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mrs-delaney · 3 months ago

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Hide | Making Space | Chapter 6

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 17.4k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, miscommunication, intimate moments, and that heart-wrenching feeling when you're thousands of miles apart but somehow closer than ever

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

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

📌 Requests: Open

Author's Note:

Distance has a way of crystallizing what matters. This chapter explores what happens in the aftermath of New Orleans—when color-coded calendars meet chaotic scheduling, when digital connections replace physical touch, and when the barrier between casual and significant starts to blur.

For Joe, it's the unsettling realization that he can't game-plan falling for someone. When a quarterback who's built his career on preparation and control suddenly finds himself refreshing his messages and calling from parking lots, something fundamental has shifted. The impersonal space he's carefully maintained suddenly feels empty without her chaos to fill it.

For Riley, it's navigating the weight of past relationships while trying not to repeat old patterns. It's about finding the balance between protecting herself and allowing this new connection room to breathe. When she instinctively keeps her birthday private, it's not about secrecy—it's about safeguarding something that feels too important to risk.

I wanted to capture that unique intimacy that grows in absence—how vulnerability sometimes flows easier through phone lines than in person. The way their connection deepens not just through desire, but through those quiet moments of honesty: Joe admitting he misses her, Riley sharing glimpses of her world in Italy, both of them realizing that "different worlds" might be exactly what they each need.

What happens when misunderstandings arise and boundaries are tested? When two people with fundamentally different approaches to life try to understand each other across oceans? This chapter explores these questions as Joe and Riley navigate not just distance, but the growing realization that whatever this is between them has quietly become vital.

The casual connection that began on Fallon's stage is evolving with every text, every call, every confession in the dark. And sometimes, it's the smallest gestures that reveal the most about where things truly stand.

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

I can't wait to hear what you think of this one! 🎵💫 Asks are open lets talk about this one.

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe sat at his kitchen island, scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow. His body was still warm from his morning workout, his protein shake half-finished beside him. The adrenaline from New Orleans hadn’t quite faded—nine days since Mardi Gras, and he still couldn’t shake the way the city had seeped into his bones. He’d spent those nine days trying to settle back into his routine, but his thoughts kept drifting to emerald walls, jazz clubs, and a parade float where he’d had more fun than he’d had in years.

His schedule for March was brutal—training, sponsor meetings, media obligations, barely a handful of unscheduled days. Every time he looked at it, frustration settled in his chest like a weight. Finding time to see Riley again felt like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces, each glance at his calendar only heightening his sense of disappointment.

He typed out a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. Too eager. Too formal. Too... He took a breath and just sent it.

Joe: Hey, this might sound weirdly formal, but what's your email? I want to share my calendar with you so we can figure out when we can see each other next.

That was at 7:42 a.m. By noon, she still hadn't responded. Joe didn't take it personally—Riley was not a morning person, a fact she'd made abundantly clear multiple times. He smiled, remembering how she'd groaned dramatically and buried herself deeper under the covers when he'd suggested a 9 a.m. breakfast during Mardi Gras. If she was that resistant about 9 a.m., a text before 8 stood no chance. But as the hours ticked by, he found himself checking his phone more than he'd like to admit, more than made any logical sense for someone he'd only known a few weeks.

He went through his usual routine—ate his carefully portioned lunch, reviewed game film with mechanical focus, sat through a tedious call with his agent—but his attention kept drifting, thoughts of New Orleans intruding at unexpected moments. The memory of Riley's laugh. The way her house had smelled like vanilla and something earthy. The feeling of her hand in his as they'd wandered the parade route.

It wasn't until well into the afternoon that his screen finally lit up with her name, and he was embarrassed by how quickly he reached for the phone.

Riley: [email protected]... 😂 sorry, just saw this. was very busy doing nothing important while recovering from actually important things I did until 3am

Joe immediately opened his calendar app, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with his earlier workout. He shared his entire schedule, color-coded by commitment type—green for training, blue for media, yellow for sponsor events—with every potentially free slot precisely marked. Without saying anything more, he sent the calendar invitation to her email.

A few minutes later, his phone chimed.

Riley: Your is schedule color-coded and annotated? I'm oddly charmed by this.

Joe smiled, pleased she'd noticed the effort he'd put into organizing everything.

Joe: Thought it would be the most efficient way to find when we can see each other again.

Riley: I guess this means I should send you mine too? Fair warning—it's chaos.

Minutes later, another notification came through. Joe tapped open the photo she'd sent and immediately huffed out a quiet laugh that echoed in his empty kitchen.

Her calendar was absolute madness.

Joe: This is... concerning. How do you ever get anywhere on time?

Events overlapped haphazardly, some had no times attached at all. There were cryptic notes ("G + L thing???" and "Call Pete re: bridges"), entire days blocked off simply as "WRITE", and—most concerning—things like "Existential Crisis Time" and "Don't Talk to Me" randomly scattered throughout like emotional landmines.

Riley: Bold of you to assume I do.

His eyes caught on March 14-22, completely blocked off in red with just the word "ITALY" in all caps.

Joe's thumb hovered over the screen, something tight and uncomfortable forming in his stomach. He set his phone down, staring at the granite countertop of his island.

Joe: You're going to Italy?

The three dots appeared quickly this time.

Riley: Yeah, annual trip with the band and my girls. We go every year. Tiny little vineyard in the middle of nowhere. Best week of the year.

Joe exhaled slowly, setting his phone down on the counter with careful deliberation. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly aware of how quiet his apartment was, how orderly and impersonal compared to the chaotic warmth of Riley's New Orleans home.

He wasn't sure why the disappointment hit so hard. They'd known each other less than a month. This wasn't—shouldn't be—something that occupied so much space in his thoughts.

He'd been hoping to fly her out to Cincinnati soon—maybe even next week—but now? Now, he had to wait.

Joe picked up his phone again, scrolling through April with renewed determination, already looking for their next chance, trying not to examine too closely why waiting another month felt suddenly impossible.

His own reaction troubled him. This wasn't like him—this itchy impatience, this disproportionate disappointment. He was Joe Burrow. He didn't get thrown off balance by a blocked week on a calendar. He adjusted. Recalculated. Moved on.

But as he stared at the screen, at the sea of commitments that would keep them apart for weeks, something tightened in his chest that felt uncomfortably like missing her—which made no logical sense at all.

Joe: We'll figure something out. I'm pretty good at finding openings in tight coverage.

He hit send before he could overthink it, and her response came back almost instantly.

Riley: Was that a football metaphor? God, you're such a dork. I like it.

Another text followed quickly:

Riley: But see all those little white gaps between the chaos? Those are yours if you want them.

Joe read the message twice, something warm blooming in his chest despite the lingering disappointment about Italy.

Joe: I want them.

Joe smiled, the disappointment easing just slightly. If he couldn't see her yet, at least he had this—these messages that somehow made his house feel less quiet, that made him smile at his phone while standing in his kitchen.

A few days later, Joe was at a high-end training facility, mid-workout, while a camera crew documented everything for his latest sponsorship deal. It was one of those "authentic but staged" shoots—him running drills, lifting weights, and wiping sweat off his face between takes, all while wearing the latest performance gear they were paying him to promote.

Mark Caldwell stood near the squat rack, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing up to make sure Joe wasn't scowling too hard at the cameras.

When they called for a break, Joe grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. Mark took that as his cue.

"So," Mark said, leaning against the wall. "How was New Orleans?"

