#(even if i forget it exists for months at a time)

[hoonieyun]

he(e) would ₊˚⊹♡

pairing: lee heeseung x reader genre: established relationship, boyfriend!heeseung, romance, fluff, loverboy!heeseung, downbad!heeseung, downbad!reader, lovergirl!reader, heeseung and yn are MADLY in love warnings: not much tbh, kissing, 18+

synopsis: a collection of instances where heeseung continues to raise the bar when it comes to love and romance. now, remember ladies! "if he wanted to, he(e) would!"

wc: 1458

you’ve had your fair share of boyfriends and situationships, much of which were with guys who definitely didn’t meet your standards and where you probably stayed longer than you should have. your luck in relationships was almost non-existent, some would last a few months before you’d realize he wasn’t the one or sometimes– most of the time, honestly�� you’d realize it wasn’t a match before the first date was even over. 

enter: heeseung. 

heeseung, your now boyfriend of 2 years who has not only set the bar for your standards of what your partner should be like but continues to raise the bar over and over again. 

whenever you’d fly back home to him from being out of town whether it be visiting your family or a work trip, heeseung would always pick you up from the airport no matter the time with fresh flowers in hand and a sign for you that would range from phrases like: 

“welcome home, my love.”

“looking for the love of my life.”

“future mrs. lee heeseung” 

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ 

you were typically the one to always cook for the two of you, mostly because you were a much better cook than heeseung, but heeseung would constantly prove to you that he’s getting better at cooking. heeseung would convince you to let him take care of dinner for the night and that he’s been practicing a recipe for you being your favorite meal. 

however, it doesn’t turn out the way he wants, resulting in you having to jump in and help. 

but, heeseung would show you how greatly he appreciates you and your superb cooking abilities. telling you that he’s sorry over and over again for ruining dinner and fighting you to do the dishes because he feels so guilty for burning the food. 

“i promise, honey. next time! for sure! i will get the recipe right and you’ll be sooo impressed.” 

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ 

typically, you’re always on top of things. you breathed and lived your planner, it kept your days in tact and you on track but having dated heeseung for so long, he’s noticed that for someone who is as organized as you, he’s realized that you often forget things even if it's on your planner. 

you’d realize that you forgot something at home right as you’re in the middle of a 10 hour roadtrip, your home several miles away. 

fidgeting in your seat, chewing on your lip as you get too afraid to tell heeseung that you had forgotten something very important at home. but heeseung would notice that right away and knowing you, you were probably too anxious to tell him about something. 

“what’s wrong, babe?” heeseung asks and you slowly turn towards him, blinking your eyes several times as you muster up the courage to tell him you left something behind back at your home that was now 6 hours away. 

but heeseung would already know what’s on your mind. 

“let me guess, you forgot something at home?” 

“don’t worry, i already packed that because i knew you’d forget it.” 

“you don’t have to be scared to tell me, ok? i know we’re far from home now but i’d turn back around in a heartbeat if you needed something.” 

“thank god i grabbed it though, right?” 

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ 

you had quite the habit of picking up a new hyperfixation every week. 

a few weeks ago it was the creepy yet cute looking plushies called “labubu”.

last week it was an earl grey latte from a local cafe that you visited every day. 

this week it’s a song that you just can’t seem to get out of your head. you’d hum the song or mutter the lyrics to yourself while doing random chores around the house. thankfully the song itself wasn’t annoying so you didn’t find yourself cringing whenever you’d sing it. 

but heeseung would hear you sing the song as you walked around your home. humming the song while your laundry basket hangs off your hip, belting the chorus as you’re in the shower, and whispering the lyrics as you focus on cutting up vegetables for dinner. 

heeseung would watch and try his best to figure out the song and once he’s identified it, heeseung would learn the song in full, even going as far as learning the song on the guitar and playing it for you one night when you least expect it. 

“you really learned that song?? for me???” 

“of course, babe. you’ve been singing it all week, it’s practically stuck in my head now.” 

“well now it’s going to be stuck in our heads even longer because you sounded like an angel singing it!’ 

“i’ll sing any song for you, whatever song you want, my love.” 

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ 

house chores never end especially when you and heeseung are such busy people. there’s always a large pile of laundry ready to be washed, dishes piling up all the way from breakfast, and your unmade bed that is probably going to remain undone because what was the point of fixing your bed when it was just going to get ruined again when you and heeseung go to sleep.

but heeseung would notice the way you’d sigh every time you’d enter a room and there’d be another chore yet to be done. 

the two of you have split your home responsibilities as fair as you could but heeseung couldn’t bear seeing how tired you were and still push yourself to make sure your home is clean. heeseung also has his fair share of work and even if he’s tired, he’d rather be tired himself instead of you. 

heeseung would try to complete as many chores as he could before you got home from work. the laundry neatly folded and put away, dishes are now squeaky clean and in their rightful spots, and your shared bed tidied up like it was from an ikea showroom. 

“hee? did you clean up all of this?” 

heeseung would nod proudly before patting the spot next to him on your bed. 

“you’re always doing so much around the house so i thought i’d clean up so you could just rest when you get home.” 

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ 

a common date between you and heeseung is watching a new movie at the theaters. 

you’ve been wanting to see this certain movie for a while now but with the showtimes and your work schedules, it never matched up– but heeseung would do everything he could to make sure you got to see this movie because he knows how much you’ve been wanting to watch it since the first trailer had come out. 

“babe, get ready; we’re going out.” 

you’d look at him weirdly because you don’t remember making any plans with him. you thought that the both of you had agreed to just take it easy for the night since you both had a long day at work but heeseung would explain that he got two tickets to that movie you’ve been wanting to see. 

your eyes would light up as he encourages you to get ready while he stuffs snacks from home into your purse. 

but knowing him, heeseung would still end up buying you a large popcorn and large drink if you asked for it. 

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ 

heeseung would watch you as you get ready at your vanity that he had built for you. 

you turn towards him after applying the last coat of your lipstick, “hee? does this color look good on me?” 

heeseung would already be watching so he was already thinking about how good the color looked on you, how it complimented your skin tone and how it accentuated the shape of your lips. 

heeseung would nod immediately, like an eager puppy being asked “who’s a good boy?”

you’d walk over to him, sitting in his lap before pressing a kiss on his cheek.

and then another on the other side. and also on his chin, forehead, and nose, before pressing a longer kiss on his lips. 

heeseung’s face was now covered in kiss marks, causing you to giggle at how cute he looked. 

“sorry, you have lipstick all over your face now.” you’d say with a pout. 

but heeseung would just let out a breathy laugh because he couldn’t care less. 

“think this color might look better on me to be honest.” heeseung would say before pulling you in for another kiss. 

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡ 

whenever you think about your past relationships and how they constantly let you down, usually you’d frown and roll your eyes– but now? all you could say is that those guys didn’t do it for you in the past and probably wouldn’t for you now. 

but he(e) would. 

ᡣ•.•𐭩♡ @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @manaah02 @zorange13 @firstclassjaylee @kristynaaah @17ericas @heeseung64 @leipforggy @s1rawb3rry @ddeonuswife @orxngebloods

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

[jordiemeow]

thinking about frat boy!patrick right now, always getting himself into trouble and then charming his way right back into your bed.

he’s your first serious boyfriend, though it’s clear things are a lot more serious for you than they are for him. you’ve been on and off again for months. he’s flaky with plans, always going on two-day benders with no contact, or looking far too friendly with the sorority girls he hangs around with. the type of guy to murmur "you know this isn’t just about the sex, right?" and then disappear on you for two weeks.

but if there’s one thing about him, it’s that he’s a god in bed. he’ll have you wrecked on your dorm single within ten minutes, crying his name into your pillow. bent in all sorts of positions to his liking, coaxing you into doing all sorts of things you’d never even thought about with a low murmur in your ear and a flash of a sharp canine tooth. it’s hard to stay annoyed at him when his big hand is snaking into your panties to feel how soaked you are, whispering smugly into your ear:

"god, you missed me, didn’t you?"

or there’s those messy, clothes half-on bathroom quickies during loud parties thrown by his brothers where he pulls your panties to the side and dares you to make a sound. he thrives on the way his name sounds in your throat, muffled against his shoulder as he fucks you right on the sink.

your texts consist of one-sided conversations of you asking how his day was or how his match went. his replies only ever come when it’s dark, and they’re never innocent, just ‘U up?’ texts or the word ‘Outside’ at 1am that always has you scrambling to change into a pair of skimpier pyjamas before you let him in.

if there’s one thing he loves, it’s seeing you in his clothes. your favourite is the stanford hoodie from his freshman year. nothing gets him harder than seeing you wear it with nothing underneath—he calls you ‘his lucky charm’ before pulling it off and dragging you under him.

but then there’s the off moments where he gets caught shoving his tongue down some girl’s throat.

you hadn’t planned on seeing him tonight. in fact, you’d planned on not seeing him for the rest of the semester.

said plan lasts approximately 43 hours when there’s a knock on your door at 11:43pm. you don’t even have to check the peephole to know who it is. it’s that signature loud, lazy rap of his fist as if he doesn’t give a shit about anyone else sleeping along the corridor. you open it just enough to look at him.

"what do you want, patrick?"

he drags a hand through his hair. "to talk."

you scoff. "you don’t talk. you disappear. and then hook up with girls at theta parties and forget i exist."

his jaw tightens, but he decides now isn’t the best time to argue. instead, he just sighs and mutters, "baby, just… just let me in?"

and god, you’ve always been a sucker for that look of penance on his face—lips pouting, brows furrowed in remorse. after a moment of hesitation, you oblige, because you’re weak. or because it’s friday night and you’re sick of pretending that your phone lighting up with his name (for once) doesn’t do something to you.

"you look good," he tries, eyeing your bare legs and your bed-mussed hair.

you cross your arms in a poor imitation of an angry stance. he can tell you’re caving already. "don’t."

"i fucked up," he says. it’s too casual for what he’s done, like it’s a fact. like grass is green, like frat boys lie. "i should’ve told you about chloe. it was nothing. she kissed me—i didn’t kiss her back."

"i saw the picture, patrick." you glare.

he moves towards you slowly. "i swear to god, i thought we weren’t even—" what? together at the time? no, he’d promised he was in it for real this time less than two weeks ago. he stops. changes tactic.

"you hate me right now."

you nod. you don’t trust yourself to speak.

"but," he says, and now he’s standing too close, a hand skimming up your forearm. "you still want me."

you shouldn’t. you do.

he leans in, lips brushing the edge of your jaw in a barely there kiss that’s more of a breath than anything else. "let me make it up to you."

"you think sex is an apology?"

he smiles triumphantly to himself when he hears your breath hitch in your throat. "no. i think it’s a step one."

his hands slide under your hoodie, fingers cold against your skin, like he’d spent too much time outside psyching himself up to come ‘apologise.’ you bite your lip to stifle a sigh, muscles tensing beneath the touch.

"you’re an asshole."

"yeah. but i make you cum like no one else."

unfortunately, his arrogance isn’t unfounded. he does.

moments later, you’re pressed against your desk, hoodie lifted up and his mouth trailing down your neck. he kisses like he means it this time—like he missed you, like his regret is something he can fix with tongue and teeth and whispered promises. it’s worked for him before, after all.

your hands are in his hair, tugging, angry and desperate. he drops to his knees without a word, palms gripping your thighs, squeezing at the soft flesh to coax them apart so he can ease your panties down.

"still mad?" he smirks up at you.

you gasp as his mouth finds your cunt. "shut up."

and you both do for the next twenty minutes, until the only thing you’re saying is his name, wrecked and whining.

it’s just too fuckin’ easy.

—

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[mafiadad5]

Teach me to not love || L. HC (part 2)

𐙚 fuckboy!haechan x fem!reader (ft. best friend jaemin)

𐙚 Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 + bonus epilogue (coming July 2nd)

𐙚 synopsis- Jaemin's out for revenge after Haechan slept with the girl he liked. You're just supposed to be a distraction, something pretty to keep Haechan's mind off of what Jaemin was doing. He's cute, addictive— you should stay away... you really should, but when he touches you like that how are you supposed to remember what's right?

𐙚 genre- college au, smut/ porn with plot (MDNI 18+), angst, slight fluff.

𐙚 warnings- drug use, alcohol use, pool sex, fingering, handjob, car sex, protected and unprotected sex (don’t do), oral (male receiving), degrading, praising, markings, rough sex, hair pulling, choking, sex under the influence, mentions of death.

𐙚 W/c- 17k

Now playing: Do I Wanna Know?- Arctic Monkeys

a/n- thank you all so much for the love on the last part, i appreciate it <3. Here’s part 2, I hope you enjoy it ! Let me know what you think, and if you want to be tagged in the final part! Luv y’all.

tags- @dnylwoo @haeclips @millis-diary @bbhbungee @sooohey @captainchrisstan @chocojiji @imnotrosiee @meatballsub420

══════════════════════════

Tuesday — 12:03 PM

The apartment was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you hyper aware of every small sound. You sat cross legged on the couch in one of Jaemin's old hoodies, something he'd left months ago and you never returned, not even after Sunday's fallout. It still smelled faintly like his cologne, and you hated that it made your chest ache.

Two days— no texts, no calls, nothing from him, not a single word. And you weren't about to reach out first. Not when he'd called you a slut to your face.

Still, that didn't mean it didn't hurt— it stung deeply. A thousand small wounds under your skin that kept reopening every time you thought about the way he looked at you before slamming your door. Like he didn't recognize you.

You picked at your cuticles and tried not to think about it anymore, tried to redirect your focus, but then your mind went somewhere else you didn't expect.

Haechan.

His name echoed in your head in a way that was more frustrating than comforting. You didn't know why it lingered— why he lingered. You weren't supposed to care about him, you were supposed to have a one night thing and be done with it. That's what people did, right? Hook up and move on? 

But you couldn't forget how warm his hands felt, how easy it was to laugh with him, how his voice went all soft and low when he said your name. And yeah, maybe you liked the way he kissed you too much, the way he touched you like he actually wanted you, not just your body. And that sucked because clearly he didn't care.

You chewed your lip, staring at your phone sitting face up on the armrest beside you. He hadn't texted, hadn't followed up, nothing. You weren't dumb, you knew what that meant.

You exhaled slowly and then against your better judgment you tapped his name and hit "call."

It rang... and rang... and rang.

No answer.

You let the silence settle after the last ring before locking your phone and tossing it face down onto the couch beside you. That was it then, whatever little thread you thought existed between you and Haechan had snapped the second he walked out without a second thought. He gotten what he wanted, you were just another girl in the pile.

You leaned back and stared at the ceiling, blinking against the heat behind your eyes.

"Stupid." You mumbled to yourself. "So fucking stupid."

8:04 PM

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, screen lighting up once, twice, before your heart jolted.

Incoming Call: Haechan

You sat up slowly, phone already in your hand, staring at it like it might vanish. Then you pressed accept before your nerves could get the better of you.

"Hello?"

"Hey." He said, casual as ever. "You alive?"

You frowned, heart pounding. "You're calling me now?"

"What do you mean now? What, was I supposed to set an alarm?" He teased, voice light, and infuriatingly charming.

"You missed my call earlier."

"Did I?" He said, not even trying to sound apologetic. "My bad."

You scoffed a little, but before you could call him out, he continued.

"You wearing anything decent?"

Your mouth parted, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Decent." He repeated. "Like, sexy. I wanna go downtown tonight."

You blinked. "That's the definition of decent?"

"For me, yeah." He said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "C'mon, you in?"

There was a pause, then quietly: "Yeah."

He didn't miss a second. "Cool. I'll come at ten."

The knock at your door made your heart jump. You checked yourself one last time in the mirror, smoothing your skirt down over your thighs and adjusting the neckline of your top. You looked good, better than you had all week.

You opened the door, and Haechan was standing there, looking way too good for someone who called last minute. Black pants, dark shirt with the top buttons undone, a silver chain around his neck. He gave you a quick once over, eyebrows lifting with clear approval.

"There she is." He said, pulling a cart from his pocket, setting down a brown paper bag with two canned drinks inside. "Pregame?"

You hesitated for only a second before nodding. The drinks were stronger than they looked, and so was the cart. By the time you were calling a car, the tension in your shoulders had dissolved into laughter and warm energy.

The city was alive— neon lights, music spilling out of bars, and people moving in along the sidewalks. You and Haechan moved together, going into bar after bar, sampling drinks, snacks, cheap cocktails for no reason at all.

At one bar, you tried to pay for your fries and drinks, but he didn't let you.

 "You know I can pay for my own stuff, right?"

He barely looked at you, handing over his card. "Congratulations, i'm happy for you."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help laughing. Everywhere you went, it felt like your own little bubble, Haechan's hand on your lower back, his voice in your ear, the two of you stumbling out of one bar, arm in arm, drunk and giggling.

You ended up in the shadowy corner booth of the last bar, pressed against each other, tasting the cocktails on each other's mouths. His hand was on your thigh, your fingers curled in his shirt, you didn't care who saw.

"Let's go." He murmured against your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind you, but neither of you noticed. You stumbled together through the hallway, laughing into each other's mouths, kissing with the kind of urgency that made you dizzy. Hands fumbled with buttons, tugged at belts, pulling fabric free until your shirts and pants hit the floor in a trail behind you.

He pressed you back onto the bed, his mouth warm on your neck, then your collarbones, then lower. You could feel his smile against your skin, each drag of his tongue making your breath catch.

"You've been driving me crazy all night." He murmured between licks, his voice low. "The way you looked at me across the table like you already knew I'd end up here."

You laughed, fingers curling in his hair. "Maybe I did."

His hands gripped your hips, his mouth exploring the line of your stomach. "You kept crossing your legs like that," He went on, lips brushing just above your waistband, "like you didn't want me to notice, but I noticed."

You gasped softly as he nipped at your skin, his fingers slipping beneath your underwear. "Do you have a condom?" You asked.

He paused for just a second. "I don't." He murmured, mouth still grazing your skin. "Doesn't matter though. I want you so bad, I don't care."

You froze slightly, hand on his shoulder."It does for me." You said softly. "If there's no condom, there's no sex."

He pulled back a little, brows raised. Then he nodded once and sat up, not annoyed, just neutral. "Okay."

You watched as he grabbed his shirt from the floor, sliding it over his head.

"You're leaving?" You asked quietly, still half naked.

He didn't look at you as he reached for his phone. "Yeah, gonna get going."

"You sure you don't wanna stay?" You tried again, a hint of something soft in your voice.

"I'm good." He said simply.

Your stomach twisted a little as he made his way to the door. You thought it was over again— done and dusted, just another night, but then he paused at the doorway, turning back to glance at you.

"You coming to the party Thursday?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "Am I invited?"

He smiled, that same crooked grin. "Always." Then he turned around, tugged the door open, and called over his shoulder: "See you Thursday, Y/n."

The door clicked shut behind him.

══════════════════════════

The music's already echoing down the block when you pull up, muffled bass thudding through the humid night air. You hesitate for a second on the sidewalk, adjusting your shirt. No one's waiting for you, no one knew you were coming except him, and you hate that it feels like you're chasing someone again.

Still, you push forward.

You step inside and it hits you instantly— everyone is half naked.

Swim trunks, bikinis, sun hats and cheap sunglasses. You blinked, trying to process what you'd just walked into. 

And then you saw him. Standing near the kitchen with a beer in one hand and his head tilted back in a laugh, his tan skin glowing beneath the party lights. His swim trunks clung low to his hips.

Of course he spotted you... of course he grinned.

He was walking toward you in seconds, weaving through the crowd. You didn't even try to pretend you weren't watching him. You were and so was every other girl in the room.

He stopped in front of you, raking his eyes over your outfit with a smirk.

"Damn." He said. "Didn't get the memo?"

You crossed your arms. "Maybe because the person who invited me didn't mention it was a beach themed party."

He raised an eyebrow. "You blocked me."

You blinked. "What? No I didn't, text me right now."

He pulled his phone out casually, his thumb tapping a message, and seconds later your phone buzzed.

Haechan [11:37 PM]: 

"I lied. Let's drink."

