze steady and unreadable. For a brief moment, it felt like everything else in the room had faded away, leaving just her, him, and the camera between them. Y/N swallowed hard, maintaining her composure as she captured the shot.

"Perfect," she said, her professional mask firmly in place. "Now just a slight smile, nothing forced."

The corner of his mouth lifted genuinely this time. Not the media smile he'd been giving the other cameras, but something quieter. Something real.

Click.

Later that evening, as Y/N sorted through the day’s photos from her new cubicle, she paused on the last shot. There was something in his expression she hadn’t noticed before. Focused, almost curious, like he wasn’t just looking at the camera but through it. Not vacant. Not posed. Just present.

She quickly moved to the next image, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. This was Joe Burrow, the franchise quarterback. She was just the newest media team member and was lucky to land a job during a pandemic. Whatever she thought she saw in that photograph was professional respect at best, her imagination at worst.

Her phone buzzed again.

Lucas: So... did you embarrass us or what?

Y/N glanced back at the photo on her screen, at those steady eyes looking directly into her camera, and smiled to herself.

Y/N: I was the picture of professionalism. Just caught a rogue football one-handed, saved  thousands of dollars in equipment, and threw a perfect spiral to Joe Burrow. No biggie.

The response was immediate, all three brothers texting simultaneously:

Matt: WHAT 

Aaron: YOU THREW A PASS TO JOE BURROW 

Lucas: WE'RE GOING TO NEED DETAILS. ALL OF THEM. NOW.

Y/N laughed, setting her phone aside without responding. Let them stew in their jealousy for a while.

She returned to the images, continuing to sort through them with methodical precision, telling herself that this was just the first day of many, that Joe Burrow was just another player she'd be working with, and that the way he'd looked at her through the camera meant nothing.

But as she exported the final selections, she couldn't help saving that one particular shot to her personal folder. Joe looking directly into her lens, that hint of a genuine smile, eyes alive with something that might have been curiosity.

* * *

The COVID Protocol Meeting

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting

“And that’s the revised media protocol for the season,” Kayla concluded, her face serious in the Zoom window. “Limited in-person access, virtual press conferences, and strict distancing during the interviews we do conduct face-to-face.”

Y/N scribbled notes, mentally calculating how these restrictions would affect their ability to connect fans with the team. Everything would be more distant, more sanitized. The exact opposite of what made sports culture thrive.

“We need to address the fan engagement problem,” the director of media relations added. “No fans in the stadium means we’re losing that community connection that’s central to the Bengals experience.”

Y/N hesitated, then unmuted herself. “I have some ideas, if you’re open to them.”

Several of the veteran staff members exchanged glances, the new hire speaking up so soon. But Kayla nodded encouragingly.

“Go ahead, Y/N.”

“First, what if we did cardboard cutouts in the stands? Fans could purchase their photos to be placed in the seats. It gives them a presence in the stadium, provides visibility during broadcasts, and could generate revenue we could direct toward COVID relief efforts in Cincinnati.”

The director nodded slowly, making notes.

“Second,” Y/N continued, her confidence building, “I know the team is planning the march to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center and the $250,000 pledge to community programs. We could create a digital content series highlighting the social justice initiatives. In-depth interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, educational components. It’s meaningful content that connects to what’s happening beyond football.”

“And third, we need to replace in-person interactions with virtual ones. Q&A sessions with players, live-streamed limited-access practices, interactive social media challenges. The fans need to feel part of the Bengals community even when they can’t physically be here.”

When she finished, there was a moment of silence before the director spoke.

“These are solid, Y/N. Particularly the social justice series.” He looked around the virtual room. “Let’s form working groups to develop each of these. Y/N, I want you on the social justice content team, coordinating with player involvement.”

After the meeting ended, Y/N’s phone pinged with a direct message from Kayla.

Impressive first strategy meeting. The rookie quarterback is participating in the Freedom Center march. Since you’ll be handling content for that initiative, I’m making you the point person for his involvement. Virtual introduction tomorrow at 10.

Y/N stared at the message, excitement and anxiety wrestling in her stomach. Three weeks into the job, and she was already working directly with the franchise quarterback on a project that actually mattered.

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Meeting

Y/N logged into the Zoom call five minutes early, double-checking her presentation on the Bengals’ planned social justice initiatives. She’d spent half the night researching the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center and preparing thoughtful questions about what aspects of the initiative Joe might connect with most.

At exactly 10:00, a new window appeared in the meeting. Joe Burrow sat in what looked like a home office, wearing a plain gray t-shirt, his expression attentive but neutral.

“Good morning,” Y/N began, professional despite her nerves. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N from the media team.”

“The one with the good arm,” Joe replied, that hint of recognition in his eyes. “Kayla mentioned you’re heading up content for the social justice initiative.”

Y/N nodded, momentarily caught off guard that he remembered her. “That’s right. We’re developing a content series around the team’s commitments, particularly the Freedom Center march and community programs.”

She shared her screen, outlining the proposed series – player perspectives on social justice, educational components about Cincinnati’s history with the Underground Railroad, and documentation of the team’s ongoing involvement in community programs.

“We want this to be authentic, not performative,” Y/N explained, watching Joe’s reactions carefully. “So I wanted to talk with you directly about what aspects of this initiative matter most to you personally.”

Joe leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting from polite attention to genuine engagement.

“I appreciate that approach,” he said. “A lot of teams are putting out statements, but how many are actually listening to the communities they claim to support?” He paused, considering. “My platform comes with responsibility. I want to use it to amplify voices that don’t get the same audience I do automatically.”

Y/N found herself nodding, impressed by his thoughtfulness. This wasn’t a PR-trained response; this was someone who had clearly been reflecting on his position and influence.

“What if we structured part of the series that way?” she suggested. “Instead of just documenting the team’s involvement, we could use player platforms to highlight community organizers and local leaders who’ve been doing this work for years.”

Something changed in Joe’s expression – a spark of interest, a subtle shift as he reassessed her.

“That’s exactly the right approach,” he said. “I’d be on board for that. Actually…” he hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “I’ve been having conversations with some of the veteran players about organizing additional player-driven initiatives beyond what the team has planned. Would that be something you could help develop content around?”

Joe Burrow was a rookie, sure, but already, he was stepping into leadership. And now, somehow, he was bringing her into it.

He looked right at her this time, more serious than before.

“I might be a rookie, but I want to help create the right culture here.”

Y/N tried not to show her surprise. Joe Burrow, rookie quarterback, was already taking leadership on social initiatives and was bringing her into the conversation.

“Absolutely,” she assured him. “Whatever you guys decide to do, I can make sure it’s documented thoughtfully. Just keep me in the loop.”

Joe nodded, seeming satisfied. “Will do. Send me the schedule for the Freedom Center content when you have it. And Y/N?”

“Yea?”

“I meant what I said about amplifying other voices. That includes inside the organization. If you have ideas, bring them directly to me. I might be a rookie, but I want to help create the right culture here.”

After the call ended, Y/N sat back in her chair, processing. Joe Burrow wasn’t just another entitled athlete performing social consciousness for the cameras. There was a genuine commitment there, a willingness to listen and learn.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Lucas.

Lucas: How’s life shaping the Bengals’ social media empire?

Y/N smiled to herself.

Y/N: Just had a meeting with Burrow about the social justice initiatives. He’s actually… impressive. Not what I expected.

Lucas: Damn, they’ve got you working directly with QB1 already? Moving up fast, sis.

She didn’t respond, still thinking about Joe’s parting words. Bring ideas directly to me. It was an unusual level of accessibility from the franchise quarterback, especially to someone so new.

Y/N opened her laptop and began outlining additional concepts for the social justice series, feeling for the first time like she might be building something meaningful in this role and finding an unexpected ally in Joe Burrow.

* * *

September 2020 - Cincinnati

The morning of the team’s march to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center dawned clear and crisp. Y/N arrived early, coordinating with the small camera crew allowed under COVID protocols. She had two jobs today: document the event and support Joe’s involvement.

Players and staff gathered in small, distanced groups, many wearing masks with “END RACISM” printed across them. Y/N moved among them with her camera, capturing candid moments of conversation and preparation.

She spotted Joe standing slightly apart, reviewing what looked like notes on his phone. Approaching cautiously, she asked, “Everything good for today?”

He looked up, recognition crossing his features. “Y/N. Yeah, just reviewing some history on the Freedom Center. Figured I should be informed if they ask me questions.”

Something about his diligence touched her. Many players showed up for PR events with minimal preparation, but here was Joe Burrow, studying historical context before a march.

“The content team put together some background materials,” Y/N offered. “I can send them to you.”

“That would be helpful,” he nodded. “I want to get this right.”

As they began walking toward the starting point, Joe asked, “You’re from Kentucky, right? Louisville?”

Y/N looked at him in surprise. “Yeah. How did you remember that?”

A slight shrug. “You mentioned your brothers when we talked about the social justice series. Said they grew up playing football in Louisville.”

Before she could respond, they reached the gathering point, and Joe was pulled into a conversation with veteran players. Y/N stepped back into her professional role, camera ready, but she couldn’t help reflecting on Joe’s unexpected recall of personal details she’d mentioned only in passing.

The march itself was powerful, players, coaches, and staff walking together toward the Freedom Center, a physical demonstration of commitment to addressing racial injustice. Y/N documented it all, but found her lens repeatedly drawn to Joe. Despite being a rookie, he walked with purpose, engaged in serious conversations with teammates and staff.

At the Freedom Center, the team gathered for a group photograph and brief remarks. Y/N positioned herself to capture reactions, smiling slightly when Joe adjusted his stance to be more visible in her frame. She didn’t think he even realized it yet, but he was already learning how to work with the camera and with her.

As the formal portion concluded, Y/N was reviewing footage when Joe approached, now carrying a Freedom Center brochure.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, nodding toward her camera.

“Plenty of good material,” she confirmed. “Thanks for being so aware of the documentation needs.”

“That’s your job, right? Making us look good,” he said, that ghost of a smile appearing briefly.

“Making you look authentic,” Y/N corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Joe considered this, then nodded in apparent approval. “You planning to go through the exhibits while you’re here?”

“I want to, but I need to get this footage back for initial editing.”

Joe glanced at the brochure in his hand. “I’m going to take a look around. Part of the point was to learn, not just be seen here.” He hesitated, then added, “Let me know what you think of the final content package. I’d like to see how this whole initiative comes together.”

“Will do,” Y/N promised, trying not to read too much into his interest in her work.

As Joe walked away toward the museum entrance, Y/N’s phone vibrated with a text.

Matt: Saw coverage of the march on ESPN. Did you meet any of the players?

Y/N smiled to herself, thinking of Joe reviewing historical notes and asking for her feedback on the content.

Y/N: Working directly with several of them on this project. They’re taking it seriously. More than just a PR move.

She tucked her phone away and packed up her equipment, reflecting on how the Joe Burrow she was getting to know differed from both the media portrayal and her own initial expectations. There was a thoughtfulness to him, an attention to detail that extended beyond football.

Y/N glanced toward the museum entrance where Joe had disappeared. The flutter in her stomach when he’d remembered details about her family, the way her pulse had quickened when he’d approached her earlier, these weren’t just professional responses to a colleague.

Oh no, she thought, the realization dawning with uncomfortable clarity. She was developing a crush on Joe Burrow. The franchise quarterback. Her literal job assignment.

Y/N forced herself to turn away, focusing intently on packing her equipment. This was exactly the kind of complication she couldn’t afford in her first real career position. She was here to document the Joe Burrow era, not catch feelings in the middle of it.

But as she headed back to the media van, she couldn’t quite shake the image of Joe studying historical notes before the march, his quiet determination to get things right. Or the way his eyes had met hers when he’d asked about her Kentucky roots, attentive and genuinely interested.

Professional boundaries, she reminded herself firmly. Just doing my job.

Even as she thought it, Y/N knew she was already in trouble.

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

“This is surreal,” Y/N murmured, walking between rows of cardboard cutouts staring blankly from the stands. Her idea had turned into rows of life-sized fan cutouts, filling the empty seats with frozen smiles and silent support.

She snapped photos for social media, occasionally recognizing faces of season ticket holders who had submitted their images. The empty stadium echoed with the sounds of her footsteps and the occasional distant voice of facilities staff.

“Quite the crowd you’ve assembled.”

Y/N turned to find Joe Burrow standing a few yards away, hands in the pockets of his team-issued sweatpants. He wasn’t scheduled for any media today, and she hadn’t expected to see him.

“Tough audience though,” he added with that subtle lift at the corner of his mouth. “No matter how well I play, they never cheer.”

Y/N laughed despite herself. “But they never boo either. Built-in supportive fanbase.”

Joe moved closer, studying the cardboard faces. “This was your idea, right? Kayla mentioned it in a media briefing.”

“One of them,” Y/N confirmed, surprised he knew. “Part of our COVID adaptations.”

Joe nodded, walking slowly between the rows. “Creative solution. Kind of eerie, but better than completely empty stands.” He stopped at a particular cutout, an elderly man wearing what looked like decades-old Bengals gear. “Some of these go back generations of fandom.”

“The team means a lot to this city,” Y/N said, joining him. “Even when the seasons are rough.”

“Especially then,” Joe replied, his expression thoughtful. “Loyalty means more when it’s tested.”

They stood in oddly comfortable silence, surrounded by the two-dimensional crowd. Y/N was acutely aware that this was the first time they had been completely alone together, no cameras or meetings structuring their interaction.

“We’re setting up for a socially distanced filming session,” Y/N finally explained, gesturing to her camera. “Fan messages to play during the broadcast.”

Joe glanced at her equipment, then at the stands. “Need help?”

Y/N stared at him. “You’re volunteering to help set up a PR shoot?”

“I’ve got an hour before film study,” he shrugged. “Figured I’d see how the other side of this works. I’m usually the one being pointed at, not the one setting things up.”

Before Y/N could respond, her phone rang, Kayla from PR, probably wondering where she was with the setup.

“Go ahead,” Joe said, already picking up one of the lighting stands Y/N had brought. “I’ll start getting these positioned.”

The call was brief, Y/N confirming she was already at the stadium preparing. When she hung up, she found Joe had already assembled the lighting setup, positioned exactly where it needed to be.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, surprised.

He gave a small smile. “Enough times to know where the light should hit.”

As they continued setting up, Y/N was struck by how easily they worked together, a wordless efficiency developing as they prepared the filming area. Joe would anticipate what she needed next, handing her equipment before she asked or adjusting lighting as she checked camera angles.

“My brothers would never believe this,” Y/N muttered, almost to herself.

“What’s that?”

“The franchise quarterback doing setup work for a social media shoot,” she said, a little sheepish. “They think I spend my days chasing you around with a camera, not actually doing anything.”

Joe smiled, a real one this time, not just the hint of one. “Happy to help rewrite the narrative.”

He glanced back at the rows of cutouts. “What did they think about your idea, by the way? The cardboard fans?”

“They actually thought that was brilliant,” Y/N admitted. “They submitted their own photos. They’re around here somewhere.”

“Which ones?”

“Row 23, I think? Three guys who look suspiciously related to me, wearing vintage Boomer Esiason jerseys.”

Joe immediately changed direction, heading for Row 23. Y/N followed, amused by his curiosity. He stopped when he found them, three cardboard men in their early thirties, indeed wearing matching vintage jerseys, grinning widely at the camera.

“The Y/L/N brothers,” Joe observed, studying their faces. “I can see the resemblance.”

“God help me,” Y/N sighed.

Joe turned to her with unexpected seriousness. “You’re lucky. To have family that supports what you do like that.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet sincerity that made Y/N pause. Before she could respond, the stadium doors opened and the rest of the media team arrived, ending their private conversation.

“Thanks for the help,” Y/N said quickly as Joe prepared to leave. “Unexpected but appreciated.”

He nodded, already shifting back into the more reserved demeanor he typically displayed around staff. “Good luck with the shoot.”

As he walked away, Y/N turned back to the cardboard crowd, her eyes lingering on her brothers’ frozen smiles. You’re lucky, Joe had said, with something like wistfulness in his voice. Another unexpected glimpse beneath the composed exterior of Joe Burrow, not just the focused quarterback or careful public figure, but someone who noticed family bonds and valued them.

And despite her best efforts, Y/N couldn’t ignore how her heart had raced when he had studied her brothers’ faces with such genuine interest, or the warm flush that had spread through her when they had worked side by side, moving with that easy, inexplicable synchronicity.

This is dangerous territory, she thought, forcing herself to focus on the technical aspects of the upcoming shoot. She was here to capture the Joe Burrow era on film, not fall for it firsthand. Developing feelings for Joe Burrow would be professionally reckless and personally painful, especially when he was already in a relationship. Olivia wasn’t a rumor or a tabloid story. She was his longtime girlfriend, dating back to Ohio State. They didn’t post much, but when they did, it was enough to remind everyone where things stood. Including Y/N.

Earlier, while organizing the cutouts by section, Y/N had paused at a familiar trio in the lower bowl. Joe’s parents. And Olivia. All smiling. All submitted together.

Y/N had kept moving, pretending it didn’t sting.

Now, standing among hundreds of cardboard faces and listening to her own heart speed up at the memory of working alongside him, she reminded herself again. This wasn’t a crush. This was a complication. One she couldn’t afford.

Later, reviewing footage from the fan message recordings, Y/N found an unexpected clip at the end of the day’s files. Joe had recorded a brief message directly to camera before leaving.

“To all the cardboard fans,” he said, that subtle humor evident in his eyes, “we hear your silent cheers. And to the real fans watching from home, we feel your very real support. Stay safe, and we’ll see you back in these stands as soon as possible.”

It was perfect content, genuine, thoughtful, with just enough warmth to feel personal without being overly sentimental. Y/N added it to the editing queue, knowing it would resonate with fans.

But as she worked late into the night on the final cut, she kept thinking about Joe among the cardboard crowd, noticing her brothers’ faces, helping with equipment no quarterback would typically touch. The Joe Burrow the public saw, composed, occasionally reserved, and the Joe Burrow who noticed details, who said you’re lucky with quiet sincerity.

Two versions of the same person, and Y/N was beginning to suspect she was one of the few people who got to see both.

* * *

Early November 2020 - Virtual Children's Hospital Visit

"You're on in five, four, three..." Y/N counted down silently with her fingers, giving Joe the cue to begin.

He smiled into the camera – that media-ready smile he'd perfected over the season, warm but controlled. "Hey everyone at Cincinnati Children's! Sorry I can't be there in person this year, but I wanted to say hello and answer some of your questions."

Y/N sat behind her laptop, coordinating the virtual visit while Joe interacted with children appearing on screen one at a time. Despite the technical constraints, he managed to make each conversation feel personal, giving children his full attention, answering their sometimes rambling questions with patience.

Between children, while the hospital staff set up the next patient, Joe glanced at Y/N for guidance.

"You're doing great," she mouthed, giving him a thumbs up. "Four more to go."

He nodded, taking a sip of water. This was their fifth virtual charity event together, and they'd developed an efficient shorthand. Y/N could read the subtle shifts in his expression that indicated when he needed a break or when technical issues were frustrating him. Joe, in turn, had learned to trust her direction, responding to her non-verbal cues without question.

The final child was a twelve-year-old boy recovering from surgery, wearing a handmade Burrow jersey over his hospital gown.