Joe took a long sip of water. "Good."

Mark gave him a flat look. "That's all I get?"

Joe shrugged, clearly not in the mood for a debrief. "What else do you want?"

Mark sighed, crossing his arms. "I don't know. Maybe some insight into why you suddenly decided Mardi Gras was the perfect time for a 'quick getaway.'"

Joe didn't answer. He just kept drinking his water.

Mark sighed. "You seeing her again?"

Joe shot him a look, then answered without hesitation. "Yup."

Mark huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Just… be smart."

Joe didn't respond. Mostly because he didn't have an answer yet.

Except he did.

Because later that afternoon, he was still thinking about her.

Joe was sprawled out on his couch, aimlessly scrolling through Instagram when he saw it. Riley’s latest post. A mirror selfie from yoga. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, damp strands clinging to her neck.

Her skin was still flushed from exertion, lips slightly parted, leggings hugging every curve in a way that made his breath catch. The thin fabric of her sports bra clung to her body, leaving little to the imagination—and his imagination was already working overtime.

The caption?

Back at it. Barely.

Joe wasn’t reading. His thumb hovered over the screen, eyes dragging over the curve of her waist, the strength in her shoulders, the hint of collarbone visible above the neckline of her top. He exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly on the couch before switching apps.

Joe: Yoga, huh? A few minutes passed before she answered.

Riley: You like what you see, Burrow?

Joe smirked, tongue running along the inside of his cheek. He hesitated, then typed:

Joe: Send me a picture.

Riley: You just saw one.

Joe: Yeah, but that one was for Instagram. Not for me.

A pause. Three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared.

Riley: Demanding, aren’t you?

A moment later, another picture came through.

This one was different.

A mirror selfie taken in what looked like her bathroom, the vanity lights casting a soft glow around her. Her hair was wet and slicked back, water droplets still visible on her skin. She wore a leopard-print bra and matching underwear, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. The set sat low on her hips, revealing the toned plane of her stomach, her legs slightly parted as she leaned into the mirror.

Her posture was confident—one hip cocked slightly, her fingers just barely hooked into the waistband of her underwear. No teasing smile this time, just pure, deliberate intent in her gaze, like she knew exactly what effect this would have on him.

Joe exhaled sharply, gripping his phone a little tighter. His free hand ran over his jaw, a slow drag as he tried to temper the heat creeping through his body. He saved the image to his camera roll without hesitation, his thumb brushing across the screen as if he could somehow touch her through it.

Joe: That's more like it.

Riley: Your turn. Make it good.

Joe huffed a quiet laugh and lifted his phone, angling the camera downward. He didn't overthink it—just snapped the picture, raw and unfiltered.

One arm still behind his head, his body relaxed, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The frame captured just enough—the defined muscles of his chest and abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones disappearing beneath the waistband. His expression was calm, effortless, but there was an undeniable confidence in his eyes—self-assured, knowing exactly what he was doing.

He hit send.

Riley's response was immediate.

Riley: Fuck.

A pause.

Riley: Not that I forgot, but damn.

Joe grinned, rolling onto his side, phone still in hand.

Joe: We could always FaceTime.

The response came almost instantly.

Riley: Call me.

Joe tapped the FaceTime button without hesitation. The quiet of his apartment seemed to amplify as he waited for her to answer, his focus sharpening in a way that normally only happened on the field.

Three rings in, the screen lit up with Riley's face. She was in her bathroom, still wearing that leopard print set, hair wet from the shower and slicked back from her face. She'd propped her phone against something, both hands now free as she rubbed moisturizer into her neck.

"Well, hello there, stranger," she said, her voice a touch deeper than usual, eyes meeting his through the screen with a look that made the distance between Cincinnati and LA feel suddenly, painfully vast.

His gaze caught briefly on her wrist, where the faded purple and gold of his LSU bracelet stood out against her skin. The sight of it there, after he'd given it to her in New Orleans, sent an unexpected surge of warmth through his chest.

"Hey." Joe's voice was steady, deliberate. He adjusted his position on the couch, angling the phone with precision so the light from the window caught him better.

"I'm glad you took me up on the FaceTime offer," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

Riley raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. "How could I refuse after that picture?"

"Fair point," Joe replied, his eyes tracking her movements with unmasked interest as she continued her post-shower routine.

"You're staring," she noted, not looking away from the mirror as she applied something to her face.

"I am," he confirmed, not bothering to hide his appreciation. "Can you blame me?"

Riley smirked, finally turning her full attention back to him. "No, I guess I can't."

Joe exhaled a quiet laugh, shifting again on the couch, his fingers tightening subtly around his phone. She was doing this on purpose—moving slow, dragging her hands over her skin in a way that was casual but not really casual.

"So, what exactly were you thinking when you suggested this call?" she asked, voice teasing.

Joe arched a brow, letting the silence linger just a beat longer than necessary. "I wanted to see you," he said, his voice low and direct. "Not just talk. Actually see you."

The candid admission hung between them, more intimate somehow than the pictures they'd exchanged earlier. Riley's movements slowed, her eyes meeting his through the screen with new intensity.

"Well," she replied, setting down her moisturizer. She leaned closer to the camera, giving him a deliberate view down the front of her leopard print bra, her eyes never leaving his. "Here I am."

The move was quintessentially Riley—playful and bold, with an authenticity that made it seductive rather than performative.

"Here you are," Joe agreed, making no effort to hide the appreciation in his gaze. "And it's better than the picture."

Riley smiled, a flush spreading across her skin that had nothing to do with the hot shower she'd just taken. "You're surprisingly good at this, you know."

"At what?" Joe asked, though his half-smile suggested he knew exactly what she meant.

"At saying exactly what you're thinking instead of dancing around it," Riley explained. "I like it."

"I don't see the point in pretending I don't want you," Joe said simply. "Even when you're two thousand miles away."

Riley smiled, satisfied with his reaction. "So what now? We just stare at each other through our phones like idiots?"

Joe ran a hand through his hair, considering her for a moment. The usual rules didn't apply here. "Or," he said decisively, voice dropping slightly, "we could make this a little more interesting."

Riley's grin turned wicked. "I love interesting." She glanced around her bathroom and laughed softly. "But I should probably get somewhere more comfortable first."

"Good idea," Joe agreed, already settled on his couch.

The camera jostled as Riley moved through her apartment, giving Joe glimpses of colorful artwork, plants, and eclectic furniture. "Don't go anywhere," she instructed, her voice playful but with an undercurrent of desire.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Joe replied, watching as she finally settled on her bed, propping the phone against something to free her hands.

Riley settled on her bed, propping the phone against something to free her hands. She looked at him through the screen, a question in her eyes that was both hesitant and daring.

Joe felt the distance between them like a physical ache. "Take it off," he said, his voice low but certain.

The simple command hung between them. For a moment, Riley just looked at him, a slow smile spreading across her face—not teasing now, but pleased by his directness.

The leopard print bra fell away, revealing her completely to him for the first time since New Orleans. Joe's breath hitched, his eyes darkening as they moved over her.

"God, I hate how far away you are right now," he said, his voice rough with desire. "I wish I could touch you."

Riley smiled, a languid curve of her lips. "Tell me how," she whispered. "Tell me what you'd do if you were here."

Joe held her gaze, his voice dropping lower. "I'd start with my hands on your hips," he said, his tone changing to something more commanding yet intimate. "Then slowly up your sides, feeling every inch of you."