You looked up at him, trying not to smile. "You're actually insufferable."

He handed you a red cup anyway. "And yet, you're still here."

You took the drink. "Barely."

He held up a gummy between two fingers. "Edibles?"

You hesitated, then shrugged and opened your palm. "Might as well."

You popped it in your mouth and washed it down with the drink, already feeling yourself loosen. The lights felt a little warmer, the music easier to sink into.

And then without warning he grabbed your hand and pulled. "Come on." He said.

You didn't ask where, you just followed. He led you through the kitchen, past half naked bodies, through the back door and into the yard. The pool shimmered in the dark, glowing from the lights beneath the water. No one else was out here, just you and him.

Then he let go of your hand, took a running start, and leapt into the pool.

The splash was loud, water flying everywhere, and when he surfaced he was grinning like a kid— hair slicked back, skin wet and glistening under the moonlight.

"Get in." He said, laughing.

You stared at him. "I'm literally in clothes."

He shrugged. "So? You've got a place to crash and you can wear my clothes."

You tilted your head, amused. "Do I really?"

His hand shot out of the water, splashing you right in the stomach.

"Oops." He said, with a smile. "And now you're wet."

You blinked at the spot on your shirt, then looked back at him, biting back a smile. "You're an idiot."

"Still waiting."

With a quiet breath, you kicked off your shoes and stripped slowly, just to annoy him, down to your bra and underwear. You walked to the edge of the pool and dove in.

The water was cool and soft against your skin. You came up with a laugh, flipping your hair back, and he was already swimming toward you.

For a while, it was just fun. You laughed, splashed, floated near each other in that slow haze where nothing really mattered.

Eventually, you drifted to the side of the pool and leaned back against the tile, catching your breath.

Then you saw him coming, that look on his face— those eyes.

He glided through the water until he was right in front of you, hands sliding underwater to your waist. You let him pull you closer, your arms slipping up around his neck without even thinking.

He looked at your mouth. His voice came low, barely audible over the hum of the distant music. "Your lips look soft right now." 

You laughed. "There's people inside, we might get caught."

He leaned in, mouth ghosting over your jaw. "They know to leave me alone."

That's when his eyes flicked past your shoulder toward the patio door. He paused before smirking.

You turned, confused and then saw him.

Jaemin.

He stood behind the sliding glass door, face unreadable, just staring. You can't tell what he's thinking— his arms crossed, his jaw tense, but his eyes were locked on you like he was burning holes through the glass.

Haechan smirked, head tilting slightly. "An audience already? You were right."

You freeze, caught between the temperature of the water and the sudden chill in your spine, but Haechan's fingers curled under your chin, gently turning your face back to him.

"Focus." He said softly.

Before you could blink he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours softly, but quickly it deepened. His hands slid down your body, his lips leaving yours only to trail lower, pressing open mouthed kisses along your jaw, then your neck. He lingered there, teeth grazing your skin as his breath tickled the sensitive spot beneath your ear. At the same time, his hand slid into your underwear with ease, fingers slipping through the heat and wetness he found there. 

He teased you, slow circles that made your hips subtly roll toward him, aching for more. Then he paused, lifting his face from your neck, eyes locking onto yours. Still watching you, he pushed a finger inside. You let out a soft moan, your head falling back slightly as he began to move slowly, steady pumps that had you clinging to his shoulders.

He added a second finger, this time a louder gasp escaped your lips. His pace quickened, fingers curling just right, stroking that sensitive spot that made your vision blur. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body tightening around him as his touch brought you closer and closer to the edge.

You don't know what took over you, but your hand slides from the back of his neck, trailing down his torso, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly at first, trying to match the rhythm of his fingers still moving inside you. His jaw tightened, a low groan leaving his throat as you touch him, your bodies locked.

His breathing grows heavier against your neck, the muscles in his arm flexing as his fingers continue their rhythm inside you faster. Your hips grind into his hand instinctively, desperate for more. Every stroke sends heat spiraling through your core, your grip on him tightening.

"Fuck." He muttered against your skin, voice low. His lips brushed your collarbone, then your shoulder before he sunk his teeth gently into your skin. His free hand curled around your waist, pulling you tighter against him as his cock twitched in your palm. You can feel how close he is, how much restraint he's barely clinging to.

"Shit, keep going, just like that." He said, voice thick with lust. 

You stroke him a little faster, your thumb brushing over the tip. His fingers grew more urgent inside you, thrusts rougher, curling with every motion until you're clenching around him, moans escaping your lips.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me cum." He muttered, voice rough now, his forehead resting against yours. "So fucking tight around my fingers."

The filthy sweetness of his words, the intensity in his eyes, the pressure building inside you pushed you even closer.

You could barely breathe now, every nerve in your body burning. The tension in your stomach tightened with each thrust of his fingers, each rough stroke of your hand around him.

"Fuck, baby." He panted against your lips, voice wrecked. "You gonna cum for me?"

You nod, unable to form words, only gasps and whimpers as his fingers drive into you fast. He curls them just right again, and your body falls apart, pleasure crashing over you like a wave. Your hips jerk as you tighten around him, your walls pulsing.

Your hand doesn't stop moving on him, if anything, you grip him tighter through the aftershocks of your orgasm, stroking him faster.

"Shit, just like that. Fuck, your hand feels so good— gonna cum baby."

You meet his eyes, dazed but focused, lips parted as you keep stroking. "Then do it." you whisper. 

With a low, broken whimper, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, his whole body tensing. "Fuck—" His hips jerk as he spills into your hand, his cock twitching in your grip. You keep stroking him through it slowly as he breathes heavy against you.

For a moment, there's only the sound of your breathing, trying to return to normal. He finally lifts his head, eyes still dark, but softer now, a smile forming on his lips.

He leaned his forehead against yours with a breathless laugh, eyes half lidded.

"C'mon." He murmured. "You're not sleeping in wet underwear."

He grabbed your hand, tugging you out of the pool, water dripping from both of you onto the patio. He doesn't bother drying off before leading you through the back door and up the stairs.

His room is quiet, darker than the rest of the house. The walls were still humming with bass, but it's distant.

He lets go of your hand once you were inside and headed straight to his dresser, pulling out an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts.

"Shower's down the hall, second door on the right. There should be towels and wash cloths in there, but if not, yell."

You nodded slowly, taking the clothes from his hand.

Then he paused by the door, rubbing the back of his neck. "I gotta go back down."

You nod again, this time a little quieter. "Ok."

He lingered for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but then he just gave you a faint smile and slipped out.

The shower's quick, you pulled on his clothes afterward. You found your way back to his room, flipping the light off and sliding under the covers. The sheets are cool against your bare legs, and the noise of the party downstairs feels far enough away to pretend you're not still in his house.

But you can't sleep.

You lie there for what feels like an hour, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Your thoughts spin, circling Jaemin's expression, Haechan's kiss, the way his fingers held your waist like he didn't want to let go. Everything feels like a dream, a really vivid reckless one.

The door creaks open and you sit up a little too fast. "Hey."

He steps inside quietly, running a hand through his hair as he closes the door behind him.

"You're awake?" He asked.

You nod. "Couldn't sleep."

He kicked off his shoes before sitting at the edge of the bed, glancing at you with a little grin. "Too many thoughts?"

You laugh softly. "Something like that."

There's a moment of silence between you, not awkward, just normal. He shifts onto the bed properly, lying beside you on top of the covers, hands behind his head as he stares at the ceiling too.

You glance over at him. "So... that was a scene earlier."

He laughed under his breath. "What, the pool?"

"No, you kissing me in front of that guy like that."

"Oh." He said, before turning his head to look at you, completely unbothered. "Yeah, that."

"You planned that?"

"Nope." He said casually. "But I saw him watching, figured it was the perfect time."

You squinted. "Why?"

He shrugged. "He doesn't know how to leave well enough alone."

You don't ask more, you don't have the energy to unravel anything, not tonight.

He turned towards you slightly. "You should get some rest."

You nod, eyes heavier now. "What about you?"

"I'm gonna shower, then maybe I'll crash."

He slipped out of the room again, and this time, you let your eyes close.

You woke up to sunlight creeping in through the blinds and the feeling of warmth beside you.

You blinked slowly, vision adjusting— and there he is.

Haechan was on his side, breathing steady, hair tousled from sleep, one arm slung casually over the pillow between you, lips parted slightly.

You sat up in a panic. "Shit. Shit— what time is it?" You fumbled for your phone, eyes wide... you missed class.

Haechan groaned beside you, blinking awake. "What's wrong?"

"I missed class. I never miss class— fuck."

He propped himself up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes. "Chill." He muttered. "It's one class, you're fine."

You groaned, falling back against the pillows. "Still, I was supposed to go."

He yawned, then stretches and finally asks: "You hungry?"

You paused, then a small smile broke across your lips. "...Actually, yes."

He reached for the nightstand, grabbing his wallet, flipping it open and pulled out a folded bill.

"Here." He said, holding it out to you.

You blinked at it. "What?"

"Take it, go get food." He sighed, smirking. "There's some good spots on the way back to your place from what I remember."

You finally smiled, taking the cash, folding it slowly between your fingers.

"Thanks." You said quietly.

He moved to the dresser, grabbing your clothes from last night and hands them to you, turning his back to give you privacy as you get dressed.

"What do you have planned today?" You asked, pulling your shirt over your head.

He shrugged, still turned away. "Not much. My brother's coming to visit, so we're just chilling."

"Oh." You say, tying your shoes. "That's nice."

He turned back around once you're ready, watching you with unreadable eyes.

You nod toward the door. "I'll head out then."

He just gave a small nod. "Ok."

And you leave quietly.

══════════════════════════

It was that time again— Thursday, the day you waited for all week. The day that had somewhere along the way become routine, a strange kind of comfort.

You showed up like always, stepping through the door and immediately spotting him across the room. Haechan met you with that familiar smile, only tonight it looked a little worn, like it was more out of habit than genuine ease.

"You ok?" You asked, your hand instinctively rubbing his shoulder. Your fingers pressed lightly against him, like you could ease the tension you already sensed.

"Yeah yeah, I'm just— can I talk to you for a second?" His voice dropped low, like he didn't want to be overheard.

You nodded, brows tugging together slightly. "Yeah, of course."

He led you upstairs, the floorboards creaking beneath your steps while the music from the party thumped under your feet. Once you were in his room, he shut the door behind you with a quiet click and let out a deep sigh. He didn't speak right away, just ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head like he was trying to scatter his thoughts.

"Is everything okay?" You asked again, your voice a little softer this time.

"Just needed a fucking breather." His words were blunt, but not angry. He turned toward the door, checking that it was locked. When he looked back at you the smile was there again, this time stretched wider than before, too wide.

"If you came with me, they won't bother."

You tilted your head slightly, a playful smirk curling on your lips. "Who are you running from?"

"One of my best friend's brother." He started, pacing a little as he talked. "He's in town for a few days and of course he's gonna be at my parties, he's family, but something about him dude. He practically talked me sober, and that's hard to do— how did he even manage that? I just needed a break."

You giggled, crossing your legs on the edge of his bed. "You distressed over a party? Never thought I'd see the day."

He gave you a look, but it lacked any real irritation. "Would you kick out your best friend's sibling?"

You hesitated, shrugging unsurely.

"Exactly."

"No problem kicking out girls though." You muttered under your breath, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

His head turned toward you, eyebrows raised. "Yeah? You're right. Probably about to do it right now, actually."

"Do it then." You challenged, eyes narrowing.

He paused, his gaze hardening just slightly, a quiet tension rising between you. "Get the fuck out my room."

You blinked, caught a little off guard. "You serious?"

"What do you think?" He asked, eyes still locked on yours, tone unreadable.

Your chest tightened slightly as you stood, hesitating for a beat as you reached for the doorknob. You twisted it slowly, almost dragging out the motion like you were hoping he'd stop you. He didn't, not even a word.

You stepped into the hallway, the party noise rushing in like a wave, voices and music swirling around you.

"Y/n." You heard behind you.

You turned quickly. He was standing there again, keys in hand. "You hungry?"

You blinked, a bit surprised. "No... not really."

"I don't care." He shut the door behind him with one hand, shaking his keys in the other. "You're coming with me."

"Oh— okay." You followed him down the stairs, weaving through bodies.

"Wait at the door, I'll be right back." He said.

You nodded and did as you were told, leaning against the doorframe. Your phone buzzed and you looked down at it, just a meaningless notification, but when you looked up again, your eyes landed on Jaemin. He was walking toward the porch, and your stomach dropped slightly.

Your eyes met. There was a flicker of recognition, of something. His mouth opened slightly like he wanted to say something, but before he could, 

Haechan was there sliding in beside you and grabbing your hand. His fingers laced into yours.

"Alright, let's go." His voice was loud enough for Jaemin to hear, and you watched as Jaemin's gaze dropped to your joined hands, then back to your face. He didn't say anything, just walked past with a blank expression.

You looked down at your hand in his. "This is new."

"Relax." Haechan said, lips tugging into a smirk as he let go of your hand once you made it to the car.

You climbed into the passenger seat, adjusting your bag on your lap as he started the car. The engine roared louder than expected, and the ride was... bumpy, literally.

"You're kind of a bad driver, you know?" You teased, pulling out your lip gloss from your pocket.

"It's the road, not me." He shot back, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel.

"Sounds like something a bad driver would say." You started applying your gloss, only for the car to hit a bump, your hand jerking, smearing the gloss down your chin.

"Shit, Haechan." You turned toward him groaning as he just laughed.

"Do you have napkins in here or something?" You asked, flipping open the glove compartment. Inside, a few napkins... and a box of condoms still sealed.

You paused, taking a deep breath. "Really?" You said, holding the box up.

"Eyes on the road, sweetheart." He said, completely unfazed.

"I'm not the one driving!"

"Ok, you call me a bad driver, but then want me to take my eyes off the road? What kind of sense does that make?"

"Haechan—" You glanced between him and the road. "We're at a red light."

He bit his lip, clearly holding back a laugh as his eyes flicked over to you.

"Yeah, what now?" You said, narrowing your eyes.

"I was in the store and I thought about you, so I decided to pick them up."

You scoffed, dropping the box back into the compartment and slamming it shut. "Wow, how refreshing. You thought about me and instead of, hmm, flowers or something, you bought contraceptives. Is that why you invited me out— you just wanted to fuck?"

"I could do that at home." He said plainly, pulling into the parking lot.

You went quiet, stunned at the bluntness of it. "Whatever."

He pulled into the space and stopped the car, hands still on the wheel.

"Listen." He said, turning slightly. "I actually wanted to go out with you. If you're just gonna bitch and moan about what you think I want, then we can just get into the backseat right now and get it over with. If not, then let's eat— I am starving, impatient, and too fucking sober."

You swallowed. "Ok." You said, quieter this time.

"Ok." He repeated, flipping off the ignition.

You followed him inside, a low lit bar with creaky booths and laminated menus. You slid into a booth together, menus in hand. 

"What do you want?" He asked.

"I'm not really hungry." You said with a shrug.

He didn't blink. "What do you want?"

You sighed. "Okay, um... I'll just take whatever you're having."

"I'm getting a burger and fries, it's pretty big— are you sure?"

"I'm taking some from your plate, so I'm sure." You smiled innocently.

"Uh uh. Just get your own."

"Feels better knowing it's yours though. It'll taste better."

"Whatever." He muttered, already flagging the waitress. "Do you actually want my food? I'll get a large basket of fries."

"That would be nice." You said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips.

The order was placed, and for a while, you just sat there in the buzz of low music and clinking glasses.

"So." You broke the silence. "You like flowers?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to figure out where you were going with it.

"You, um— you had a lot in your backyard. And in your room, some plants too."

"You're observant." He said, sipping his drink.

"It doesn't take much effort to just pay attention to someone."

He nodded once, like he didn't disagree. "Yeah, I like flowers. It's been a hobby. Peaceful, nerdy, I guess."

"It's kinda cute." You said in a smile.

He chuckled. "Yeah? What's your favorite flower?"

"I don't know... you should teach me."

"About flowers?" He asked, amused. "That sounds like a setup. Who really doesn't know their favorite flower?"

"Setup to what?"

He didn't answer, just shook his head again.

"I guess I just like all flowers." You continued. "I like the ones in my favorite color, the color matters more to me."

"And what's that?"

"Red, pink too."

"So roses— why didn't you just say that?"

"That's like... the most basic answer. I had to be different."

He shook his head, a smile on his face."You are... surely something else."

"What's your favorite?" You questioned.

"Sunflower." He answered simply.

"Why? Those die fast."

"They only die because people don't take care of them. From what I'm hearing, you're one of those people."

"Hey, don't get mad at me. I asked you to teach me, remember? You said I was setting you up, don't throw a tantrum." 

His head tilted, eyes squinting. "Yeah, how'd you know they die fast if you don't know about flowers?" 

"I just guessed." You shrugged defensively.

Your food arrived shortly after. He pushed the fries toward you. "Help yourself."

You frowned. "Where's the sauce?"

He blinked. "What sauce?"

"You don't eat sauce with fries?" You questioned.

"No, they're good alone." He said, lips in a thin line. 

You raised your eyebrows. "They're basically raw fried potatoes." 

"They're fried, that's flavor enough." He said in a shrug.

"You're out of your mind."

"You're out of your mind." He repeated.

You waved down the waitress for sauce, shaking your head in disbelief.

The meal continued and between bites and sarcasm, you found yourself studying him— how his expressions changed, how casually he sat.

"I still can't believe you eat fries raw."

"Everything's better raw." He said, licking salt off his thumb.

You blinked. "Yeah, of course you say that you freak."

He grinned. "I didn't even— I'm just being honest."

Your head tilted with curiosity. "Why are you so into that anyway?" 

"I just am. I don't know. I like the feel, the look— it's hot.” He hesitated for a moment. "What about you— what are you into?"

"I don't know." You said honestly. "I've only had sex with you."

"You don't have any fantasies in that pretty head? I didn't put any in there?"

"Nope. You probably took some off my list, honestly."

"Me? I took some off your list?" He leaned in slightly.

"You're not as good as you think, you know." You said.

"I'm not?" He challenged. 

"Nope." 

"No?" He turned towards the waitress. "Excuse me, can I get the check please?"

"Uh uh." You said, shaking your head.

"Okay." He smirked, tossing his card on the table.

"Okay." You taunted, mirroring his smug tone.

He slid his card back into his wallet, then turned to you. "Let's go."

You stepped out into the warm night air, the echo of your footsteps quiet against the pavement. He followed behind you closely, but not rushing. You stopped at the passenger side of the car, fingers brushing the handle, waiting for that familiar 'click', but it didn't come.

Instead, he brushed past you with that maddening calmness, heading for the backseat. He threw you a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"You started it." He said lowly, before pulling the back door open and slipping inside.

You laughed under your breath, glancing around the nearly empty parking lot, then at the car's tinted windows. With one last glance over your shoulder, you opened the door and climbed in after him, shutting it behind you.

He was already waiting, leaned back against the seat, legs spread just enough to make a point, eyes heavy on you as you crawled into his lap. His hands went to your hips instinctively, but he didn't pull you in yet.

He leaned closer, lips parting, but you pulled back just slightly, a teasing smirk on your face.

"Oh, you're teasing?" He asked, a laugh caught in his throat, eyes flickering to your lips and back.

"Maybe." You answered in a light giggle, fingers sliding up his chest, soft and slow, settling at the side of his neck. You rubbed your thumb along his jaw, letting your lips hover over his without quite touching.

He let out a low, amused breath. "I promise." He said, voice dipping. "I will get the last laugh."

His hands slid down your back, gripping your ass as you finally leaned in, closing the distance between your mouths. The kiss was messy, tongues tangling together. You broke away first, breathless, trailing your mouth down his neck. It started soft, but quickly grew rougher. You sucked harder, kissed deeper, and when you found that spot— the one that made his whole body flinch, you didn't let up.

His breathing grew heavier, his voice catching in his throat as a gasp slipped out. You kept going, grinding slowly in his lap while your mouth worked that sensitive patch of skin, drawing out more moans from deep in his chest. His hips bucked beneath you, hands gripping your waist harder.