"My question is," the boy began shyly, "what are you doing for Thanksgiving since things are different with COVID?"

The question caught Joe off-guard, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before his media composure returned.

"That's actually a great question," he replied. "Olivia and I are keeping it small at our place this year. She's from Ohio too, so we're staying local instead of seeing extended family. It's different, but we're making it work, just like you're making things work at the hospital."

Y/N kept her expression professionally neutral, even as something inside her deflated. Of course Joe had someone. Of course they lived together. Y/N had seen enough social media tags to know that Olivia was his long-term girlfriend from Ohio who'd supported him through his college career at LSU and his transition to the NFL.

The information wasn't new, she'd heard casual mentions of Olivia in conversations around the facility, but hearing Joe speak about her with such warmth and familiarity made their relationship suddenly more concrete.

After the call ended, Joe stretched in his chair. "Think that went okay?"

"It was great," Y/N assured him, busying herself with equipment breakdown so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "Those kids were thrilled."

"Thanks for coordinating all this," Joe said. "These virtual events could be awkward, but you make them run smoothly."

Y/N nodded, focusing on cable management with unnecessary precision. "Just doing my job."

"Still," Joe insisted, "it makes a difference having someone who..." he paused, searching for the right words, "gets it. Gets the balance between the PR stuff and what actually matters."

The sincerity in his voice made Y/N look up, against her better judgment. Joe was watching her with that quiet intensity that sometimes replaced his more guarded expression – the look that made it feel like he was really seeing her.

"Thanks," she managed, hating the flutter in her chest. "That means a lot."

An awkward silence stretched between them, until Joe cleared his throat. "So, uh, any plans for Thanksgiving? Going back to Louisville?"

"Can't this year," Y/N shook her head. "My oldest brother's wife is pregnant, so they're being extra cautious about COVID. We're doing a big Zoom call instead."

Joe nodded, understanding in his eyes. "That's tough. First holiday away from family?"

"Yeah," Y/N admitted, surprised by his perception. "It's weird, but it's just one year, right?"

Joe seemed about to say something else when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, a genuine smile spreading across his face – the unguarded kind that Y/N rarely witnessed.

"Olivia's wondering when I'll be home," he explained, already standing and gathering his things. "I should get going."

"Of course," Y/N nodded, the professional mask firmly back in place. "Have a great rest of your day."

He hesitated for a beat at the door, like he was going to say something else. But then his phone buzzed again, and the moment passed.

She stayed seated after he left, letting the quiet settle in. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known about Olivia. But hearing him talk about her like home—that was harder than she expected.

* * *

November 22, 2020 – Paul Brown Stadium

Y/N stood frozen behind her camera as the Washington defensive lineman crashed into Joe’s planted leg. Even from her position on the sidelines, she could tell immediately that something was catastrophically wrong. The unnatural angle. The way Joe’s body crumpled.

For a terrible moment, the stadium fell silent.

Then everything accelerated into chaos. Medical staff rushing onto the field, players from both teams taking a knee, coaches huddled in urgent conversation. Y/N’s training kicked in, her hands steady on the camera despite the sick feeling in her stomach, documenting what no one wanted to see but everyone needed to remember: the moment that changed the trajectory of Joe Burrow’s rookie season.

Through her lens, she watched as players from both teams approached Joe before he was loaded onto the cart. Even from a distance, Y/N could see his face, pale with pain but somehow composed, nodding at his teammates as medical staff secured his leg.

The cart began its slow journey off the field, passing near where Y/N stood. She lowered her camera for just a moment, their eyes meeting briefly through the crowd of concerned staff. Y/N gave him a small nod, part acknowledgment, part encouragement. The corner of Joe’s mouth lifted slightly in recognition before he was driven away, disappearing into the tunnel.

Hours later, after processing footage, filing preliminary reports, and fulfilling media obligations, Y/N sat alone in her office, staring blankly at her computer screen. The official announcement had come: torn ACL, MCL damage, additional structural issues. Joe Burrow’s rookie season was over, and a long rehabilitation lay ahead.

Her phone vibrated on the desk.

Matt: Just saw the injury. Absolutely brutal.

Lucas: You were there on the sideline? Damn.

Aaron: Recovery timeline?

Y/N appreciated their concern but couldn’t find the energy to respond with more than a brief acknowledgment.

Y/N: It’s bad. ACL, MCL. Looking at 9+ months probably.

She set the phone down and turned back to her computer, focusing on what she could control, organizing footage, preparing content plans for a team that would continue without its central figure.

A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up to find Kayla standing there, expression uncharacteristically subdued.

“Crisis management meeting in ten,” she said. “Oh, and you’re being assigned to Joe’s rehabilitation documentation.”

Y/N tried to keep her expression neutral. “Documentation?”

“The team wants to chronicle his recovery journey,” Kayla explained. “Limited access, very controlled narrative. Needs someone he’s comfortable with, who understands both the football and PR sides.” She gave Y/N a meaningful look. “He asked for you specifically.”

After Kayla left, Y/N sat motionless, processing this development. Amid the pain and chaos of a season-ending injury, Joe had thought to request her for the rehabilitation coverage. Had remembered her name in what must have been a blur of medical discussions and difficult conversations.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unexpected source.

Joe: Heard you’re documenting the comeback tour.

Y/N stared at the message, surprised he was texting so soon after the injury. She’d assumed he’d be wrapped up in medical consultations and processing the devastating news.

Y/N: If you’re sure that’s what you want. We can assign someone else if you’d prefer.

The response came quickly:

Joe: I want someone who won’t make this into a pity story. Someone who gets it.

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, deliberating her response. Professional, she reminded herself. Keep it professional.

Y/N: Then I’m in. We’ll document the comeback on your terms.

Joe: Surgery’s next week, December second. We’ll get going after that.

Y/N: Got it. Focus on healing. I’ll handle the content strategy.

She watched the typing bubble flicker on and off before one last message came through.

Joe: Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

She knew he meant her work on the sidelines, the professional documentation of a difficult moment, but there was something in those simple words that felt more personal. An acknowledgment of their brief eye contact, the small nod of encouragement she’d offered when she’d lowered her camera.

Y/N: Always. That’s what I’m here for.

Setting her phone down, Y/N turned back to her computer, already mentally outlining a rehabilitation content strategy that would balance the team’s PR needs with Joe’s dignity and privacy. This assignment would mean more direct, one-on-one work with him over the coming months. More opportunities to witness the person behind the professional facade. More chances for her inconvenient feelings to deepen.

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. She should request a different assignment. She should maintain more professional distance. She should stop the flutter in her chest whenever Joe sought her out specifically.

She should do a lot of things.

Instead, she opened a new document and titled it Burrow Rehabilitation Content Strategy, already knowing she was in far too deep to turn back now.

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 – Rehabilitation Center

“Just a few more clips today,” Y/N assured Joe, adjusting her camera as the physical therapist prepared for the next exercise. “We’ll keep it brief.”

Joe nodded, his face drawn with the familiar tension that came with these early rehab sessions. Two weeks post-surgery, every movement was still an exercise in controlled pain management. Y/N had been documenting the start of his recovery, creating carefully edited content that showed determination without exploiting vulnerability.

“Ready when you are,” she told the therapist, who nodded and turned to Joe.

“Let’s work on those quad activations again. Ten contractions, five-second hold each.”

Y/N captured the session with practiced ease, knowing when to focus on Joe’s face, when to catch the therapist’s coaching, and when to lower the camera out of respect. She’d developed an intuitive sense for the line between honest storytelling and intrusion.

After thirty minutes, the therapist called it. As he stepped out to retrieve Joe’s chart, Y/N began packing her equipment.

“How’s it look?” Joe asked quietly, nodding toward her camera.

Y/N glanced up. She knew he wasn’t asking about framing. “It looks like exactly what it is. The beginning of a comeback story.”

A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Pretty boring content so far.”

“The best comeback stories start slow,” Y/N replied, zipping her bag. “Makes the highlight reel more satisfying when it hits.”

Joe adjusted his position on the table, wincing. “This part doesn’t make the highlight reel, huh?”

“Only the parts where you’re showing superhuman determination,” she said. “Not the ones where you’re calling the PT sadistic.”

That earned a real laugh, though it quickly turned into a grimace. “You’re honest. I appreciate that.”

Y/N paused, sensing a shift. After two weeks of filming his rehab, the professional boundaries were still in place, but the nature of the work created a certain closeness. Documenting someone’s pain, frustration, and tiny victories had a way of drawing people closer, whether either of them liked it or not.

“The team wants an update for social tomorrow,” she said, steering them back to safer ground. “Any preferences for the message?”

Joe rubbed his thigh just above the brace, thinking. “Keep it simple. No dramatic promises. Just… I’m working. Progress is happening. Grateful for the support.”

“Done,” Y/N nodded, making a note. “I’ll send a draft for approval.”

“I trust your judgment,” Joe said. “You haven’t overplayed any of this.

“That’s why you requested me, right?” Y/N asked, trying to keep the tone light, though the question had lingered since she got the assignment.

Joe’s eyes met hers. “Yes. You see the person, not just the story.”

The honesty in his voice caught her off guard. Before she could respond, her phone chimed.

Kayla: Need the rehab footage by 3pm for review.

“Work calls,” Y/N said, holding up her phone. “I should get this back to the facility.”

Joe nodded. “Same time Thursday?”

“I’ll be here,” she said, collecting the last of her gear.

As she reached the door, Joe called after her. “Hey, Y/N?”

She turned. “Yeah?”

“You doing anything for Christmas?”

She shrugged. “Staying in Cincinnati. My brother’s wife is pregnant, so we’re playing it safe.”

“That’s tough.”

“It’s fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “First Christmas away from family, but honestly, not the worst thing happening this year.”

“Right,” Joe said, though something in his expression flickered. “See you Thursday.”

That evening, Y/N returned to her apartment to find a care package from her brothers: Louisville bourbon, family photos, and University of Kentucky gear to “keep her from turning into a full-time Bengals fan.” The gesture made her laugh, but it also made her chest ache. The distance felt heavier than usual this year.

While editing footage from the day’s session, she noticed again how different Joe seemed in rehab. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t polished. Just quiet, steady effort. It was more compelling than any mic’d-up segment she’d ever shot.

Her phone buzzed.

Kayla: Rehabilitation content is getting excellent engagement. Team’s impressed with how you’re handling the narrative. Authentic but respectful.

Y/N replied with a quick thanks, then sat staring at the paused frame on her laptop—Joe mid-contraction, jaw tight, eyes focused. She knew this wasn’t supposed to be personal. But somehow, it was starting to feel that way.

She closed her laptop firmly.

Joe Burrow was her subject. Not her friend. Not anything more. The fact that he trusted her with his recovery story was a professional compliment, not a personal invitation.

Even as she thought it, Y/N knew she was lying. But sometimes, professional survival required a certain amount of self-deception.

* * *

December 24, 2020 – Y/N’s Apartment

Y/N’s apartment felt too quiet on Christmas Eve. She’d decorated half-heartedly, a small artificial tree with a few ornaments, some lights strung around her living room window—but the holiday spirit was hard to capture alone in a city where she still felt like a newcomer.

She was curled on the couch watching Die Hard (a Y/L/N family tradition her brothers had insisted she maintain) when her phone buzzed with a notification from the building’s security desk.

Package delivered for Y/L/N – front desk

Puzzled, Y/N paused the movie and headed downstairs. She wasn’t expecting anything, and her family’s gifts had arrived days ago.

The security guard handed her a medium-sized package wrapped in simple brown paper with her name written in neat block letters. No address. No shipping label.

“Guy dropped it off about an hour ago,” the guard said. “Said it was important you got it tonight.”

Back in her apartment, Y/N carefully unwrapped the mystery package to find a plain white box. Inside was a Cincinnati Bengals snow globe, but not the kind sold at the team store. This one was custom-made with meticulous detail: a miniature Paul Brown Stadium filled with thousands of tiny cardboard cutout fans. When she shook it, confetti in Bengals colors swirled around the stands.

A small card rested beneath the snow globe.

Y/N – Thought you should have something to remember your first season with the team. The cardboard fans deserve a place on your shelf. – Joe

Y/N read the card twice, just to be sure she hadn’t imagined the signature. Joe Burrow had found a custom snow globe with cardboard fans—a perfect tribute to her COVID initiative, and had it delivered to her apartment on Christmas Eve.

While she was still absorbing that, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Did it arrive in one piece? The guy at the shop was worried about the cardboard details.

She saved the number before responding.

Y/N: It’s perfect. How did you even find something like this?

Joe: Custom order. Guy downtown does specialty snow globes. Took some convincing to add cardboard people instead of snow.

Y/N: I don’t know what to say. Thank you.

She hesitated, then added:

Y/N: How’s rehab going? That last session looked tough.

His reply came quickly.

Joe: Getting there. PT says I’m ahead of schedule, but it still feels too slow. Olivia’s tired of me being restless about it.

The casual mention of Olivia brought her back to earth. Of course they were spending Christmas together, Joe recuperating, Olivia looking after him.

Y/N: Well, the snow globe was incredibly thoughtful. This officially puts my Secret Santa game to shame.

Joe: Wasn’t Secret Santa. This was just… a thank you. For handling the rehab documentation the right way.

Y/N sat with that for a moment. Joe had gotten her a separate, personal gift. Something he’d commissioned, thought about, followed up on. It wasn’t part of any exchange. It wasn’t required.

Before she could figure out what to say without giving herself away, another text came through.

Joe: Merry Christmas, Y/N. See you for the next rehab session.

Y/N: Merry Christmas, Joe. Rest up, comeback next season is gonna to be epic.

She set her phone down and picked up the snow globe again, turning it over in her hands. Outside her window, snow had started to fall over Cincinnati. Her first Christmas in a new city felt a little less lonely.

Y/N knew she should guard her heart. Joe Burrow had a girlfriend he clearly cared about. This was just a thoughtful gesture from someone who noticed details and appreciated hard work. Nothing more.

But as she placed the snow globe on her nightstand before bed, she couldn’t help the warmth that settled in her chest. Couldn’t quiet the voice that whispered

He was thinking about you on Christmas Eve.

* * *

January 2021 – Rehabilitation Center

“That’s good for today,” the physical therapist said, making notes on Joe’s chart. “You’re pushing hard, but remember what we discussed about not overdoing it.”

Joe nodded, jaw clenched in a way Y/N had learned to recognize as pain management. The session had been particularly grueling, testing new movement patterns that clearly challenged his healing knee.

“I’ll send these notes to the medical team,” the therapist continued. “Same time on Thursday?”

“I’ll be here,” Joe confirmed, his voice controlled but tight.

As the therapist left, Y/N began packing her camera equipment, giving Joe a moment to compose himself. She had been documenting his rehabilitation for six weeks now, establishing a careful routine: arrive early, capture what was needed, create space for recovery between exercises, and never make him feel watched during moments of struggle.

“That looked rough today,” she said, keeping her tone neutral as she stored memory cards.

Joe exhaled slowly, adjusting his position on the treatment table. “PT says that’s good. Means we’re pushing boundaries.”

Y/N nodded, recognizing the stock answer he gave to staff and coaches. After weeks of these sessions, she had become adept at distinguishing between Joe’s responses—the media answers, the team answers, and, occasionally, the real ones.

“We got good content,” she assured him, shifting the subject. “The determination shots will play well with fans. And that moment with the resistance band tells a clear progress story from last week.”

Joe made a noncommittal sound, staring at the ceiling. Y/N continued packing, assuming the conversation was over, when he suddenly spoke.

“What if I can’t come back from this the same?”

The question hung in the air, so quietly spoken that Y/N wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it. She turned to find Joe still staring upward, his carefully maintained composure showing rare cracks.

Y/N set down her equipment and moved closer. She reached for the camera she had just packed.

“Off the record,” she said, showing him as she turned off the device completely. “Nothing recorded.”

Something in Joe’s expression shifted, relief, maybe, or recognition that she understood what he needed in this moment.

“Everyone keeps saying I’ll come back stronger,” he continued, voice low. “The team, the media, the fans. ‘Joe Burrow’s comeback will be legendary.’ But what if it’s not? What if this,” he gestured to his braced leg, “changes things permanently?”

Y/N leaned against the treatment table, giving him space but staying present. “What does your PT actually say? Not the public version.”

“That I’m ahead of schedule but have a long way to go,” Joe answered. “That most players come back from ACL tears, but it can take a full season to feel normal again.” He paused. “If normal even exists after this.”

Y/N nodded, considering her response carefully. This wasn’t a moment for empty reassurance or team talking points.

“I tore my ACL my senior year,” she said, surprising him with the personal reference. “Playing soccer at UK. Doctor said I might not play again. Six months later I was back on the field.” She paused. “Different, but better.”

Joe turned to look at her fully, genuine surprise breaking through his frustration. “You tore your ACL?”

“I did,” Y/N said. "The rehab was brutal. I used to ice my knee and cry in the training room bathroom so my teammates wouldn’t see.”

“What changed?” Joe asked, fully engaged now. “How did you get from bathroom tears to ‘better’?”

“I stopped fighting the process,” Y/N said simply. “Started respecting the injury instead of resenting it. And I learned that ‘same as before’ is the wrong goal. You don’t get the same body back. You get a new one that moves differently.”

She hesitated, then added, “But here’s what no one tells you—the mental game changes too. You become more strategic when you can’t rely on pure physicality. You see the field differently. You anticipate because you have to. Some of my best plays came after the injury, not before.”

A moment of connection formed as Joe finally met her eyes, a small smile forming. “You don’t bullshit me. That’s why I like you.”

Y/N felt that flutter but kept her composure, moving back to her equipment. “The comeback narrative isn’t bullshit. It’s just incomplete without acknowledging the struggle.” She picked up her camera bag. “And Joe? No one who’s watched you work these past weeks doubts you’ll be back. The question is just who you’ll be when you get there.”

Joe nodded slowly, processing her words. “Thanks. For the honesty. And for turning off the camera.”

“Some moments aren’t for documentation,” Y/N said. “Though if you ever want to talk about the mental side of recovery for the content series, I think it would resonate. Athletes don’t discuss that enough.”

“Maybe,” Joe said, his professional mask gradually returning. “I’ll think about it.”

As Y/N prepared to leave, Joe called after her. “Hey, Y/N? Your team ever regret drafting you after the injury?”

Y/N smiled despite herself. “I wasn’t exactly first-round NWSL material, Joe. But no. The injury made me a better player. Different, but better.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she left, aware that something had shifted between them—a new layer of understanding beneath their professional relationship. For the first time, Joe had seen her not just as the person behind the camera, but as someone who truly understood his struggle from the inside.

It was a connection she hadn’t planned for. And one that would make staying professional a little harder every week.

* * *

April 2021 - Y/N’s Apartment

“They’re absolutely taking Chase,” Lucas insisted through the Zoom call, his voice slightly delayed over Y/N’s laptop speakers. “Burrow needs weapons more than protection.”

“That’s insane,” Aaron countered, his window lighting up. “They’ve got to take Sewell. What good are receivers if your quarterback is getting murdered every play?”

Matt’s face appeared in the third window. “Y/N, you literally work there. What are they thinking?”

Y/N took a sip of her beer, settling deeper into her couch as the NFL Draft coverage continued on her TV. The brothers’ traditional draft night debate was in full swing, though this was the first year they’d done it virtually instead of crammed into someone’s living room.