Riley's breathing quickened, her hands moving to trace the path he described.

"I'd take my time at your neck," Joe continued, watching as her fingers traveled up her own body. "Right at that spot behind your ear that made you gasp in New Orleans."

Riley's eyes fluttered as her fingers found the spot, a soft "Oh" escaping her lips.

"Then down to your collarbone," he guided, his own breathing growing heavier as he watched her follow his instructions. "Across your shoulders... then back down."

"Like this?" she asked, her fingertips tracing the path he described, her voice already breathier than before.

"Exactly like that," Joe confirmed, his jaw tightening as he watched. "Now lower... where I know you want to be touched."

Riley's hand slid down her stomach, hesitating just above the waistband of her underwear. The anticipation hung between them, electric and tangible even through screens.

"Don't stop," Joe said, his voice a mixture of command and plea. "I want to see you feel good."

Her hand slipped beneath the leopard print, her eyes fluttering closed briefly with a soft, shaky gasp. "Joe," she murmured, voice thick. "God, I wish you were here."

"I am," he insisted, his own control visibly slipping. "Right here with you. Keep going."

They moved together in perfect synchronicity, Joe's low voice guiding her with increasing urgency, Riley responding to every word as if his voice itself could touch her. Their connection transcended the physical distance, creating an intimacy neither had expected to feel through a screen.

"You're close," Joe observed, his voice strained but certain. "I can tell by your breathing."

"Yes," Riley managed, her movements growing more desperate. "Joe, I'm—"

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice authoritative despite his own building tension. "I want to see your eyes when you come."

Riley's gaze locked with his on the screen, vulnerability and desire mixing in her expression as she reached the edge. "Joe," she gasped, her body arching off the bed, his name falling from her lips in a broken cry.

Joe followed moments later, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his eyes open, determined to maintain that connection as pleasure overtook him.

For several long moments afterward, they simply breathed together, the silence comfortable rather than awkward. Something vulnerable hung in the air between them—a level of intimacy neither had expected to feel through a screen.

Joe let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, a rare hint of self-consciousness creeping in. “I should probably clean up. Can I call you back?”

“Don’t hang up,” Riley said immediately, her voice soft but insistent. “Take me with you.”

Joe hesitated, but the look in her eyes made the decision for him. He gave her a small, almost shy smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You want to watch me clean up?”

Riley rolled her eyes, but there was nothing teasing in her expression—just a quiet openness that made his chest tighten. “I just don’t want to lose you yet,” she admitted.

His face softened, and he picked up the phone, shifting from the couch and carrying it with him. “Okay,” he said simply.

The camera jostled as Joe carried her through his house—a glimpse of his space flashing past the screen. It was modern and understated, full of clean lines and muted colors. The kitchen was sleek and functional—stainless steel appliances, quartz countertops, and not a single item out of place. A set of pristine looking barstools sat at the island, and the only hint of personality was a Bengals helmet perched on a shelf, looking more like an art piece than a part of his life.

When he reached the bathroom, it was more of the same—gray tile floors, spotless glass shower, and everything organized neatly on the counter. A perfectly folded hand towel hung on the rack, and the mirror reflected the bright, clinical lighting overhead.

Riley couldn’t help but laugh softly as he set the phone on the counter. “Your place is… exactly what I pictured.”

Joe caught her eyes in the mirror, raising an eyebrow. “That a good thing?”

“It’s just… so modern,” she said, glancing around. “Like an upscale hotel suite. Kind of the opposite of my place.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “It works for me. Keeps me focused.”

Riley smiled, tilting her head as she watched him. “And yet, it still doesn’t quite feel like you.”

Joe glanced over at her through the mirror, his eyes narrowing just a bit in thought. “No?”

She shrugged, offering a small smile. “I guess I just thought it would be… warmer. You know, like you.”

Joe didn’t respond right away, just wiped himself down and considered her words. It wasn’t that she was wrong—the place didn’t feel like him. It felt like the kind of place he was supposed to have. Efficient. Neat. Nothing unnecessary.

He set the washcloth aside, his jaw working as he processed that thought. “I guess I’m used to keeping things practical,” he admitted.

Riley’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to, you know. Be practical all the time.”

Joe gave her a small, almost wry smile. “Kinda built my whole career on that.”

Her laughter was light, but understanding. “Yeah, well… sometimes practicality and happiness don’t exactly go hand in hand.”

He couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at his lips. “Maybe you’re right.”

Joe wiped the remaining moisture from his hands, and hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to say the next part out loud. “Sometimes I don’t know if I chose it or if it chose me,” he admitted quietly, almost like he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

Riley tilted her head, catching the hint of vulnerability in his voice. “The discipline, you mean?”

Joe nodded, looking down briefly before meeting her eyes again. “Everything in my life has been about control. Making the right choices. Staying disciplined. It’s how I got here.”

“And now?” Riley asked, voice softer.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Now I’m standing in my bathroom, talking to a woman I barely know, feeling more… seen than I have in years.”

The confession hung between them, raw and honest in a way that made Riley’s breath catch. She hadn’t expected this—not just the intimacy of their bodies, but this glimpse into the carefully guarded interior of Joe Burrow.

He picked up the phone, heading back to the living room, where the muted tones and minimalist décor stretched into the open-concept space. As he settled back on the couch, he gave her a quick once-over through the screen, clearly appreciating how she was still casually sprawled on her bed, unapologetically comfortable in her own skin.

“Alright,” he said, tone deliberately lighter, determined to shake off the weird vulnerability that had settled between them. “What’s tomorrow look like for Riley Carter?”

Riley shifted against her pillows, still completely nude and utterly comfortable with it. “Nothing as put-together as yours. Studio time at two. Probably sleep until ten, maybe do some yoga, and try to figure out this bridge that’s been giving me hell.”

She absently ran her thumb over his bracelet on her wrist. “Though honestly, I should probably start thinking about packing for Italy. The band and my girls always tease me for throwing everything together the night before.”

Joe watched her fiddle with the bracelet, and something settled in his chest at the sight of it still on her wrist. “You looking forward to it?”

Riley gave a small, almost wistful smile. “Yeah. It’s good to get away with my people. Just… be somewhere else for a while, you know?”

Joe caught the subtle shift in her tone—like maybe it wasn’t just about the trip, but he didn’t push. Instead, he just nodded. “Sounds like a good tradition.”

“What about you?” Riley asked, shifting to prop herself up a little more. “Any off-season traditions?”

Joe leaned back against the couch, his voice easy. "During the off-season? I usually head back to Athens to catch up with old friends. We'll plan beach trips or just spend days on the golf course. When I'm home, my dad and I try to catch Cavs games whenever we can."

Riley smiled, her eyes warming. "I can picture that so clearly. So what happens when you're out golfing with your friends? I bet you try to keep it casual at first, but the second someone makes a comment about your swing or how you sliced the ball..."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, pretty much. They know how to get under my skin, and I can’t just let it go.”

“Of course not,” Riley teased. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t make it a competition.”

He gave her a look, his mouth curving up. “I’m not that bad.”

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

There was a comfortable pause before Riley spoke again. “So, what’s tomorrow look like for you?”

Joe shook his head, clearly amused. “Probably up around seven—hit the gym, maybe get in a run. Catch up on some film, and then grab dinner with a couple of the guys if they’re free.”