"G— get a condom." He gasped out, voice filled with need.

You lifted your head, lips swollen, red marks already blooming along his neck. You nodded wordlessly, turning to reach for the glove compartment. You opened the box, grabbing one before turning back around, but before you could get settled, he moved fast.

In one quick motion, he spun you around, pushing you forward. You let out a startled breath, your confusion turning into a sharp gasp as he tugged down your jeans and underwear in one firm motion, then landed a stinging slap to your ass.

"Wha—?" You started, but he was already pulling you back adjusting your hips, lining himself up behind you. You felt his cock, pressing at your entrance.

"Don't move." He murmured, tearing open the condom behind you. Then his hands gripped your hips tightly as he slid in slowly, filling you inch by inch. A moan escaped your lips at the stretch, the pressure, the feeling of him completely inside you. He groaned right behind you, forehead pressing into your shoulder for a moment.

Your hands found his thighs, trying to stabilize yourself, breath shaky. Then you felt his hand slide up your torso, settling at the base of your neck. Slowly, he wrapped it around your throat.

"Move." He whispered in your ear. "Ride me, show me how bad you want it."

You began to move slowly at first, rolling your hips against him. The stretch still had your legs shaking slightly, but the ache felt good, addictive. His grip on your throat tightened just a little, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control. 

You pushed yourself up a little, grinding down on him, adjusting your angle. The reaction was instant, his free hand digging into your hip guiding your rhythm, not letting you escape the pace he wanted.

"Fuck." He muttered, eyes locked on where your bodies met. "Look at you— taking all of me like that, feels so fucking good."

You moved faster now, riding him with more purpose, each bounce pulling moans from both of you. His grip on your throat slipped up, fingers tangling into your hair, tugging your head back just enough to expose your neck to him again.

"Think you can tease me, huh?" He growled, lips brushing your ear. "Look at you now—moaning like a slut in the backseat. You love this shit, don't you?"

"Yes." You gasped barely able to speak, each thrust now hitting that perfect spot inside you. Your fingers dug into his thighs, desperate to stay grounded, your body already close to unraveling.

He pulled you flush against his chest, one hand gripping your jaw now as he pounded up into you. "Say it again."

"Yes— fuck, yes I love it." You choked out, your voice cracking on the edge of your orgasm.

Your body tensed, heat exploding in your stomach. Your thighs quivered around him as pleasure overtook you.

"Oh my god." You gasped, voice cracking. 

You clenched around him, your body shaking violently as the orgasm rolled through you in powerful waves. You could barely breathe, your nails digging into his thighs, holding on for dear life as you rode out every last pulse.

He groaned loudly, his control completely slipping at the feel of you squeezing him so tightly.

"Shit, I'm gonna—" His hips snapped up, body tensing as he came hard inside the condom, curses spilling against your shoulder. You felt the pulsing throb of him inside you, your bodies jerking together in a final desperate grind.

The sound of your gasping breaths filled the space, sweat slicking your bodies, your thighs trembling as you stayed draped over him.

You both took a moment to collect yourselves before slipping back into the front seat, clothes adjusted, hair smoothed. Your breath hadn't fully settled yet, and your thighs still ached faintly.

He leaned back in the driver's seat, exhaling slowly as he ran a hand through his hair then he glanced over at you.

"Did you drive to my house?" He asked, his voice low and casual.

You shook your head. "No, called a car."

He nodded once, turning the key in the ignition.

"Why?" You asked.

"So I can take you home." He replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh." You hesitated. "I'm not going back to your place?"

He turned his head toward you, brows raising slightly. "Do you want to?"

Your lips parted, caught off guard by the way he asked. God you did, not even just for the sex or the comfort of his bed, you just wanted more time with him. Wanted to be near him even in the quiet moments when nothing was happening.

"Um... it's up to you." You said softly, eyes dropping to your lap.

"Uhh..." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the windshield like he needed help finding the right words. "Just go home. You'll probably just be alone if we go back to my place, so... kinda pointless."

"Oh." You nodded, swallowing down the small lump forming in your throat. "Okay."

You tried to smile, tried to keep your expression neutral, but the edges of it faltered before you could stop them, and you looked out the window to hide it.

He turned back to look at you, studying your face for a long second. Then his hand reached out, warm as it cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed lightly along your skin before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, like he was trying to make up for what he couldn't say.

"Let's get you home baby." He murmured against your lips.

"Okay." You offered a small smile, this time a little more real.

The rest of the ride passed mostly in silence, the kind that wasn't quite comfortable, but not heavy either. You leaned against the window, watching the city blur by in streaks color and lights.

Finally, he pulled up in front of your apartment building, shifting the car into park. "Here we are." He said, glancing over at you.

"Thanks." You said quietly, fingers already curling around the door handle.

You opened the door, the night air rushing in to meet you, cooler than you remembered. You stepped out, shutting it gently behind you. He waited a minute longer before driving off, and you stood there for a second longer than you needed to, watching the taillights disappear down the street.

You didn't really want to go inside, but you did anyway.

══════════════════════════

Life's been... okay.

Not terrible, not amazing either. Just somewhere in that weird middle space that never really feels like enough.

You haven't spoken to Jaemin at all— not since that night, and he hasn't spoken to you either. At first, it felt like a breath of fresh air, not having someone hovering, asking for things, pushing for more, but lately the silence has crept in. You missed him, missed the way he always showed up, even when you didn't ask. How he brought you your favorite food every time you were sick, how he took your side even when you didn't deserve it. He was constant in a way that no one else had been.

You guess that's over now, at least until he decides to grow up and apologize.

You were lying on your bed, eyes on the ceiling, mind wandering as it usually did. The morning sun streamed through your blinds, warm on your skin. Your phone buzzed beside you, you just turned your head lazily.

Haechan... of course.

This was the part of your life that made it "okay." Not boring, at least. It was always the same cycle with him: He'd ignore your calls during the day, always calling back at night asking to hang out, or to just hear your voice because "he missed it." You rarely saw him during the week except Thursdays, when you showed up to whatever party he was hosting.

But you liked him, you liked him more than you wanted to. You didn't know why you were so pulled in, why this routine made your life feel fuller. Maybe it was the way he always felt like a distraction you wanted to get lost in.

You answered the call, putting it on speaker as your phone rested on your stomach.

"Hello." You said.

"Hey, precious. How are you?" His voice had that familiar smoothness, like he was stretched out somewhere with the sun on his skin.

"I'm good. How are you, Haechan?" You replied, voice soft.

"I'm okay."

"You didn't answer my call yesterday." You said.

"Yeah, I was busy. I'm free now though, and I really wanna go watch the sunset at the beach tonight... and get high."

"Then go do that, baby." You said dryly.

"I wanna do it with you. I rented out a beach house for the night."

"I wasn't invited, so have fun." You joked.

"You were invited."

"I didn't hear a 'Y/n, I would love for you to come to the beach with me, please.' Now did I?"

He laughed. "Wow, you want to hear it that bad, huh?"

"Yep."

"Alright, well I guess I'll see you when I get back then."

"Woww." You said dramatically. "I can really tell how much I mean to you. Whatever, what's today?" You swiped your screen. "Friday, 10:34 AM. I have class in like two hours anyway."

"You can miss it."

"I can't keep missing class, Haechan." You said, sighing.

"You're smart, grades are still good from what you told me. So why does it matter?"

"You always do this. I can't keep skipping out just because of you."

"Oh, so now it's my fault?" He said, voice playful.

"Yeah, it is." 

"Well then, I take full accountability. And I'm about to take full accountability for doing it again. Please, I want you there with me."

You sighed, staring at your ceiling for a moment. "Okay, fine."

"Yeah?" He asked, you could hear the smile in his voice.

"Only because I want to watch the sunset on the beach."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there in thirty. Wear something comfy, we've got a bit of a drive."

You hung up smiling, already rolling off your bed to pack your overnight bag.

The drive was long, but the windows were down, and the music was loud. His hand found your thigh more than once, lazily rubbing circles there when he wasn't steering or rolling the blunt he promised to light later.

By the time you got to the beach house, the sun was out, bright in the blue sky. The place was beautiful, right on the water with a private stretch of sand.

You put on a swimsuit and he changed into his own. Swim trunks hung low on his hips, a silver chain glinting against his sun-warmed chest. It was impossible not to stare.

Soon, you were both down at the beach, waves kissing your ankles as you ran through the shallow water. He chased you, dramatic and loud, lifting you off your feet and tossing you into the water as you screamed. You splashed him back, water dripping down your face as you laughed like a child.

You played for what felt like hours— kicking through the water, jumping into the waves, lying side by side on the wet sand. 

As the sun dipped lower, melting into the ocean in shades of purple and orange, he was deeper in the water, you just at the shore sitting on the sand as waves hit your legs.

"Come here." He called.

You nodded, floating towards him.  "Yeah?" You questioned. 

He pulled you close, wrapping your legs around his waist and gripping the back of your thighs. "Just wanted you near me." He said, smiling.

You smiled, wrapping your hands around his neck. "The sun is setting."

"I know."

"You wanted to smoke." You said, your hand reaching to cup his cheek. 

"I know." He said again, chuckling before pulling you into a kiss. 

He pulled you out of the water and led you to the towel he'd laid out earlier. You sat down, and he lit the blunt with one hand, passing it to you.

"I like it here." You murmured.

"Me too." He replied, his voice softer now. "It's nice when it's just us."

You didn't say anything, just stared out at the horizon letting yourself think. This felt real. Like maybe, just maybe, whatever you two were building was starting to mean something. You didn't say it of course, but the thought lingered in your mind as the sun finally setting.

"You know." You said through the silence, as you both sat at the towel. The cool ocean breeze chilling your skin, waves sounding in the background as the moon reflected off the water. "I'm terrified of the ocean at night."

"Why is that?" He questioned. 

"It's just, it's like a void. You can't see anything, what's beneath." You replied. 

"You're scared of the dark?" He asked.

"I never said that." You giggled, hitting his arm playfully. "I'm just, things that seem, terrifyingly repetitive. Something so big that you don't know what's ahead of you." 

He nodded.

"What about you— what are you scared of?" You questioned.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Nothing."

"That can't be true. Everyone's afraid of something."

Everything was quiet for a long moment. He looked up at the moon, eyes reflecting.

"Commitment." He said finally, his voice low. 

You paused for a second before turning to him. "Why?" 

"Just to put your heart into something, your love, your soul, just to be disappointed and let down. It's terrifying don't you think?" He said, the contact never breaking from the moon.

"It is." You agreed. "But if you spend all your time thinking about how it might go wrong... you'll ruin it before it even begins. That's not protecting yourself, that's self sabotage."

He paused for a second, eyes flicking down. "I don't think I can do it."

"Then what are you doing now?" You asked.

He paused, before he turned to you. He just stared into your eyes, saying nothing— but his eyes spoke a million words. You weren't sure what those words meant, but it was something. Then he looked away again, back toward the sea. You turned back too, looking at the stars as quietness settled again. You leaned your head on his shoulder, your fingers sliding into his as your hands met.

The drive back was full of laughter, music, the two of you playfully arguing about which snacks were superior and what song should play next. It felt good... normal. For a second you let yourself imagine doing this more often. Just... being with him.

But eventually, the ride ended. He pulled up to your apartment, putting the car in park. 

You turned to him. "I had a really good time." You said honestly. "Thank you."

He gave a slight nod, lips pressing together. "Yeah."

There was a long pause, the engine still humming. "Just... call me or something." He added.

You hesitated. "You never answer when I do."

He paused, then licked his lips. "Just... take your chances."

You gave a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Okay."

And then you got out, closing the door behind you.

══════════════════════════

Your days had blurred together, a messy tangle of deadlines and group meetings. It was the busiest you'd ever been, and you hadn't even realized it was Thursday until your phone rang, yanking you out of a half dazed focus as your fingers hovered over your keyboard.

Haechan's name lit up the screen.

Your heart jumped before your brain could catch up. You had taken your chances just like he told you to. Called him on Friday...nothing. Sunday... ignored. Tuesday...same. After that you gave up, told yourself he didn't owe you anything. Still, he hovered in your mind constantly, a weight on your chest even when you were trying to write about something completely unrelated.

You swallowed, pressing the phone to your ear. "Hello?"

"Hey." His voice casual and unbothered. "Where are you?"

"Home." You said a little too flatly.

"Why are you not here?"

You blinked. "Why would I be?"

"To see me." He replied, like that should've been obvious.

"You haven't even been answering my calls." You said, trying not to sound hurt, failing. 

"I was busy, what do you want me to do? Didn't know it fucking mattered that much."

You flinched slightly at the way his tone sharpened. "You told me to call and then you just left me hanging." You said quieter.

There was a moment of silence. "Can you just come?"

"No, I'm busy." You replied, firmer this time. "I'm working on a book report right now."

"That can wait."

"No, it can't. If you want to see me that bad, you come here."

"Can't. My friends are already on my ass about ditching my own parties."

You sighed, the irritation in your chest threatening to spill over. "Well, I don't know what you want me to do."

"Come." He repeated, more insistent this time.

"I really need to get this project finished, it's worth fifty percent of my grade, and I'm already slipping in the class."

"When's the due date?"

"In like... a month, but still—"

"Oh my god, Y/n." He let out a laugh, half amused, half exasperated. "You literally have time, just come over."

You bit your lip, hating how easily you crumbled. "Okay... but I'm not getting dressed."

"Fine with me." He said, like he was smiling. "See you in a minute."

You hung up the phone and just stared at the screen. You didn't know why your mind worked this way, why you kept doing this to yourself— shifting your priorities, pushing aside your own needs, just because he called. But you were already grabbing your bag.

The music was loud through the door when you arrived, per usual. Eyes scanning the crowd instinctively until they landed on him standing near the kitchen, drink in hand.

"You made it." He said, lighting up when he saw you.

"Yep." You smiled, letting him pull you into a brief hug.

"Fuck, can you take a shot with me?" He asked, eyes a little glassy. Definitely not his first drink.

"Yeah, sure."

You downed it in one gulp, the burn settling into your chest. The two of you talked like usual, until three guys came over, breaking the moment.

"Yo, what's up." Haechan greeted, dapping them up. "This is Y/n, yeah— you guys know."

You gave them a polite wave and a smile and they did the same, none of them offering names though.

"Dude, have you seen Jaemin?" One of them asked.

Your stomach dropped at the name.

"Nah, he just always fucking disappears." Another chimed in.

"He's here?" Haechan asked, sounding surprised.

"I'm not even sure anymore." The first guy muttered, looking around. "I'm just gonna go look for him and smoke."

"Without me? Shit, I'll come too." Another said, and the two of them disappeared, leaving one guy behind.

Haechan turned away to fix himself another drink.

"So, Y/n, right?" The guy said, leaning in a little closer.

"Yep." You nodded, keeping your voice polite.

"You're seriously really pretty." He said, smiling.

Before you could respond, Haechan turned around, giving him a warning face.

"Thank you." You said softly, trying to defuse it.

"You should spend your time with me tonight instead." The guy laughed.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Haechan snapped, fully turning now.

"It was just a joke Haechan, chill." The guy said, raising his hands.

"Some shit isn't funny, Mark." He muttered, before turning back around.

You touched his shoulder gently. "Baby, relax..."

He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression unreadable. "Baby? Yeah, right." The words came out low and sharp.

Ouch.

He downed the rest of his drink and walked away without another word, disappearing into the crowd.

You stood there, caught in the awkward silence with Mark, your skin burning.

"I should probably..." You mumbled, gesturing toward the dance floor.

He nodded, and you slipped away. You looked everywhere— through the crowd, up the stairs, even outside in the backyard, nothing. 

Finally, your feet brought you back inside, through the hallway, the same one where everything first started with him, and there he was leaning against the wall, head tilted back like he was trying to calm the storm in his head.

"Um... hello?" You said, stepping closer.

He looked over at you slowly. "Hello."

"What, you're embarrassed of me now? What the hell was that out there?"

He pushed himself off the wall, inching toward you. "No. No, I'm not." His voice was quieter now. "Listen, Y/n— baby, I'm just... he's so fucking annoying. Talking to you like that, like you're some kind of slut. You wouldn't do that, right?"

You blinked, taken aback. "Do what?"

"Fuck my friends." He said, his voice filled with distress.

You stared at him. "No, I would never do that."

"I know you wouldn't." He said quickly. "But he keeps bugging me, and I—" He trailed off, jaw clenching.

Before you could say more he reached out, pulling you into him by the waist.

"You need to calm down." You said, your voice soft, eyes searching his.

He didn't respond— at least not with words. Instead, he kissed you, hard and sudden, like kissing you was the only way to shut his thoughts up. Like it was the only thing that made any sense in his fucked up head.

The kiss grew rougher, needier— his hands tangled in your hair, your lips moving in sync. Then without warning he broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes lingered on your face, dark and intense, you could feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

"Can you do something for me?" He asked, his voice low and almost too calm, like he already knew the answer.

You swallowed, your breath shallow. "What is it?"

He didn't answer, instead he gently took your wrists and guided you down, lowering you to your knees in front of him. Your heart thudded in your chest as you looked up at him, your hands resting lightly on his thighs.

"But..." You hesitated, eyes darting nervously. "What if someone sees?"

"No one will." He said firmly, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Your eyes flicked back to his, uncertainty flickering in your expression.

"It's—" You began, your voice quiet, almost unsure. "It's also my first time... doing this."

He looked down at you for a long moment. 

"Don't you think we're a little past that?" He said. "You've already had me inside you, you want this."

You stayed quiet, your teeth catching your bottom lip as the weight of his words settled over you. There was truth in them, too much truth. You couldn't deny the heat pooling in your stomach at the way he looked at you now.

Slowly you reached up and began to unbutton his pants. He didn't move, didn't say a word, just watched you. Eyes dark, lips parted, waiting.

"You don't have to be perfect." He murmured, his voice suddenly softer. 

You looked up at him again, nervous.

He let out a slow breath, his hand resting lightly at the back of your head, thumb grazing your cheek. "Go on."

You stared at him for a moment longer, lips parted, heart pounding.You leaned in slowly, hesitating for a moment, then pressed a tentative kiss to the tip.

"That's it." He whispered. "Just go slow."

You licked your lips, tasting him, then did it again— longer this time, feeling every twitch, every subtle response in his body. His muscles tensed under your touch. You could tell he was holding back, letting you set the pace.

You opened your mouth and took him in, just the head at first. His reaction was immediate, his hips jerking ever so slightly.

"Fuck... yeah, just like that." He muttered, eyes locked on you. "You're doing so good."

You pulled back, lips wrapping around him tighter, watching his reaction as you went lower again, taking a little more. Your jaw ached slightly, but it was drowned out. You were getting lost in the rhythm, his quiet moans, the way his hand cradled your head now, guiding you but never forcing.

His voice dropped. "Look at you... so pretty."

You started to move with more confidence now, hollowing your cheeks slightly, using your hand to stroke what you couldn't take. You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, losing yourself, but he gently tugged your hair.

"Eyes on me." He said.

You looked up, mouth still wrapped around him, and the look on his face nearly made you melt, like he was barely holding himself together.

You took him deeper, relaxing your jaw, tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft. His hips jerked slightly, and this time he didn't hold back. His hand fisted in your hair and you could feel the shift in him, the restraint slipping, the patience wearing thin.

He looked down at you, eyes dark, lips parted breathing hard. "So eager now, huh? Acted all shy a minute ago, now you're drooling on my cock."

Your hand worked what your mouth couldn't reach, pace growing rougher.

"Look at you— on your knees. You love this, you love being used."

You whimpered, and he groaned low in his chest, tightening his grip in your hair. "That's it. Take it, fucking take it."

He began thrusting into your mouth with more force now. Your eyes watered, throat flexing around him as he pushed deeper, only to pull back and do it again.

"You feel so fucking good." He groaned. "You gonna let me finish in that pretty little mouth?"

You nodded the best you could, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as spit slicked your chin. He was getting close—you could feel it in the desperate sounds spilling from his lips.