“I’m in media, not the front office,” she reminded them. “And even if I knew anything, I’m not sharing confidential information with you degenerates.”

“Come on,” Lucas pressed. “You’ve been filming Burrow’s rehab for months. He must have dropped hints about who he wants.”

Y/N shook her head. “Professional boundaries, remember? I document the recovery. I don’t gossip about draft preferences.”

In truth, Joe had mentioned Chase during a rehabilitation session the previous week. A casual “Be nice throwing to Ja’Marr again” while working on his passing motion. But Y/N took her role seriously. What happened in those sessions stayed there, unless approved for team content.

Her phone buzzed with a text, offering a welcome distraction from her brothers’ continued debate.

Joe: You watching?

Y/N stared at the message, surprised. It was draft night. She had assumed Joe would be watching with friends, family, or Olivia.

Y/N: Of course. Annual Y/L/N family tradition, now over Zoom.

Joe: Predictions?

Y/N thought carefully about her response, hyperaware of her brothers still arguing loudly through her laptop.

Y/N: My brothers are arguing Chase vs Sewell. Heated debate in progress. I’m staying neutral.

Joe: Smart. But off the record?

She smiled at his persistence.

Y/N: Off the record, I think your LSU connection might win out over conventional wisdom.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.

Joe: We’ll see in about 4 picks. My phone’s been blowing up all night. Needed a normal conversation.

Something warm bloomed in Y/N’s chest at the implication, that texting her constituted “normal” for Joe, a respite from the pressures of draft night.

Y/N: Happy to talk about it like a regular person. How’s the knee today?

Joe: Good session this morning. Getting stronger. Doctor says I’m where I should be at 20 weeks.

“Y/N, who are you texting? You’re missing the debate!” Matt called through the Zoom.

“Just work stuff,” she replied absently, watching the three dots appear on her phone again.

Joe: Olivia says hi. She’s been impressed with the rehab content series.

Y/N’s fingers froze over her keyboard. The sting was immediate, the kind that crept up slowly even when she thought she’d braced for it. Of course Olivia was there. Of course they were watching the draft together. The reminder sat heavy.

Y/N: Tell her thanks and hey back.

She set her phone down and forced her attention back to her brothers and the draft coverage. On screen, the Bengals’ pick was approaching, the tension building as analysts debated the same Sewell-versus-Chase question that had divided the Y/L/N brothers.

When Commissioner Goodell announced “Ja’Marr Chase, wide receiver, LSU,” Lucas erupted in triumph while Aaron groaned dramatically. Y/N felt her phone buzz again but didn’t look right away, instead watching the coverage of Chase celebrating with his family.

Finally, she glanced down.

Joe: Like I said, LSU connections matter.

Y/N couldn’t help smiling, imagining Joe’s subtle satisfaction at the pick.

Y/N: Lucas says you’re welcome. Apparently he’s taking credit for Chase like he was in the war room.

Joe: Tell him I’ll let Chase know he’s got fans in Louisville. Heading into calls. Appreciate the breather.

Y/N: Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

She set her phone aside and rejoined her brothers’ now-heated debate about the wisdom of the pick. But part of her mind lingered on that text exchange—on being the person Joe reached out to for normal amid the draft night chaos, and on the complicated feelings that continued to develop despite her best efforts to contain them.

The rehabilitation documentation had created a unique space between them. Not quite friendship. Definitely not romance. But something intimate nonetheless. Joe trusted her. Relied on her perspective. Valued her discretion.

It was enough, she told herself. And for now, it had to be.

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp

The energy at training camp was electric, fans lining the practice fields for their first glimpse of Joe Burrow back in action after his devastating injury. Y/N moved efficiently through the crowd, capturing fan reactions and b-roll for the team’s social content.

“Y/N!” Kayla called, waving her over to the media area. “We need you on Burrow’s first team drills. Main camera, tight focus on his movement and confidence. This is the money shot everyone’s waiting for.”

Y/N nodded, adjusting her equipment as she headed to the designated position. After months documenting Joe’s rehabilitation journey, the painful early sessions, the gradual progress, the breakthrough moments, this felt like the culmination of a shared experience. Though she’d never say it aloud, she felt oddly protective watching reporters and cameras gather, knowing many were hoping to capture any hint of hesitation or weakness in his return.

When Joe jogged onto the field in full practice gear, a roar went up from the assembled fans. Y/N watched through her viewfinder as he acknowledged the crowd with a casual wave before joining the quarterbacks group. His stride looked natural, confidence evident in his movement. If he felt any apprehension about this first public session, it didn’t show in his body language.

Throughout the early drills, Y/N maintained her professional focus, capturing exactly what the team needed, Joe’s throwing mechanics, his footwork, the way he planted on the surgically repaired knee. But she couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction each time he executed a perfect dropback or stepped confidently into a throw, knowing how hard he’d fought for each of those movements.

During a brief water break, Joe glanced toward the media area, his eyes finding Y/N’s camera with practiced ease. He gave a subtle nod, something like acknowledgment or even gratitude, before turning back to his teammates. Y/N swallowed hard, refocusing her lens. That small gesture felt significant, a private recognition of the journey they’d documented together.

“Looking good out there,” commented a reporter standing nearby. “Can’t even tell which knee was injured.”

“That’s the point,” Y/N replied, not looking away from her viewfinder. “Months of work to make it look effortless.”

After practice concluded, Y/N was reviewing footage when she noticed Olivia standing near the family area, waiting as Joe finished speaking with coaches. She was stunning even in casual clothes, her easy confidence evident as she chatted with other players’ family members.

Y/N had managed to avoid direct interaction with Olivia throughout the rehabilitation documentation. Their paths rarely crossed during Joe’s recovery. Now, watching her welcome Joe with a warm embrace after practice, Y/N felt the familiar ache that she’d become adept at ignoring.

“Y/N, right?”

Y/N turned to find Olivia standing beside her, offering a friendly smile.

“Yes,” Y/N confirmed, professionalism automatically kicking in. “Nice to see you again.”

“I wanted to thank you personally,” Olivia said, surprising Y/N completely. “Joe mentioned how you handled the rehab documentation. Keeping it about the work, not turning it into some dramatic sob story. It meant a lot to him. To both of us, really.”

Y/N managed a smile, her grip tightening slightly on the strap of her camera bag. “Just doing my job,” she said, steadying her voice. “Joe made it easy. He was committed from day one.”

“Still,” Olivia insisted, “he said you understood what he needed from those sessions. Not many media people get that part right.” She paused, glancing toward where Joe was still engaged with coaches. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. It’s been a rough few months.”

The sincerity in Olivia’s voice made Y/N feel suddenly guilty for her complicated feelings. This woman clearly loved Joe and had supported him through an incredibly difficult recovery.

“He’s looking great out there,” Y/N offered. “All that work is paying off.”

Olivia nodded, relief evident in her expression. “That’s what the doctors are saying too. Though he’s still pushing too hard, in typical Joe fashion.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at that familiar truth. “Some things never change.”

“Exactly,” Olivia agreed with a knowing look. As Joe approached, she added quietly, “Anyway, thanks again. Looking forward to seeing the season content you create.”

Joe approached from across the field, catching sight of them mid-conversation. His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before he smoothed it out with a nod.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Just thanking Y/N for her work during your recovery,” Olivia explained, her hand finding his naturally. “The content series has been really well done.”

Joe’s eyes met Y/N’s briefly. “She gets it right. Always has.”

The simple validation shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. Y/N nodded professionally, already stepping back. “Just capturing what’s there. You looked solid today. Confidence reads clearly on camera.”

“Months of practice,” Joe replied, the hint of a private joke in his eyes, a reference to their many conversations about perception versus reality in the rehabilitation content.

“I should get this footage back for editing,” Y/N said, gesturing to her camera. “Good to see you both.”

As she walked away, Y/N tried to sort through her conflicting emotions. The professional pride in seeing Joe’s successful return. The personal satisfaction of having been part of his recovery journey. The complicated ache of witnessing his relationship with Olivia up close, their easy intimacy, their shared experience of his injury.

Y/N had maintained appropriate boundaries throughout the rehabilitation process, focusing on the work rather than her inconvenient feelings. But seeing him back on the field, confident and strong after all those difficult sessions, stirred something deeper than professional satisfaction.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Kayla: Need the practice footage ASAP. National outlets requesting clips of Burrow’s return.

Y/N welcomed the distraction, focusing on the immediate demands of her job. There would be time later to process the complex emotions of this day, and to reinforce the professional walls that seemed increasingly necessary as the new season approached.

* * *

2022 Season – January 2023

“And Joe Burrow leads the Cincinnati Bengals back to the AFC Championship game for the second straight year.”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium as Y/N captured the sideline celebrations, moving efficiently through the chaos to document the team’s triumph. After a remarkable comeback season in 2021 that took them to the Super Bowl, the 2022 Bengals had faced enormous expectations. They were meeting them with another deep playoff run.

Y/N had established herself as a key member of the media team, promoted to Social Media Coordinator at the start of the season. The role gave her broader responsibilities beyond player-specific content, though she still handled much of the quarterback and skill position documentation.

As players embraced on the field, Y/N captured Joe’s celebration with his teammates. The confident smile, the easy leadership that had developed over three seasons. When he glanced toward her camera and gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment, Y/N felt the familiar flutter she’d learned to ignore.

Their professional relationship had evolved over the past year. The intensive connection of the rehabilitation period had naturally shifted as Joe returned to full strength and Y/N’s responsibilities expanded. They still worked together regularly, but the intimate space of those recovery sessions, where vulnerability and trust had created something unique, had given way to the more structured interactions of normal team operations.

Later, in the locker room, Y/N navigated between celebrating players and capturing authentic moments for the team’s social platforms. Joe stood at the center of a media scrum, handling questions with the composed confidence that had become his trademark.

“Y/N!” called Chase, waving her over to a group of receivers. “Get this for the official account.”

She smiled and directed her camera toward their celebration. This was her world now. Trusted by players, respected by staff, the voice behind the team’s digital presence. The professional success was everything she’d worked for, even as she maintained careful boundaries with the quarterback who had once trusted her with his most vulnerable moments.

After finishing the required content, Y/N was packing her equipment when she sensed someone approaching.

“Good game to capture,” Joe said, now changed from his uniform but still flushed with victory.

“Congratulations,” Y/N replied, her smile genuine. “Back-to-back championship games is no small feat.”

“The content team has been killing it this season,” he said, nodding toward her coordinator badge. “That promotion was well-deserved.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, a little surprised he’d noticed. Since his full return, their interactions had been mostly professional. Still friendly, but nothing like the closeness they’d shared during his recovery. “Everyone makes it easy to create good content.”

Joe gave a small shrug. “Still. You’re the one shaping how it’s remembered.”

Y/N smiled at that. “Well, my job’s bigger now. I’m not just chasing quarterbacks around anymore.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. The kind that only develops between people with shared history. For a moment, Y/N felt a faint echo of their rehabilitation sessions, when conversation had flowed naturally despite the professional context.

“Olivia’s organizing a team gathering if we make the Super Bowl,” Joe said, breaking the quiet. “You should come. The whole media team is invited, but”, he paused, searching for the words, “it would be good to have you there. After everything.”

Y/N nodded, maintaining her professional composure despite the unexpected invitation. “Thanks. That would be nice.”

Joe seemed about to say something else when Chase called his name from across the locker room. “Quarterback meeting in five.”

“Duty calls,” Joe said with a quick smile. “See you around, Y/N.”

As he walked away, Y/N finished packing her equipment and tried to parse the brief interaction. There had been something in his expression. Not quite nostalgia, but recognition of their unique history. The rehabilitation journey had created a connection that, while carefully professional, had left its mark on both of them.

Y/N’s phone buzzed with the brothers’ group chat.

Lucas: Another AFC Championship! Bengals social team crushing it with the content.

Matt: They better be paying you overtime for playoff coverage.

Aaron: How close are you and Burrow these days? Still working together often?

Y/N stared at Aaron’s question, unsure how to answer. The truth was complicated. They worked together professionally, but the intensity of their connection during his recovery had naturally faded as circumstances changed.

Y/N: Professional relationship. I work with all the players in my coordinator role. But yes, still see him regularly for content.

She tucked her phone away and headed for the media room, where immediate deadlines awaited. The answer hadn’t been a lie, exactly. But it hadn’t captured the nuance of whatever existed between them. The lingering awareness, the comfortable silences, the way his eyes still found her camera in crowded moments.

Y/N had become expert at compartmentalizing these thoughts, focusing instead on her professional success and the exciting playoff run ahead. Whatever complicated feelings remained were her burden to manage. Not Joe’s, and certainly not something that would ever interfere with the career she’d worked so hard to build.

Even if, occasionally, she still caught herself watching him through her viewfinder a moment longer than strictly necessary.

* * *

February 2024 – Joe’s Home Gym

Y/N adjusted her camera, capturing Joe as he completed another set of wrist stabilization exercises. Four months into his second major injury recovery in three years, the rehabilitation routine had become familiar to them both. This session was taking place in the home gym Joe had built after his ACL recovery, a space that reflected his methodical approach to training, all clean lines and functional equipment, personal touches minimal.

“How’s that feeling compared to last week?” Y/N asked, lowering her camera as Joe finished the exercise.

“Better,” he replied, flexing his wrist carefully. “More control. Less hesitation.”

Y/N nodded, making notes for the recovery update that would be released to fans later in the week. As Social Media Coordinator, she no longer had to handle the daily documentation of Joe’s recovery, but she had still accepted his request to personally oversee the key elements of his rehabilitation content. After the success of their first recovery series, the team had readily agreed.

“The fans will be happy to see the progress,” she said, reviewing the footage. “They’ve been worried since Baltimore.”

“Four years with the Bengals and two seasons ended by injuries,” Joe commented, a rare note of frustration breaking through his composure. “Not exactly what anyone had in mind.”

Y/N looked up from her camera. “The comeback narrative plays well the first time. Second time, it reads as resilience. Those aren’t bad stories to have attached to your name.”

He gave her a small smile, the kind reserved for when she cut through the media spin to something more genuine. It was a look Y/N had catalogued without meaning to, along with his game-day focus, his press conference diplomacy, his unguarded moments of triumph. Four years of documenting Joe Burrow had left her with an encyclopedic knowledge of his expressions.

As his physical therapist entered to begin the next series of exercises, Y/N stepped back, camera ready but maintaining a respectful distance. She had perfected the art of being present without imposing, of capturing vulnerability without exploiting it.

“Y/N,” Joe called as the PT finished setting up. “The team said you’re heading to the combine next week?”

“Yeah, they want feature content on potential draft picks.” She adjusted her lens. “First time being on that side of the process.”

“Tell them to find someone who can stay healthy,” Joe said, that subtle humor in his eyes. “Someone boring who never gives the social media team anything dramatic to document.”

Y/N laughed. “I don’t know. Documenting your injuries has been good for my career. Got me this promotion.”

“Happy to help,” Joe replied dryly, though something in his expression shifted and grew more serious. “You deserve it. You always see the person beyond the player. Not everyone does that.”

The simple observation caught Y/N off guard. Before she could respond, the PT motioned that they were ready to begin the next exercise, and the moment passed.

Later, reviewing the footage alone in her apartment, Y/N paused on a frame that captured Joe mid-motion, his expression reflecting the focus and determination that defined him. After nearly four years, she still found herself studying these images longer than necessary, still felt that familiar tug of emotion she had long since accepted but never fully conquered.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming call. Sam, a colleague from the PR department who had gradually become her closest friend on the team.

“Please tell me you’re not still working,” Sam’s voice carried the easy warmth Y/N had come to rely on. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Just finishing up the Burrow rehab content,” Y/N replied, closing her laptop. “Wanted to get ahead before the combine trip.”

“How’s our quarterback looking?”

“Good,” Y/N said, careful to keep her tone professional. “Recovery’s on track. Should be cleared well before training camp.”

There was a brief silence before Sam spoke again. “And how are you doing with all of this?”

Y/N hesitated. She had never explicitly discussed her feelings for Joe with anyone. Not her brothers, not her colleagues. But over the past year, Sam had noticed things, the way Y/N’s expression changed when Joe entered a room, how she instinctively anticipated his needs during media sessions, the careful distance she maintained in group settings.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said automatically. “Just doing my job.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam replied, the skepticism evident in her voice. “And has that job gotten any easier in the, what, almost four years you’ve been doing it?”

Y/N sighed, glancing at the snow globe still sitting on her nightstand, a reminder of a Christmas Eve long ago. “It’s not like that. We work well together. We have a professional rapport. That’s all.”

“Y/N,” Sam said, her voice gentler now. “I’ve seen how you look at him when you think no one’s watching. And I’ve seen how he seeks you out in a crowded room, how his eyes follow you. Whatever’s between you two, it’s not just professional rapport.”

Y/N felt a familiar tightness in her chest. “Even if there was something, which there isn’t, he has Olivia. Four years together. That’s not nothing.”

“True,” Sam conceded. “But that doesn’t change what I’ve seen.”

After hanging up, Y/N moved to her window, looking out at the Cincinnati skyline that had become home. Four years. Four years of building a career, of establishing herself as a respected voice within the organization, of carefully maintaining boundaries while documenting the career of Joe Burrow.

Four years of feelings that hadn’t faded, despite her best efforts.

For the first time, Y/N allowed herself to fully acknowledge the truth she had been dancing around since that first photoshoot when a rookie quarterback had caught her perfect spiral and looked at her with surprised recognition.

She was in love with Joe Burrow. Had been for years.

Admitting it felt both crushing and freeing, like finally naming something she had been avoiding for a long time. But recognition didn’t change reality. Joe was with Olivia. Y/N was his colleague. The boundaries between them were necessary and fixed.

As she prepared for bed, Y/N made a silent promise to herself. When she returned from the combine, she would create more distance. Focus on other players. Delegate more of Joe’s content to her team. For her own preservation and for the career she had worked so hard to build, she needed to step back from the center of Joe Burrow’s world, even if she had helped hold it together.

It was time to tell a different story. One where she wasn’t caught in a perpetual state of yearning for something that couldn’t happen. One where she was the main character again.

* * *

March 2024 - Bengals Media Suite

Y/N had been back from the NFL Combine for exactly four hours when the whispers reached her. Moving through the facility's open office space, she noticed the furtive glances, the conversations that hushed as she approached, the unmistakable atmosphere of gossip in circulation.

"What's going on?" she asked Sam, who was leaning against the doorframe of the media suite, phone in hand.

Sam's expression shifted to something cautious, almost apologetic. "You haven't seen the news?"

"I just got off a plane. What news?"

Sam hesitated, then turned her phone screen toward Y/N. There it was, a sports blog headline blown up for emphasis: "Bengals QB Joe Burrow and Longtime Girlfriend Split After Four Years."

Y/N felt the floor tilt beneath her, but kept her expression carefully neutral. "When did this break?"

"This morning," Sam said, watching her face. "It's been confirmed by multiple sources. Apparently, it happened a couple weeks ago, before your trip."

Y/N nodded mechanically, her mind racing to process this information while maintaining outward composure. "Well, I hope they're both okay. Break-ups are rough."