She made a face. “See, that actually sounds like a pretty solid off-season day. No 5 a.m. alarms.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I don’t go that hard in the off-season. Doesn’t mean I’m sleeping till noon, though.”

Riley scoffed. “Can’t relate. My body doesn’t even acknowledge mornings.”

Joe grinned, his expression softening. “I kind of figured that out already.”

Three days after the FaceTime call with Riley, Joe was sprawled on his friend Sam's couch, one leg propped on the coffee table as he nursed a beer and watched the Cavs game. Sam's apartment had become their default gathering spot on rare free evenings—convenient location, decent TV setup, and most importantly, a host who didn't care if they demolished his fridge contents.

Micah, Joe's friend since high school, was mid-debate with Sam about a questionable call when Joe's phone buzzed. He glanced down, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly when he saw Riley's name.

Riley: Just got out of the shower and thinking about our last FaceTime... wondering if you're busy right now? Might have something to show you that can't wait until Italy 😏

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating a response, but the sharp flicker of heat low in his stomach made the decision for him. He shifted against the couch, angling his phone away from prying eyes.

Joe: With friends watching the game

Riley: Even better. They can watch too. Kidding. Rain check?

"I hit you up last week to play a round and you said you were out of town. I thought you just got back from New York. Where did you go?" Micah asked, tossing a balled-up napkin at Joe's head.

Joe caught it reflexively. Didn't answer right away.

"New Orleans."

"Holy shit," Sam laughed. "I thought that was just a rumor. You actually went?"

Joe took a sip of his beer. Nodded once.

Micah watched him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

"Mardi Gras."

"You went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras?" The disbelief in Sam's voice was palpable.

"Yup."

The silence that followed was pointed. Joe could feel both of them waiting for him to fill in the gaps.

"Alright, I'll bite," Sam said, muting the TV during a commercial. "Who is she?"

Joe shot him a look. "Who says there's a she?"

"Your face," Micah chimed in. "Every time your phone buzzes, you get this look. It's subtle, but it's there."

Joe's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He wasn't used to being read so easily, especially not by his friends. That was new.

"It's just someone I met recently," he finally said, keeping his tone neutral, matter-of-fact, though the tension in his shoulders told a different story.

"Riley Carter," he added after a beat, deciding to get it over with.

The reaction was immediate. Sam nearly choked on his beer, and Micah's eyes widened comically.

"The singer?" Sam managed after recovering. "The one with that song that was everywhere last summer?"

Joe nodded, suddenly finding the label on his beer bottle intensely interesting.

"Damn," Micah said, leaning back against the couch. "That's... unexpected."

"When I did Fallon last month," Joe explained before they could ask, his usual economy with words even more pronounced. "We were both on the show."

Micah studied him for a moment. "And you're what, texting? Dating? Just friends?"

Joe took another drink before answering. "We're figuring it out." The same words he'd said to Riley during that quiet moment in New Orleans.

"Is it serious?" Sam asked carefully, knowing Joe well enough to recognize when he was approaching a boundary.

Joe stared at the TV. Didn't answer right away. Three weeks ago, he would have dismissed it immediately. But now? After New Orleans? After late-night calls and FaceTime sessions that left him feeling more himself than he had in years?

"Could be," he admitted quietly, surprising himself with his own answer.

Sam and Micah exchanged a look—this one containing a mix of surprise and something like concern.

"Just be careful, man," Micah said eventually. "Someone like that... lives in a different world."

Joe's expression cooled. "You don't know her."

Micah held up his hands. "You're right, I don't. Just saying... rock stars and quarterbacks? Different playbooks."

Joe's phone buzzed again. He resisted the urge to check it immediately, which didn't go unnoticed by his friends.

"Go ahead," Sam said, gesturing to the phone. "We know you want to."

Joe picked up the phone, his face remaining neutral despite the photo that had just come through—Riley in bed, sheet barely covering what needed to be covered, hair wild around her face, looking at the camera with an expression that made his throat go dry.

His pulse jumped. The shift in his breathing was immediate, involuntary.

Riley: Preview of what you're missing. I'll leave you to your game now.

Joe dragged his thumb over the screen—not responding. Just looking.

He set his phone down. Exhaled through his nose. Willed his face to stay neutral.

"Dude," Micah observed, smirking.

Joe ignored him, reaching for his beer. "We watching this game or what?"

Sam, recognizing Joe's shift into privacy mode, unmuted the TV. "All I'm saying is, if you start showing up in TMZ photos, I'm going to need some warning."

Joe huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Not my style."

"Seems like it's hers though," Micah commented, eyes still on the game.

Joe didn't take the bait, his silence speaking volumes. The implication that Riley was somehow just another attention-seeking celebrity rubbed him the wrong way. The Riley he knew—the one who cooked with him in her kitchen, who showed him her neighborhood haunts, who talked music theory with the same intensity he discussed defensive schemes—was nothing like the image they had of her.

The Cavs pulled ahead in the fourth quarter, securing what had been an uncertain win. As the final buzzer sounded, Micah stretched, checking his watch.

"I should head out. Early client tomorrow," he said, standing.

Joe nodded, using it as his own excuse to leave. He'd enjoyed the game, but the undercurrent of curiosity from his friends was starting to grate on him. They meant well, but they didn't understand. How could they? He barely understood it himself.

Later, as he was leaving, Sam caught him at the door. "Hey, I know we gave you shit? It's cool you're getting back out there."

Joe paused, then nodded once. "Yeah. It is."

"And hey," Sam added, "if she makes you check your phone every five minutes and fly to New Orleans on a whim, she must be something special."

Joe didn't respond, but something in his expression made Sam smile.

The moment Joe shut his car door, he felt a weight lift. An urge he couldn't quite explain—wouldn't have acted on three weeks ago—pushed through his usual calculated restraint. He sat with his key in the ignition, not yet starting the car, and pulled out his phone.

It was only 10:17 PM. Not too late to call.

In the past, he'd have waited until he was home, analyzed whether calling was the right move, perhaps even slept on the decision. But the image of Riley waiting for his response, perhaps wondering if he'd been put off by her forwardness, created an unusual sense of urgency.

When she answered on the second ring, the low warmth of her voice felt like a physical relief.

"Well hello there, quarterback," Riley said, the smile evident in her tone. "Miss me already?"

"Yeah," Joe admitted, the honesty surprising even himself. "Wanted to hear your voice."

There was a brief pause, his directness clearly catching her off guard. "That's... unexpectedly sweet. Everything okay?"

"Fine," Joe said, finally starting the car. "Just thinking about you."

"Your friends give you a hard time about New Orleans?"

"Some. Nothing I can't handle."

"Let me guess," Riley said, her voice taking on a knowing quality. "They warned you that I'm trouble? Different world? Too much drama?"

Joe let out a short laugh. "Something like that."

"And what did you say?" There was a hint of genuine curiosity beneath her light tone.

"That they don't know you," Joe replied simply.

Another pause. "That's a good answer, Burrow."

"It's the truth."

The conversation shifted then, flowing naturally between them as he drove through Cincinnati's quiet streets. By the time Joe pulled into his driveway, they'd covered everything from her latest recording session to his training schedule for the week, neither noticing how much time had passed.

"I'm home," Joe said reluctantly. "Should probably head in."

"Before you go," Riley said, her voice dropping slightly, "did you like your preview earlier?"

Joe closed his eyes briefly, the image from her text flashing in his mind again. "You know I did."

"Good," she murmured. "Maybe next time we FaceTime, you'll get the full show."