"Keep going— don't stop." He muttered, thrusts erratic now.

Then his grip locked in your hair, his whole body tensed, and with a whimper, he came. You felt the heat of it hit the back of your throat, his hand holding you down just a moment longer as he rode it out, panting hard.

When he finally released you, you pulled back slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He looked completely wrecked— head thrown back, chest rising and falling fast, shirt pulled up halfway up his torso. 

"You good?" He asked, eyes heavy lidded, 

 voice hoarse as he looked down at you breathless.

"Yeah, yeah." You said, catching your breath and clearing your throat, trying to steady yourself.

"C'mon, let's go upstairs." He mumbled, pulling his pants back up.

You followed him up, still in your oversized tee and shorts. You honestly thought he'd pull you right back into something the second the door shut behind you, but instead he headed straight for his desk, settling into his chair like nothing happened, opening his laptop.

You blinked, taking in the room, on his dresser sat a vase full of vivid red roses.

"These are pretty." You said, walking over to get a closer look, fingertips brushing the soft petals.

He turned just slightly, glancing over his shoulder. "Yeah, they were for you." He said casually, shrugging as he turned back to the screen. "But I thought you were gonna ditch me tonight, so I just put them up."

Your brows raised slightly, caught off guard. "Were they really?" You asked, warmth creeping up your cheeks despite yourself.

"Yeah." He said, a soft chuckle leaving him. "I don't like roses."

Before you could say anything else, he stood from his chair and walked over, motioning to the desk. "Here you go. Sorry if downstairs is a distraction, but I mean it's something, right?"

"What do you mean?" You asked, eyes narrowing in curiosity.

"You can work on your project." He said, motioning lazily to the setup. "It's online, I assumed, so just use my stuff to get what you need done."

"Wait, actually?" You asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, no trouble at all. Do what you need to do. I'll just text you the user and password just in case and yeah, I'll be downstairs."

You watched him move to the door. "So you don't want me to just leave?"

"No." He replied. "Just work here. I might need you later."

"Oh, I see." You muttered with a small smirk.

"Well, I'll be downstairs if you need me." He said, then disappeared into the hallway.

You settled at the desk with a sigh, opening tabs, pulling up sources, your fingers flying over the keyboard as you got to work. Two hours passed before you even looked up again, then the door creaked open.

"Hey." Came a slurred voice behind you.

You turned around, catching Haechan stumbling slightly into the room. His shirt was wrinkled, hair messy, and his hand was wrapped around a red Solo cup.

"Hi." You said, standing instinctively, walking over to him, noticing how he swayed as he walked.

"I brought this for you." He said, holding out the cup proudly.

"Thanks." You replied with a cautious smile, taking it from him. You gave it a sniff and got immediately hit with the sharp burn of straight liquor. "Nothing more I love than a few shots of liquor to help me work."

He let out a loose giggle, clearly noting the sarcasm in your tone. "It stimulates the mind." He slurred.

"How much have you had, Haechan?" You asked, leading him carefully toward the bed.

"I dunno." He answered, grinning up at you with heavy eyes as he sank into the mattress.

"Ok, time to close your eyes and rest for a little." You said gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

"No, no, I'm good. I just came to check on you." He insisted, trying to sit up again. "I'm going to go drink."

He stood too fast, stumbling before falling right back into bed with a thud.

"Yeah, okay." You said with a small laugh, returning to the chair and the warm glow of the computer screen.

"Y/n." He called out suddenly from where he laid.

"Yes, Haechan." You replied, still typing.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead." You said, smiling slightly to yourself, already expecting something ridiculous.

"You don't, like— really like me? Like, actually like me, right?"

You paused, your fingers hovered over the keys.

Your chest tightened, air catching slightly in your throat. Of course you did, you liked him more than you wanted to admit, more than you could justify. And yet he made it so difficult— treating you like an afterthought one second and the only thing that mattered the next.

"Why?" You asked instead, turning slowly in your chair with a small, tired smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

He sighed. "I dunno. They're all just like... making fun of me. Like, all my friends and stuff."

You frowned, turning back to the computer. "Is that so."

"Yeah, and—" He started, then just laughed quietly. "Can we kiss?"

You turned around again, rising to your feet and walking toward him. You leaned down, placing a soft peck on his lips.

You turned to leave again, but he reached out. "Wait. Can you lay with me, please?"

You paused, heart caught somewhere between affection and fatigue. "Ok, but promise you'll close your eyes and not speak if I do."

"I promise." He mumbled.

You shook your head with a smile, slipping under the covers. He wasted no time pulling you in, chest to chest, his arms wrapping snugly around your waist, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

You ran your fingers slowly through his hair, holding him.

"You know—" He began.

"Haechan, shh." You whispered, eyes still closed.

"Sorry." He mumbled, and after that everything became silent.

His breathing slowed, and he finally drifted off, but you couldn't, not even with your eyes closed.

Your mind was a storm of questions, of feelings, of why he said things like that if he didn't mean them, why he pushed and pulled, how he looked at you like you mattered and then dropped you like you didn't.

You laid there for what felt like hours, the hum of the party now distant, muffled by the door. Then you heard footsteps, voices— a knock.

"Haechan, it's us. We're coming in to make sure you're not dead... stop us at any time if you don't want us to come in."

You were about to speak, about to let them know he was ok, but he was finally asleep and for once he looked peaceful. So you stayed quiet, eyes closed, pretending.

The door opened, laughter spilling in before it abruptly quieted.

"They fucking?" One of them asked, then a pause. "Wait, no. They're asleep."

"Haechan is in here cuddled up, what the fuck." Another voice muttered.

Then there was a second of silence and another voice broke through.

"Dude... he's so in love."

"Something like that." Another chimed in with a giggle.

And though your eyes stayed shut, your chest clenched tightly.

They left soon after, their laughter retreating down the hall, swallowed again by the hum of music and distant shouting from downstairs, but that one sentence didn't leave with them.

"Dude... he's so in love."

You laid still, your body locked in place, his arm still draped over your waist like it belonged there. Like it always belonged there, like he wasn't drunk and asking if you liked him just an hour ago, like he wasn't someone who made you question every other word he said, then undid you completely with a single glance.

Love.

They said it so casually, so easily. Like they knew something you didn't or maybe, something you were too scared to believe.

Your hand still rested in his hair, your fingers curled gently around the strands, and you debated pulling away, getting up, putting distance between your body, but you didn't. Because some part of you wanted to hold onto it, to him, even if it hurt.

Because that's what he always did to you, wasn't it?

He gave you just enough to keep you there. Just enough softness to believe he cared, but never quite enough to settle into.

You tried to tell yourself the alcohol was talking. That none of this was real, that tomorrow he'd wake up and probably tease you for cuddling him or pretend he didn't remember half the things he said.

Maybe he loved you in a way he couldn't say sober, maybe he only knew how to want you in pieces, maybe this was what love looked like to someone like him and maybe it was enough for someone like you.

You let your eyes close, pressing your cheek into the pillow. Not to sleep— your mind wouldn't let you, but just to stay still. To pretend for a second that it didn't matter, that you didn't care so much, but you did.

God, you did.

And somewhere inside you, the truth was slowly blooming like those roses on his dresser.

The room was still dark when your eyes opened. That hazy blue hour just before dawn crept faintly through the window.

Your body ached slightly from how you'd slept— curled against him, one of his arms slung heavy around your waist. You could feel his breath, slow and warm against your shoulder.

It almost made you forget everything... almost.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wake him. Just enough to stretch your legs or maybe find a less tangled position, but he moved almost immediately. His eyes fluttered open in a daze, and then widened slightly when he realized how close you still were.

He pulled back fast.

"Shit." He muttered, untangling his limbs from yours, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, still foggy, but clearly panicked.

"Sorry." You said quietly, sitting up too, pulling the blanket around you a little. "I didn't mean to wake you, I was just trying to stretch. Are you ok? You were really messed up last night."

His eyes flicked to you, but didn't linger. "I want to be alone." He said flatly.

You blinked. "It's really early." You said, voice soft. "I can just go sit at the desk or—"

"I don't care." He snapped, sharper now. "Just go."

It hit harder than you expected, the shift, the chill, the coldness where warmth had been hours ago.

You nodded slowly, swallowing whatever emotion was threatening to rise and stood. "Okay."

You barely made it to the door before his voice called out again."Get the fucking flowers." 

You paused, turning slowly. "What?"

"I don't want them here." He said without looking at you.

Your eyes flicked to the dresser, the roses still blooming in the soft light.

"What about the vase?"

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a scoff, but close. "Take it." He said, his voice emotionless. "Just— take it. Get out."

You stared at him for a moment longer, trying to understand what just happened, trying not to let it show on your face, but you just nodded.

You walked back across the room, lifted the vase and left without another word.

The hallway was cold.

You hadn't realized how warm his room had been until you stepped out, vase clutched to your chest. The roses swayed slightly as you walked.

You moved down the stairs where empty cups and crumpled napkins were scattered, your fingers curled tighter around the glass. You didn't know why you took it— why you didn't just leave them there, why you obeyed so easily, like some part of you was still waiting for him to call you back again, but the silence behind you stayed silent.

You stepped outside, the early morning air hit your skin, you took a deep breath, walking to your car, placing the flowers beside you.

He held you like he wanted you, kissed you like he needed you, talked to you like he trusted you, asked you if you liked him, pulled you close and made you believe maybe just for a second it was real.

And then he told you to get out.

You swallowed hard, jaw clenching to keep the sting from reaching your eyes. You hated this part of yourself. The part that showed up every time he called, the part that wanted to believe his words even after his actions said something else, the part that still thought the flowers might mean something— even now, when he couldn't stand the sight of them.

You looked over at them, beautiful and unwanted— just like you.

You blinked away the blur in your vision, taking another slow breath. Then you started your car and drove away. Because what else could you do?

══════════════════════════

He was the only thing flowing through your mind.

You tried not to think about him, tried to focus on your projects for the next week, tried to drown your thoughts in deadlines, but during those quiet blind spots— when your hands paused on the keyboard, when your gaze drifted away from the screen, it was only him.

It didn't matter how hard you tried, he always found a way in.

Your thoughts had gotten the best of you... again. You texted— just a simple 'are you okay?' even after he hurt you, even after everything, but he never answered.

After that, you didn't call, you didn't try. You hadn't even gone to the party and he never called to ask why. It was pretty much over to you and maybe that should've been enough.

You replayed the scene in your head, skimming over every detail you could remember— how he shifted away from you, how his voice went cold, how he didn't even look at you. You tried to fathom what happened, replaying every word, every moment. Was it something you said? Something you did?

You wanted to just leave it. For him, yes, but more for you. For your own dignity, whatever was left of it. You felt embarrassed every time you thought about talking to him again. Embarrassed every time your mind wandered to his touch, his mouth, his company.

It was pathetic... you were pathetic, truly.

You were sitting in your bed, mind floating everywhere except the subject in front of you, while your fingers moved absently across the keyboard, then your phone rang.

You sighed, expecting it to be one of your roommates, maybe a spam caller, but it was him— Haechan, of course it was.

Of course he was calling after kicking you out. After ignoring your message when you were just checking in. Of course it was so easy for him to reach out after all this time. Or... maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just as hard for him as it was for you. But you weren't the one scared to look like a loser. Either way, it was stupid.

Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it.

Your heart said, or maybe your mind. You weren't sure anymore, but you didn't listen.

To yourself, obviously. Not the call.

That— you picked up a little too fast. Like nothing even mattered anymore except him and maybe it was the case, and you hated that. You hated it so bad, but you couldn't change it, no matter how hard you tried, it was like a curse.

"Hello." You said quietly.

"Come over." His voice was hoarse.

You didn't fight it, you didn't ask why he hadn't reached out, didn't beg for an explanation or an apology.

"Like... right now?" You asked, voice catching slightly.

"Yes." That was it.

You looked at the date and time glowing on your computer screen: Saturday, 7:38 PM.

Your eyes flicked up to the file you were working on. Book report, due in three weeks. You had maybe 30 out of 75 pages done and barely the energy to finish another sentence.

You bit your lip in hesitation, then took a deep breath.

"Okay." You said quietly. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

He said nothing back, just hung up.

You got up immediately, grabbing your keys. The drive was quiet, your mind raced, heart even faster. When you got there, you knocked on the door and waited.

After a few seconds, it opened.

There he was, hair messy, eyes dark and unreadable.

"Hey." You said, offering a small smile, but he didn't say anything. He just stepped aside, letting you in, the door shutting behind you with a soft click.

Weird.

He walked to the kitchen without a word, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a drink, not even offering you one. You just stood there awkwardly, while he leaned against the island— probably the cleanest you'd ever seen it, his palms flat on the surface.

"You know..." He started, clearing his throat, still not looking at you. "Someone sent me a photo."

Your brows furrowed, confused. "What was it?"

"You." He finally looked at you then, and the look in his eyes made your stomach twist, like he was holding back something.

"A photo of me?" You asked with a nervous laugh. "Okay... what was it?"

He chuckled, but it was flat, empty. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, scrolled, and placed it on the counter without a word.

You moved slowly toward it, his gaze heavy on you as your eyes landed on the screen.

You froze. Your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

"Where— where did you get this?" You stammered, voice shaky.

"I'm assuming this was last year? At your old uni, right?" He said, tone thick with something you couldn't name— disgust, betrayal... maybe both?

"I— how did you get this?" You said again, voice trembling, lip starting to quiver.

"I didn't know you were a hardcore partier like that." He said, smile curling bitterly. "No wonder you can handle liquor like it's water."

He looked back down at the photo. "Did you lie about taking drugs too? Or was it actually your first time smoking weed? Cause... looks like you did other shit."

You stared at him, eyes starting to water.

You never forgot about your past, even though you tried. You thought you got away from it, left it behind, but now it was back. Slapped into your hands by someone who had already hurt you. Who was now throwing it all in your face like you deserved it.

"Who's this?" His voice cut through your spiral.

You didn't even have to look, you already knew who he was pointing at— the guy in the photo. The one with his arm around your waist, the one you were kissing.

"Someone I used to talk to." You said quietly, the most coherent thing you could get out.

"Oh, really?" He said, his voice filled with sarcasm.

"Why do you even care so much?" You blurted out, your voice cracking now, barely holding it together. "You don't even want me."

He paused, looking straight at you. "That's my fucking brother."

Everything in you went still, cold. Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

"Yeah." He said, tilting his head, expression dark. "Nothing to say now, huh? What the fuck is actually wrong with you? Do you even know what you did to him?"

"It was a mistake." You said, voice breaking. "I didn't mean to hurt him, I swear. I didn't do anything on purpose."

"You didn't mean to?" He repeated, louder now. "You didn't do anything on purpose? You took everything from him. Got him addicted to pills, addicted to you, and then what— just left? Like he meant nothing? He had to go to rehab, he almost died and it was just a mistake?"

"I'm— I'm sorry." You whispered, the words trembling out of you.

"Right." He scoffed. "Like that's gonna fix anything. He really liked you, you know. You were all he knew, all he loved and you just left him for dead."

Your throat was dry. You couldn't defend yourself, not really. You'd done things you weren't proud of.. hurt people and now it was all crashing back.

"So what now?" He said. "You thought you could play me too? What, did my sister do something to you, so now it's 'get back at the family one by one'?"

"No. No, I swear." You said quickly, stepping forward. "That's not what this is. I'm not playing with you."

He laughed bitterly. "Then what is this? You're a fucking hypocrite. You preach to me about commitment and what was it— self sabotage? But you can't even follow your own bullshit."

"I can now, I'm not that person anymore. I was just in a dark place, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't care who I took down with me because I didn't even care about myself."

You stepped closer, eyes shining, voice shaking. "I'm not lying to you. You've seen it, you've seen how much I care. How much I need you."

"Yeah?" He questioned,voice low.

You were standing in front of him now, your hand reaching up to his cheek, gently touching him like you were scared he'd disappear.

He didn't pull away.

You whispered. "Please."

His breathing changed, slower. Like he was holding something in his chest he didn't know what to do with. His eyes searched yours, the space between the both of you had shrunk. And the way his jaw tensed, the way his hands gripped the edge of the counter like they needed to hold onto something— like they needed to hold onto you.

You could feel it, like the only thing left to do was move closer, or burn from standing still.

Something snapped.

He grabbed you suddenly, dragging you into him by the waist, his mouth crashing onto yours like punishment. It was messy, angry. His hands were already tugging your clothes down, fingers digging in like he wanted to rip right through the fabric. Your underwear was shoved down before you could catch your breath, and his pants were already halfway undone.

You gasped as he turned you around, chest slammed against the counter, your hands barely catching yourself. Before you could fully process it, he kicked your legs open wider with his knee as one hand shot up and wrapped tightly around your throat, fingers digging in just enough to pull your head back against his chest, your spine arching slightly under the pressure.

"If you want a condom, go to my car and get one." He whispered, voice low and rough.

You froze for a second, breath shuddering as his hand tightened slightly. Then, swallowing hard, you shook your head slowly.

"I'm fine." You murmured, voice barely audible.

"Pathetic."

Without warning, he pulled your hips back, lining himself up with your entrance, before pushing in all the way. A loud, sharp cry came from your lips as the sudden stretch overwhelmed you.

He didn't slow down or wait— just started thrusting hard and fast, pounding into you relentlessly, ignoring every sound you made.

He slammed into you harder, his hand tightening around your throat, fingers pressing cruelly against your skin, cutting off your air just enough to make your heart race.

"Look at you." He panted, voice dark. "Pathetic little slut, can't even handle something simple like this."

You gasped, the pressure in your throat making it hard to speak, but the pounding pushed deeper inside, and slowly your body started to adjust to him.

His thrusts grew harder, like he was losing himself in the moment, hips snapping into yours faster and heavier. His grip loosened for a brief second, fingers brushing your skin almost tenderly before tightening again.

You moaned louder, the pain fading as your body started to catch up with him, heat pooling deep inside.

His pace turned harder hips slamming into you with no rhythm now, just need. The hand around your throat suddenly released, only to tangle in your hair and yank your head back hard.

You cried out, not just from the pull but from everything— your body shaking, tears slipping down your cheeks without you even realizing.

He noticed,  laughing slightly. "Pathetic. Can't even take it, crying like a little bitch."

His grip in your hair tightened as he drove into you even harder. "But you like it, don't you?" He snarled, voice louder now, strained with how close he was. "This is what you wanted."

"Yes." You gasped, breath hitching around a sob, your body arching into his with every rough thrust.

His breaths grew loud and uneven, voice breaking into low groans and occasional whimpers, like he was falling apart right behind you.

He let go of your hair suddenly, and your upper body collapsed forward, your chest pressing flat against the counter. Both of his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place as he drove into you deeper.

His fingers dug into your skin as his body started to tense, his thrusts becoming sloppy, the sound of his low whimpers mixing with your own moans.

"You're— fuck, so tight..." He choked out, voice cracking as he buried himself in you again and again.

His pace turned erratic, hips jerking forward like he couldn't stop himself, like his body had taken over.

His grip on your hips bruised, pulling you back into every thrust like he was trying to bury himself as deep as possible. His whole body trembled, his moans turning into whimpers.

You just moaned out softly beneath him as he lost it— hips jerking erratically now, hands clutching you like you'd disappear if he let go.

"Shit." He gasped, voice wrecked. "You feel so— fuck."

His whole body tightened, shuddering as he came hard inside you with a strained whimper. 

He stayed still for a second, shaking, breath caught in his throat, still pulsing inside you.

You were right there— right on the edge, body tense and desperate, but then he pulled out suddenly and stepped back.

He laughed, low and cruel, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Aw, were you about to cum?" He said, mocking, breath still heavy. He pulled up his pants, voice cold again. "Too bad." He said before walking up the stairs with heavy steps, no backward glance.

You sat still for a moment, breath shallow, skin still warm from his touch, heart trying to piece together what this meant—if it meant anything at all.

Your eyes wandered, trying to find a single object in the room that would ground you. You stared at everything blankly, waiting. Maybe for him to come back and say something soft, something honest... anything at all.