Sam raised an eyebrow at her deliberately casual tone but seemed to understand Y/N's need for discretion in the middle of the office. "The PR team's in emergency mode trying to control the narrative. You might want to be prepared for questions about the social media approach."

"Of course," Y/N replied, already moving toward her office, seeking privacy to collect herself. "Thanks for the heads-up."

Once behind her closed door, Y/N sat heavily in her chair, the news still reverberating through her. Joe and Olivia had been together since before her time with the Bengals. Their relationship had been a constant backdrop to her own complicated feelings, a fixed reality that had allowed her to keep those feelings firmly contained. With that boundary suddenly removed, Y/N felt exposed, as though a wall she'd been safely hiding behind had vanished.

Her phone buzzed with a group text from her brothers, who had clearly seen the news.

Matt: Don't think we didn't notice you've been radio silent on the Burrow news.

Lucas: Is he okay? Getting bombarded with questions as the resident Bengals expert in the family.

Aaron: More importantly, are YOU okay?

Y/N stared at Aaron's message, surprised and unsettled by his perceptiveness. Had she been that transparent all these years?

Y/N: Just got back from the combine and learning about it with everyone else. Don't have inside info. And obviously I'm fine, it has nothing to do with me.

The response was immediate:

Aaron: If you say so, sis.

Y/N was saved from replying by a knock at her door. Kayla, the head of PR, stood there with a tense expression.

"We need to coordinate on the social media approach," she said. "Engagement's through the roof, but we need to strike the right tone. Respectful distance while acknowledging the fans' interest."

"Absolutely," Y/N replied, grateful for the professional focus. "I'll draft a content strategy for the coming weeks."

"What are you thinking?" Kayla asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Y/N considered for a moment. "Actually... I think we don't acknowledge it at all."

Kayla's eyebrows shot up. "Not even a brief statement?"

"Joe has never discussed his personal life publicly before," Y/N explained. "He's always kept that separate from his football identity. Starting now would set a precedent that his private life is fair game for public consumption."

"The fans will want—"

"The fans want football," Y/N interrupted gently. "We continue with regular football content, draft prep, team developments. We respect the boundary he's always maintained between his personal and professional life."

Kayla studied her thoughtfully. "That's... actually a solid approach. Let me run it by the team. Also, Joe's asking for you to handle his NBC Sports interview next week personally. Seems like he might be on the same page."

After Kayla left, Y/N sat motionless, absorbing this new development. Even amid personal upheaval, Joe still trusted her judgment, still sought her specific perspective. The weight of that trust felt heavier now than it ever had before.

Throughout the day, Y/N buried herself in work, drafting content plans, holding strategy meetings, responding to media inquiries. Every task provided a welcome distraction from the thought that circled her mind: Joe was single. For the first time since she'd known him, Joe Burrow was single.

It was nearly seven when her office phone rang.

"Y/N Y/L/N," she answered automatically.

"It's Joe."

She straightened in her chair, professional mask firmly in place despite the privacy of her office. "Hi. How are you doing?"

A soft exhale on the other end. "Been better. But surviving the media circus."

"I'm sure," Y/N said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. "We've drafted a content approach that should help."

"Kayla mentioned your strategy. No acknowledgment. Keep it focused on football."

"I hope that aligns with what you want," Y/N said, suddenly uncertain. "I just thought—"

"It's exactly what I want," Joe interrupted, his voice warm with approval. "That's why I'm calling about the NBC interview. I need you there."

Y/N paused, confused. The NBC interview was a major opportunity, but not typically something that required her personal oversight. "I can assign our best team—"

"I want you there," Joe interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "You understand that not everything needs to be a story. You respect the boundaries. That's rare in this business."

Y/N felt a rush of professional pride mixed with something more personal. "I'll be there. We'll make sure they stay focused on football."

"Thank you," Joe said, relief evident in his voice. "And Y/N? Thanks for not asking why it happened. Everyone else has."

After hanging up, Y/N sat in the quiet of her office, the lights of Cincinnati beginning to twinkle in the early evening darkness outside her window. The professional boundaries she'd promised herself felt suddenly more essential and more fragile than ever before.

Joe needed her expertise. Her professional judgment. Her ability to maintain boundaries when everyone else wanted to cross them. That's what this was about—nothing more. She couldn't allow herself to read anything deeper into his request, couldn't let hope take root where it had no business growing.

Yet as she packed up her things to head home, Y/N couldn't quite suppress the small, persistent voice that whispered through her careful defenses.

He's single now. And the first person he called was you.

The Next Day - Bengals Conference Room

Y/N arrived early to prepare for the content planning meeting, arranging her presentation materials and reviewing her notes on the NBC interview format. She'd spent half the night crafting the perfect approach, one that would allow Joe to gracefully deflect personal questions and maintain focus on football.

The door opened, and Y/N looked up, expecting to see the PR team. Instead, Joe entered alone. He was dressed casually in Bengals athletic wear, hair slightly tousled, expression calm but tired around the eyes. Without the usual buffers of coaches, staff, or other players, his presence seemed to fill the empty conference room.

"Morning," he said, setting down his coffee. "Hope I'm not too early."

"Not at all," Y/N replied, her professional demeanor instinctively taking over. "I was just setting up."

Joe nodded, taking a seat at the table, not across from her as she expected, but at the adjacent corner, close enough that she could detect the faint scent of his aftershave. "So what's the game plan?"

Y/N pulled up her presentation, grateful for the distraction of work. "I've drafted a content strategy for the NBC interview. The approach is straightforward—if personal questions come up, we have prepared deflections that redirect to football topics without acknowledging the headlines directly."

She walked through the key points, outlining potential questions and suggested responses, maintaining eye contact with the screen rather than with Joe. This was familiar territory, the professional space where she felt confident and in control.

"This is perfect," Joe said when she finished. "No drama, no personal details, just football."

"You've always kept your private life private," Y/N agreed, finally meeting his gaze. "No reason to change that approach now, regardless of the circumstances."

Joe studied her for a moment, his expression warming. "You've always understood that about me. Even from the beginning."

"It's my job to understand what players need in terms of media strategy," Y/N replied modestly.

"No," Joe countered, leaning forward slightly. "Other media staff push for personal angles, human interest stories, emotional hooks. You never have. You respect the boundaries I set, sometimes before I even articulate them."

The directness of his praise caught her off guard. "I just try to see the person behind the player."

"And that's why I trust you," Joe said simply. "You see me as a person first, not as content to be packaged."

He paused, his expression shifting to something more contemplative. "I've been thinking a lot lately about the frames we put around ourselves. The stories we let others tell about us. The parts we keep private."

"That makes sense," Y/N offered carefully. "Especially with everything going on now."

Joe nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "I've started to realize how exhausting it is to maintain those frames. To always be seen through someone else's lens. I'm starting to wonder what it would be like to just... be seen. Without the frame. Without the lens."

There was something in his voice, an undercurrent of meaning Y/N couldn't quite decipher. Before she could respond, the door opened and the PR team filed in, breaking the moment with their arrival.

As the meeting proceeded, Y/N maintained her professional focus, presenting her strategy and responding to questions. But beneath her composed exterior, her mind kept returning to Joe's words, to the strange intensity in his eyes when he'd talked about being seen without a lens.

When the meeting ended, Y/N gathered her materials, aware of Joe lingering as the others filed out.

"The NBC interview is Tuesday at ten," she confirmed, keeping her tone light and professional. "I'll have the final prep materials to you tomorrow."

Joe nodded, but seemed distracted. "Y/N," he began, then stopped, glancing at the partially open door. "Never mind. We can talk about it Tuesday."

As he left, Y/N remained in the conference room, trying to make sense of what had just happened. In four years of working closely with Joe Burrow, she had learned to read his expressions, to anticipate his needs in professional settings, to recognize the difference between his media persona and his authentic self.

But today he had looked at her differently. Spoken to her differently. As though seeing her fully for the first time, or perhaps allowing her to see him without the careful filters they'd both maintained for so long.

Y/N gathered her things and headed back to her office, reminding herself of the promise she'd made just days ago. More distance. More professional boundaries. Less emotional investment in a relationship that existed primarily through a camera lens.

Yet as she settled at her desk, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. Joe Burrow was single for the first time since she'd known him. And for reasons she couldn't yet understand, he seemed to be looking at her in a way he never had before.

Tuesday's interview suddenly felt like much more than a standard media appearance. It felt like standing on the edge of something new and unknown. Something that both thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.

* * *

March 2024 – NBC Sports Interview Setup

The NBC Sports crew had transformed a corner of the Bengals facility into a sleek interview set, complete with a branded backdrop and professional lighting. Y/N surveyed the space with a critical eye, making quiet adjustments and mental notes about camera angles as the crew finished setup.

“All set on your end?” asked the NBC producer, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense tone.

“We’re good,” Y/N confirmed, checking her notes one last time. “Just a reminder, football questions only. No personal inquiries.”

The producer’s smile tightened. “We’re aware of your guidelines. Though our viewers may find the personal angle relevant.”

“They’ll have to find that content elsewhere,” Y/N said pleasantly. “Joe’s here to talk about his recovery and the season ahead.”

Before the producer could respond, Joe walked in, dressed in Bengals gear, his easy confidence settling over the room. Y/N watched as he greeted the crew with practiced professionalism, calm but fully present.

“Everything look good?” he asked, joining her at the edge of the set.

“All set,” she said. “We’ve reviewed the outline and reestablished the limits.”

Joe nodded. After four years of media work together, their rhythm was seamless. Y/N knew where to stand, when to flag a break, how to redirect a question with a subtle cue. They didn’t need to talk much anymore.

“Five minutes, Mr. Burrow,” an assistant called.

“I’ll be over there,” Y/N said, gesturing to her post just off-camera. “Remember the deflections if they press."

Joe reached out, catching her arm gently. “Hey.” His voice dropped. “Thanks for handling this. For knowing what I need.”

Y/N met his eyes. “That’s what teammates do, right?”

A smile flickered across his face, referencing a conversation from years ago. “Right. Teammates.”

The interview began smoothly. Joe fielded questions about his wrist, the off-season program, and his expectations for the year ahead. The host was polished and respectful, at first.

Then came the shift.

“So, Joe, with everything going on in your personal life lately, how has that impacted your mindset heading into the season?”

Y/N tensed, ready to intervene, but Joe’s glance toward her stopped her. He had it.

“I’m focused entirely on football right now,” he said evenly. “My recovery’s on track. We’re building something special here. That’s where my head is.”

The host pressed gently. “But a change like that, after four years, has to affect your mental approach.”

Y/N’s fingers hovered, ready to call it, but Joe held her gaze. Calm. Steady.

“One thing I’ve learned is that some parts of life belong to the public and some don’t,” he said. “I’ll talk about every detail of rehab, film study, preparation. But my personal life stays personal, not because it’s secret, but because it’s mine. I hope people can respect that.”

The host, sensing the firm line and the soundbite, moved on.

Thirty minutes later, the interview wrapped. The NBC crew began packing up. Y/N was reviewing her notes when the producer approached.

“That was good television,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “We didn’t get the personal angle, but his response was better than any breakup statement.”

“He meant every word,” Y/N said.

When the room cleared, she found Joe still in his chair, scrolling through his phone.

“You handled that perfectly,” she said, sitting down across from him. “The personal boundary line, clean and confident.”

“I had a good coach,” he said with a faint grin, then set his phone down. “You free for lunch? I could use some normal conversation.”

Y/N blinked. In four years, they’d rarely had lunch that wasn’t attached to a content shoot or a meeting. “I’ve got a review at two, but I’m free until then.”

“Great,” Joe said, already standing. “I know a place where no one will bother us.”

* * *

Local Cafe – 45 Minutes Later

The place Joe picked was small and tucked away on a quiet side street, the kind of cafe that didn’t advertise and clearly didn’t care to. No branding, no social media walls — just warm lighting, scratched wood tables, and a menu written in chalk. They sat in a corner booth, out of view from the street, menus already half-forgotten between them.

“I come here when I need to breathe,” Joe said, catching the way Y/N looked around. “Owner’s son played D-II ball. He doesn’t care who I am. No photos, no questions. Just food and quiet.”

“Everyone needs one of those,” Y/N said, settling into the seat. “A spot where no one asks for anything.”

Joe looked at her, curious. “Where’s yours?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. “East side. Little cafe in the back of a bookstore. Average coffee, great scones. Nobody cares about sports. I just sit and read and pretend I’m not attached to a team account.”

Joe grinned. “That actually tracks. I can picture it. You with a book, probably judging the plot structure.”

“It’s a curse,” she said, smiling. “Comes from too much content review.”

They ordered lunch. The conversation stayed easy, lighter than it ever was at the facility. Joe asked about her brothers, recalling random details she didn’t even remember mentioning. Y/N asked about his training plans, casually weaving in suggestions for future content ideas without falling into work mode completely.

“So,” she said, nudging her empty plate away, “how’s the wrist holding up after all that expert-level pointing in the interview?”

He flexed his hand theatrically. “Strong enough to gesture with purpose.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s going on the injury report.”

Joe leaned back, relaxed in a way she didn’t often see. “This is nice. No cameras, no checklists. Just… lunch.”

Y/N nodded. “There’s a reason I didn’t bring the content kit.”

“We should do it again,” he said, casual but sincere. “Lunch. Coffee. Whatever. Just… not at the facility.”

She felt it then, that small shift. The line they’d both been quietly standing on for years moving slightly, the rules changing under them.

“I’d like that,” she said, keeping it light. “Might help with brainstorming.”

Joe tilted his head, giving her a look that was equal parts amused and direct. “Not for work. I mean just to hang out.”

Y/N blinked, a quiet flush rising to her cheeks. “Oh. Yeah, okay. That’d be nice.”

She looked down for a second, then back up, trying to play it off with a quick smile. “Not just for work, then.”

Joe smiled too, something almost teasing in his eyes. “Not just for work.”

Back at the facility, they walked side by side until the hallway split. Joe paused before they parted.

“Thanks for today. The interview. Lunch. All of it.”

“Just doing my job,” Y/N said, the reflex kicking in before she could stop it.

Joe looked at her, steady. “No. It’s always been more than that with you.”

And then he turned and kept walking, leaving Y/N standing there, trying not to replay the sentence before she’d even finished hearing it.

* * *

April 2024 – Bengals Facility Media Room

Over the next few weeks, a new pattern emerged. Joe would seek Y/N out after meetings or rehab sessions, suggesting coffee breaks or lunch outings that had less and less to do with content planning. They started talking more, not just about football or strategy, but about music, families, the random thoughts they didn’t usually share with coworkers. A friendship was forming, one that felt separate from everything else they’d been before.

“Y/N!” Sam called, poking her head into the media room where Y/N was editing draft day content. “Lunch plans?”

“Can’t today,” Y/N replied, eyes on her screen. “Meeting Joe about his charity event next month.”

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, already smirking. “That’s the third ‘meeting’ this week. Someone’s becoming a regular.”

Y/N glanced up. “We’re just talking through logistics.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Logistics. Of your friendship. That just so happens to involve daily lunch plans.”

Y/N sat back, crossing her arms. “We’re friends, Sam. Is that so strange?”

“Not strange,” Sam said. “Just new. And very different since the breakup.”

Y/N went still. “So what if it is?”

“Just… don’t act like you don’t know what’s happening,” Sam said gently. “You’ve been in love with the guy for years, and now he’s single and spending more time with you than anyone else on the team.”

“Keep your voice down,” Y/N muttered, glancing at the open door. “And no, nothing’s happening. We’ve always worked well together. That hasn’t changed.”

“Except it has,” Sam said. “You’re not just filming him in the weight room anymore. You’re texting. Hanging out. Laughing in the break room like it’s nothing. It’s something. And I just don’t want to see you get hurt pretending it’s not.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She stared at her screen, the video paused on a frame of Joe walking into a press conference, casual and calm and so familiar.

After Sam left, Y/N closed her laptop and sat with the weight of the conversation. She knew Sam wasn’t wrong. The boundaries between her and Joe had shifted. The conversations had changed. So had the silences.

Joe texted.

Joe: Still on for lunch? Found a new place with killer sandwiches.

Y/N: Definitely. Meet you in the lobby at 12:30?

Joe: Perfect. Looking forward to it.

Three simple words.

Looking forward to it.

And she was too. That was the part she didn’t know what to do with.

* * *

July 2024 – Training Camp

Training camp came in hot, literally and figuratively. The facility pulsed with energy: players returning, rookies getting loud welcomes, schedules tightening, everything moving fast. Y/N moved with it, camera slung over her shoulder, coordinating her media team between drills and pressers. This year, she had more responsibility, more people to manage, more angles to cover.

On the field, Joe looked sharp. The wrist held up. His throws were crisp, timing on point. Y/N tracked him through her lens, quietly relieved. This was the version fans had been waiting for. And she’d seen every step it took to get back here.

“Looking good out there,” she called as he passed during a water break.

“Feeling good,” Joe said, tipping the bottle back. “Might actually survive a full season.”

“Don’t jinx it,” she warned.

He grinned, and for a moment it felt like spring again, when they were texting about books and sneaking off for lunch and everything between them felt easy.

But something had shifted. Subtle, but noticeable. Their lunches had slowed. His texts, less frequent. He still sought her out during media stuff, still made space for her during press days. But the familiar rhythm had changed. More distance. A little quieter.

Y/N told herself it was camp. The pressure. The tunnel vision. Still, it lingered.

One night, after most of the building had cleared out, she spotted a familiar figure in the film room. Joe, hoodie on, eyes on the screen.

“Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked from the doorway.

He looked over, offered a tired half-smile. “Not this time of year.”

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him. “Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off.”

Says the woman who’s been here since dawn.” He nodded toward her camera bag.

“Touché.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen.

“You’ve been kind of MIA lately,” Y/N said lightly. “Everything good?”

Joe didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the paused film. “Yeah. Just… camp mode. Lot to lock in.”

She nodded. “If you need a break from all this, I’m around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football.”

That made him smile, just barely. “I’d like that. Maybe next week? When it slows down.”

“Deal.” She stood, grabbing her bag. “Don’t stay too late.”

As she walked back through the dim hallway, she couldn’t shake the quiet knot in her chest. Something was different. Not bad exactly, just… not what it had been. And maybe Sam had been right, that the closer they’d gotten, the more it risked tipping into something unspoken.

Maybe Joe felt that too.

Still, whatever this was between them, it mattered. And if keeping it meant backing off, Y/N could do that.

She had before.

* * *

November 2024 – Late Night

Y/N’s phone lit up with an incoming call, dragging her out of a dead sleep.

Sam (2:47 AM)

She answered immediately. “What happened?”

“You haven’t seen your phone yet?”

“No, I just got in from the flight and crashed.”

Sam exhaled. “Joe’s house got broken into tonight. While we were still in the air.”

Y/N sat up, heart pounding. “Wait, what? He was on the plane.”

“I know. That’s what makes this weirder. Apparently someone showed up at his house and found a shattered window. Cops were called. No one hurt, but it’s all over the internet.”

Y/N blinked. “Who showed up?”

Sam hesitated. “A woman. Ellie James.”

The name hit like ice water.

“She told police she was his employee. But fans already clocked her. She’s a 21-year-old model. Big on Instagram, runway work, a couple of campaigns. TikTok found her instantly.”

"It's blowing up on X right now. Apparently, he's been seeing someone for months. No one had any idea, not even the team."