"Is that a promise?" Joe asked, his voice lower now.

"That depends," Riley said, the smile back in her voice. "How badly do you want it?"

"Enough that I called you from a parking lot," Joe admitted, allowing a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

Riley's laugh was warm and genuine. "Goodnight, Joe."

"Goodnight, Riley."

As he ended the call and headed inside, Joe recognized with unusual clarity what was happening. For the first time in his life, his carefully structured world was shifting to make room for something—someone—who operated by completely different rules. And instead of fighting to maintain control, he found himself leaning into the change.

Different worlds, definitely. But as he walked toward his front door, Joe realized with absolute certainty—he'd rather have Riley bringing chaos to his ordered life than return to the perfect, predictable emptiness he'd inhabited before she arrived.

Over the next week, his routine stayed pretty much the same - workouts, meetings, sponsor obligations - but his world felt different. There was a new current running through it: Riley. Their daily texts and nightly calls had become the highlight of his day, the thing he found himself looking forward to most.

The night before her Italy trip, they talked longer than usual, neither willing to be the first to hang up.

"So I've gotta survive nine whole days without one of these calls?" Joe asked, stretching out on his couch.

"I'll still have my phone," Riley laughed. "Italy has cell service, you know. I'll be reachable."

"Good," Joe said. "Looking forward to hearing all about it."

"God, I can't wait to see Bob and Gina," Riley said, excitement clear in her voice. "Bob called yesterday to make sure I still like the same breakfast. They haven't changed my room in three years."

"Bob and Gina?" Joe asked. "The vineyard owners?"

"Yeah, Roberto and Gina Rossi, but everyone calls him Bob. They own this small vineyard in the middle of nowhere, not one of those commercial operations with tour buses. It's this hidden gem in the hills."

"How'd you end up staying at a vineyard?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "I'd have guessed fancy hotels were more the rock star way."

Riley laughed. "We stumbled on their place completely by accident during a wine tasting tour a few years ago. We were already a bit tipsy from the previous vineyards when we found the Rossi estate."

"And they just let random Americans crash at their place?"

That's the thing about Bob and Gina - they don't believe in strangers, only friends they haven't met yet. Within twenty minutes of meeting us, Gina was feeding us these amazing little appetizers, and Bob was pulling out bottles he said he 'only shares with family.'" Riley's voice warmed with the memory. "Then this massive rainstorm hit, roads were flooded, and Gina refused to let us leave. Said it wasn't safe. What started as a simple dinner turned into an overnight stay."

"And now it's an annual thing?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, we've gone back every year since. They block off the same week for us. It's... it's special. One of those rare places where time seems to slow down."

Joe could hear the genuine affection in her voice. "What do you all do there for a whole week?"

Riley hesitated, just briefly enough that Joe almost missed it. "Oh, you know... Bob shows us around the vineyard, explains the wine-making process. We cook with Gina. There's a little village nearby we explore. Just... relaxing stuff."

Something about her answer felt slightly evasive, but Joe let it go. "Sounds nice. Different from your usual pace."

"That's exactly why we love it," Riley said. "No pressure, no schedules, no expectations. Just good food, good wine, good people. It's become this... I don't know, this tradition that grounds us somehow."

Joe nodded, though she couldn't see him. There was something in her tone when she said "tradition" that caught his attention - a softness, a significance he couldn't quite place. "You guys must have a lot of traditions by now, being together so long as a band."

"Some," Riley agreed. "The vineyard trip is probably our favorite though. It's... it's important to us."

The slight hesitation again. Joe found himself wondering what made this particular tradition so special, but didn't press. Everyone was entitled to their privacy, and they were still learning each other's boundaries.

"Take pictures," he said instead. "I want to see this magical vineyard."

"Only if you send daily workout selfies," Riley countered. "Gotta keep track of those gains."

Joe laughed, surprised by how easily she could make him do that now. "Deal."

They talked for another hour, neither wanting to end the call, conversation flowing easily between teasing banter and comfortable silences. Eventually, Joe glanced at the time and sighed.

“You know you’re never gonna get packed if you keep talking to me,” he pointed out, voice soft.

Riley huffed a quiet laugh. “Maybe I’m stalling. Can you blame me?”

He smiled at that, his chest warming. “Nah,” he said, his tone just as reluctant. “Can’t say I mind.”

She hesitated, and he could almost hear her shifting against the pillows. “I guess I should get moving, though,” she said, not sounding convinced.

“Yeah,” Joe agreed, but neither of them made a move to actually hang up.

When they finally did, much later than planned, Joe stayed there for a moment—phone still in his hand, staring at the dark screen. An uneasy feeling settled over him—something uncomfortably close to longing. Nine days suddenly felt like an eternity.

He’d gone months without talking to women he’d dated before without a second thought. Yet the idea of not hearing Riley’s voice for even a few days left him feeling oddly untethered.

It didn’t make sense—this quiet anxiety, this persistent preoccupation. The Joe Burrow everyone knew was independent, self-contained. He didn’t get attached this quickly. He didn’t rearrange his schedule for anyone. He certainly didn’t find himself checking his phone multiple times an hour, hoping for a text.

But that Joe Burrow hadn’t known Riley Carter.

Meanwhile, at her house in Los Angeles, Riley was surrounded by chaos - clothes thrown all over her bed, shoes scattered across the floor, and her suitcase basically empty. Classic Riley packing strategy.

Laura lounged on the window seat, scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing up at the disaster zone with fond amusement.

"You know we're leaving tomorrow, right?" she said, not actually concerned.

Riley shrugged, tossing another shirt toward her suitcase without really looking. "I'll throw everything in before we go. It's not like we need anything special - it's just Bob and Gina's."

"True," Laura agreed. "Just wandering the vineyard and drinking wine all day."

"Exactly. Perfect vacation." Riley held up two sundresses. "Though I should probably bring something semi-decent for dinner."

"The blue one," Laura said automatically. "You always look good in that one."

Riley eyed the blue dress, not admitting that when she'd considered it earlier, she'd caught herself wondering what Joe might think of it – which was ridiculous, since he wouldn't even see it.

Laura's attention shifted from her phone, something mischievous in her expression. "So... did you tell Joe about your birthday happening while we're there?"

Riley busied herself with shoving clothes haphazardly into her suitcase. "Nope."

"Any reason?" Laura asked, genuinely curious rather than judgmental.

Riley paused, absently running her fingers over Joe's LSU bracelet on her wrist. "It just feels weird to bring it up now, you know? Like, 'Oh by the way, it's my birthday while I'm gone.' What's he supposed to do with that information?"

"Say happy birthday?" Laura suggested with a small laugh.

Riley shot her a look. "You know what I mean. It creates this weird expectation. Either he feels obligated to do something, or he doesn't do anything and then it seems like he doesn't care."

"Or maybe you're overthinking the whole thing," Laura pointed out gently.

They both knew she was thinking about Ethan and last year's birthday debacle - the extravagant surprise party he'd thrown, complete with press and expensive jewelry. Two weeks later, he was gone, making the whole thing feel like a performance rather than something genuine.

"Joe isn't Ethan," Laura said, reading her thoughts.

"I know that," Riley replied quickly. "It's not about Joe. It's just... simpler this way."

Laura nodded, understanding. "Well, it's your call. Not like we won't have plenty to celebrate anyway. Haley's already talking about doing karaoke at Bob and Gina's again."