Eventually, he did come back, but it wasn't what you expected.

His steps were quieter this time. No eye contact, no sigh, no hesitation, just a folded fifty dollar bill that he slipped into your hand like it was a transaction. Like this was something to close out, something to be done with.

"For the plan B." He muttered, eyes flicking to the side, avoiding your expression. "And for you to not say anything else. To just... just go."

You held the cash loosely in your fingers silent. The room blurred for a second, vision not quite focusing, but your body still moved on autopilot. You nodded quietly, not bothering to fix your hair or wipe your face.

You didn't cry, not yet. You didn't ask questions, you didn't fight, you didn't even look back.

You just left, the door clicking shut behind you.

The streets were quieter than usual for a Saturday night or maybe you just weren't really listening. Maybe the noise had dimmed around you, your mind doing that thing where it zooms out, pulls away from everything like it doesn't belong to you.

You drove to your favorite spot. That shitty little corner diner that stayed open late and never judged you for showing up in sweatpants or smeared mascara. You walked in and ordered the usual without thinking.

"Chicken tenders, fries, extra honey mustard." You said, voice small, like you were 12 again and just needed something familiar.

The cashier didn't smile, just nodded and took the crumpled bill from your hand— the same one he gave you.

You sat by the window with your tray, staring out at the parking lot as yellow lights buzzed.

You dipped a fry into the honey mustard, then stared at it before finally taking a bite. You weren't really hungry, not truly, but chewing helped. It gave your mind something else to do besides replaying what happened. What he said, the look on his face when he gave you the money.

You didn't even need the money for a morning after pill. You been on birth control for your periods for months now.

You thought about how it all started. How much you tried to bury the past, how much effort you made to grow, to become someone better. You weren't perfect— god, you knew that, but you were trying. You  been trying, you wanted him to see that, you wanted him to see you.

But maybe he never really did.

You sat there for a while, eating slowly, the food growing cold on the tray in front of you.

══════════════════════════

You were sitting at home a few days later, just working, thinking, trying hard not to think.

$60 for a Plan B and for you "not to say anything else and just go" what the fuck. 

Your phone buzzed, not a call, just a text.

Haechan [10:39 PM]:

"U home?"

Literally— what the fuck. 

You were confused, stuck, you just wanted clarity, something solid, something that would tell you where his mind was, where his heart was. You were too scared to ask, too scared you'd scare him away if you pressed too hard. But this? This was getting ridiculous.

You [10:42 PM]:

"Why?"

You texted back. Okay, yeah. Maybe not the hardest stance you could've taken, but this was your definition of standing on business. Who were you kidding? You couldn't even ignore the text for more than five minutes.

Luckily, he didn't answer. Maybe that was your answer— the real one. Maybe silence told you where you stood with him more than anything else. But then again, his actions said something different. The way he held you, the way he looked at you sometimes. You couldn't help but feel like he did care, like maybe he loved you even just a little.

Or was that just you projecting? Was this your idea of love? Was this what you were settling for— and if it was, did that mean this was what you were worth? Because honestly, it didn't feel like it. But then... sometimes it did.

Right before your thoughts spiraled any further, three shallow knocks hit your door. Your expression twisted slightly, confusion brushing over your face. You stood up from your bed, slowly making your way to the front door, opening it. Of course... there he was.

You just sighed.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

He didn't answer right away, just looked over your shoulder into the room. "Your roommate's home?"

"No, one's gone for the weekend, and the other's out with her boyfriend. Why?"

"Can I come inside?"

"Why? Don't you hate me?"

He just chuckled soft and dryly, then silence. He didn't answer, and neither did you, you just stepped aside and let him in. He moved past you, settling on the couch as you shut the door gently, walking over slowly.

"Tell me everything." He said, turning to look at you. "From your side."

You didn't have to ask what he meant, you already knew.

"Well.." You started, taking a deep breath. "I was doing fine before. I had friends here, I was making straight A's— it was never really hard for me. Then my mom died, and that took a big toll on me."

"Where's your dad?" He asked.

"Hell if I know." You looked up at him. He just nodded in response, saying nothing.

"So, yeah, I was alone. I had people— my best friend since childhood actually, but I still felt so lonely. So I decided to take a break from here and just leave. I went to school in a different state."

You paused, gathering the words that still sat heavy in your chest. "It started off fine, I mean as fine as it was gonna get, but then my best friend started getting distant. He always cared for me, but he started doing his own thing— making new friends and everything. It hurt because I needed him... I loved him."

"You loved him?" Haechan asked, brows slightly furrowed.

"Yeah, a lot. I, um... he came to visit me early on when I moved, and I told him how I felt, but he rejected me— told me he just wanted to mess around with people and not be locked down. And yeah, that hurt... like a lot. I guess I thought he felt the same... he acted like it. And when he started ignoring me after that? That's what really messed me up."

You looked down at your hands as you kept going, your voice quiet, but steady. "So I ended up making new friends. Not great ones. I started partying, trying to fill this empty void in my life. Got addicted to the lifestyle. One party, someone offered me weed, and that was a big no for me because — duh." You let out a small, self deprecating laugh.

"But then they introduced me to pills. That felt different, not the same thing as weed in my head, so I did it. I drank, I did drugs, barely went to class, but when I did..."

You paused, tilting your head back, staring at the ceiling. "It just seemed like he was always waiting for me, like he was the only one who didn't judge."

"My brother." Haechan said quietly.

You nodded. "He was obsessed with me. Like I was the most precious thing in the world— no offense to him." You looked up, waving your hands a bit.

"I was just... confused, confused why. He didn't even know me, but he kept trying, and I was at my lowest.. at a point where I felt like no one else wanted me, not even my best friend— so I gave in. We texted. I wasn't always great at responding,  I was always out doing shit, complete opposite of him. He was smart, focused, kind and I was basically nothing. But even then, he still wanted me, so much that he started doing what I was doing and I didn't think anything of it. Just another guy to me. No offense... again."

Haechan chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Just finish."

"He started partying, harder than I did even. Started drinking like me, taking the pills I took and honestly, it was fun. He made me feel like I wasn't the only one who was falling apart. Like we were nothing together." You shook your head slowly. 

"It's so messed up, but I didn't know better. Stuff happened between us. Not sex!" You blurted out. "I'm... well, was saving myself. And yeah, I liked him a bit. He felt like commitment, like the only one I could count on to stay."

You exhaled, the weight of your own memories thick in your throat.

"Then my best friend just... came back. Completely out of nowhere, acting like I was the world to him. Telling me to stop doing drugs. I don't know what changed, maybe he was scared I wouldn't come back for summer. Which, I really wasn't going to. But he asked me to visit at least, just at the beginning of the summer and I agreed."

You kept going, not pausing now, just unraveling it all.

"So I went back home, stayed with him. Then he tried to do some rehabilitation bullshit on me or whatever. Told me he'd help me change, and would 'fix' me. I was hysterical. I felt betrayed. He left me, I got like this, and now he wanted to act like I was a project. Like I was just some druggie or party whore who needed saving, which I guess I was." You laughed softly, sadly.

"I told him I had someone who cared about me— someone who loved me, but he said it wasn't love. That I needed to focus on myself, not a boyfriend, and I believed him. I cried in his arms and I stayed. I got sober, started fresh over for the summer. Then... he begged me to just stay permanently, said he wanted to keep an eye on me, make sure I was okay."

You looked at Haechan then, eyes softer now. "So I did. I told my best friend I needed to explain to your brother what was going on, that I wanted to stay in contact. But he told me to leave the past behind, that he'd just get over it. So I left, no reason, no goodbye, just silence. I had no idea what happened to him after. That he got addicted, that he went to rehab, I just assumed he'd move on too. I tried to reach out again at the beginning of this year, but I was blocked, rightfully so."

You looked at each other, silence. 

"Is that why you're still with me?" He asked, voice quiet. "You get treated like shit, but you know I care enough. You feel guilt... so you allow it, right?" 

His voice cracked slightly. "Is it guilt?"

You looked away, eyes trailing up toward the ceiling. You bit your lip hard before turning your gaze back to him.

"I really do love you." You said, voice almost a whisper, eyes glossy. "Is that all you wanted to hear?"

He nodded, once. "Yeah." He said softly.

Silence again, but not empty.  The moonlight shined through the blinds, his eyes glinting the reflection as you two stared at each other.

Then slowly, he leaned in. His hand reached up, gentle against your cheek, thumb brushing the side of your face like he was afraid you would flinch.

It wasn't rushed, it wasn't desperate, it was soft— slower than either of you expected. You kissed him back, just as slow, just as quiet, your hand curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

When he pulled away, he stayed there for a moment. His forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm, eyes glassy.

He cleared his throat, scooting back slightly. "I should probably get going." He said, voice low.

"Yeah." You nodded.

"Okay, I'm about to leave." He said, not moving an inch.

"Got it." You smiled a little, lips still tingling.

"Right now." He said again, like he needed to convince himself.

You leaned in, giving him one last kiss, just a soft peck, but it lingered.

"Go." You whispered against his lips.

He finally stood, walking to the door, you following behind him.

"If you get the chance, would you tell him to unblock me?" You asked, voice low but sincere as he reached for the doorknob. "I really want the chance to apologize... check on him personally."

He paused, his hand still on the door, then he turned just slightly, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

He gave a small nod. "Yeah." Then after a moment, quieter: "Just... call me or something."

You let out a tired chuckle, shaking your head gently, a half smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"Yeah." You whispered, more to yourself than to him.

And then you closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the quiet room.

══════════════════════════

[mrs-delaney]

Letters You Never Sent | Part Two

read part one →

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 14.4k-ish words

request: college sweethearts since ohio state 🫶 but by 2023, fame starts to change joe. he acts single, barely mentions his girlfriend, and reader starts feeling invisible—like she doesn’t even exist in his world anymore. so she starts writing letters. not to give to him—just to survive it. just to say the things she doesn’t feel safe saying out loud. they break up in january 2024. she moves out in a rush and forgets the letters. months later, joe’s in a new (casual) relationship. and the girl finds the letters. she gives them to him. he reads them. and it wrecks him. realizing how badly he hurt someone who loved him with everything she had. and maybe… just maybe… there’s still a happy ending. 🥺❤️

📝 Author’s Note: y'all this one wrecked me. it's the most emotionally honest thing I've written to date. i literally cried.

thank you to everyone who showed up for part one with so much love. the messages, the tags, the dms—i read every single one. you reminded me why i wanted to tell this story in the first place.

this chapter is for anyone who’s ever had to grieve someone who was still in the room. who stayed too long. who loved so hard it hurt.

creative liberties were taken.

alexa play “from the dining table” by harry styles 🥀

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

April 2023 - The Team Event

You're standing in the corner of Tyler Boyd's backyard, holding a beer you haven't touched, watching Joe laugh with a group of teammates you don't recognize. It's the annual team barbecue, the kind of casual gathering you used to love because it felt like family.

Now you feel like a stranger.

"Y/N!" Kierra Boyd approaches with a bright smile, but there's something careful in her expression. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. How are you?"

"I'm good," you say automatically. "Just busy with work."

"How's the hospital? Still loving pediatric nursing?"

You're touched that she remembers, that someone still asks about your life outside of being Joe's girlfriend. "Yeah, it's great. Challenging, but I love it."

"That's so amazing. I always thought it was so cool that you had your own thing going on, you know? Not just..." She gestures vaguely toward where Joe is holding court with a group that includes some women you don't recognize.

The pause is loaded. Not just what? Not just a football girlfriend?

"Yeah," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "It's important to have your own identity."

Kierra nods, then hesitates. "Can I ask you something? And please tell me to mind my own business if I'm overstepping."

Your stomach drops. "Sure."

"Are you and Joe okay? I mean, you guys seem... distant lately. At events and stuff."

You glance over at Joe, who's now taking selfies with some of the women in the group. Young, pretty women wearing Bengals jerseys and bright smiles. He hasn't looked for you once in the past hour.

"We're fine," you say, but the words taste like lies. "Just figuring some things out."

Kierra follows your gaze and her expression softens. "Tyler mentioned that Joe's been different this season. More... I don't know, guarded? Less like the guy who used to talk about you all the time."

"He used to talk about me?"

"All the time. Like, to the point where the guys would tease him about it. 'Joe's girlfriend this, Joe's girlfriend that.' It was actually really sweet."

The past tense hits you like a physical blow. Used to.

"Things change," you say quietly.

"They don't have to."

Before you can respond, Joe appears at your side, his hand settling on your lower back in a gesture that should feel familiar but somehow doesn't.

"Hey babe," he says, but he's looking at Kierra, not you. "Kierra, have you met Madison? She works for the team's social media."

A blonde woman materializes beside him, all white teeth and perfect highlights. "Nice to meet you," she says with a bright but empty smile, already turning back to Joe.

"Madison was just telling us about this new campaign she's working on," Joe continues. "Really innovative stuff."

You watch him light up as Madison launches into an explanation of her work, the same way he used to light up when you talked about your patients. When did he stop looking at you like that?

"That's really interesting," Kierra says politely, but you can see her watching the interaction with growing concern.

"Joe," you interrupt, "can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure," he says, but he doesn't move away from Madison. "What's up?"

You glance around at the group, realizing he expects you to have this conversation in front of everyone. "Privately?"

Joe's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Can it wait? We're in the middle of something here."

The dismissal is casual but clear. In front of his teammates, in front of their wives, in front of some woman he just met, Joe is choosing not to step away with you.

"Of course," you say, your cheeks burning. "Sorry."

You turn and walk toward the house, needing space, needing air, needing anything but the sight of Joe giving someone else the attention he used to give you.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and stare at your reflection. When did you become the kind of woman who gets dismissed at parties? When did you become someone Joe treats like an inconvenience?

When you come back outside, Joe is exactly where you left him, still deep in conversation with Madison. He doesn't notice you return.

* * *

May 2023 - The Foundation Event

The children's literacy event is at the community center where you and Joe volunteer regularly.

But everything feels different.

"Y/N!" Mrs. Rodriguez waves you over to where she's setting up reading stations. "I'm so glad you're here. Sofia has been asking about you."

You smile, remembering the eight-year-old who'd been one of your patients last year. "How is she doing?"

"So much better. She starts fourth grade in the fall." Mrs. Rodriguez glances around. "Is Joe coming today?"

"He's here somewhere," you say, though you're not entirely sure. He drove separately, saying he had a meeting that might run long.

You spend the afternoon reading with kids, helping with crafts, doing the work you genuinely love. It's only when you're packing up that you realize you've barely seen Joe all day.

You find him by the sign-in table, talking to a reporter from the local news station. There's a camera crew setting up nearby.

"...really important to give back to the community," Joe is saying. "These kids are our future."

"And what brought you to this particular cause?" the reporter asks.

"I've always been passionate about literacy. Education is everything."

You wait for him to mention that this is your regular volunteer spot, that you work with many of these families through the hospital. You wait for him to acknowledge that this event was partially your idea.

He doesn't.

"We'll be right back with more from Bengals quarterback Joe Burrow," the reporter says to the camera, "after this quick break."

During the break, you approach the group. "Hi," you say to the reporter. "I'm Y/N."

She looks at you politely but without recognition. "Nice to meet you."

"Joe's girlfriend," you clarify, feeling pathetic for having to introduce yourself that way.

"Oh!" Her face lights up with professional interest. "Are you involved with the foundation as well?"

"I volunteer here regularly, and I work at Cincinnati Children's Hospital, so—"

"We should probably wrap this up," Joe interrupts, checking his watch. "I have another appointment."

The reporter nods. "Of course. Thank you so much for your time."

Joe is already walking away, leaving you standing there mid-sentence. The reporter turns back to her cameraman, the moment lost.

You follow Joe to the parking lot, your frustration building with each step.

"Joe, wait."

He turns, keys already in his hand. "What's up? I really do have to go."

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"In there. With the reporter. You completely cut me off."

Joe sighs. "Y/N, it was a quick interview about the event. Not everything has to be about you."

The words sting worse because of how casually he delivers them. "I wasn't trying to make it about me. I was trying to talk about the work we do here together."

"We?"

"Yes, we. I've been volunteering here since before you ever came to an event. These families know me. This is my work too."

"Okay, and? You want a medal for reading to kids?"

You stare at him, genuinely shocked by his tone. "I want my boyfriend to acknowledge that I exist when we're doing something together."

"You exist, Y/N. You're standing right here."

"But I'm not part of your story anymore, am I? When you talk about your life, your work, your future—I'm not in any of it."

Joe runs his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "Can we not do this here?"

"When, then? When can we talk about the fact that you're erasing me from your life?"

"I'm not erasing you from anything. You're being dramatic."

"Am I? Because I've been keeping track, Joe. It's been six months since you posted a photo of us together. Four months since you mentioned me in an interview. Three weeks since you introduced me as your girlfriend instead of just saying my name."

"You're keeping track?" Joe looks at you like you've admitted to stalking him.

"I'm paying attention."

"Look, I have to go. We can talk about this later."

"When later? You're always busy, always somewhere else, always—"

"Later, Y/N."

He gets in his car and drives away, leaving you standing in the parking lot of a community center where you've volunteered for years, feeling like a stranger in your own life.

* * *

June 2023 - The Interview

You're at the hospital, just finishing your shift, when Emma texts you: Turn on ESPN. Joe's on SportsCenter.

You find a TV in the break room and catch the tail end of an interview about the upcoming season. Joe looks good—confident, relaxed, every inch the franchise quarterback.

"So Joe," the interviewer is saying, "what's your support system like? Who are the people who keep you grounded through all the pressure?"

Your heart speeds up. This is it. This is where he talks about you, about how you've been there since college, about the partnership you've built.

"Well, first and foremost, my family," Joe says. "My parents, my brothers. They've been my foundation since day one."

You nod along. Of course. Family first.

"The coaching staff and my teammates have been incredible. Really can't say enough about the organization and how they've supported me."

Okay. Team second. That makes sense.

"And just having good people around me, you know? People who knew me before all this, who help me stay focused on what matters."

You wait. The pause stretches.

"That's really what it's about," Joe continues. "Surrounding yourself with the right people who believe in your vision."

The interview moves on to football strategy, and you realize with a sinking heart that he's not going to mention you. Not at all.

You think about the AFC Championship loss, when you were the first person he looked for. You think about all the times he's credited you with believing in him when no one else did.

Now, apparently, you're not even worth a mention when he talks about his support system.

Your phone buzzes with another text from Emma: That was weird, right? That he didn't mention you?

You don't respond. You can't find the words.

* * *

July 2023 - The Birthday

Joe's 26th birthday falls on a Tuesday, which should make it low-key. Intimate. Just the two of you, the way you've celebrated every year since you've been together.

Instead, Joe announces he's having a party.

"A party?" you ask, looking up from your laptop where you've been researching weekend getaway ideas for just the two of you.

"Yeah, just a small thing. Some of the guys want to celebrate."

"Oh. Okay. Do you want me to help plan it?"

"Nah, Tyler's wife is handling most of it. Thanks though."

Kierra is planning Joe's birthday party. Not you, his girlfriend of six years. Kierra, who barely knows Joe outside of team functions.

"Where are we having it?"

"That new rooftop place downtown. Should be fun."

The party is not small. It's at least fifty people, most of whom you don't know. Joe works the room like he's campaigning for office, taking photos with everyone, making sure he talks to each guest.

You spend most of the night standing with the other girlfriends and wives, feeling like an accessory rather than the guest of honor's partner.

"This is a great turnout," one of the newer wives says. "Joe's really popular."

"He always has been," you reply, watching him pose for photos with a group of women you don't recognize.

"How long have you two been together?"

"Six years. Since college."

She looks surprised. "Really? That's so sweet. You're like childhood sweethearts."

"Something like that."

Later, when the crowd starts to thin out, you find Joe on the rooftop terrace, looking out at the Cincinnati skyline.

"Good party," you say, joining him at the railing.

"Yeah, it was great. Good turnout."