Y/N was already unlocking her phone.

“‘Break-in at Joe Burrow’s home while team in Texas. No injuries reported.’”

“‘Ellie James identifies herself as “employee” in police report. Fans suspect more.’”

“‘Burrow and Ellie James: timeline of a secret relationship?’”

“They’ve got screenshots, tagged photos, weird little clues going back to July. That’s when people think they started seeing each other. Which—” Sam hesitated. “Kind of lines up, right?”

It did. July was when Joe had started pulling back. When their texts slowed, when their lunches stopped, when the tone of everything between them shifted into something more careful and less open.

Sam continued, “She wasn’t living with him, but she had access. Enough to be there alone. That’s the part everyone’s running with. The whole internet’s treating it like confirmation they’ve been together for months.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“Kayla called an emergency meeting for seven,” Sam added gently. “You’ll be in the room. We’re keeping it quiet for now, no official posts, no statements, but it’s gonna be messy. Just… be ready.”

After the call ended, Y/N scrolled through her phone. Headlines were popping up faster than she could keep track: Model Found Inside Joe Burrow’s House After Security Alarm Trip. Woman Identifies as Employee. Internet Says Otherwise.

Photos from Ellie’s Instagram. Old likes on Joe’s posts. A resurfaced clip from preseason camp that now felt painfully obvious. The puzzle pieces were already being assembled by fans who needed no confirmation to draw conclusions.

Y/N dropped her phone onto the bed and stared into the dark. It all made sense now, why he’d started retreating, why the easy momentum between them had suddenly stalled. While she’d been wondering what changed, he had already been moving toward someone else.

And she hadn’t known. Not once had he mentioned Ellie. Not to her. Not in passing. Not even after everything they’d shared.

She let herself lie back down, though sleep wouldn’t come again. Her chest ached with the kind of heartbreak you can’t rationalize away. Four years of working beside him. Of being trusted. Of feeling like maybe, just maybe, she was something more than just a colleague.

But tonight made it plain. She hadn’t been the one he’d let in. Not to his house, and not to the private parts of his life he kept so fiercely protected.

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, a tear sliding quietly into her hair. She would go to the meeting in the morning. She would do her job.

But in this quiet hour, there was no protecting herself from the truth.

He had let someone else in.

And it wasn’t her.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility, 7:00 AM

The conference room was already filled when Y/N arrived, PR staff and executives huddled around the table, phones buzzing with alerts, coffee cups scattered like defensive positions. Dark circles under eyes revealed who had been up all night tracking social media fallout. Kayla stood at the head of the table, a slideshow of current headlines projected on the wall behind her.

Y/N took a seat beside Sam, grateful for the friendly face amid the tension. She'd spent the hours since Sam's call cycling through shock, hurt, and professional resolve, finally landing on a numb determination to get through this day with her dignity intact.

"Good, we're all here," Kayla began, silencing the murmurs. "As you're aware, there was an incident at Joe's residence last night while the team was returning from Dallas. The situation has escalated with social media speculation about his relationship with Ellie James, the woman present during the break-in."

Y/N's eyes remained fixed on her notebook as Kayla continued detailing the situation: security footage being reviewed, police statements, media requests flooding in. The office was buzzing with opinions about how to handle the revelation of Joe's apparent secret relationship.

"We need a clear, consistent message," said Marcus from PR. "Confirm the relationship, express appreciation for privacy during this unexpected exposure, pivot back to football."

"We should get ahead of this," another executive agreed. "Have Joe make a brief statement addressing the speculation directly."

"No," Y/N said quietly, then louder when several faces turned toward her. "No. That's exactly what we shouldn't do."

Kayla gestured for her to continue. As Social Media Coordinator, Y/N's perspective on public messaging carried weight, especially regarding Joe, with whom she'd worked closely for years.

"Joe isn't going to want to talk about this," Y/N continued, keeping her voice steady despite the emotional undercurrent. "He's never discussed his personal life publicly before. Not with Olivia, not after their breakup, not ever. We need to let him lead and share what he wants to, if anything."

"But the speculation is already overwhelming," Marcus countered. "The internet's connecting dots, creating narratives—"

"And that's the internet's problem, not ours," Y/N interrupted firmly. "This wasn't a planned reveal. His home was broken into. His privacy was violated. And now we're sitting here discussing how to package his personal life for public consumption?" She shook her head. "He deserves better from us."

A silence fell over the room as her words sank in.

"Y/N's right," Kayla said finally. "Joe's always maintained clear boundaries between his personal and professional life. Our job is to respect and reinforce those boundaries, not erode them further."

"So what do we do?" someone asked.

"We focus on the break-in as a security matter," Y/N suggested. "We acknowledge the incident without commenting on personal details. We prepare for questions but don't volunteer information Joe hasn't chosen to share himself."

The meeting continued with logistics planning, security protocols, media management strategies. Y/N participated with professional focus, offering insights on social media monitoring, content approaches, protective messaging. No one in the room would have guessed from her composed exterior the turmoil beneath the surface, the personal devastation she was carefully compartmentalizing to do her job.

As the meeting concluded, Kayla approached Y/N. "Joe's coming in at ten for a scheduled press briefing about Sunday's game. After this, reporters will obviously try to shift focus. Can you prep him? You've got the best sense of how he'll want to handle this."

Y/N nodded, her stomach twisting at the prospect of facing Joe after last night's revelation. "I'll handle it."

10:15 AM - Press Prep Room

Y/N was reviewing notes when the door opened and Joe walked in. He looked tired but composed, dressed in standard team attire, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. For a moment they simply looked at each other, the air between them heavy with unspoken complications.

"Hey," he said finally.

"Hey," Y/N replied, professional mask firmly in place. "You okay?"

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking a seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed neutrally. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her with that perceptive gaze she'd come to know so well. "What do you think I should do?"

Y/N took a deep breath, pushing aside every personal feeling to focus on what Joe needed professionally right now.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

Joe's expression softened slightly. "That's what I figured you'd say."

"The reporters will try to ask," Y/N continued. "They'll find roundabout ways to bring it up. But you can respond the same way you always have when personal matters arise. Redirect to football. Maintain your boundaries. We're not confirming or commenting on anything you don't want to discuss."

"Thank you," Joe said quietly. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Y/N felt a flash of hurt at the implied gratitude for her professional distance, when all she wanted was to ask why he'd never once mentioned Ellie during their countless lunches, their growing friendship, their shared confidences. But she pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand.

"That's my job," she said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing likely questions and deflection strategies, maintaining a careful professional rapport that revealed nothing of Y/N's inner turmoil or whatever Joe might be feeling about this unexpected exposure of his private life.

As they finished their prep, Joe paused before standing. "You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

The irony of his gratitude for her professional boundaries when she'd spent years carefully hiding how much more she wanted from him was almost too much to bear.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed. "Even you."

Something flickered in Joe's expression, a moment of searching, before he nodded and stood. "Right. Let's get this over with."

Press Conference

Y/N stood in the back of the room as Joe stepped up to the podium, dressed in Bengals gear, posture steady, expression unreadable. The media had been buzzing since early morning, the room packed with local and national reporters, every one of them waiting for a chance to ask the question that had consumed the internet overnight.

Before they could.

Joe adjusted the mic slightly, then spoke with calm clarity.

“I know there’s been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours. Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I’m going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share.”

He paused, letting the silence settle over the room.

“I’m here to talk about football. That’s what I’ll be answering questions about today.”

The room went still. Not stunned, but quieted. Everyone knew exactly what he meant. He wasn’t dodging. He was drawing a line.

Y/N exhaled slowly, a complicated ache settling in her chest. It wasn’t what they’d written together, but it was unmistakably him, measured, respectful, honest. Joe didn’t deny or explain. He simply protected the parts of his life he hadn’t invited anyone into.

A few reporters tried to pivot back toward the story, but Joe held firm, calmly redirecting every question to Sunday’s matchup, his wrist recovery, the team’s progress. He gave them nothing else.

When it ended, he stepped down from the podium and looked once toward the back of the room. His gaze met Y/N’s for half a second. A silent acknowledgment. Then he was gone.

Sam appeared beside her. "That wasn't what we prepped, but it worked."

"Better than what we prepped," Y/N agreed, her professional assessment genuine despite her personal turmoil. "No one's going to push after that."

"And how are you handling it?" Sam asked quietly, concern evident in her voice. "This can't be easy."

Y/N kept her eyes forward, not trusting herself to maintain composure if she looked at her friend. "I'm fine. It's not about me."

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Media Office, Later That Day

Y/N sat at her desk, monitoring media coverage of Joe's press conference. His direct statement had effectively shut down the most invasive questions, though speculation about Ellie James continued across social platforms. She was crafting guidance for the social media team when a knock sounded at her open door.

She looked up to find Joe standing there, changed from his press attire into casual team workout gear.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

Y/N nodded, professional mask firmly in place despite the sudden acceleration of her pulse. "Of course."

Joe closed the door behind him and took a seat across from her desk. For a moment, he just studied her, those observant eyes taking in details in a way that had always made Y/N feel simultaneously seen and exposed.

"I went off script," he finally said.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe nodded, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. "That's what I figured you'd say." He hesitated, then added, "I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning. Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N shrugged, keeping her expression carefully neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Y/N kept her focus on her professional role, refusing to acknowledge the hurt and confusion swirling beneath her composed exterior.

"The coverage should die down in a soon," she said, gesturing to her monitor. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

Joe nodded, but made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, heart suddenly pounding. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe trailed off, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. The word stung despite its truth. "It's really okay, Joe. I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face. "It's complicated. More complicated than what people are assuming."

Y/N felt a flicker of something, not quite hope, but curiosity, before she tamped it down. Whatever was happening between Joe and Ellie James, it wasn't her business unless it affected his public image, which was her professional concern.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

Joe nodded slowly, seeming both grateful and somehow disappointed by her response. "Right. Well, I should let you get back to work."

He stood to leave but paused at the door. "I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon. Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The invitation hit Y/N like a physical force, stirring up the complicated feelings she was trying desperately to compartmentalize. Part of her wanted to accept immediately, hungry for any connection with him. Another part knew that continuing their friendship after last night's revelation would only prolong her heartache.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," she replied, a neutral response that neither accepted nor rejected. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

Something flickered across Joe's face, disappointment, perhaps, before he nodded. "Sure. Just let me know."

After he left, Y/N sat motionless, staring at the door. That conversation had left her more confused than ever. Joe seemed to want to maintain their friendship, perhaps even explain whatever was happening with Ellie, while Y/N was still reeling from discovering the relationship existed at all.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam.

Sam: Just saw QB1 leaving your office. You okay?

Y/N: Fine. Just discussing press conference fallout. Professional stuff.

Sam: Available for wine and venting later if needed. No judgment.

Y/N smiled despite herself, grateful for her friend's support.

Y/N: Might take you up on that.

She turned back to her work, focusing on the tangible aspects of her job rather than the emotional complications. Whatever Joe's relationship with Ellie James was, whatever "complicated" meant in this context, Y/N needed to accept that she had been firmly placed in the "friend" category. And perhaps it was time to accept that and establish some healthier boundaries of her own.

That Evening - Sam's Apartment

"So he just showed up at your office to thank you, then vaguely called his relationship with Model Barbie 'complicated'?" Sam asked, refilling Y/N's wine glass. "What does that even mean?"

Y/N sank deeper into Sam's couch, the professional composure she'd maintained all day finally crumbling in the safety of her friend's apartment. "I have no idea. And I didn't ask."

"Why not?" Sam demanded. "After four years of pining—"

"I don't pine," Y/N interrupted defensively.

"Fine, after four years of 'professionally admiring from an appropriate distance,'" Sam amended with air quotes, "don't you deserve some answers? Especially after how close you two got this year?"

Y/N took a long sip of wine. "What would I even say? 'Hey Joe, why didn't you mention your secret girlfriend during all our lunches and conversations?' Or maybe 'Just wondering why you pulled back right when I thought we were getting closer?'"

"Yes!" Sam exclaimed. "Exactly those questions!"

"That's not who we are," Y/N sighed. "I've spent four years respecting his boundaries, his privacy. I can't suddenly demand explanations about his personal life just because I'm hurt."

"But that's the thing," Sam said gently. "You're not just a colleague anymore. You became friends, real friends. And friends tell each other when they start dating someone."

Y/N stared into her wine glass, confronting the truth in Sam's words. "Maybe we weren't as close as I thought."

"Or maybe there's more to the story," Sam suggested. "He called it 'complicated,' right? That's not exactly 'madly in love.'"

"It doesn't matter," Y/N said firmly. "The point is, I've been holding onto this hope that maybe, someday, he might see me as more than a friend or colleague. But the reality is, when he became single, he didn't turn to me. He found someone else. Someone completely separate from his football life."

"And you think that's what he wants? Separation?"

Y/N nodded slowly. "It makes sense. I represent his professional world, the cameras, the documentation, the public scrutiny. Ellie represents something completely different. Something private."

Sam studied her friend's face. "So what are you going to do?"

"My job," Y/N replied simply. "I'll keep doing my job excellently. And I'll start creating some healthier boundaries for myself." She took another sip of wine. "Including not accepting lunch invitations that will only make it harder to move on."

"And if he persists? If he wants to explain this 'complicated' situation?"

Y/N considered the question, recognizing both the temptation and the potential pain. "Then I'll listen. As his friend. But with no expectations beyond that."

Sam seemed skeptical but supportive. "Just promise me you'll prioritize yourself this time, not just his privacy or comfort."

"I'm trying," Y/N admitted. "Four years of habits are hard to break."

As they continued talking, Y/N's phone buzzed with an incoming text. She hesitated before checking it, already knowing who it would be from.

Joe: Just wanted to check how you're doing. Today couldn't have been easy for you either, managing all the fallout. Thanks again for having my back.

The sincerity of his concern, even amid his own privacy crisis, was quintessential Joe Burrow. Y/N stared at the message, debating whether to respond.

"Him?" Sam asked, watching her face.

Y/N nodded.

"What are you going to say?"

After a moment's consideration, Y/N typed a response that embodied her new resolution: friendly but with clearer boundaries.

Y/N: Just doing my job. Everything will settle down soon. Get some rest, we have a game to win Sunday.

She set her phone aside, ignoring the immediate notification of his reply. Tonight was about processing, about beginning to disentangle her heart from the web of hope and expectation she'd woven around Joe Burrow.

Tomorrow would be about moving forward. Professionally excellent as always, but with a new personal awareness that what she'd spent years hoping for simply wasn't going to happen.

It was time to protect her heart as carefully as she'd always protected Joe's privacy.

* * *

November 2024 - Game Day

The stadium hummed with energy as Y/N moved along the sidelines, camera in hand, documenting pre-game preparations. Despite everything, she found comfort in the familiar routines, the professional focus required to capture the right moments, the technical aspects of her job that left little room for emotional distractions.

She had successfully avoided direct interaction with Joe since their office conversation, managing team social media remotely when possible, delegating player-specific content to her staff when appropriate. The distance was self-protective, a necessary step toward accepting that their relationship would never be what she had hoped.

As players took the field for warm-ups, Y/N kept her camera trained on rookies and highlight plays, deliberately avoiding lingering on the quarterback. She was reviewing footage when a voice spoke behind her.

"Avoiding me?"

Y/N turned to find Joe standing there, helmet in hand, pre-game intensity evident in his posture but a question in his eyes.

"Of course not," she replied smoothly. "Just focusing on the content plan."

Joe studied her, that perceptive gaze seeming to see through her professional excuse. "You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Y/N maintained her composed expression despite the confrontation. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

"Right," Joe said, clearly unconvinced. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game," she interrupted gently. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

A mix of frustration and concern crossed his features. "This conversation isn't over. But you're right about the timing."

As he turned to head back toward the team, Y/N called after him. "Joe?"

He looked back.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that subtle smile she knew so well. "Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

Y/N watched him jog back to the quarterback group, his form perfect, his presence commanding attention without effort. She would always admire that about him—the natural leadership, the focused intensity, the quiet confidence.

But admiration could exist without expectation. Respect without romantic attachment. Professional excellence without personal entanglement.

At least, that's what Y/N was determined to learn.

As the game began, she threw herself into her work, capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating the content that brought fans closer to the action. This was what she excelled at. What she had built her career on. What had earned her respect throughout the organization.

And if her heart ached when the camera caught Joe celebrating a touchdown, when he glanced toward the sideline where she stood, when he gave his post-game interview with that mixture of humility and confidence she'd documented for four years—well, that was her burden to bear.

Her phone buzzed with a text as she was packing up her equipment after the game.

Joe: We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

Y/N stared at the message, her new resolution already being tested. Every instinct urged her to agree immediately, to hope that "complicated" might somehow explain why he'd kept Ellie a secret from her, even as they'd grown closer as friends.

But the reality was painfully clear. Joe had chosen someone else. Someone young and beautiful, someone entirely separate from his football life. Someone he'd wanted to keep private. The "complicated" aspects of his relationship with Ellie didn't change the fundamental truth: he didn't see Y/N the way she saw him.

Y/N: I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

It wasn't technically a lie. She had been planning to visit her brothers sometime soon, and now seemed like the perfect opportunity to gain some distance and perspective.

Joe: If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

She paused, fingers hovering over her keyboard, temptation warring with self-protection.

Y/N: We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Putting her phone away, Y/N finished packing her equipment, her mind already planning her impromptu trip to Louisville. Maybe time with her family, away from the daily orbit around Joe Burrow, would help her find the strength to maintain a friendship with him while accepting the reality of his relationship with Ellie.

Because one truth had become painfully clear: being Joe Burrow's friend, confidant, and trusted colleague was both a privilege and a form of exquisite torture when you were in love with him.

Something had to change. And since she couldn't change her feelings, she would have to change the dynamics of their relationship, for her own sake.

Even if that meant creating distance where she'd once sought closeness.

[dilfluvrgirllxoxo]

post mission arguments and make-ups

pairing: john f. walker x reader (i'm tired of hiding my truth he's been fine since tfatws)

warnings: angst!! grumpy x sunshine trope because i can't help myself, teeny bit of smut at the end, mostly just fluff, john is lowkey a little out of character but its okay, petnames (sweetheart, honey), no use of y/n + no reader descriptions, not proofread!

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the car ride back from the mission was silent except for the occasional conversation between ava and yelena. as soon as the car was parked, you got out and slammed the door harder than you meant to, walking away, not caring if john was following behind you.

kicking off your boots and tossing your bag onto the floor, you trudged over to the kitchen, pouring yourself a drink as the others scattered off to their rooms. not john though, no. he decided he just had to come and be a pain in your ass...again.

he stood against the doorframe, jaw clenched, face dark and his arms crossed tightly against his chest, like a parent ready to chastise their child.

"you always do that," he snapped after a long moment of silence, his voice sharp.

you froze, turning around to face him with a sigh. “do what, john?”

“do missions without us, without backup. going in first, acting like you’re invincible, like you don’t need anyone. it’s reckless."

“so now i'm the problem? i can handle myself john, i'm not on this team for nothing!”

his eyes narrowed, his hands clenching into fists as he stepped closer to you. “i'm trying to keep people alive, including you, including the rest of the team.”

“you're not in the goddamn army anymore john, stop acting like you can boss us around!” you yelled, knowing that was a low blow by the way his shoulders tensed.