Riley's eyes lit up. "God, after last year? Bob still sends me videos of Andy trying to hit those high notes in 'Bohemian Rhapsody.'"

"Pretty sure Gina threatened to hide the microphone if he tries that song again," Laura laughed. "Though she did say we're always welcome back."

Riley's phone buzzed on the nightstand. She tried to be subtle checking it, but Laura didn't miss how her expression instantly softened.

"That him again?" Laura asked, a smile playing at her lips.

Riley rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her smile. "Maybe."

"You're so transparent," Laura teased, but her tone was warm rather than mocking. "It's actually kind of nice to see."

"Oh, shut up," Riley said without heat, tossing a balled-up t-shirt in Laura's direction.

As they continued the chaotic packing process - or rather, as Riley continued to avoid serious packing while Laura provided running commentary - Riley found herself thinking about what Joe's friend had apparently said. Different worlds. Maybe that was true. But the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if different worlds sometimes needed exactly what the other had to offer.

Twenty hours, one delayed connection at Fiumicino Airport, and a questionable car rental later, they were finally approaching their destination. The rental van lurched up the steep gravel driveway, Pete at the wheel, cursing in colorful Italian phrases he'd picked up during their previous visits.

"Every year," he muttered, wrestling with the gearshift. "Every damn year I forget how to drive this mountain."

In the back seat, Riley leaned her head against the window, watching as rows of grapevines gave way to olive trees, then finally the weathered stone villa at Roberto and Gina’s vineyard in Ripatransone. No matter how many times they returned, the view never failed to take her breath away—the hills rolling into the distance, cypress trees standing sentinel, the late afternoon sun painting everything in amber and gold.

“Home sweet Italian home,” Laura sighed, stretching as the van finally came to a stop. “I swear this place gets more gorgeous every time.”

The front door of the house swung open before they could even climb out of the van, and a woman in her late fifties with silver-streaked dark hair and the kind of deep tan that spoke of days spent in vineyards came rushing toward them, arms wide.

“My children! You’ve arrived!” Gina Rossi enveloped Riley in a crushing hug the moment her feet touched the gravel. “Too thin, all of you. Always too thin. But we fix that, yes?”

Riley laughed, returning the embrace with genuine affection. “We’ve missed you, Gina.”

“And we’ve missed our favorite Americans,” Gina’s husband, Roberto, appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “The kitchen has been too quiet without you.”

As the others filtered in, Riley stepped onto the familiar terrace and took a deep breath of the herb-scented air. This place had been their sanctuary for years—a break from tours, recording sessions, and the constant demands of their growing fame.

Gina wrapped an arm around Riley’s shoulders, guiding her inside. “Come, come. You look tired from the journey. Roberto has made bistecca, and I have that almond cake you love.”

Riley smiled, letting herself be led through the cool stone entryway. The vineyard house was a perfect blend of rustic charm and understated luxury—terracotta floors, exposed wooden beams, and windows that framed the landscape like living paintings.

“So,” Gina said once they reached the kitchen, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “Laura tells me there is a new man, yes? Someone important?”

Riley shot Laura a look, but her friend just shrugged innocently from the doorway.

“What? She asked how everyone was doing. I was just catching her up.”

Riley rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile on her lips. “He’s not—” She hesitated, correcting herself. “It’s new. Really new.”

Gina’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Ah, but he is special, yes? I can see it on your face.”

Riley felt her cheeks warm but didn’t deny it. “Maybe.”

“Good,” Gina said, giving her an approving pat on the cheek. “Love is good, even when it’s unexpected.”

Laura slipped into the kitchen, already rummaging through the cabinets. “You better brace yourself, Ri. Gina’s going to ask you every question under the sun.”

Riley shot her a dry look. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

Gina just smiled knowingly and handed Riley a glass of wine. “We will talk more later. For now, you drink. You’re on vacation.”

"It's... still new," Riley admitted, unable to keep the smile from her face.

"But not just anyone," Gina observed, studying Riley's expression with the shrewd perception of someone who had seen decades of love stories unfold under her roof. "This one matters."

It wasn't a question, but Riley nodded anyway. "Yeah. He does."

Gina smiled, patting Riley's cheek. "Good. The smile reaches your eyes this time. Not like with the other one."

The other one was how Gina always referred to Ethan, never by name, as if he didn't deserve the dignity of it after how things had ended.

"Tell me more," Gina insisted, pulling Riley to sit at the massive farmhouse table while she poured them each a glass of Roberto's wine. "Where did you meet? What does he do?"

Riley took a grateful sip of the rich red wine. "We met in New York. I was doing Fallon, and he was a guest too."

"Ah! Also famous?"

"Um, yeah. He's a football player. Quarterback."

Gina's brow furrowed. "American football? With the helmet and the tackling?"

"That's the one."

"Hmm." Gina looked thoughtful. "Strong, then. Good shoulders?"

Riley nearly choked on her wine. "Very good shoulders."

"Let me show you," Riley said, reaching for her phone. She scrolled through her photos, finding the ones she'd taken in New Orleans. "This is Joe."

Gina peered at the screen, examining the photo of Joe and Riley on her back porch swing, both smiling at the camera in the soft evening light.

"Handsome," Gina nodded, obviously impressed. She swiped to the next photo—Joe in the kitchen, focused intently on chopping some fruit, completely unaware of Riley capturing the moment. "Ah, he cooks too!"

"We made biscuits and gravy," Riley explained, smiling at the memory. "His first time."

Gina swiped again, to a photo of Joe in his parade disguise, beads around his neck, head thrown back in laughter at something out of frame. "I like his smile. Reaches his eyes."

"Yeah," Riley agreed softly. "It does."

"And a good heart?" Gina pressed, suddenly serious. "This is what matters most."

Riley thought about Joe—his quiet confidence, the way he'd shown her his city, how attentively he listened when she spoke, the respect he showed her friends. The way he'd looked at her house, seeing the real her in every detail.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think so."

"You think? Or you know?" Gina challenged.

"I know," Riley amended. "Different worlds, but... a good heart."

Gina nodded, satisfied. "Different worlds can work. Roberto was a wealthy landowner's son. I was just a girl from the village. Everyone said it would never last." She gestured around the kitchen they'd shared for thirty years. "But here we are."

As the others filtered in, the conversation shifted to dinner preparations and plans for the week ahead. But throughout the evening, as they gathered around the long table on the terrace, passing plates and trading stories, Riley found her thoughts drifting to Joe. She'd meant to text him when they landed, but between the rental car confusion, the spotty service on the mountain roads, and the chaos of arrival, she'd forgotten until now.

After dinner, Riley found Laura and Haley huddled with Gina near the garden, wine glasses in hand. As she approached, their conversation hushed suspiciously.

"What's going on?" Riley asked, narrowing her eyes at their too-innocent expressions.

"We were just discussing the birthday feast," Gina explained, patting the space beside her on the stone bench. "Roberto is already planning which vintage to open."

"And I was just telling Gina how you haven't told your football player about your birthday," Laura added, shooting Riley a pointed look.

Riley sighed, dropping onto the bench. "Seriously, Laura?"

"What?" Laura defended. "Gina asked about gift arrangements, and I mentioned there wouldn't be any from Joe since he doesn't know."

"Why you not tell him, cara?" Gina asked, genuine confusion on her face. "Birthdays are for celebrating with those who matter."

"It's complicated," Riley said, feeling three pairs of eyes studying her intently.