You stand in comfortable silence for a moment, and for just a second, it feels like old times. Just you and Joe, away from the crowd.

"I got you something," you say, pulling out a small wrapped box.

Joe takes it, looking surprised. "You didn't have to get me anything."

Inside is a watch—simple, classic, the kind he's mentioned liking but never gets around to buying for himself. You'd noticed him checking his phone for the time constantly and thought he might appreciate having a nice watch again.

Joe looks at it, turning it over in his hands. "This is really nice."

"I know you've been wanting a new one," you say. "And I thought... I don't know, I wanted to get you something you'd actually use."

Joe is quiet for a moment, still looking at the watch.

"Thank you," he says finally. "This is really thoughtful."

But he doesn't put it on. He just closes the box and slips it into his pocket.

"Should we head back in?" he asks.

You nod, following him back into the party, where he immediately gets pulled into another group conversation. He doesn't mention the gift to anyone. Doesn't show it off the way he used to show off thoughtful presents from you.

At the end of the night, as you're getting ready to leave, you realize that Joe never introduced you to anyone as his girlfriend. You were just "Y/N" all night, floating around the edges of his birthday celebration like a guest who didn't quite belong.

July 15, 2023

Joe,

Today was your 26th birthday. I've been there for five of your birthdays now, and this one felt different than all the others.

I gave you a watch for your birthday. Something simple that I thought you'd actually wear since you're always checking your phone for the time.

You said it was thoughtful, but you put it in your pocket and never mentioned it again.

I used to be the person who planned your birthdays. Now I'm the person who shows up to parties planned by someone else, where I don't know half the guests and you don't introduce me as anything more than my first name.

I used to be your person. Now I feel like I'm just... here. Taking up space in a life that you're building without me.

I keep waiting for us to talk about what's happening. I keep waiting for you to notice that we're falling apart. But you seem completely fine with the distance between us, and I don't know what that means.

Are you trying to break up with me without actually breaking up with me? Are you hoping I'll just fade away so you don't have to do the hard work of ending things?

Because I'm starting to feel invisible, Joe. I'm starting to feel like I don't matter to you at all.

And the worst part is, I don't think you even notice.

Y/N

* * *

September 2023 - Season Opener Party

The rooftop bar overlooking the city is packed with players, coaches, and their families celebrating the season opener win. You're wearing the dress Joe complimented you in last year, hoping tonight might feel different, might feel like old times.

It doesn't.

You've been here for two hours and have barely seen Joe except in passing. He's working the room like a politician, stopping to chat with everyone, taking selfies with fans who somehow got invited, deep in conversation with teammates you've never met.

"Excuse me," a woman with perfect curls approaches you by the bar. "Are you with the team?"

"I'm Y/N," you say, extending your hand. "Joe's girlfriend."

Her face lights up with recognition, but not the kind you want. "Oh! I'm Ashley, Mike's wife. I was wondering... we haven't seen you at any of the family events this season."

Because you haven't been invited to the family events this season. Because Joe keeps "forgetting" to mention them until after they've happened.

"I've been busy with work," you say.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a pediatric nurse at Cincinnati Children's."

"That's amazing! You know, Mike mentioned that Joe was single. I thought maybe I'd misunderstood, but here you are." She laughs, but it's awkward. "Men are terrible at sharing information, aren't they?"

Your stomach drops. "Mike thinks Joe is single?"

"Oh, I'm sure it was just a miscommunication. You know how guys are about talking about personal stuff."

But you can see in her eyes that she's trying to make you feel better about something that can't be explained away. Joe has been telling his teammates he's single. Or at the very least, he's not mentioning that he has a girlfriend.

"I should find Joe," you say weakly.

You spot him on the other side of the rooftop, laughing with a group that includes some women you don't recognize. When you approach, he glances at you briefly.

"Hey," he says, not moving to include you in the circle. "Having fun?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Kind of in the middle of something here. Everything okay?"

The group is watching now, and you feel like you're being dramatic, needy, clingy. All the things you never wanted to be.

"Never mind," you say. "I'm going to head home."

"Okay. I'll probably be here for a while."

He doesn't offer to come with you. Doesn't ask if you're feeling alright. Just turns back to his conversation like you were never there.

You take an Uber home alone from your boyfriend's season celebration party.

* * *

October 2023 - The Sports Illustrated Profile

You're on your lunch break at the hospital when Emma texts you: Have you seen the SI article about Joe? It's really good.

You pull up the piece on your phone: "Joe Burrow: The Evolution of a Champion." It's a beautiful profile, full of gorgeous photos and thoughtful writing about his journey from Ohio State benchwarmer to franchise quarterback.

The writer traces his path through LSU, the Heisman, the draft, the injury, the comeback. They interview his parents, his coaches, his teammates. They talk about his leadership style, his work ethic, his vision for the team's future.

Six years of your relationship gets one line: "Burrow keeps his personal life private, preferring to let his performance on the field do the talking."

That's it. Six years reduced to "private personal life."

No mention of the girl who believed in him when he was third string. No mention of the support system that helped him through the transfer decision, the injury, the comeback. No mention of the pediatric nurse who moved her entire life to Cincinnati to build something with him.

You think about all the interviews you've watched where he gushes about his parents, his brothers, his coaches. People who matter enough to mention. People whose support he acknowledges.

You read the article three times, looking for any reference to you, any hint that you exist in his story.

There's nothing.

* * *

November 2023 - The Charity Kitchen

The Cincinnati Children's Hospital benefit dinner is one of your favorite events each year. It's where your two worlds—your work and Joe's platform—come together for something meaningful.

You arrive separately because Joe had a meeting that ran long, but you're not worried. You know this event, know these people, know how important this cause is to both of you.

"Excuse me," a woman with a clipboard approaches you near the registration table. "Are you here to volunteer in the kitchen? We're running a little behind on prep."

You look down at your cocktail dress and heels, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"The volunteer kitchen staff? We have appetizers that need to be plated."

"Oh, no. I'm not a volunteer. I'm here as a guest."

She looks at your dress again, clearly confused. "Are you with one of the corporate sponsors?"

"I'm here with Joe Burrow. I also work at the hospital."

"Oh!" Her face changes completely. "I'm so sorry! I thought... well, we had several volunteers sign up to help with service, and I just assumed..."

You smile tightly. "It's fine."

But it's not fine. Because this is an event honoring the work you do every day, at the hospital where you've worked for three years, and the event coordinator doesn't recognize you as Joe Burrow's girlfriend.

Later, during cocktail hour, you watch Joe work the room with practiced ease. When a reporter approaches him, you instinctively move closer.

"Joe, tell us why this cause is so important to you," the reporter says.

"Children's Hospital does incredible work," Joe responds. "Being able to support the families who are going through the hardest times of their lives—that's what it's all about."

The reporter nods. "Do you have a personal connection to pediatric care?"

Your heart speeds up. This is it. This is where he mentions you, mentions that his girlfriend works here, that you see these families every day.

"Not personally, but when you're in a position to help, you help. It's that simple."

The interview moves on, and you're left standing three feet away from your boyfriend while he talks about your life's work like he has no personal connection to it at all.

* * *

December 2023 - The Christmas Party Photos

The team Christmas party is at the Omni, elegant and festive with perfect lighting for photos. You've been looking forward to it because Joe seems more relaxed lately, and you're hoping it might feel like the old days when you were part of things.

Joe looks incredible in his navy suit, and when he compliments your red dress, you feel a flicker of hope.

"You look beautiful," he says, and for a moment, his smile is real.

The party is lovely—good food, open bar, festive atmosphere. You mingle with the other wives and girlfriends, most of whom are polite but distant. The newer ones don't seem to know who you are.

Then the photos start.

Joe poses with his teammates at the bar. Click. With the coaching staff by the Christmas tree. Click. With the team owners near the dance floor. Click.

"Joe!" the team photographer calls. "Let's get one with all the players and their families."

This is it. This is your moment to be included, to be part of the team family, to exist in the visual record of Joe's life.

Joe joins the group, and you start to move toward him, but he's already positioned himself between Ja'Marr and Tyler. The photographer is arranging people, and somehow you end up standing behind a group of wives, partially obscured.

"Perfect!" the photographer says, snapping several shots.

Then comes the couples photos. You watch as player after player poses with their significant other. Sweet, intimate shots that will probably end up on the team's social media.

You wait for Joe to look for you, to gesture you over.

He doesn't.

Instead, he starts chatting with the team's social media manager about posting strategy, completely forgetting that couples photos are happening.

By the time he's done with that conversation, the photographer has moved on to group shots with the front office staff.

You stand by the dessert table, watching everyone else create memories, and realize you're going to be the only long-term girlfriend who doesn't have a single photo with her partner from this event.

"Y/N!" Robin Burrow appears beside you with a warm smile. "You look gorgeous, honey. Are you having fun?"

"Thank you. Yes, it's lovely."

"Where's Joe? I wanted to get a photo of you two. You never take pictures anymore."

Your throat tightens. "He's busy with team stuff."

Robin follows your gaze to where Joe is now posing with a group of sponsors, laughing at something someone said.

"Hmm," she says quietly, and you can hear years of motherly wisdom in that single sound.

When you get home that night, Joe is already scrolling through the team's Instagram stories, watching the photos from the party pop up.

"Good party," he says absently.

"Mmm."

"Oh, look, they got that group shot." He shows you his phone, and there it is—the team family photo where you're barely visible behind three other people, like a ghost at your own boyfriend's Christmas party.

"Nice," you say.

Joe doesn't seem to notice that you're not really in it. Or if he notices, he doesn't care.

That night, you lie awake thinking about Ashley's comment from September: Mike mentioned that Joe was single.

You think about the Sports Illustrated article where six years of love and support were erased completely.

You think about being mistaken for kitchen staff at an event honoring your own workplace.

You think about watching every other couple at the Christmas party take photos together while your boyfriend forgot you existed.

And you finally admit to yourself what you've been avoiding for months:

Joe Burrow has already broken up with you. He just hasn't told you yet.

December 25, 2023

Joe,

Merry Christmas. I'm writing this while you're asleep next to me, and I can't stop thinking about how different this feels from every other Christmas we've spent together.

Last night at the team party, I watched you take photos with everyone except me. I watched every other couple create memories while you forgot I was there. I stood by the dessert table feeling like a stranger at my own boyfriend's Christmas party.

Your mom asked why we never take pictures anymore. I didn't know what to tell her.

I keep waiting for you to notice that you're erasing me from your life. I keep waiting for you to care that I'm disappearing. But you seem fine with it. More than fine—you seem relieved.

I think I finally understand what's happening. You don't want to be the bad guy who breaks up with his college girlfriend, so you're just making me disappear instead. Death by a thousand small cuts instead of one clean break.

It's working. I feel invisible.

I feel like I don't matter to you at all.

And the worst part is, I don't think you even realize what you're doing. I think you've convinced yourself that this is just how things are now, that this is normal relationship evolution.

But it's not normal to erase someone you love from your life.

It's not normal to treat your girlfriend like an inconvenience.

It's not normal to act single while you're in a six-year relationship.

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you.

Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore.

And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Y/N

* * *

January 14th, 2024

You're in the kitchen making coffee when Joe comes downstairs, already dressed in his team-issued workout gear. The playoff loss was yesterday—a heartbreaking end to what should have been a championship season—but he looks like he's ready to move on.

"Morning," he says, grabbing a protein bar from the pantry.

"How are you feeling?" you ask, even though you already know he won't give you a real answer.

"Ready to get back to work. Season's over, but next year starts now."

There's no mention of how devastating the loss was, no acknowledgment that you were there in the stands watching his dreams slip away. No need for comfort or processing or any of the emotional intimacy that used to define your relationship.

"Joe," you say, setting down your coffee cup. "We need to talk."

He checks his watch. "Can it wait? I've got a training session at nine."

"No. It can't wait anymore."

Something in your tone makes him look up, really look at you, for the first time in months.

"What's going on?"

You take a breath, steadying yourself for what you've been building toward since Christmas. "When did you decide you didn't want to be with me anymore?"

Joe's expression shifts from confusion to something like annoyance. "What? Y/N, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that you've been acting single for months. I'm talking about the fact that you've erased me from your life so completely that your own teammates think you're available."

"That's not—"

"When was the last time you introduced me as your girlfriend, Joe? When was the last time you posted a photo of us together? When was the last time you mentioned me in an interview about your support system?"

Joe runs his hand through his hair, that familiar gesture that used to seem endearing but now just looks irritated. "Why does everything have to be about social media and interviews? Why can't our relationship just be private?"

"Private and invisible aren't the same thing."

"I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to act like you want to be with me. I want you to stop treating me like I'm some embarrassing secret you have to hide."

Joe leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "I'm not hiding you."

"Really? Because at the Christmas party, you took photos with everyone except me. At the hospital benefit, you talked about pediatric care like you had no personal connection to it while I was standing right there. A Sports Illustrated profile about your entire life mentioned me for exactly zero sentences."

"You're keeping track of magazine articles now?"

"I'm keeping track of being erased from your life!"

The words come out louder than you intended, and Joe flinches slightly.

"You want to know what I think?" he says, his voice getting colder. "I think you're looking for problems that don't exist because you're insecure about me being successful."

The accusation hits like a slap. "Insecure about your success?"

"Yes. You can't handle that my life is bigger now, that I have more obligations, more people depending on me."

"Joe, I've been supporting your dreams since you were riding the bench at Ohio State. I moved my entire life to Cincinnati for your career. I have never, not once, been anything but proud of your success."

"Then what is this about?"

"This is about you changing. About you deciding that the girl who loved you before you were famous isn't good enough for the life you want now."

Joe is quiet for a moment, and in that silence, you see something shift in his expression. Not denial, not confusion. Recognition.

"Maybe," he says slowly, "we're just in different places now."

The words are careful, diplomatic, but they land like a confession.

"Different places," you repeat.

"I'm trying to build something here. A legacy. And maybe... maybe that requires making some choices about what fits and what doesn't."

"And I don't fit."

It's not a question, but Joe answers anyway.

"I don't know."

The honesty is almost worse than a lie would have been. After six years, you've been reduced to "I don't know."

"You know what the worst part is?" you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "It's not that you've changed. People change, I get that. It's that you've been too cowardly to just end things. You've been hoping I'd get the hint and leave so you wouldn't have to be the bad guy."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it? You've been making me smaller and smaller in your life, erasing me bit by bit, hoping I'd just fade away so you could move on without having to actually break up with me."

Joe doesn't deny it, which tells you everything you need to know.

"I think," you say, surprising yourself with how calm you sound, "we should end this."

Joe looks up sharply. "Y/N—"

"No, it's okay. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to keep me around out of guilt or obligation or whatever this has become."

"It's not guilt. I do love you."

"I know you do. But you love the idea of your future more, and I'm not part of that picture anymore."

Joe is quiet, not denying it, not fighting for you, and that tells you everything.

"I'm going to pack some things," you say. "I'll come back for the rest later."

"Where will you go?"

"That's not your problem anymore."

You turn to leave the kitchen, but Joe's voice stops you.

"Y/N. I never meant for it to happen like this."

You look back at him, this man you've loved for six years, who looks genuinely sad but also relieved.

"I know," you say. "But it did happen like this. And we both have to live with that."

* * *

You pack quickly, mechanically, throwing clothes and essentials into suitcases while Joe presumably goes to his training session. You can't think too hard about what you're taking or you'll fall apart.

Your nursing textbooks. Your favorite jeans. The Ohio State sweatshirt you've had since freshman year. A few photos from before everything went wrong.

The wooden box of letters sits in your nightstand drawer, forgotten in your rush to get out. Six years of loving someone documented in careful handwriting, left behind like everything else that used to matter.

When you're done packing, the apartment looks the same except for the empty spaces where your things used to be. Like you were never really there at all.

You leave your key on the kitchen counter next to your coffee cup, still half full and growing cold.

By the time Joe comes home from training, you're gone.

* * *

Two days later, Joe texts you: Can we talk about practical stuff? I want to help with your transition.

You're staying at Emma's, sleeping on her couch and trying to figure out your next move, when the text comes through. You almost don't respond, but there are things you left behind that you need.

You meet him at a coffee shop near the hospital, neutral territory. He looks tired, guilty, like he hasn't been sleeping well.

"I found an apartment for you," he says without preamble. "Downtown, close to the hospital. I want to pay for it."

You stare at him. "What?"

"An apartment, living expenses, and enough money that you can focus on whatever you want to do next without worrying about bills. Ever."

"Joe—"

"I know how this looks, but I just want to make sure you're okay. That you land on your feet."

The offer is generous. Too generous. A one-bedroom downtown would probably cost more than you make in several months, and the financial security would give you time to rebuild without the stress of money.

It would also mean accepting his guilt money. It would mean letting him buy his way out of feeling bad about how he treated you.

"No," you say.

"Y/N, be practical. You've been living a certain way for years now. You shouldn't have to struggle financially because of how this ended."

"No." Your voice is firm. "I don't want your money, Joe."

"Please. Just let me do this one thing right."

"Doing this right would have been having this conversation six months ago instead of making me disappear from your life piece by piece."

Joe's jaw tightens. "I'm trying to help you."

"You're trying to make yourself feel better. And I'm not going to take your money so you can sleep better at night knowing you paid me off."

"That's not what this is."

"That's exactly what this is Joe."

Joe is quiet, and you can see that part of him knows you're right.

"I want to do this," he says finally. "Please let me do this."

"I want to do this myself."

You stand up, leaving your untouched coffee on the table. "I'll get my things this weekend when you're out of town."

"Y/N—"

"I don't want your guilt money, Joe. I want to forget this ever happened and build something that's mine."

You walk away before he can argue, before the practical part of your brain can override your pride, before you can change your mind about money that would solve all your immediate problems.

Because taking his money would mean staying connected to him, staying grateful to him, staying small.

And you're done being small.

* * *

Three weeks later, you sign a lease on a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a decent neighborhood. It's nothing fancy—old hardwood floors, a kitchen barely big enough for one person, a view of the parking lot—but it's yours. Paid for with money you'd saved over the years while Joe covered most of your living expenses.

Emma helps you move your few boxes of belongings. You buy a couch from Facebook Marketplace and hang up photos from before everything went wrong.

It's small and humble and nothing like the life you thought you'd be living at twenty-six, but when you sit on your secondhand couch in your empty living room, you feel something you haven't felt in months:

Peace.

You don't think about Joe during the day when you're busy with patients. You don't check his social media. You don't wonder what he's doing or who he's with.

You think about the little girl in room 304 who's going home next week after three months of treatment. You think about the continuing education class you're taking to specialize in pediatric oncology. You think about the book you're reading and the weekend plans you're making with Emma.

You think about building a life that belongs entirely to you.

And if sometimes you lie awake at night remembering what it felt like to love someone that much, to believe in forever that completely, you remind yourself that loving Joe Burrow was the best and worst thing you ever did.

The best because it taught you how much you were capable of feeling.

The worst because it nearly made you forget how much you were worth.

But you remember now. And that's enough to start over.

* * *

July 2024 - Six Months Later

Melissa finds the box on a Saturday morning while Joe is at training camp.

She's been staying over more frequently lately—nothing serious, just convenient—and Joe mentioned she could reorganize the bedroom furniture if she wanted. "Make it feel more like home," he'd said, though they both know this isn't going anywhere permanent.

"She's moving the nightstand to get better morning light when she notices it's heavier than it should be. When she opens the bottom drawer to see what's weighing it down, there's a wooden box pushed all the way to the back.

It's beautiful—polished wood with delicate metal hinges, the kind of thing someone keeps treasures in. Melissa stares at it for a long moment, knowing she shouldn't be curious about Joe's personal belongings. It's probably documents, maybe family photos, something private that's none of her business.

But something about the box draws her in. It looks old, well-loved, like it holds memories.

She almost closes the drawer and pretends she never saw it. That would be the right thing to do. But her fingers are already reaching for it, already lifting it out to examine the craftsmanship.

The box isn't locked. The hinges open easily, as if they've been opened countless times before.