“you don't get it. you want to get yourself killed by being foolish? be my damn guest!" he hissed, his fist coming down on the table next to him and you flinched—he saw it, and instantly regretted what he'd done, but his cold, dismissive words were out now, no going back.

“right. yeah.” you said, voice cracking. “got it.” you practically scurried away, walking into the bedroom and slamming the door, on purpose this time.

you lay on the bed for what felt like hours, letting your tears fall, not even turning your head when you heard the door open and john stepping inside cautiously. “hey honey.” you didn’t answer.

he walked closer, voice lower now as he sat on the edge of where you lay on the bed, sighing as he thought about what to say. he wasn't good with the whole 'letting your guard down' thing. “i shouldn’t have said that. any of it.” still nothing from you, making him shuffle closer and take your hand in his.

“i...was scared,” he admitted, and that word seemed to make him flinch, like he'd never said it in his life. “i thought you were in danger, and i—i panicked and then i lashed out at you.”

you turned on your back, finally meeting his eyes as you tilted your head. “it made me feel like you didn't care about me and it hurt, john.”

john’s normally stoic expression broke, just slightly, into a softer one, one only you ever got to see.

“i know,” he said. “but you’re the only person who makes me feel like i’m worth something, i do care about you, more than anything. i just wanted to make sure you didn't get hurt, and i ended up hurting you. i’m...i'm sorry.” he whispered the last words, not knowing how to feel. he never apologised. god, you were softening him up too much.

"i want to fix this, let me make it up t' you honey." he murmured, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it be as he shuffled onto the bed fully, his arms at either side of you as he hovered above you. "cmon honey, wanna make this right, show y' how sorry i am."

you paused for a minute, tears now drying on your cheeks as you looked up at him and nodded, whispering a faint, “kay.” which was all the confirmation he needed as he nodded slowly, rough, calloused hands coming up to cup your cheeks with surprising gentleness, his mouth on yours before you even had time to think, the strength of the kiss making your head spin, barely registering his words when he finally pulled away breathlessly, tugging at the waistband of your trousers.

"want y' to sit on my face sweetheart, need t' taste you." he drawled, his request making your breath hitch as you stood up to peel your trousers off quickly, his hands grabbing your waist and easily manhandling you back onto the bed as soon as you were done.

safe to say, you'd soon forgiven him.

‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Hii<3 can I get Remmick x fem! Reader fluff (could also be a little suggestive if you don’t mind), established relationship, he comes to her house every night to be with her, but this night shes overthinking things like what if his vampire instincts come out and he attacks her? Or what if he doesn’t actually love her he’s just tricking her into something bad? He assures her that that’s not the case and it’ll never happen.

You’re safe with me||Remmick x fem!reader

Summary—every night remmick comes to visit you quiet and steady and gentle but tonight your thoughts spiraled what if his vampire instincts break through? What if he’s only pretending to love you? What if you’re just prey?

Word count—886

A/n I finished this two days ago and forgot to post it 🥲

The house creaked like it was breathing—long, tired exhales in the walls, like it had been holding its breath all day just to finally sigh into nightfall. The porch light flickered once before giving up, leaving the room in that cozy honey-colored lamp-glow you always loved, even if tonight it felt a little too dim.

Remmick’s presence filled the room like he belonged there. Like this house had been waiting for him to show up, just like you always did. And usually, you’d be running into his arms by now, mouthing his name between kisses, tugging him down the hallway before your feet could catch up with your heart. But not tonight.

Tonight you were in your head.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, after he pulled you close. “I know I sound paranoid.”

“You don’t,” he said simply. “You sound like someone who’s smart enough to know what I am. And brave enough to love me anyway.”

Your heart twisted. He said it so plainly, like the words weren’t loaded, but they were. They always were. He was old—centuries old—and you still didn’t know everything he’d seen. Everything he’d done. You weren’t sure he even wanted you to know.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m enough to keep you… tethered,” you murmured, voice muffled against his chest. “Like, what if something snaps? What if the wrong scent hits you or something just breaks inside and I’m not fast enough to stop it?”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze sharpened, not unkind, but deeply focused.

“There’s no ‘snapping,’” he said, voice low. “I’ve been what I am for longer than this country’s had a name. If I was gonna lose control, it wouldn’t be now. Not with you. Never with you.”

He cupped your face again, thumb brushing just beneath your eye where he knew a tear threatened. “And if you think for a second I don’t love you, we’re gonna have a whole other conversation, sweetheart.”

You tried to smile, but it wobbled. “I just—sometimes I think you could glamor me, or manipulate me into thinking this is real, and I wouldn’t even know. I’d believe it. I’d believe you. That scares me more than anything.”

Remmick exhaled through his nose, slow and careful. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it barely happened. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter.

“Come with me.”

“What?

He stood, tugging your hand as he headed toward the back of the house. “C’mon.”

You followed barefoot across the old wooden floor, cool against your skin. He led you into your bedroom—the one he knew better than his own. Where his clothes still lingered in your drawers, where the shadows felt heavier but warmer with him in them.

He sat on the edge of your bed and pulled you gently into his lap, straddling his thighs. His hands rested low on your hips, thumbs brushing skin beneath your shirt.

“Look at me,” he said. And when you did, you saw the faint shimmer of gold behind his eyes. Not the predator—no. Something deeper. Something fiercely human trying to claw its way out of an inhuman body

“I could’ve taken anything from you. Your blood. Your will. Your trust. But I didn’t. I don’t. You give it to me freely, and that’s worth more than anything I’ve ever known.” He leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “You keep thinking you’re small, or breakable, or powerless. But I’ve seen your heart, sugar. There’s nothing small about it.”

ou swallowed hard, arms sliding around his neck. “So… I’m safe.”

“With me?” he said, voice turning low and tender. “Always.”

You nodded, but the tension hadn’t fully left you. He could feel it in your spine, in the way your hands trembled just slightly against his skin.

“You wanna test it?” he asked, eyes dropping to your mouth.

You blinked. “Test what?”

“That I won’t hurt you.” His voice darkened just a little, not in threat—but in challenge. “Let me show you exactly how in control I am.”

The words sank low in your stomach, heat blooming where anxiety had been a moment ago. He didn’t move, waiting for you.

You nodded slowly, and that was all it took.

His lips claimed yours with purpose this time, not hurried but deep—possessive. He kissed you like he was trying to rewrite every doubt in your head. His hands explored slowly, worshipfully, fingertips drawing invisible paths along your back, your sides, your thighs. Every movement said you’re mine, but not in a way that caged you.

It was tethering, yes—but in a way that made you feel anchored, not trapped.

And true to his word, he was in control. He didn’t push, didn’t take more than you offered. He moved with intention and restraint, even when your kiss deepened and your hips shifted against his lap. Even when your breath hitched and your hands tugged at his shirt.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin. “That’s me. Choosing you. Every second. Not hunger. Not instinct. Me.”

You nodded, breathless. “I feel it.”

“Good.” His lips brushed your neck, dangerously close to that soft, sensitive place. “Then trust it. And tomorrow, and every night after, I’ll keep remindin’ you if I have to.”

[olenoidedserratuspilled]

So this post ended up garnering a lot more attention than I expected, and it drew a lot of cluelessly optimistic people - which I suppose I should have seen coming. I am glad this many people saw what I had to say and thought it was worth sharing.

But I'm afraid my original point wasn't clear enough:

This isn't new, it's only the logical conclusion of a sentiment that's been allowed to grow and spread for the past 10 years at the very least. The warning signs have been there for a long time, and the few people who did care about them had no power to stop it.

Fast-forward to 2025 and that's still true: the few people who do care about this, about you, have no power to stop it - and the people who do have the power to stop it don't care. Back in the 2010s, the entire community was saying this would never happen, and that they'd never stand by it if it did, but now that it is happening, guess what?

Nobody's doing shit. Nobody who wants to can, nobody who can wants to. So the wound is allowed to keep growing and festering. By the time it gets bad enough that people can no longer ignore it, it'll be too late. It's only discourse now, it's just Twitblr drama, it's only a small minority now.

It won't be tomorrow.

You wanna know what my point is? What I'm saying and showing all of this for? It's simple:

Once the thoughts that "Calling men demons doesn't matter" and "talking about trans men the way you talk about cis men is fine" already coexist, anything and everything becomes excusable. The people willing to acknowledge that that's disgusting already have, and the people who aren't never will.

People - of all genders, races, religions and nationalities - desire an outgroup to rally against, and once they're rallied against an outgroup they'll look for more and more people to lump into that outgroup. Once you've been lumped in, there's no way out. Can't reverse entropy.

The time for discourse has come and gone, there's nothing any of us can say or do that'll change this - all we can do now is brace for impact. Marginalized men like myself and so many of those who reblogged my original post will just have to prepare for the reality of a world that's moving on without us, and neither wants us nor needs us anymore. But others have said this better than me:

Lastly: if this post ever reaches any of the people in my OP's screenshots, or anyone who thinks like them, know that I have no ill will towards you, and wish no harm on you.

But if you do manage to get everything you're fighting for, you will at some point be asked why we were left behind, and you will have to either lie or admit that you allowed it to happen.

So pray that you never grow a conscience.

I don't think very many people will see this post, but I needed to get this out there anyway:

The prevailing sentiment within transmasc communities right now is that the people above are only a loud, terminally online minority that holds no meaningful sway over IRL spaces. I won't deny that.

But you have to understand that rhetoric of this kind spreads easily - and that there's nothing you can meaningfully do to stop it from spreading. There's no amount of discourse that will prevent people from falling for the rhetoric you see above, nor any amount that can convince them to leave it.

This mentality is going to spread, it already is. I'm not here to offer a solution, but a warning: transmascs as a whole, and very likely many other groups besides them, will at some point have to cope materially, psychologically and emotionally with the reality of an LGBTQ+ community that does not include them.

I don't say this out of malice, and I do wish it weren't the case, but at this point I've also accepted that it'll happen. I urge that you prepare for it in any way you can.

[edenesth]

ATEEZ as Anime Leads

Pairing(s): anime lead!ateez x female!reader

Word Count: 7.2k

A/N: Y'all, I'm so sorry for going MIA for so long. As you may or may not already know, work has been wearing me down, and I just cannot find the energy to work on By Order of the Black Pirates at the moment, but here's a little something I managed to put together to make up for my prolonged absence for now. (Not tumblr labelling this as potentially mature content before I even posted it lol.)

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong ↠ Levi Ackerman (Attack on Titan)

A legend within the Survey Corps, Captain Hongjoong is ruthlessly efficient, intimidatingly skilled, and always ahead of his enemies. His squad respects him, fears him, and secretly admires the way he silently cares for them despite his harsh words. Off the battlefield, he's a perfectionist who despises messes but has a surprising appreciation for art and music (though he'd never admit it).

He's sharp, disciplined, and highly respected, commanding attention despite his height. But beneath the icy exterior lies a hidden soft spot—a long-time female comrade who's been fighting beside him for nearly as long as he's worn the Wings of Freedom: you. You understand his silences, steady him when the world feels too heavy, and are one of the few people who can challenge him without fear. You're his anchor—the reason he hasn't lost himself to the war.

Like him, you had once been cold and unforgiving, having lost everything—and everyone—you loved to the Titans. Grief turned to rage, and rage into resolve. You rose through the ranks not out of hope, but out of sheer will to survive and destroy what had destroyed you. And yet, somewhere between brutal training sessions and blood-soaked battles, a quiet bond formed between you and him. It was never loud or obvious—but in shared glances, covered flanks, and unspoken understanding, it was undeniable.

Even now, though nothing has ever been said aloud, your feelings for each other linger in the spaces between orders and footsteps, in the way his gaze lingers just a moment too long, or how your voice softens when speaking only to him. More than comrades. More than friends. Something steady. Something real.

He fights not just for victory, but for a world where his people—and you—can finally live freely. It's a dream he clings to more tightly than he'll ever admit.

But even dreams must be set aside when reality demands action.

The air was thick with shouts and smoke as the news spread like wildfire—Titans had breached within Wall Rose. Panic surged through the streets while soldiers scrambled into formation. At the heart of it all stood the Captain—unshaken, sharp, lethal in focus—barking orders with steely precision, coordinating with the Military Police, the Garrison, and scattered Scout units to hold the defence line. His voice was calm, but his eyes never stopped moving—scanning, calculating, already thinking three steps ahead.

Then came the second report. The Royal Family was still within the inner district. Vulnerable. Exposed.

You didn't wait. You tightened your gear with practised hands, stepping forward without hesitation. "I'll protect the Royal Family. You focus on the defence," you said, your voice steady, your gaze locked with his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Hongjoong hesitated.

His hand shot out, curling gently around your wrist. Not to stop you, but to hold you. A plea lingered there, unspoken. His sharp, storm-hardened eyes locked onto yours, and in them was a flicker of something rare—fear. Not for the city. For you.

"We can do it together," he said softly, but his voice lacked its usual command. It sounded almost… vulnerable.

In that fleeting moment, a thousand words passed between you. All the years spent side by side. Every mission, every loss, every quiet glance when words failed. You reached over with your free hand and rubbed your thumb gently over his skin, a simple, grounding gesture—one that somehow spoke louder than anything you could've said.

"I'll be okay, Joong," you assured him, gently. "This is what we've been training for."

And something in him shifted.

Because in that moment, Hongjoong realised that what scared him more than losing the battle… was losing you. But he let you go slowly, reluctantly. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to trust you, just as you'd always trusted him.

"Stay alive. That's an order," he said, slipping on the stoic expression you knew so well—one you'd always admired, even if you could see the storm brewing behind it.

You smirked. "I will, Cap. After all, it's my turn for cleaning duties next, right? Wouldn't dare miss it for the world."

As you vanished across the rooftops, racing toward the inner gates, he didn't call after you. He didn't try to stop you. But his eyes followed your silhouette until it disappeared into smoke and sky.

And for the rest of that long, brutal day—through blood, through fire, through crumbling walls and falling Titans—he fought not just for Wall Rose's survival… but for yours.

And somewhere deep within, a vow was made: Whatever it took, he would make sure you came back. Because the world he was fighting for meant nothing without you in it.

Seonghwa ↠ Miyamura Izumi (Horimiya)

By day, Seonghwa is the quiet, polite, and well-mannered student—the kind others admire from a distance but rarely approach. But behind that calm exterior is a side he shows only to those closest to him: a cool, rebellious heart with quiet fire. With his hidden piercings, long hair, and effortless confidence, he's full of surprises—but the biggest surprise, even to him, is you.

You, his girlfriend. You, whom he once believed was far beyond his reach. He used to admire you in passing, quietly captivated by your determination, your strength, and the way you carried your heavy responsibilities without ever faltering. Back then, he never imagined you'd even notice him, let alone choose him.

And yet, here you are—his, and only his.

Around you, he softens in ways no one else gets to see. He makes bento lunches just the way you like, hugs you from behind without a word when he knows you're tired, and leaves thoughtful little gifts or notes in your bag—quiet reminders that you're always on his mind. He doesn't always speak his feelings out loud, but when he does, his words land with precision and sincerity, like an arrow to the heart.

…A soft heart wrapped in ink and silver—a contradiction only you get to understand.

Even now, sometimes, he still couldn't quite believe it. That someone like you—so bright, so admired, so far from the quiet corner he once kept to himself—had chosen him.

He remembered the first time he truly saw you, not the flawless girl everyone admired from afar, but the real you. Barefoot in oversized clothes, hair tied up messily, gently scolding your little brother as you wiped a nosebleed from his face. Seonghwa had only meant to walk the kid home after a minor scuffle, but instead, he found himself standing awkwardly in your living room, watching as you moved about—washing dishes, sweeping the floor, smiling in a way that felt… unguarded. Unfiltered. Real.

You, the top student. The girl everyone thought had it all together. And him, the quiet loner with piercings and tattoos no one saw under his uniform, always by the window, always apart.

But in that moment, something shifted. The distance between your worlds blurred. And instead of turning away, you chose to let each other in. You kept each other's secrets.

And he kept coming back—not because of obligation, but because of the comfort he found in your brother's cartoons, your overly salty popcorn, and your presence.

One visit became two. Then three. Then too many to count.

Through shared silences, quiet laughter, whispered confessions, and more than a few chaotic turns… here you were. His.

The memory drew a soft, almost dreamy smile to Seonghwa's lips.

Still drifting somewhere between thought and the warmth of the present, he instinctively tightened his hold around you. His eyes roamed over your peaceful face—your lashes fanned gently against your cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly, your breathing slow and steady in rhythm with his own. Your head rose and fell lightly on his chest, your body curled perfectly against his side, as if you were made to fit there.

These quiet afternoons, tucked beneath soft blankets after a long school day, had become his favourite part of the day. Moments like this, where time felt suspended—just you, him, and the quiet hum of comfort in the space you'd built together.

Unable to help himself, he leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin. And still, even now, a part of him couldn't quite believe it. That you were real. That you were his.

He could stay like this forever.

His heart fluttered when you shifted closer, still half-asleep, your lips brushing lightly against the curve of his neck. He bit his lip, fighting the urge to smile like a lovesick fool, and gently tugged the blanket higher to shield you from the world a little longer.

Just a little longer— "Hyung! You've slept long enough! Come play with me!"

Seonghwa stiffened, eyes widening in quiet panic as your little brother's voice echoed through the hallway, followed by the soft creak of your bedroom door swinging open. He turned toward the sound, only to see the boy peeking in, scanning the room to check if you were awake.

"Shh! You'll wake your sister—" he began to whisper, but it was already too late.

You stirred with a sleepy groan, nose scrunching as your hand landed lazily on your boyfriend's chest. "Just go, Hwa," you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Or he won't leave us alone."

He let out a quiet laugh, his palm moving soothingly along your back. "Alright, baby," he said softly, beginning to shift.

But just as he started to rise, your fingers curled around his, holding him back. Still half-asleep, you mumbled under your breath—just loud enough for him to hear, "Just remember… you'll have to make it up to me later."

Heat rushed to his cheeks. His ears flushed pink as he looked down at you with a flustered grin, heart flipping at how effortlessly you made him fall all over again.

"I will," he whispered, squeezing your hand in return. And in his mind, he was already counting the minutes.

Yunho ↠ Suoh Tamaki (Ouran High School Host Club)

As the king of the Ouran Host Club, Yunho is charming, dramatic, and effortlessly lovable. He sweeps people off their feet with his playful nature and signature over-the-top romantic lines, always knowing just how to make someone feel special. But for as long as he could remember, it was all part of the act—attentive, courteous, and dazzling, because it was his job to be.

Until you.

The person he once thought was just an interesting addition to the club—someone bold, odd, and refreshingly unbothered by his theatrics—turned out to be so much more. He still remembers the day he discovered the truth, when the "boy" he'd thought he was mentoring turned out to be a girl with fire in her eyes and a heart just as chaotic and kind as his. At first, it shook him.

Then, it changed him.

Because falling for you wasn't dramatic. It was quiet, unexpected… real.

Now, his attention isn't something he switches on for guests. With you, it's effortless. Natural. Constant. He notices your moods before you say a word. He brings you your favourite tea without being asked. His flirtation, once a performance, becomes a tender language reserved only for you.

The boy who once cared so much about his reputation now finds himself caring only about your happiness.