"She thinks it adds pressure," Haley explained to Gina. "Makes things too serious too fast."

Riley shot her a betrayed look. "Thanks for the translation, Haley."

"Am I wrong?" Haley challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Gina scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. "Pressure? Birthdays are not pressure. They are joy! Celebration! If this man cares for you, he would want to know."

"It's not about whether he'd want to know," Riley tried to explain. "It's about expectations. I don't want him to feel obligated to do something just because it's my birthday."

"Ah, this is about the other one," Gina said with sudden understanding. "The one who made the big show, then disappeared."

Riley winced. Gina had always been unnervingly perceptive.

"Ethan has nothing to do with this," she insisted, though the protest sounded weak even to her own ears.

"Mmhmm," Laura hummed skeptically. "Nothing at all to do with how he threw that massive surprise party last year with all those photographers as his grand 'let's get back together' gesture, then disappeared again two weeks later."

"That's not—" Riley started to protest, then stopped. Laura wasn't wrong. It had always been easier for Riley to express herself through music than to be vulnerable in relationships. "It's complicated."

"It always is with you," Laura said, but her tone was affectionate. "But you know what? This guy seems different. The way you talk about him, the way you look at those pictures when you think no one's watching."

Riley felt warmth creep into her cheeks. "It's too soon for birthdays," she insisted.

"If you say so," Laura said, clearly unconvinced. "But don't be surprised if he figures it out. Haley tagged you in that throwback post from last year."

Riley's eyes widened. "She did what?"

"Relax," Laura laughed. "He probably hasn't seen it. And even if he has, so what? It's your birthday. It's not like it's a state secret."

"It's not about secrecy," Riley muttered. "It's about... timing."

Laura patted her hand. "Whatever you say. But for what it's worth? I think you're overthinking this one."

As the others filtered back inside, Riley stayed on the terrace a moment longer, staring out at the darkened vineyard. Was she overthinking it? Maybe. But there was something comfortable about keeping this boundary, about having this week just for her friends, her chosen family. The way it had been for years.

Still, as she finally headed to her room, she couldn't help but wonder what Joe was doing right now, if he was thinking about her too.

She pulled out her phone, surprised to find several missed calls from her manager about a potential sync deal, but nothing from Joe.

She checked the time—mid-afternoon in Cincinnati. He'd be in the middle of his workout routine by now.

She tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. Probably in the gym, phone on do not disturb.

Riley 🎤: Hey, sorry I didn't text when we landed yesterday. Complete chaos at the airport, then wifi issues at the vineyard, and by the time we got settled it was so late for you. Hope your workout went well this morning! Villa pics coming soon 😘

She scrolled through the photos she'd already taken—the view from her window, the sunset over the vineyard, the massive spread of food Gina had prepared. She selected a few and attached them to a follow-up text.

Riley 🎤: See what I mean? Paradise. Three days here and I'm never going to want to leave.

She set her phone on the nightstand and stepped out onto the balcony, breathing in the fragrant night air. The hills stretched before her, dotted with the lights of distant farmhouses, the sky above impossibly vast and star-filled.

This was her favorite place in the world, this little corner of Tuscany that felt timeless and vibrant. Being here always filled her with a sense of perspective, of what really mattered.

Her phone remained silent as she got ready for bed, exhaustion from the long journey finally catching up to her. She checked it one last time before sliding under the cool sheets.

No response.

Odd. He was usually quick to reply, even on his busiest days.

Maybe he's out with friends, she thought. Or still in the gym. Or his phone died.

But as she drifted toward sleep, a niggling worry crept in. Had something changed? Was he having second thoughts? He'd seemed so solid, so certain in New Orleans and in all their conversations since.

Stop overthinking, she told herself firmly. It's been a few hours. Not everything means something.

Still, as sleep finally claimed her, her last conscious thought was of Joe, and the strange hollow feeling his silence had left.

Meanwhile, in Cincinnati, Joe was staring at Riley's texts, his body sprawled on the couch but his mind six thousand miles away. What the actual fuck? Her birthday? The whole trip to Italy wasn't just some annual tradition with friends—it was a birthday celebration. Her birthday celebration. And she hadn't told him.

The realization had hit him like a blindside tackle earlier that day, scrolling through Instagram and seeing the post from her friend Haley. Throwback to last year's birthday celebrations in Italy. Can't wait to celebrate 26 with you @riley_carter #birthdaygirl #italybound #bestfriendgoals. Riley, blowing out candles on a cake, the same vineyard in the background that she'd just sent him photos of.

March 20th. Her birthday was in five days. And she hadn't said a word about it.

The melody of "This Must Be The Place" floated through his head unbidden. That feeling he'd had in New Orleans, in her house—like he'd found something he didn't even know he was missing. Like he'd come home somehow.

Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there...

He couldn't stop thinking about that song since New Orleans, that feeling of belonging. And now this—finding out about her birthday through Instagram, like he was just some casual follower, not someone who'd spent three days in her bed, in her life.

He'd planned to ignore her messages until morning, give himself time to sort through the complicated mix of emotions. But seeing the photos of Italy—the same vineyard where she'd celebrated her last birthday—made it harder to maintain his resolve.

He typed out several responses, deleting each one before sending. Nothing captured the right tone. He didn't want to be petty, didn't want to make her feel bad. But he also couldn't pretend he hadn't discovered her secret, couldn't act like everything was normal when it felt like she'd deliberately kept him at a distance.

He set the phone down without responding. Tomorrow, he'd figure out what to do about the birthday. Tonight, he needed space to think.

Riley woke to sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains and the distant sounds of breakfast being prepared. She reached for her phone immediately, half-expecting to see a message from Joe.

Nothing.

She stared at the screen for a moment, a hollow feeling expanding inside her chest. It had been almost twelve hours since she’d texted him—Joe had never gone this long without responding before.

Fighting the urge to text again—she didn’t want to be that girl—Riley forced herself out of bed and into the shower. By the time she joined the others for breakfast on the terrace, she’d checked her phone three more times.

“She lives!” Andy teased as she slid into a seat at the table, which was already laden with fresh fruit, pastries, and carafes of strong coffee.

“Barely,” Riley admitted, pouring herself a much-needed cup. “Jet lag hit me hard.”

Laura glanced up from buttering a croissant and gave Riley a curious look. “Have you heard from him yet?”

Riley tried to play it cool, even though the question made her chest feel tight. “No,” she said lightly. “He’s probably busy. I've told you how his schedule is.”

Laura didn’t look convinced. “Busy or not, he’s never left you hanging this long before. You sure everything’s okay?”

Riley rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Seriously. It’s my birthday week, and I’m gonna get it together and be happy, so just brace yourselves for that, alright?”

Andy snorted from across the table, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Birthday diva incoming.”

Riley shot him a smirk. “Damn right. I’m gonna be annoyingly cheerful and loud, so get ready.”

Laura softened, giving her a look that said she wasn’t entirely buying the act, but she didn’t push. “Okay, birthday queen. Just know we’re here if you need to vent or whatever.”

Riley flashed her a quick grin and took a long sip of coffee, trying to convince herself as much as everyone else that she could shake it off.

Throughout the day, they wandered through the vineyard with Bob, listening as he explained the early spring growth of the vines with his usual passion and humor. Riley laughed at his stories and nodded along when he pointed out new buds and promising clusters, but her mind kept drifting. She found herself glancing at her phone more often than she wanted to admit, each time hoping to see Joe’s name lighting up the screen.