Inside are letters. Dozens of them, written in careful feminine handwriting on different papers—notebook pages, stationary, hotel letterhead. Some are dated, some aren't. The oldest ones are from 2017, the newest from December 2023.

Melissa's stomach drops. She shouldn't be reading these.

Instead, she picks up the top letter, dated October 15, 2017, and reads the first line:

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

I'm starting this collection because someday you're going to be a famous football player...

Melissa sets the letter down immediately, her heart racing. These aren't just personal—they're love letters. Someone wrote love letters to Joe, and they've been hidden in this drawer for God knows how long.

She should stop reading. Should put everything back and pretend this never happened. Joe's past relationships are none of her business, and reading someone else's private correspondence is a massive violation.

But the date catches her attention. 2017. These letters span years, not months. This wasn't some casual relationship—this was something serious, something long-term that Joe has never once mentioned.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Melissa picks up the letter again and reads the whole thing. Then another. Then another.

By the time she's read five letters, she understands she's holding someone's entire heart in her hands. Six years of love letters from someone named Y/N, documenting a relationship that clearly meant everything to her and apparently meant enough to Joe that he kept every single letter.

But if these letters are so important, why are they hidden in a drawer? Why has Joe never mentioned this woman who obviously loved him completely?

Melissa has heard the name exactly once, in passing, when Joe mentioned his "ex from college" without elaborating. She'd assumed it was some brief relationship, nothing significant enough to discuss.

These letters tell a different story.

She reads about Ohio State, about late nights studying together, about Joe being too nervous to make a move. She reads about LSU and the Heisman and the draft. She reads about moving to Cincinnati together, about building a life, about talks of marriage and forever.

Then she reads about the slow dissolution. About feeling invisible, about being erased from his life, about watching the man she loved become someone who treated her like an inconvenience.

The final letter, dated December 25, 2023, makes Melissa's chest tight:

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you. Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore. And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Melissa sits on the bedroom floor, surrounded by six years of someone else's love story, and feels sick to her stomach.

Not because she's jealous—she and Joe aren't in love, aren't building toward anything serious. But because these letters paint a picture of a man she doesn't recognize. A man who systematically erased someone who loved him completely, who slowly broke someone's heart while they begged him to remember what they used to mean to each other.

When Joe comes home from training, Melissa is sitting at the kitchen island with the wooden box in front of her.

"Hey," he says, dropping his gear bag by the door. "How was your day?"

"I found something," she says quietly.

Joe glances at the box and his face goes completely white. He stares at it like he's seeing a ghost.

"What is that?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I was hoping you could tell me." Melissa's voice is careful, controlled. "I found it in your nightstand drawer when I was moving furniture."

"Joe's face goes completely white when he sees the box. "That's Y/N's. She had it when we moved in, but I never... I never knew what she kept in it."

"Joe—"

"I remember Y/N having this, but I never knew what was in it." He reaches out to touch it, then pulls his hand back. "What's inside?"

"Letters. A lot of them. From her."

Joe's face crumples like he's been hit. He sits down heavily in the chair across from her.

"Y/N wrote me letters?"

"You really didn't know?"

"I had no fucking idea." Joe's voice is strained. "She must have left it when she moved out. I never... I never cleaned out that drawer. I never had any reason to."

Melissa watches his face carefully. The shock seems genuine, but so does something else. Fear, maybe. Or dread.

"Did you read them?"

"Some of them." Melissa's voice is careful, controlled. "Enough."

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of six years of hidden love letters between them.

"She was so in love with you," Melissa says finally. "These letters... they're six years of her heart on paper."

Joe nods, not looking at her.

"And you just... what? Got tired of her?"

"It wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"

Joe runs his hands through his hair, a gesture Melissa now realizes probably drove Y/N crazy with familiarity. "It was complicated."

"She doesn't make it sound complicated. She makes it sound like you decided she wasn't good enough for your new life and slowly pushed her out instead of having the balls to break up with her."

Joe flinches. "That's not what happened."

"What was it then?"

Melissa reaches into the box and pulls out a letter from September 2023. "She writes about your teammate thinking you were single. About you not mentioning her when you talked about your support system." She looks up at Joe. "Sound familiar?"

"You don't understand the pressure I was under—"

"From who? From your agent? Your publicist?" Melissa's voice gets sharper. "Or from yourself because you wanted to be available?"

Joe is quiet.

"There's a letter in here about you liking Instagram photos of other women. About her friends having to tell her because she didn't know." Melissa shakes her head. "That's not pressure, Joe. That's cruelty."

"I never meant to hurt her."

"But you did hurt her. For months. You made someone who loved you feel like they were crazy for expecting basic respect."

Joe finally looks up, and Melissa can see something breaking behind his eyes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Melissa says, standing up and gathering her purse, "I can't be with someone who treats people like that. And because she deserves better than having her love letters hidden in a drawer like they're something to be ashamed of."

She pushes the wooden box across the island toward him.

"Read them," she says. "Read what you threw away. And then figure out how to live with what you did."

After Melissa leaves, Joe sits alone in his kitchen staring at the wooden box. He's never seen it before in his life.

He turns it over in his hands, examining the delicate metal hinges, the worn spots where fingers have traced the edges countless times. It's clearly old, clearly meaningful, clearly not something that belonged to him.

Y/N must have left it behind when she moved out. In six months, he's never cleaned out that nightstand drawer—never had a reason to. He'd assumed she took everything that mattered to her.

The fact that she forgot this, whatever it is, feels significant in a way he can't quite name.

With trembling fingers, Joe opens the box.

His heart stops.

Inside are dozens of letters, some on notebook paper, some on stationary, some on hotel letterhead. They span years—he can see dates ranging from 2017 to 2023. Six years of letters he never knew existed.

Joe picks up the first one with shaking hands, dated October 15, 2017:

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

I'm starting this collection because someday you're going to be a famous football player, and I want to be able to show you that I always knew you could do it...

The words blur as Joe reads about nineteen-year-old Y/N, sitting in her dorm room after their library study session, so sure of his potential that she started documenting her belief in him. She writes about his terrible impression of Coach Meyer, about the way he looked when he talked about football, about being proud to love someone chasing such big dreams.

He had no idea. No idea she was writing to him, about him, for him. No idea she was creating this record of their love story, this proof of her faith in him when he barely had faith in himself.

The second letter is from after their first date, gushing about his nervousness and his sweetness and how she's already falling for the frustrated quarterback who everyone overlooks.

The third is from LSU, about missing him but being so proud of his courage to transfer, so sure he'll prove everyone wrong.

Letter after letter of unwavering support, of love, of belief. Y/N documenting every milestone, every moment of growth, every step of his journey from benchwarmer to Heisman winner to NFL quarterback.

But it's not just about football. She writes about the way he makes her laugh, about his terrible cooking, about lazy Sunday mornings and shared dreams. She writes about loving him not because of what he might become, but because of who he is.

Joe reads for hours, watching their relationship unfold through Y/N's eyes. The joy in her words when he wins the Heisman. The excitement when he gets drafted. The love when they move in together. The security when she writes about their future like it's inevitable, beautiful, certain.

Then come the 2023 letters, and Joe's heart breaks completely.

The shift is gradual at first—confusion replacing confidence, questions replacing certainty. She writes about his Instagram activity, about feeling invisible at events, about being erased from his life piece by piece.

March 15, 2023: When I tried to talk to you about it, you called it "my problem." You acted like my feelings were irrational, like caring about this made me crazy and jealous.

Joe remembers that conversation. He remembers dismissing her concerns, making her feel small for caring. Reading her words now, he sees how cruel he was, how blind.

July 15, 2023: I gave you a watch for your birthday—something I thought you'd actually wear since you're always checking your phone for the time... You said it was thoughtful, but you put it in your pocket and never mentioned it again.

The watch. Joe looks down at his wrist where it sits now, the watch he wears every day but never thinks about. He'd forgotten it was from her, forgotten the love behind the gesture.

December 25, 2023: You don't want to be the bad guy who breaks up with his college girlfriend, so you're just making me disappear instead. Death by a thousand small cuts instead of one clean break.

The accuracy of her observation hits him like a physical blow. That's exactly what he did. Too cowardly to end things cleanly, he slowly erased her instead, hoping she'd fade away so he wouldn't have to face what he was doing.

The final letter, written on Christmas night, destroys him:

I'm writing this letter on Christmas, and it might be the last one I ever write to you. Because I finally understand that you don't want me in your life anymore. And I'm too tired to keep fighting for someone who doesn't want to be fought for.

Joe reads it three times, each word cutting deeper than the last. Y/N, the woman who loved him before anyone believed in him, reduced to begging for basic recognition in her own relationship. Y/N, who documented six years of loving him, finally admitting defeat on Christmas night.

When Joe finally closes the box, the sun is coming up outside his kitchen windows. He's sitting in the same spot where he dismissed her concerns about Instagram, where he made her feel crazy for wanting to matter to him, where he let her walk away rather than fight for what they had.

For six months, he's told himself it was for the best, that they just weren't compatible anymore, that he was doing them both a favor. The letters obliterate every lie he's told himself.

Y/N didn't leave him. He systematically destroyed her until she had no choice but to save herself.

And she'd been documenting it all—not to hurt him, but because she loved him so much she couldn't stop believing their story mattered, even when he was busy erasing her from it.

Joe picks up his phone, Y/N's contact still saved under a heart emoji he never changed. His fingers hover over her name.

But what could he possibly say? How do you apologize for six months of cruelty? How do you explain that you never knew someone was writing love letters to you while you were busy breaking their heart?

How do you ask for forgiveness when you finally understand you don't deserve it?

Joe sets the phone down and stares at the wooden box containing six years of the most genuine love he's ever received. Love he never knew existed, never appreciated, never deserved.

Love he destroyed because he was too blind to see what he had and too selfish to protect it.

For the first time in his adult life, Joe Burrow understands what he's lost. And it's too late to get it back.

* * *

August 2024 - The Unraveling

Joe starts saying no.

No to the networking events that feel hollow. No to the sponsor appearances that require him to be "on" for hours. No to the parties where he doesn't know anyone and everyone wants something from him.

His agent is confused. His publicist is concerned. His teammates start asking if he's okay.

"I'm fine," Joe tells Ja'Marr over lunch. "I'm just trying to figure some things out."

"This about Y/N?" Ja'Marr asks.

Joe looks up sharply. "How did you—"

"Dude, you've been different since she left. And you used to talk about her all the time." Ja'Marr shrugs. "Now you act like she never existed."

"Did I really talk about her that much?"

"Constantly. It was actually annoying. Y/N this, Y/N that. You were gone for that girl."

Something cold washes over Joe. He'd forgotten that version of himself—the one who couldn't shut up about his girlfriend, who was proud to be claimed by someone who chose him when he was nobody.

"What happened? You never told me." Ja'Marr asks.

"I got stupid," Joe says simply. "I thought I wanted something else, and I threw away the best thing I ever had."

* * *

Fall 2024 - The Work

Joe starts seeing a therapist.

Not because anyone suggests it, not because it's trending or good for his image, but because he reads Y/N's letters again and realizes he doesn't understand why he became the person who could treat someone like that.

Dr. Andrews is in her fifties, has probably never watched a football game in her life, and treats Joe like any other patient working through relationship issues.

"Tell me about fame," she says during their third session. "How did it change you?"

"It didn't change me. It just... amplified things."

"What things?"

Joe thinks about this. "The need to be perfect. The fear of being vulnerable. The idea that I had to be worthy of the attention."

"And being in a relationship made you feel unworthy?"

"Being in a relationship made me feel... tied down. Like I was missing out on something."

"What were you missing out on?"

Joe is quiet for a long time. "I don't know. That's the fucked up part. I threw away something real for something that doesn't even exist."

Dr. Andrews nods. "Fame can be a very effective shield against intimacy. It's easier to be loved by thousands of strangers than to be truly known by one person."

The observation hits Joe like a physical blow, because it's exactly right. Loving Y/N required him to be real, to be flawed, to be human. Fame let him be perfect, untouchable, always performing.

* * *

Winter 2024-2025 - The Isolation

Joe spends his first off-season in years actually off. No training camps in exotic locations, no promotional tours, no appearances. Just him, his house, and the uncomfortable silence of not being constantly busy.

He gets back into reading actual books, not just playbooks. He cooks real meals instead of ordering out or having his chef prepare them. He takes long walks without his phone, remembering what it feels like to think without interruption.

He also writes letters he'll never send.

Y/N,

I read your letters. All of them. I had no idea you were writing to me, documenting us, believing in me even when I was too stupid to believe in myself.

I wish I could explain why I became the person who hurt you, but I'm still figuring that out. All I know is that somewhere along the way, I started believing my own hype and forgot that the best parts of my life had nothing to do with football.

You deserved so much better than what I gave you. You deserved to be chosen every day, not slowly erased because I was too cowardly to face what I really wanted.

I hope you're happy. I hope you found someone who appreciates what I was too blind to see.

I hope someday I become worthy of the love you gave me, even if it's too late for us.

Joe

He writes dozens of these letters, each one an attempt to understand what went wrong, to take responsibility, to imagine a version of himself that could have been better.

He never sends them. But writing them helps him understand the difference between regret and genuine remorse.

* * *

Spring 2025 - The Breakthrough

"I think I understand now," Joe tells Dr. Andrews during a session in March. "Why I did what I did."

"Tell me."

"I was terrified of being ordinary. Y/N loved me when I was just a backup quarterback, when I was nobody special. Part of me always worried that if I stayed with her, I'd stay ordinary too."

"And now?"

"Now I realize that being loved for who you really are is the most extraordinary thing in the world. And I gave that up to be loved by people who don't actually know me at all."

Dr. Andrews nods. "That's significant insight, Joe. What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know. She's moved on. She's probably with someone else, someone who deserves her. But I want to become the kind of person who could be worthy of that kind of love, even if it's too late for us."

* * *

Summer 2025 - The Changes

Joe starts living differently.

He buys groceries and cooks his own meals. He calls his parents every week just to talk, not because he needs something. He volunteers at the children's hospital—not for publicity, not for photos, but because Y/N's passion for helping kids finally makes sense to him.

He stops following Instagram models. Stops going to parties where he doesn't know anyone. Stops saying yes to every opportunity just because it might look good.

His social media becomes quieter, more authentic. Less brand management, more actual life.

People notice. Teammates comment that he seems more relaxed, more present. His family says he sounds like himself again for the first time in years.

"You're different," his mom says during a visit home. "More like the Joe we raised."

"I'm trying to figure out who that person is again."

"He's a good person," Robin says. "He just got lost for a while."

* * *

Fall 2025 - The Understanding

Joe has dinner with Tyler and Kierra Boyd, something he hasn't done in years—just dinner, no agenda, no networking.

"Can I ask you something?" Joe says as they're finishing dessert. "How do you stay real when everything around you is fake?"

Tyler and Kierra exchange a look.

"You remember what matters," Kierra says finally. "You remember that the football stuff is what you do, not who you are."

"And you surround yourself with people who knew you before," Tyler adds. "People who'll call you out when you're being an ass."

Joe thinks about Y/N, who used to tease him about his terrible jokes, who kept him grounded without even trying, who saw through his bullshit even when he couldn't.

"I had that," he says quietly. "I threw it away."

"Y/N?" Kierra asks gently.

Joe nods, surprised she remembers.

"She was good for you," Kierra says. "You were different when you were with her. More... yourself."

"I know. I just didn't appreciate it until it was too late."

* * *

2025 - The Growth

Joe's first full year of therapy focuses less on what he did wrong and more on building the person he wants to be going forward.

He learns to sit with uncomfortable emotions instead of numbing them with work or distractions. He practices vulnerability in small ways—admitting when he doesn't know something, asking for help, letting people see him struggle.

He dates occasionally, but nothing serious. Partly because he's still working on himself, partly because everyone feels like a pale imitation of what he had with Y/N.

"I keep comparing them to her," he tells Dr. Andrews.

"That's natural. She was a significant relationship."

"It's more than that. She was... home. She was the only person who made me feel like I could stop performing and just be."

"Do you think you could create that feeling with someone else?"

"Maybe. But not until I can be that person without needing someone else to bring it out of me."

* * *

Early 2027 - The Readiness

By his third year of therapy, Joe has become someone he actually likes. Someone who can sit in silence without needing constant stimulation. Someone who asks his friends about their lives instead of waiting for his turn to talk. Someone who volunteers because he wants to help, not because it looks good.

He's still successful, still driven, still competitive. But those things don't define him anymore.

"I think I'm ready," he tells Dr. Andrews during one of their sessions.

"Ready for what?"

"To be in a real relationship again. To be the kind of partner someone deserves."

"What would that look like?"

"Present. Honest. Willing to be vulnerable. Someone who chooses their partner every day, not just when it's convenient."

Dr. Andrews smiles. "That sounds like growth."

"I know she's probably moved on. I know I probably lost my chance with her forever. But if I ever get another opportunity to love someone that completely, I want to be ready for it."

* * *

Late 2027 - The Invitation

The wedding invitation arrives on a Tuesday in October: Kyle McClain & Emily Stevens request your presence...

Joe remembers Jake from Ohio State—offensive lineman, good guy, someone who knew both him and Y/N back when they were just college kids figuring things out.

His first instinct is to decline. Weddings are complicated, full of people from his past who might ask questions he's not ready to answer.

But then he thinks about the person he's become over the past three years. Someone who can handle awkward conversations. Someone who doesn't need to perform or impress. Someone who can show up as himself and be okay with that.

He RSVP's yes.

He doesn't let himself think about whether Y/N might be there. He goes because Jake is a good friend and because he wants to celebrate love, even if his own chance at it might be gone forever.

But as he drives to Columbus the morning of the wedding, Joe allows himself one small hope: that if he does see Y/N, she'll be able to see the man he's worked so hard to become.

The man who finally understands what he lost.

The man who might, just might, be worthy of a second chance.

* * *

October 2027 - Columbus, Ohio

Joe sees her before she sees him.

She's standing near the bar at Kyle and Emily's wedding reception, wearing a navy blue dress that skims her knees, her hair longer than he remembers and pulled back in a way that shows off the elegant line of her neck. She's laughing at something the woman next to her is saying, and the sound carries across the room like a melody he'd forgotten he knew.

For a moment, Joe can't breathe. Three and a half years of therapy, of growth, of becoming someone better, and the sight of Y/N still hits him like a physical force.

But this time, it's different. This time, he doesn't feel the desperate, possessive ache he might have felt years ago. Instead, he feels something quieter, more complex—a mixture of joy at seeing her looking so genuinely happy and a profound sadness for everything they lost.

She looks good. More than good. She looks like she's thriving.

Joe stays where he is for a few minutes, just watching her interact with the other guests. She's confident in a way she never quite was when they were together, engaging in conversation with an ease that seems effortless. When she throws her head back and laughs at something, Joe can see that this is who she was always meant to become.

He's about to turn away—maybe slip out early, let her enjoy the evening without the complication of his presence—when she glances around the room and her eyes land on him.

The recognition is instant. Her smile fades slightly, not in an unfriendly way, but in the way of someone who's just been reminded of a different lifetime. They stare at each other across the crowded reception hall, and Joe feels like they're nineteen again, meeting for the first time in that orientation session.

Y/N says something to the woman she's talking to, then begins making her way across the room. Joe's heart rate picks up, but he stays put, letting her come to him.

"Joe," she says when she reaches him. Her voice is warm but careful. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"Y/N." He smiles, hoping it looks more natural than it feels. "You look... you look really good."

"Thank you. So do you."

There's an awkward pause as they both try to navigate this moment. The last time they saw each other, she was packing boxes and leaving their shared life behind. Now they're adults at a mutual friend's wedding, trying to figure out how to have a normal conversation.

"Beautiful ceremony," Y/N says, falling back on safe territory.

"Yeah, Kyle looked like he was about to cry during the vows."

"He did cry. I saw him wiping his eyes when Emily was walking down the aisle."

Joe smiles. "Good for him. They seem really happy together."

The conversation continues in careful, polite territory for a few more minutes. They talk about the wedding, about how good Kyle and Emily look together, about how strange it is to be back in Columbus. Neither of them mentions their past directly, but it hangs between them like a third person in the conversation.