He still fills a room with laughter, still makes a fool of himself just to lift others' spirits. But when he looks at you, there's no act. No audience. Just him and the girl who changed everything.

It was just another day at the Host Club, or at least that's what it looked like on the surface. Music Room 3 buzzed with its usual golden glow—teacups clinking, girls giggling, soft piano music floating through the air. Yunho smiled on cue, laughed in perfect timing, and delivered another outrageously corny pickup line with the same dazzling confidence that made him the club's beloved king.

But something was off.

He bit his lip behind another charming smile, careful not to let his internal unease show. His patrons swooned at every word, completely unaware that while he played the role flawlessly, his mind was elsewhere, searching.

His eyes swept across the room instinctively, scanning for one specific person. You weren't at your usual spot by the corner table arranging flowers, nor were you behind the curtain where you sometimes read during sessions. In fact… now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen you since this morning.

You'd greeted everyone in passing, your voice cheerful but quick—before slipping away during the chaos of setup. He hadn't even gotten his usual forehead kiss, the tiny daily ritual that kept him grounded more than he liked to admit.

Still, it was a full Friday. The club was at capacity, and Yunho knew he couldn't abandon his post just to chase after a hunch. So he smiled through the growing tightness in his chest, telling himself he'd find you the second this session ended.

But then—mid-sentence, his eyes flickered past his patron to the ceiling-high window behind her… and his heart dropped.

The sky outside had turned a murky slate grey, the glass streaked with raindrops. A flash of lightning blinked across the sky, followed by a low rumble that made the chandeliers tremble ever so slightly.

Crap.

His smile faltered just for a second, barely noticeable.

She's afraid of thunder.

"Would you ladies excuse me for just a moment?" Yunho said smoothly, flashing a disarming grin as he set down his teacup. "I've just remembered we're running low on the special blend. It wouldn't be right to serve you anything less than perfection, now would it?"

The girls giggled, nodding in agreement, utterly charmed. "Of course, King Yunho~!"

With one last practised wink, he turned on his heel and strode briskly away—his expression dropping the second his back was to them.

His heart pounded in his chest as he made his way out of the room and into the hallway, the soft sounds of the host club fading behind him. Guilt gnawed at him.

The skies had been gloomy since morning. Why hadn't he paid closer attention? You had barely spoken to anyone today, and he should've known. Had he been thinking, really thinking, he would've cancelled the entire session. No smiles, no rose petals, no silver trays—just him holding you close, whispering nonsense until the storm passed.

But he hadn't. And now you were nowhere to be seen.

He checked every possible spot—the storage cabinet, the back hallway, even the balcony where you sometimes went for air. Nothing.

"Come on, think," he muttered, brushing his hair back in frustration. Where would she go?

Then it hit him.

The changing room.

Just as another thunderclap cracked across the sky. He broke into a sprint, nearly sliding around the corner before throwing open the door to the old backstage changing room—dimly lit and quiet, the hum of the storm muffled by thick walls.

And there you were.

Curled into yourself in the corner, knees pulled tight to your chest, trembling beneath the soft folds of your cardigan. Your face was turned away, but he could see your shoulders trembling, your breathing uneven.

His heart clenched at the sight. He didn't call your name, didn't want to startle you. Instead, he stepped inside quietly, kneeling beside you with the gentlest touch to your arm. "Hey… It's me," he whispered, voice softer than it had been all day.

Your head turned slowly, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "Yunho…?"

He gave a faint, guilty smile. "Yeah. I'm here. I'm so sorry—I should've noticed sooner."

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you tightly in his embrace. You didn't resist. You melted into him, burying your face into his chest as another low rumble rolled through the sky.

"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, pressing a kiss there like a silent vow. "I'm not going anywhere."

And this time, he meant it more than ever.

He held you close, his arms firm yet gentle, his heart still racing from the sprint—and from the guilt twisting inside him like a vice. "I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "I should've known. I should've been paying more attention to you today."

You shook your head from where you were tucked against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed yourself even closer to him.

"This is why I didn't say anything," you muttered, your voice muffled but clear with emotion. "I know you, Yuyu. You would've thrown everything aside… and I didn't want to be selfish."

He let out a soft huff, cradling the back of your head as he kissed your temple, lingering there. "You have the right to be," he murmured.

You started to protest, "But those girls—"

But before you could finish, he tilted your chin up and silenced you with a kiss—gentle, warm, and firm, the kind that held both comfort and promise. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath soft against your lips. "They can wait," he whispered. "You're my only priority."

Your eyes fluttered shut as you let his words sink in, and for the first time all day, the storm outside didn't seem quite so loud. Because in his arms, you were safe.

And to him, you were everything.

Yeosang ↠ Tuxedo Mask (Sailor Moon)

By day, Yeosang is calm and enigmatic—every bit the poised gentleman who draws curious glances without trying. But by night, he becomes Tuxedo Mask, the elusive, rose-wielding guardian who appears just in time with quiet grace and unwavering resolve. His elegance and composure mask a heart full of silent emotion, a past steeped in forgotten promises and lost love.

Ever since regaining the memories of his past life, everything has changed.

The dreams, the visions—it all made sense. You were his Princess Serenity. The one he'd sworn to protect. The one he'd loved across lifetimes. And the one he'd unknowingly pushed away in this one, back when he was still lost in confusion, detached and cold.

The guilt haunted him—how he'd once kept you at a distance, not understanding the pull in his chest every time you looked his way. But now that he remembered, now that he knew who you were, he carried the weight of that regret every day.

And in its place bloomed a fierce, unwavering devotion.

Now, everything he does—every rose he throws, every enemy he faces in the shadows—is to shield you. To make up for lost time. To ensure that in this life, you'll never have to fight alone again.

Because to him, you weren't just someone he watched over.

You were his beginning, his end—his forever.

No matter how many times you insisted that you could handle yourself—and he knew you could—Yeosang couldn't bear the thought of standing idly by while you faced danger. Not anymore. Not after everything.

As much as he respected your strength and the unshakable bond you shared with your fellow Sailor Guardians, he was always nearby. Always in the shadows. Always protecting you, whether you asked him to or not.

Because what kind of man—what kind of Prince—would he be to let the woman he loved throw herself into danger without him at her side? Especially when he knew the truth better than anyone: that your powers resonated more fiercely, more beautifully, when you were together.

Your Sailor Crystals were tied, always meant to work in harmony.

And tonight was no exception—another night under a starless sky, another battle sparked by Queen Beryl's dark ambitions. As the darkness spread and your transformation light burst into the air, he was already moving. Already there.

Because he'd sworn long ago—across time, across lifetimes—he would always fight beside you.

The clash ignited like thunder through the streets, the Sailor Guardians surging forward in formation, your powers weaving together in a brilliant, unified force. Together, you pushed back the tide of shadow, cornering one of the evil queen's generals beneath the shattered remains of an old monument.

The battle was nearing its end.

Sparks of light clashed against crackling shadows in the ruined city square, and for a moment, it felt like victory was yours.

"We've got him!" Sailor Mars shouted, fire crackling at her fingertips. You stood at the front, tiara glinting under the moonlight, heart pounding with adrenaline and pride. "One final blast—together!" The Guardians prepared their strike, light surging in a vibrant crescendo.

But in that single heartbeat, just as your focus narrowed, a low chuckle slid from the battered general's lips.

Too late, you saw the glint of energy in his palm. A dagger of dark magic, hurled not at your teammates, not even in desperation to escape, but at you. Straight at your heart.

Your body locked in shock.

There wasn't enough time to summon your shield. You couldn't move.

But he did.

A blur of black and crimson. The whisper of a rose on the wind.

"No."

Yeosang.

He crashed into you just as the bolt struck, arms tightening protectively around you. The impact seared across his back, his coat burning at the edges—but you were safe, cushioned against his chest, wide-eyed as you realised what had happened.

He didn't even flinch. Only breathed out your name, shakily, as if making sure you were still here.

You clutched his coat, voice trembling, "Yeo…"

He glanced down at you, the pain in his eyes overshadowed by something deeper. "You didn't think I'd let anything touch you, did you?"

You opened your mouth to protest, but he pressed his forehead to yours. "Not again. Never again."

Behind him, the Guardians finished the final strike, the general disintegrating into dust.

But in that moment, the only thing you could see was him—your guardian, your prince, your Yeosang—holding you like you were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

Because to him, you were.

San ↠ Nanami Kento (Jujutsu Kaisen)

In the world of Jujutsu Sorcery, San is calm, composed, and exudes pure authority. He prefers logic over recklessness, making him one of the most reliable fighters in battle. While he claims to hate overtime and unnecessary stress, he always ends up taking care of others, offering wise advice and silently protecting them from harm. His cold exterior is just a front—he deeply cares, though he shows it through quiet gestures more than words.

Though many assume he remains connected to Jujutsu High out of loyalty to Gojo, the real reason is a little more complicated—and a lot more personal.

It was you.

You, the brilliant alumna who somehow made chaos look graceful. You, who challenged him just by existing, who made him feel something close to warmth, even in a world riddled with curses and blood.

You, a fellow alumna and now a teacher in your own right, were the real reason he never fully walked away. Maybe he didn't mind helping train the next generation… if it meant catching glimpses of you between lessons. Maybe he didn't complain about overtime quite as much when it meant late-night patrols with you.

Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Unbothered king… unless it's you. Then he notices everything.

So when reports of another Jujutsu terrorist attack came in—Geto's name scrawled across the chaos once more—San didn't hesitate. He scanned the mission details and found yours almost immediately.

He knew the curse you were assigned to. Knew it was a special grade. Knew what that meant.

And suddenly, overtime didn't matter.

He was already moving before anyone could stop him, before anyone could question why someone so notoriously strict about his hours was volunteering to stay behind. But he didn't care. He'd assessed the curse, gauged its strength, and the answer was clear.

You could win—but you wouldn't walk away unscathed.

And that wasn't something he could live with.

So when you turned, surprised to find him there as you prepared for battle, irritation lining your voice—"What are you still doing here, Choi? I'm not one of the kids. You don't have to worry about me. It's past your working hours, just go. I'll be fine."—he only scoffed, fingers already at his collar as he loosened his tie.

"I'm not about to set a bad example to your students," he said smoothly, though the flicker in his gaze betrayed deeper concern. "Besides, it wouldn't be very responsible of me to leave a fellow colleague to finish this off on her own."

The battle ended quicker than either of you had anticipated. You'd already worn the special-grade curse down, but with San joining in—precise, ruthless, and composed as ever—it tipped the scale completely in your favour. A flash of his cursed technique cleaved through the creature's core, and with one final strike from you, its form disintegrated into black mist.

Silence settled in the aftermath, broken only by the faint hum of cursed energy dissipating. The Curtain flickered once… twice… then dissolved around you, revealing the moonlit city beyond.

Both of you stood there, catching your breath. Bruised, scraped, but victorious. "You know I could've handled that on my own," you muttered with a tired smirk.

San exhaled slowly, pretending to fix his watch, though his hand lingered longer than necessary. "I know… just wanted to help."

He didn't meet your eyes, unsure what he'd see—disapproval, amusement, or worse, understanding. But instead, you stepped closer. Close enough for him to feel your presence settle warmly into the space between you. Your hand reached up, and before he could process it, your thumb gently wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his chin.

"You had something," you said softly, fingers lingering for the briefest second longer than necessary.

The touch froze him.

His breath caught, his usual composure faltering just enough to let the fluster creep in. His mind raced—did you feel it too? The pull? The quiet gravity that had been gnawing at him every time you walked into the room?

You pulled away like nothing happened, but there was a glint in your eyes. The kind that told him maybe, just maybe, you knew exactly what you were doing.

"Thank you, Sannie, for your help," you said, bumping your shoulder into his, your tone light.

And just like that, you turned and walked off, leaving his heart pounding far louder than any curse ever could. He stared after your figure, dazed, on the brink of saying something more—something real—when you spun around with that familiar cheeky grin.

"I'm sure Gojo would be pleased to hear you're so willing to help after hours. Prepared to get busy?"

San groaned, dragging a hand down his face to hide the heat rising in his ears. "You really don't know when to stop." But he was already moving to follow, gaze still soft, expression still dazed.

He wasn't sure what had just happened.

But he knew one thing: he wanted more.

Mingi ↠ Rengoku Kyojuro (Demon Slayer)

With a booming voice, infectious laughter, and boundless enthusiasm, Mingi is the true embodiment of warmth and strength. He fights with passion, determination, and an unshakable resolve, inspiring everyone around him to push forward no matter the odds. He treats everyone like family, encouraging them with uplifting words and radiating kindness even in the darkest of times. He lives without regret, protecting those he loves with everything he has.

Even in the toughest battles, he always smiles and says, "It's okay. I'll take care of it."

He was bright, passionate, and larger than life.

But even the brightest flames have their moments of dimness. And in those quiet, flickering moments—when the laughter fades and the weight grows heavy—he has you.

A fellow Hashira he had met at the very start of his journey. You, who had stood beside him when his fire was still small, unsure, and constantly stifled by doubt. You, the quiet but unshakable force who never let his flame go out.

Not many know, but you are his foundation. The reason he can smile for others. The reason he can carry so much and still say, "I've got this." When his father questioned his worth, when the voices of self-doubt echoed louder than the roar of battle, you were the steady voice that reminded him he was enough.

Behind every smile he gives to the world, there is a moment shared with you. His flame may burn bright for all, but you…

You are the one who keeps it alive.

That thought clung to him long after yet another battle had ended. Tonight's battle had ended, but Mingi's heart hadn't stopped racing. Not from the fight—he could handle demons, wounds, even pain—but from the moment you were nearly struck, the way your blood had stained the ground, the way time seemed to freeze around him in that one terrifying second.

He hadn't let it show. Not in front of the others. Not while the mission still hung heavy in the air. But now, back at the Butterfly Mansion, all he could think about was you.

The Flame Hashira paced past the infirmary rooms, checking every cot—yours was empty.

His stomach twisted.

He scoured the garden, the corridors, a quiet kind of desperation building behind his ribs until—

He paused at the faint smell drifting through the corridor. Sweet potatoes. He followed it like instinct, his body moving before his mind even caught up.

There you were.

He leaned against the kitchen door frame, the sight of your familiar silhouette grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"What, pray tell, could you possibly be making this late in the night?" he asked, a smile playing on his lips.

You jumped, nearly fumbling the tray as you turned, eyes wide like you'd been caught stealing from the pantry. But then your gaze softened when you saw him, and so did your shoulders.

You beckoned him over.

He was at your side in seconds, eyes dropping to the tray of steaming sweet potatoes—his favourite. "I was going to bring them to you—"

You didn't even finish.

Mingi pulled you into his arms, his hold firm, almost desperate, burying his face in the curve of your shoulder like he was trying to make sure you were real. Warm. Alive.

You stood still for a beat, then melted into him, your hands moving gently to his back.

"I thought I lost you today," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

"But you didn't, Mangi," you replied softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. "I'm right here."

He held you tighter, as if afraid you might slip away again. The warmth of the kitchen, the soft scent of the sweet potatoes, the steady rise and fall of your breathing—it was all he needed to breathe again.

You pulled back slightly to look up at him, your hand reaching up to brush a bit of dirt and dried blood from his cheek.

His eyes widened just slightly at the tenderness of the gesture.

"Sit. Eat," you said with a faint smile, trying to lighten the moment. "Even flames need fuel."

He let out a quiet laugh, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. He took your hand before you could turn away again and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, just for a second longer than necessary.

And in that quiet kitchen, long after the chaos had passed, Mingi knew something with absolute certainty: You weren't just the reason his flame stayed lit.

You were the reason he kept burning at all.

Wooyoung ↠ Howl (Howl's Moving Castle)

In a castle that moves across enchanted landscapes, Wooyoung is the enigmatic and breathtakingly beautiful wizard who leaves a trail of admirers wherever he goes. Flirty, dramatic, and effortlessly magical, he revels in the attention and mystery he creates—until it comes to you.

Because beneath the teasing smiles and grand entrances, his heart belongs to one person alone: you.

You, who first stumbled into his life like a quiet storm. You, who challenged his ego and saw through the layers of charm and chaos.

He may have a reputation for dodging responsibilities and laughing in the face of danger, but when it came to you, there was no hesitation. He searched high and low, dabbled in forbidden spells, crossed paths with demons and stars alike—all to break the curse that bound you.

Wooyoung could still joke, still charm, still wear his flamboyant coats and wink at danger. But every spell he cast, every risk he took, was fueled by one unshakable truth:

He loved you more than magic itself.

You didn't know. Or if you did, you never said. And so, he never crossed the line. Instead, he remained near—your chaos and your calm, your shield and your shadow.

He still enjoyed making you blush when he whispered sweet nothings, still tucked roses behind his ear for the sole purpose of handing them to you like he hadn't been thinking about it all day. But that affection, as loud as it felt in his chest, remained unspoken.

Even in the stillness of night, that truth clung to him.

It was well past midnight when the castle's creaks lulled into a rare hush. The stars blinked lazily beyond the ever-shifting windows. Restless, you wandered barefoot through unfamiliar corridors of the castle, drawn by the faint glimmer of soft golden light slipping under a closed door.

You pushed it open gently and paused.

The wizard was alone, standing in the centre of a dimly lit room you'd never seen before. It was quieter here, older. Shelves filled with weathered books, scattered scrolls, and constellations drawn in shimmering ink surrounded him. And in the middle of it all, floating weightlessly, was a glowing orb.

He didn't look at you at first. Just kept his gaze on the swirling light inside the orb, as though caught in a memory.

"What's that?" you asked softly.

He turned his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "A star," he said. "Or… what's left of one."

He lifted a hand, fingers brushing the edge of the light. "I caught it when I was young. Gave it my heart in exchange for power. For magic. For something I thought I needed to survive." He let out a quiet breath. "It used to feel like a mistake."

You stepped closer, drawn not by the light but by the shadow in his voice. "And now?" you asked.

He finally looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes, usually full of mischief and fire, softened like stardust settling over calm water.

"Now I think maybe I gave my heart away for a reason," he murmured. "So it could find its way back to something real."

Back to you, my love.

The orb dimmed slowly between you, as if the memory had played its final note. You were close now—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough to notice the flicker in his gaze as it dropped to your lips before darting away.

You reached up without thinking, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear.

He stilled, then leaned ever so slightly into your touch. "You always ruin my dramatic moments," he said quietly, the smirk in his voice not quite reaching his eyes.

You smiled, not pulling away. "Then maybe you should stop letting me in on them."

"Not a chance," he whispered, stepping back just enough to keep from overstepping. "You're the only magic I trust with the whole show." And just like that, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to stay, to linger, to be near.

The world outside could crumble. But in this quiet room, with unspoken feelings and lingering touches, it felt, for just a moment, like you might already know. Like maybe, you were staying on purpose.

And so you did. You lingered.

You could have made some excuse, about wandering in your sleep or being curious about the light. But you didn't. You simply sat on the edge of a low couch near the wall as he returned to his place by the now-fading orb, casting a spell with a flick of his fingers to let the rest of the room dim into golden quiet.

The silence between you wasn't awkward. It never was. But tonight, it felt heavier. Charged. Something unspoken rested in the space like the star that once glowed there.

You glanced at him—really looked.