Then Y/N mentions, "I actually moved to Chicago about a year ago."

"Chicago," Joe repeats. "That's great. For work?"

"Partly. I got into a pediatric oncology program at Northwestern. It's what I always wanted to do."

"I should probably go find my table," Y/N says eventually. "It was good to see you, Joe."

"Wait," Joe says, surprising himself. "Would you like to dance? I mean, if you're not here with someone..."

Y/N hesitates for a moment, and Joe can see her weighing the decision. "I'm not here with anyone," she says finally. "And... okay. One dance."

The band is playing something slow and romantic as Joe leads Y/N to the dance floor. When he places his hand on her waist and she puts her hand on his shoulder, muscle memory takes over. They fit together the same way they always did, her head at the perfect height to rest against his chest if she wanted to.

She doesn't, keeping a careful distance between them, but Joe can smell her perfume—something different than what she used to wear, more sophisticated—and feel the warmth of her hand in his.

"This is weird," Y/N says with a small laugh.

Joe nods. "I was thinking the same thing."

They dance in silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Joe wants to say so many things—wants to apologize, wants to explain, wants to tell her about the letters and the therapy and the person he's become. But he also knows that this moment isn't about him or what he needs to say.

"You seem happy," he says instead.

"I am," Y/N replies, and there's something in her voice that tells him she's surprised by her own certainty. "It took a while, but I am."

"I'm glad."

"Are you? Happy, I mean."

Joe considers this. "I'm better. I'm not the same person I was when... when we ended things."

"None of us are the same people we were at twenty-six."

"No, I mean really different. I spent a lot of time figuring out why I became someone who could hurt you like that."

Y/N looks up at him, and for the first time tonight, he sees something vulnerable in her expression. "Joe..."

"I'm not trying to relitigate the past," he says quickly. "I just wanted you to know that I understand now. What I did, why it was wrong, why you deserved so much better."

"I appreciate that," Y/N says quietly.

The song is ending, and Joe knows this moment is almost over. When the music stops, Y/N will go back to her table, and he'll go back to his, and they'll finish the evening as polite acquaintances who used to mean everything to each other.

"Y/N," he says as the final notes play. "I know this might be presumptuous, and I know you probably have a whole life in Chicago that I don't know anything about, but... would you have dinner with me sometime? Just dinner. Just to talk."

Y/N is quiet for so long that Joe starts to prepare himself for rejection. But then she looks up at him with those same eyes that used to watch him across library tables and football stadiums, and he sees something he hadn't dared hope for.

Curiosity. Interest. Maybe even a little bit of the old warmth.

"I'd like that," she says simply.

The music stops, and they step apart, but neither of them moves to leave the dance floor immediately.

"I'm flying back to Chicago tomorrow night," Y/N says. "But I'll be in Cincinnati next month for a conference."

"Text me," Joe says. "When you know your schedule."

"I will."

They stand there for another moment, both seeming to realize that something significant has just happened. Not a reconciliation, not a grand romantic gesture, but something quieter and more important. A door opening, just a crack, to the possibility of finding out who they might be to each other now.

"I should let you get back to the celebration," Joe says finally.

"Yeah," Y/N agrees, but she's smiling now, a real smile that reaches her eyes. "It was really good to see you, Joe."

"You too."

Joe watches her walk back to her table, where her friends immediately lean in to ask what that was all about. He can see her laughing, shaking her head, probably deflecting their questions with the same grace she's always had.

He doesn't stay much longer after that. He makes his rounds, congratulates Jake and Emily, and slips out before the bouquet toss. But as he drives back to Cincinnati, Joe feels something he hasn't felt in years.

Hope.

Not the desperate, grasping hope of someone trying to reclaim the past, but the quiet, mature hope of someone who's done the work to become worthy of a future.

Y/N said she'd text him. Maybe she will, maybe she won't. Maybe dinner will lead to more conversations, or maybe it will give them both the closure they need to finally move on completely.

But for the first time since he read those letters in his kitchen three years ago, Joe Burrow allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the best love stories are the ones that teach you how to love better the second time around.

* * *

November 2027 - Cincinnati

The restaurant Joe chooses is small and quiet, the kind of place that values conversation over ambiance. Y/N arrives exactly on time, wearing a simple black sweater and jeans, looking nervous but determined.

"Hi," she says, sliding into the booth across from him.

"Hi," Joe replies, and they both laugh a little at the awkwardness of it all.

For the first hour, they stick to safe topics. Her work at Northwestern, his off-season training, mutual friends from Ohio State, the food. But gradually, carefully, they begin to venture into deeper waters.

"I read about your foundation work," Y/N says over dessert. "The literacy program you started. That's really beautiful, Joe."

"Thanks. It actually started because of something you said once. About how reading was the first way you learned to escape when things got hard."

Y/N looks surprised. "You remembered that?"

"I remember a lot of things I wish I'd paid attention to at the time."

They're quiet for a moment, the weight of their history settling between them.

"I found your letters," Joe says finally. "After we... after you left. I had no idea you'd been writing them."

Y/N's cheeks flush slightly. "I forgot them when I packed. I almost came back for them, but..."

"I'm glad you didn't. Reading them made me understand what I'd actually lost. What I'd thrown away."

"Joe—"

"I know we can't go back," he says quickly. "I know too much happened, too much hurt. But Y/N, these past three years, I've done everything I could to become someone worthy of the love you gave me. Not to win you back, just to... to honor it, I guess."

Y/N reaches across the table and touches his hand briefly. "I can see that. The way you are tonight, it's different. You're present in a way you never were before."

"Are you happy?" Joe asks. "In Chicago, with your life?"

"I am," she says, but then adds quietly, "but I think I could be happy other places too. With the right person."

They look at each other across the table, both understanding that something fundamental is shifting between them.

"I don't want to rush anything," Joe says. "I don't want to mess this up again."

"Good," Y/N replies with a small smile. "Because I'm not twenty-six anymore. I know what I'm worth now."

"You're worth everything," Joe says simply. "I just hope I'm finally worthy of you."

When they leave the restaurant three hours later, Joe walks Y/N to her rental car. They stand in the parking lot, neither wanting the evening to end.

"I fly back tomorrow," Y/N says.

"I know."

"But I could come back. For another dinner. If you'd like that."

Joe's smile is soft and genuine. "I'd like that very much."

This time, when he kisses her goodnight, it feels like a beginning.

[sayyestoheav3nn]

Withered 🥀

roman x black!oc

warnings: angst

word count: 1.1k

a/n: this is short i wrote a few days ago. been sitting on it and debating if it’s even worth posting… but, my goal this summer is to put my writing insecurities aside, and push myself…so, here we are lol.

if you would like to be added to my tag list, click here :)

“It’s always going to be her…isn’t it?”

Roman remained silent as his fingers slowly unclenched the doorknob. His gaze redirected back to his wife who now had tears forming in her eyes.

“Amara….”

“It doesn’t matter how many times I apologize…or try to fix things…” He watched as her fingers trembled while she nervously fiddled with her wedding ring, her voice was low and strained. 

He lowered his head as he ran his hand down his beard, “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth….that you want her not me,” her soft voice broke as she began to wipe tears from her eyes. 

The truth was something he had been refusing to admit or acknowledge for a while now. He wasn’t just lying to his wife…he was lying to himself.

If he was being completely honest, there wasn’t a fucking day that went by where he didn’t think of her. He missed waking up and looking into those beautiful hazel eyes that bore into his soul, or feeling her curls on his chest as he ran his fingers across her soft skin.

She was the only person who managed to make him smile when his life went to shit. The night he told her his last goodbye in an attempt to save his marriage, was easily one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. Months have passed since he’d last seen her, and every day he wonders if she thinks of him as much as he does of her. His chest grows heavy at the thought of her finding someone and moving on, though deep down he knows it’s what she deserves. He wants her to be happy. Yet, a selfish part of him, wants to be the only man to give her that.

He memorized the saltiness of her tears as he kissed her for the last time. He lost count at the amount of sinful nights they spent entangled with one another, never forgetting the way she held him close as he fucked her like no one else but them existed. From the moment Mia whispered her name in his ear, he was enamored with her. What started as a distraction and resentment towards his wife, turned into something completely different. 

Something that would change him forever.

Amara studied him in disbelief, her bottom lip trembled as her tears increased, his silence said more than words ever could. Yet, that wasn't enough, she needed to hear the words leave his mouth, “Roman, answer me. Just fucking say it!”

She watched as he sat at the edge of the bed, his gaze focused on the ground as his jaw clenched the way it usually does when he’s stressed or pissed. Something that once turned her on, now made her sick to her stomach. 

Her anger and frustration grew to the point where she began to march in front of him, forcing him to look at her, “You’re really going to let that whore get in between us?”

At that his attention was fully on her, irritation quickly forming on his face, “Don’t do that shit.”

“Don’t do w—”

“You don’t get to make her the villain, our relationship was fucked before I met her. You did that Amara, not her.”

She knelt in front of him placing her shaky hand over his, “You said you’d give me a chance, that—that you’d give us a chance—”

“Amara, all we do is fucking fight. It’s clear that you don’t trust me, and that I don’t trust you...”

“I—I can’t lose you…I love you.”

He chuckled humorlessly, “Then where the hell was that love when you decided to fuck my cousin, huh?’’

Her eyes instantly shut, “Roman, if I could take it back, I would.”

“But, you can’t can you?” He jerked his hand away, “He was like a brother to me… do you know how that fucking feels?”

Amara sat on the floor pulling her knees towards her chest, her tears and sobs no longer held back, “I can’t turn back time and undo what I did, I—I don’t know what else to do… just tell me, tell me and I’ll do it.”

Seeing his wife cry, hurt him. But, sleeping with one of the closest people to him, someone who he truly believed would be by his side till the day he died, was something he finally realized was unforgivable. 

The situation between them was to the point of no return. What they had was toxic and unhealthy. A part of him will always have love for her, and it’s for that exact reason he needed to do what was best for them. 

He needed to leave, and this time for good. 

Roman reached out a hand towards her helping her to get back on her feet. She looked up at him slightly confused. He used his thumbs to wipe her mascara stained tears. Her eyes locked on his as he used his fingers to gently hold up her chin.

“I tried to forgive you, Amara, I really did. But, I can’t…just the thought of you and him, hurts me in the worst fucking way imaginable…” 

She held him tightly as she began to sob into him, Roman’s hand held the back of her head as he pulled her closer, “That doesn’t change the fact that I hurt you too. I shouldn’t have gotten revenge, you didn’t deserve that either. I don’t think the love I have or had for you will ever just disappear, but we can—”

“Then why can’t you fight for us?” Amara let go of him, slowly pulling away to look him in his eyes, “Don’t tell me that…that you love her?”

His eyes closed, “It’s not that simple…”

“Leave.”

“What?”

She reached for the nearest lamp quickly throwing it in his direction, missing him by literal inches, “Get the fuck away from me!”

The damage between their marriage was irreversible, there was no point in arguing anymore. He didn’t say a word and turned to walk away, her sharp voice cut through the room, “When you walk out that door…there’s no turning back. We’re done.”

Roman paused before slowly walking back towards her, he carefully placed his wedding ring on the nightstand next to her, “Our marriage died a long time ago. I was just too fucking blind to see it…”

[myglowupera]

Hot Girl Summer Guide (for real this time)

Have you ever spent the whole month of May convinced you're going to become a new person by September? Maybe you pictured yourself waking up at sunrise for yoga and journaling, running five miles a day and mastering the art of painting... only to wake up three months later with nothing to show for it but a vague tan line and disappointment?

Yeah. Same.

If your answer is "yes", congratulations, you are tragically self-aware and exactly who this post is for. If your answer is "no", well, congratulations to you, perfect being. You can keep scrolling and go back to you effortless, flawless existence. We'll be over here, working through our annual identity crisis.

Because listen, this is the last summer we let ourselves down. When next summer comes around, we'll also be one of those perfect beings who answered "no" to that question.

Here's how this is going to work.

step 1. create achievable goals (like actually achievable)

Key word here, achievable. If you have never touched a violin in your life, maybe don't aim to become a concert soloist by August. Instead, try choosing goals that feel doable but still meaningful, things that won’t make you want to fake your own disappearance by mid-July

And because I’m chronically over-organized (and possibly spiraling), I’ve broken mine down into categories:

Daily goals:

Consistent skincare routine

Some sort of daily movement that isn’t just walking to and from the couch

Weekly goals:

Baking or cooking something that doesn’t involve a microwave

Journaling (even if it’s just rage-writing)

Catching up with long-distance friends so they don’t forget I exist

Overall goal:

Finally get my driver’s license. For real this time. I have been a passenger princess for too long

step 2. visualize how to achieve those goals

Now that we’ve established what we want, it’s time to face the real question: how?

Like, yes, I want glowing skin and inner peace, but where exactly does that fit between my 4-hour doomscrolling sessions?

So let’s break it down:

What time of day will you tackle daily goals? Morning? Post-nap?

Which day of the week is “Friend Catch-Up Thursday”? (Trademark it.)

What does progress even look like? Maybe it’s not perfect; maybe it’s just "slightly better than last week."

step 3. trick yourself into motivation

This is personally where I struggle the most, so here is what's helped me trick myself into actually trying:

A pinterest vision board that could be defined as "aspirational yet delusional"

Checklists (there is nothing like crossing things off)

Writing down a motivational speech that I then read every single day (listen, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do)

Following people online who are doing what I want to be doing (and resisting the urge to hate them for it)

step 4. actually do the work (sorry)

This is the part where I tell you that no amount of Pinterest boards will magically give you a six-pack, glowing skin, or a driver’s license.

You have to actually...do the things. I know. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.

step 5. keep track of your commitments like semi-functional adult

There are a million ways to track progress, so pick your poison:

A color-coded Notion page

A chaotic bullet journal

An Excel spreadsheet that you pretend to understand

Whatever helps you see your progress without spiraling into performance anxiety, go with that.

step 6. bribe yourself (strategically)

Don’t forget to reward yourself. No one’s going to hand you a gold star for drinking water and doing 10 squats, but you can promise yourself an overpriced coffee or a guilt-free Netflix binge. Rewards are valid. Bribery works. This is self-development, not torture.

--------------- <3 ---------------

So, this summer, let’s be the people we pretend to be on our Instagram stories. Or at least slightly improved versions of our current selves.

And hey, if it doesn’t all go perfectly? There’s always next summer (just kidding, we are not doing this again).

And if this seems too daunting, good news: we are all in this together (if you didn't read that singing, read it again). I'm posting weekly updates, and you’re officially invited to join me in the struggle of pretending we have our lives together.

[fizpup]

resemblance (lol)

[kari-go]

godsona or something

[necrotic-nephilim]

i love your fics and the ideas you describe for the ask games. i'm especially fond of your takes on the rarer pairings and i always smile when i see your posts in the ship tags <3

and don't stress too much about not posting anything, real life is important and participating in fandom should be fun, not something you have to force yourself to do. god knows fandom burnout is real, especially if you feel like people are expecting something from you. just keep doing what makes you happy :)

ghgfhgjhkjhjhg this was so sweet, thank you so much! i *love* talking about rarer rarepairs, especially if it gets other people to ship them too. the popular ships are fun and all, but i truly love spreading rarepair propaganda.

that's very reassuring, thank you <3 i've loved everything i posted here so far and have not felt pushed to post anything i haven't enjoyed, but sometimes i forget i can like. use this blog for whatever i want and not *just* headcanons/fics/mets/etc lol. and i also forget i don't have to rush myself. it's annoying to want to write and either not have time or not have the words work. i used to run a fandom blog in my teens that got very large and felt like a chore and i was so stressed about the need to perform and the numbers and all of that. like if a fic didn't do well i saw it as a personal failing and forced myself to write popular headcanons just for the numbers game. was not fun or sustainable in the long run and i think it contributed to me no longer having any taste for the ship i primarily wrote for. so for too long i treated existing in fandom like a job lol. i've mostly gotten it through to myself that this is a space for me, but i occasionally forget when i'm so caught up in all the things i want to get to for this blog. my to-write list is a mile long and i need to be bonked with a paper towel roll, i think. so it's very kind of you to say this bc the reminder is nice <3

[flightlesstrash]

do you ever just dissociate so hard from looking through stuff from your past that you feel like the you that existed during those times

like a you that is a different person with their own memories and way of thinking and feeling and theyre still you but it doesnt feel like it at all

is this even coherent

[residenthomelessguy]

her name was jenny. there's no need to pester you, her name was jenny. and you were ted. you made each other very happy, once upon a time. but nothing lasts forever.

She.... I...

[Jenny. That was right. She was much clearer in Theo's mind now with the name. It was a name that brought back vivid memories of joy and pain alike.]

[Ted.]

[It's like everything re-clicked back into place in his mind as soon as he had his name. Everything from before was now also clearing. Theo knew. He remembered. Years upon years of repression and confusion started clearing itself up in an instant.]

[Ted knew who he was.]

[penisbilt]

the bittersweet but absolute flood of relief that comes from admitting defeat at living independently, to have to move back in with parents. we tried! we gave it our best shot for almost 3 years! but living like this (being on our own) is just not possible for us at this time of our lives. we've finally proved it to ourselves that we can't do it. it'll be okay to let ourselves rest now

[leatherbookmark]

"I know why you want to return to our world, Meggie! You just miss your boyfriend! But we haven't seen everything of this beautiful world yet!" Mr Mortimer sir your wife was enslaved for working as a scribe disguised as a man. In this world women are punished for learning their fathers' craft and your thirteen years old daughter would be already married if she was born in this world. I know the books are very pretty but Mo your wife is pregnant. I don't think they have c-sections here :(

[petriichvrs]

FOUR YEARS  OF  NOXTMS  /  six  characters  !

ft. @viiktorious ( my absolute favorite take on viktor, in the sense that no one else could ever really compare. i think you write him so well when it would be so easy for him to be very oversimplified, and one of the most pleasant surprises of this year - at least so far - has been you bringing him back to the dash ! ), @hoggleswart ( i don't know how well documented my 'sarah shahi deserves to be used more in the rpc' movement is here in nox, but i have been leading that charge for so many years and i was already so invested in roshana before you ticked all my favorite boxes in a character. i love ocs connected to existing canons in ways other than siblings or children, and i'm always a sucker for someone achingly sad ! ), @hcldmybroom ( not unlike the above, i have been wanting ambika to become the next big thing for so long that i, again, was always predisposed to loving a character using her ! there is so much - so far - untapped potential for drama with minette that makes me gleeful, and i really, really enjoy what i have seen of them so far ! ), @chacswins ( this guy is always gonna hurt my heart, and i'm always gonna be way more into that than i should be</3 you and sam are neck to neck in my personal 'most anticipated returns' list, and i'm so happy to be able to play around with you in all the angsty ways i've grown to love playing around with you in over the years of friendship and development we've had ! i'm so fond of damien in a way i think doesn't get expressed enough, and so grateful that his existence has provided me with 1. a whole character, in luca and 2. so many new layers for other characters ! ), @tosteelisms ( cara macdonald, my beloved, i am so glad that someone has finally given you a chance to thrive when you have so deserved it for so long ! she's one of my most adored creations, here, and i am so glad that i was able to entrust her into such capable hands ! you came into nox swinging, and i have loved seeing her form ! ), @acritudos ( last, but not at all least. theo nott was talked about at such length for so long that it would have been so easy for him to lose momentum but. of course. that was never going to happen in your hands. he is everything i've always dreamed of and more in terms of all the various dynamics i always wanted - with pansy, with the slytherin gang as a whole, with astoria, with ginny. with everyone, really ! - and of course it would be you that would give me those goods. how on earth could i expect any differently ! as always, i feel very lucky to write with you and develop such complex connections with you, and i hope that never changes<3 ) !

[worstlesbianever]

starting the new stardew update grind

nobody talk to me for the next 72 hours im busy having pronouns

[3amsnek]

new icon time bc the moment we hit double digits on the halloween countdown my brain genuinely straight up forgot it was still summer