Wooyoung, with his dishevelled hair and candlelit skin, the robes hanging off one shoulder like they were too tired to be dramatic anymore. The boy who gave his heart to a star, who smiled through shadows, who searched the world to save you without expecting anything in return.

And suddenly, you felt it.

Not like a burst of clarity—but a soft click, like something that had always been there slipping quietly into place. A feeling that had grown with each glance, each teasing comment, each quiet act of care.

You'd spent so long thinking you had time. That his affection was playful. That maybe your own heart had been mistaken for something fleeting.

But it wasn't.

You loved him.

Not because he saved you. Not because he made you laugh when things were falling apart. Not even because he gave you stars. But because in a world that shifted constantly beneath your feet, he was the only thing that ever truly felt like home.

Your breath hitched just slightly. He must've sensed it, because his eyes met yours again—and this time, he said nothing. Just watched. Waited.

You smiled, quiet and real, and whispered, "Thank you, Woo."

"For what?" he asked, his voice low.

"For giving me somewhere to come back to."

He swallowed, a rare flicker of vulnerability slipping through the practised charm. And though neither of you said what you both now knew, it didn't matter.

Because something had changed.

And neither of you would ever be the same again.

Jongho ↠ Kageyama Tobio (Haikyuu!!)

On the court, Jongho is a powerhouse setter—calm, calculated, and relentless. His focus is razor-sharp, his skills unmatched, and his presence alone can change the pace of a match. He demands excellence, not out of arrogance, but because he sees the potential in every player. That desire to push others forward often earned him the nickname "King of the Court"—a title not of admiration, but of criticism, painting him as cold and controlling.

But off the court, those who truly knew him understood better.

Behind the intensity was someone goofy and awkward in the most endearing way. Someone who practised until his hands were bruised, who carried the weight of the team quietly on his shoulders, and who loved deeper than he knew how to say.

And then there was you.

His personal cheerleader since childhood. The one who never wavered, who stood by him when others misunderstood his passion for tyranny. Who shouted the loudest at his games, defended him in the hallways, and always reminded him that being different didn't make him wrong. You believed in him before anyone else did.

You, who had grown from the tiny kid with scraped knees into someone he now looked at with something deeper than just friendship. Something he hadn't quite found the courage to name—yet.

Maybe on the volleyball court, he was a king.

But to you? He just hoped to be something more.

It was thoughts like these that echoed louder than the sound of sneakers squeaking against polished wood, long after the gym had emptied.

Everyone else had gone home. The lights above buzzed quietly. He was alone, except for the ball bouncing back to him, the tension in his chest, and the self-imposed pressure gnawing at his focus.

Sweat clung to his brow as he reset for yet another drill, breath steady but heart pounding. The upcoming match loomed heavy on his shoulders. He couldn't afford mistakes. He couldn't let anyone down.

He served again. And again. And again. Each time just a fraction off from perfect. Frustrated, he exhaled sharply, pausing to rest his hands on his knees. His mind raced—every error, every comment, every moment where he wasn't good enough replaying like a cruel loop.

Then the door creaked.

He tensed, not ready for any more eyes on him.

But then he heard your voice.

"You know, most people go home after practice ends."

He froze mid-serve, the ball slipping from his fingers and bouncing harmlessly away. He turned slowly, trying not to look too startled—or too thrilled.

You stood there with a half-smile and a bag of snacks in your hands, wearing that same look you always did when you found him overworking himself again: exasperated, but soft around the edges.

"I brought your favourite," you said, walking toward him, holding the bag up like an offering. "Figured you'd still be here. You never know when to quit."

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I'm predictable."

"You're relentless," you corrected, stepping close enough to press the snacks gently into his hands. "And a little too hard on yourself."

He met your eyes then—really met them. The gym felt quieter suddenly, like the whole place was holding its breath.

"I just… I don't want to let anyone down," he admitted, voice low. "I know what they say about me. Controlling. Too intense. But I push because I know they can do it. Because I care."

You smiled, the kind that always seemed to pull the air right out of his lungs. "I know. That's why I've never stopped cheering for you."

His hands tightened around the bag. For a moment, he forgot about the court, the pressure, the weight of the upcoming match. All he saw was you—standing in front of him, as you always had.

"You've always been there," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Even when everyone else looked at me like I was too much… you never did."

You tilted your head slightly. "That's because I've always seen you, Jjong. Not just the King of the Court."

He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before the words slipped out, shaky but sincere. "I think I… I don't just want to be your friend anymore."

Your breath caught.

The gym lights flickered slightly overhead, but neither of you moved.

You stepped a little closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then stop talking like you're afraid I might not feel the same."

He blinked, stunned for a moment, before the smallest, most genuine smile curved on his lips. And in that quiet space between old memories and new feelings, Jongho thought—for once—maybe he really didn't have to be perfect.

Not when you already chose him anyway.

I hope y'all enjoyed this! Sorry if the last few members' parts didn't quite meet expectations because my dumbass worked on them in a pretty sleep-deprived state HAHA anyway, how did y'all like the matches? Do you agree with them?🤭

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[samwontshare]

Let me just summarize all my posting for anytime I’m MIA for surgery and real life:

-Sam Wilson deserves the world and fans and the writers need to treat him better.

-Sam Wilson is great! Look at him being great!

-If the MCU wants me to actually continue liking Bucky they need to stop writing him as the worst guy to ever befriend Black people.

-Leave Black fans alone. Stop harassing Black fans when they tell you something is racist, you look like a fucking asshat. Don’t go to their pages and whine at them because your fav white guy is being a piece of shit in canon and the writers are mistreating Black characters.

-If you can’t acknowledge, understand, and work to unlearn your anti Black racism, leave the Sambucky fandom. I’m not saying you can’t grow, but take your lumps and accept that growing pain sometimes hurts.

-Fans will continue to defend Sam Wilson against ridic bullshit. Whatever is in the tags? I already know it’s bottom feeding nonsense.

-My eternal gratitude to the Sam Wilson defense team and the Bucky fans who do appreciate Sam Wilson. The creators, thinkers, artists and writers of fandom are valued.

[yatori-morgana]

I was originally going to leave this as a tag talking thing like I usually do, but no.

I'm throwing in my two cents, just like I did when I flipped out over people blatantly ignoring an important part of Jade's personality. (Long post under the cut. Book 7 spoilers are flagged and skippable.)

I like the V poly of the Octotrio — BUT ONLY WHEN AZUL IS THEIR EQUAL!! Why would they care about him to that degree if he wasn't? Jade and Floyd have made it clear they don't play with people who aren't worth their time, and a constant damsel in distress would likely fall into that. If you're not strong enough to take care of yourself, good luck, bozo! They've probably abandoned people for even less, too! (Baseless assumption, btw)

Azul is strong enough to hold his own, and he's intelligent and clever. He can worm his way out of most situations without resorting to violence, but if he has to, he knows what he's doing. He's physically strong, even if he can't exert himself for long periods of time such as with sprinting, and his magic control isn't something to be trifled with. Even if you outrun him, he could just as easily freeze you in place. Not only that, but [MINOR SPOILER FOR BOOK 7] he almost damn near broke Sebek's arm as he was clinging during the dream jump. [END OF SPOILER]

Azul is not a helpless damsel. He only ever portrays himself that way when he's tricking someone into giving him something he wants with minimal effort. That's cleverness, not weakness.

He's very precise, too, as we saw in his school uniform vignette when he practiced rolling dice until he could get the results he wanted. That also shows his tenacity, too, a trait the tweels respect. They love that Azul will try, fail, get back up, and try again. He doesn't quit, and he doesn't whine and cry to others if he thinks he can't do it. Sure, he may use others, but it's not because he's incompetent or incapable. It's called resourcefulness and maximizing results while minimizing effort. It's energy in, rewards out, same as how predatorial animals hunt.

The thing is, if Azul is struggling, they'll watch to see how he gets himself out of his own mess. [MAJOR SPOILER FOR BOOK 7] They left Azul to his own devices in his own dream, and they made it clear vocally that if Azul isn't strong enough to save himself, they don't need him. That was the deal between the three, something continuously brought up throughout the story people like to pretend doesn't exist. Floyd outright says in multiple ways, point blank, that they believe in Azul. They know he can overcome these obstacles. And when he does, guess what? Jade and Floyd hit your group with the "I told you so" beam. They knew Azul could do it. The twins mention that Azul getting everything he wants is boring, though. [END OF BOOK 7 SPOILERS]

The twins don't want Azul to always succeed or to always fail. They want him to be fun. And guess what part of his fun is? Self-sufficiency. Self-reliance. Being able to come up with ambitious plans himself and execute them in one form or another. They have never, ever babied him, and they never will. A babied Azul is a fake Azul.

Would they be protective of him? Of course! But they're not going to do everything for him, and if he can't do it for himself period, oh boy. He's either never going to hear the end of it or he's getting ousted, depending on the situation.

Stop treating Azul like a defenseless maiden or an utter crybaby. He isn't.

Sure, he cries when he's at his breaking point, but do you have any idea how hard it is to push him that far? We the player simply caught him at his worst moments. He isn't always like that! And the tweels make it very clear they don't like Azul being that way.

I don't mind people shipping characters. I don't mind them having fun. But at least TRY to keep the character accurate.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have chores to do. Have a great day/night, anyone and everyone who read this all the way through~!

how artists draw the tweels (NO INCEST GROSSS) x Azul

i dont like the idea of the tweels sharing azul thats just a no for me so i dont ship it

i like them when they’re jade x azul or floyd x azul but not a V shaped poly sorry guys it seems cute in theory i guess (IM NOT AGAINST POLYS THOUGH DO WHATEVER YOU WANT LMAO I JUST DONT PREFER IT)

but i swear these idoazu (IS THIS THE RIGHT TERM??) artists draw the tweels so fucking alpha male protective over azul like that mf cant kill people himself

ITS SO DUMB

why do these azul ship artists draw azul into so not azul and turn him into a weak little bitch like all that hardwork went into nothing

“why dont you let people have fun-“

dont you dare touch my girl. otherwise i’ll kill you 👿👿👿

I just dont like it when people make azul into this “always weak crybaby that needs help protecting bc he’s sucks at it”

HE LITERALLY EXPRESSED THAT IN BOOK 6 WAS NOBODY PAYING ATTENTION?? WAS IT ONLY ME AND MY OBSESSION WITH AZUL HELLO???? WAS I THE ONLY ONE WHO READ IT??

HE LITERALLY SAID THAT HE DIDN’T NEED PROTECTION FROM RIDDLE AND HE COULD FEND FOR HIMSELF

I JUST DON’T LIKE IT AND IT IMPLIES THAT JADE AND FLOYD THINK AZUL IS WEAK WHEN THEY KNOW AZUL ISN’T WEAK THAT’S WHY THEY HANG OUT WITH HIM

I KNOW DAMN WELL HE WOULD PICK YOU UP AND THROW YOU INTO THREE DIFFERENT BUILDINGS YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE. HE WOULD “ACCIDENTLY” SNATCH UR MAGIC AWAY.

HE LITERALLY HATES BEING UNDERESTIMATED GRRRR... GRRRRRRRR *I GROWL ANGRILY*

grrrrgrgrgrgrrggrgrwgfrwrgewiyq ijpw rhngrbfjwdkp[afgjnrsjhkfeALDPW{n PEOPLE WHO MISCHARACTERIZE AZUL MAKES ME GO... GO INTO MY REAL FORM GRAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[callistocalavarni]

hey girlie! hope you're doing well<3 also, love the new blog theme♡

i read this post (https://www.tumblr.com/hrrtshape/782835465002926080/read-this-if-youre-confused-about-persistence-if?source=share) by hrrtshape recently...

do you think that our reality not changing 'instantly' depends upon whether we're fully committed to our consiousness/accept it as a fact or not? putting aside all the desperation, etc, after you're certain that you've shifted in your mind?

I just wanted to get your views on this because tbh I may or may not have understood her poetic prose ;(

thank youuuu!!!🫶🏼🎀 lots of love!!!!!

Hii, I hope this makes sense, it might sound like something everybody has said already but then again thats just the shifting community so who cares, also thanks !

Also this might not make any sense at all.. actually fuck the human language for not allowing me to communicate my abstract thoughts about reality and how time works….I wish I were telepathic.

Quantum mechanics tells us that particles can be in several places at once. If the particles can be in several places at once and we are made up of these particles we should be able to be in several places at once as well. This is were Hugh Everett proposed his many worlds theory, stating that wave functions never collapse. ( stay with me ) Collapse implies that the other states in super position disappear, so that only one position remains. This would be the idea that there is only one true reality, this one that you are experiencing, but with many more theories coming out about how reality works that notion becomes more distant.

The many worlds theory suggests that there is a third level of parallel realities you can experience by making certain choices. Now you can say his many-worlds theory was widely ignored for his time, and you would be correct, but recently it has caught attention of the physics community. I'm not saying that Everett was right about everything and that is theory is the "manifesto" of how we perceive reality but it can certainly be a jumping point of understanding.

Small changes in our thinking can lead to different outcomes. I've had certain realities relay what my mind has picked up, I've noticed that even though you think you are in a stagnant period relating to shifting your mind is still projecting what you are thinking onto the world. For example, many of my dreams are just jumbled non sense of what I do and think throughout my day. Same goes for realities I shift to, even though I haven't experienced certain situations it still shows up.

We don't know a lot about the mind, and (to an extant) we don't know why the mind tends to delay things; learning, developing mental blocks, etc.

Take a piece of paper, look at it fully and imagine that its your consciousness in its entirety. At the top of the paper, measure a centimeter then take your pencil and draw a line horizontally all the way across. See? Thats a sliver of the paper ( your consciousness ) Thats about all you are using. Only that tiny bit is what we are aware of at this moment.

Ever single human has a different way of being aware. Thats why so many people shift in different ways. Its the levels in which you think that make up what you are ware of.

For example, one persons way of shifting could be pacing around in their room daydreaming about their dr and thats how their mind understands shifting, thats how their mind knows when to shift. Another person could use the method between being awake and being asleep to shift and thats how their mind discerns this reality from another.

Our brain is stubborn, fulling accepting something as fact is one thing, being fully aware is another. Desperation or any of the such will not stop you from shifting.

Ok so, to dumb it down, there is no past, there is no future, the only true thing is what you experiencing now - and with the concept of shifting you can choose to experience anything you'd like. The essence of being where you are is deciding what you are aware of. Whenever I shift It feels like smooth, like your in the zone of flowing thoughts, it comes in this abstract state of awareness.

im done looking at this obsidian doc I have three months of homework i need to finish by june so this is all you are getting from me so sorry, ( i have no idea how emma does all that I have so much respect for her )

[zvahlne]

I MADE IT (with no undos because i'm stubborn) YIPPEE!!!!

i kept going after to see how far i could get but i didn't get much further </3

i got bored and made a mcd 2048 game if anyone wants to play!

it’s just 2048 with diff tiles :)

[callikari]

CHAMPAGNE COAST

before debut, you and heeseung were something quiet and unfinished. now, years later, your comeback is all anyone talks about — until a single look at a fashion event brings him back into the spotlight with you, and suddenly, the past you buried doesn't feel so distant.

OO7. remember us

you disappear.

after the pre-debut photos drop — the ones where you’re smiling beside him, training uniforms loose and dreams still untouched — the internet explodes all over again.

“so it was real,” someone tweets.

“they were close before debut?”“you don’t look at someone like that unless they meant something.”

your team does damage control. your agency says nothing. and you?

you vanish.

no press. no airport photos. no social media.

just silence.

until today.

the streets outside m countdown are packed. fans, media, even passerbys who caught wind of the comeback. your group’s name glows on every screen: IVE EMPATHY.

the van door opens — and the world stops.

blonde.

loose waves brush past your shoulders, soft bangs framing your face like you walked straight out of a dream. chanel pins in your hair. gold accents catching the light.

your outfit?

a tailored black mini dress with structured shoulders and silver threading that glints like starlight. lace tights. patent mary janes. silver layered jewelry that catches just enough light to draw eyes without saying a word.

your eyes flicker under the flash of a thousand cameras. your posture? flawless. poised. devastating.

and inside, heeseung is watching.

not just him — everyone is.

but it’s him that counts.

because from his studio across the world, screen pulled up, livestream running… heeseung sees you step out of that van like the person he knew was still somewhere inside.

and the way he looks at you?

the way his eyes soften, lips part, breath catches

even his members notice.

“hyung,” sunghoon says slowly, “you okay?”

heeseung doesn’t respond.

how could he? when you’re right there, even through a screen, and it feels like the first time all over again.

the comeback stage ends. cameras shut off. the crowd disperses. and the city glows against the late hour.

you duck into a quiet cafe near the venue, hood pulled over your freshly styled hair. just five minutes, you think. a coffee. a breath.

but when the door chimes behind you — you know without looking.

“hey,” heeseung says.

you turn.

he’s in a hoodie too. pressed mask still hanging from one ear. eyes searching yours like he’s not sure if you’ll stay.

you sit down instead of leaving.

“didn’t think i’d see you,” you murmur.

“me neither,” he says softly. “but i’m glad i did.”

the silence isn’t awkward. not like before. not sharp or bitter or filled with words left unsaid.

it’s calm.

you stir your drink.

he watches.

“you looked…” he pauses. starts again. “you looked like you up there.”

you glance at him, surprised. “yeah?”

he nods. “better than ever.”

you don’t say thank you. don’t blush. don’t smile.

you just look at him.

like you used to.

and for the first time in forever — he doesn’t look away.

the coffee between you is warm. untouched.

heeseung taps his fingers against the paper cup, eyes flickering up to yours, then down again. “so…”

you lift a brow. “so?”

he exhales a breath through his nose — nervous, but trying not to show it. “the interviews.”

you blink. “what about them?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just leans back slightly in the booth, the low glow of the café casting soft shadows across his jaw.

“…you agreed with the statement.”

your expression stills.

so that’s what this is.

you stir your coffee slowly. “you posted it.”

“i had to,” he says, voice low. “it wasn’t just me on the line.”

you nod once. “i know.”

a pause.

heeseung leans forward, elbows on the table, voice quieter now. “but you still said it. on camera.”

you meet his gaze.

“what did you expect me to do?” your tone isn’t sharp, but it cuts. “deny it? say there was something? give the internet what it wanted?”

his jaw tightens. “i don’t know. maybe just not… sound like it meant nothing.”

your heart stutters.

you look down at your cup. “and did it?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

finally: “no.”

you nod, slow and careful, letting the weight of that settle between you.

heeseung looks at you again. really looks. “i watched the full interview. you looked calm. perfect, even.”

you smile, barely. “isn’t that the job?”

he huffs a laugh, soft and sad. “you looked like you didn’t care.”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to.

your silence says enough.

heeseung shifts, his hand brushing the edge of the table, then pulling back. “do you?”

you look up. meet his eyes. that same question, unspoken, from all those years ago.

you reach for your coffee. take a sip.

and then — “do you?”

heeseung breathes out. “i never stopped.”

you set your cup down.

outside, the streets hum with life. somewhere, your group is back in the van, and his flight leaves in the morning. there’s no tomorrow guaranteed.

but for the first time, the past feels like it’s starting to forgive the present.

“neither did i,” you say.

and just like that, you’re back.

not as who you were.

but who you are now — and maybe, still, who you could be.

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