Nothing.

By the time they made it into the nearby medieval village for lunch, her chest felt tight and restless, like something important was slipping through her fingers. She tried to shake it off, joining in on Andy’s loud, animated retelling of their first chaotic visit to the vineyard, but her smile felt forced and thin. Each check of her phone only made that hollow feeling dig in deeper, rooting itself in her ribs.

By nightfall, after another incredible dinner that she barely tasted, she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

Back in her room, she stared at her phone for a long time, debating whether to call again or just let it go. But the uncertainty was gnawing at her, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She dialed his number, the familiar sound of ringing sending a wave of hope and anxiety crashing over her.

Voicemail.

She swallowed down the ache in her throat and forced herself to type out a message, trying to keep it light and casual even as her fingers shook.

Riley 🎤: Earth to Burrow. You alive over there?

She hit send and dropped her phone on the bed, staring out the window at the moonlit hills. The knot in her stomach tightened, and for once, Riley didn’t know if she was mad, worried, or just hurt.

Joe was sprawled out on his couch, controller in hand, mind barely on the game he was playing. The sound of gunfire and explosions filled the room, but he wasn’t really listening. His phone was sitting face-down on the coffee table, right where he’d left it hours ago, and he couldn’t stop glancing at it between missions.

He wasn’t ignoring her on purpose. Not really. He just needed a minute to get his head right. Figure out why he couldn’t shake this weird knot in his stomach since he found out about her birthday. It wasn’t about the damn birthday itself—it was the fact that she hadn’t told him. Like he wasn’t important enough to know.

That thought burned. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like he’d been shut out without even knowing it. Riley wasn’t the kind of person to play games. She’d always been upfront with him, never hiding her chaos or her flaws. So why hadn’t she said anything about it?

His phone buzzed, and his heart thudded a little harder than he’d like to admit. He reached for it, flipping it over with his thumb to see her name on the screen. His chest tightened.

Riley 🎤: Earth to Burrow. You alive over there?

He let out a slow breath, guilt twisting through him. He knew he was being an ass—shutting her out just because his pride was bruised. She didn’t deserve that.

He typed back, trying to sound normal.

Joe QB🏈: Yeah, sorry. Got caught up with some stuff today. How’s Italy?

It felt like a weak excuse, even to him. Distant. Detached. Nothing like how he actually felt—like he’d been stuck in his own head all day, trying to make sense of why it was bugging him so damn much.

Her reply came almost right away.

Riley 🎤: It’s incredible. Forgot how much I love it here. What kind of stuff kept you busy?

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of him wanted to just tell her the truth—that he hated finding out about her birthday from a random Instagram post. That it made him feel like an outsider in her life. But he couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t risk sounding like he was making a big deal out of nothing.

Joe QB🏈: Just meetings, workout, some film study. The usual.

He knew it sounded cold, even before he sent it. But he couldn’t figure out how to fix it. How to make it sound less like he was brushing her off and more like he just… didn’t know how to deal with it.

Her response came in a minute later.

Riley 🎤: Don’t work too hard. You’re supposed to be resting in the off-season.

He almost smiled. That sounded more like her. Always keeping him grounded without pushing too much.

Joe QB🏈: Trying. Getting late here. Talk tomorrow?

It wasn’t enough, and he knew it. But he couldn’t bring himself to say more. Not when he still didn’t know how to put it into words without sounding like an idiot. He set the phone back down and leaned his head against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he’d managed to screw this up without even trying.

Riley's phone rang, and her heart leapt into her throat when she saw Joe's name light up the screen. She answered immediately.

"Hey," Riley answered, her voice carefully casual but with an undercurrent of relief that made Joe's chest tighten.

"Hey," he replied, working to keep his own voice steady. "Sorry for the late call."

"No, it's fine," Riley said quickly. "I was just reading. Time difference and all."

A brief silence stretched between them, filled with all the things neither was saying. Joe could hear the soft sounds of night through her open window—crickets, a distant voice calling in Italian, wind rustling through trees.

"So," he began, his voice deliberately even. "I saw something interesting today."

"Oh?" Riley's tone was light, but there was a thread of tension in it.

"Yeah. On Instagram." Joe paused, then decided to just say it. "Haley posted about your birthday. Last year in Italy. Same place you are now."

The silence that followed was heavy, loaded. Joe could almost picture her expression—those amber eyes widening slightly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth the way it did when she was caught off guard.

"I... yeah." Riley's voice was quieter now. "My birthday's on the 20th."

"Five days from now," Joe confirmed. "Were you going to tell me?"

Riley exhaled, a soft sound that carried across the thousands of miles between them. "I don't know," she admitted. "Probably. Eventually."

"Why keep it a secret?" Joe asked, working to keep accusation from his tone.

Another pause. Joe could hear her shifting, as if sitting up in bed.

"It's not a secret exactly," Riley finally said. "It's just... complicated.

"How is a birthday complicated?"

"It's not the birthday itself," Riley explained. "It's... I don't know how to explain it without sounding crazy."

"Try me," Joe said, settling back against his headboard.

Riley sighed again. "Birthdays are loaded, you know? There are expectations. If I told you, then you'd feel obligated to do something or say something, and we're still so new, and I didn't want to..." She trailed off.

"Didn't want to what?" Joe pressed gently.

"Push things faster than they should go," she finished. "Or make you feel pressured. Or make it into something bigger than it is."

She hesitated, then added, "Last year with Ethan... we were in this weird on-again, off-again place, and he made this huge deal about my birthday. Surprise party, expensive jewelry, the works. It was like he was trying to prove something. Two weeks later, he was gone again."

"Ah," Joe said, understanding dawning. "So birthdays come with baggage."

"Yeah," Riley admitted quietly. "After that, I just... I don't know. Birthdays became this thing where people feel like they have to make grand gestures. And if they do, it doesn't necessarily mean anything real."

Joe was silent for a moment, processing her words. "Do you think that's what I'd do? Feel obligated?"

"I don't know," Riley admitted. "Maybe? Most people would."

"I'm not most people," Joe said quietly.

"I know that," Riley replied, her voice softening. "That's kind of the point. You're... important. More than I expected this soon. And that's scary."

The honesty in her admission caught Joe off guard. He hadn't expected her to be so direct about her feelings. It shifted something in him, eased the knot of hurt that had been sitting in his chest all day.

"So you weren't trying to keep me at a distance?" he asked.

"No. Well, maybe." Riley let out a frustrated sound. "I'm not explaining this well. It's more like... I'm protecting this thing between us. From becoming something that feels forced or expected. Does that make any sense?"

Joe thought about it. About how carefully he'd constructed his public persona, how deliberately he kept parts of himself private. About boundaries and walls and the way they sometimes protected the most valuable things.

"Yeah," he said finally. "It does."

The relief in Riley's voice was palpable. "It does?"

"I get having boundaries," Joe explained. "Keeping certain things separate. I just wish you'd told me why instead of me finding out through Instagram."

"I'm sorry," Riley said, sounding genuinely remorseful. "That must have felt shitty."

"It did," Joe agreed, but without heat. "Made me wonder if I was reading this whole thing wrong. If we weren't on the same page."

"We are," Riley assured him quickly. "At least, I think we are. This thing between us, it's... significant. For me, anyway."

"For me too," Joe admitted. The simple confession felt weightier than he'd expected, hanging in the air between them with a new kind of gravity.

"I should have just told you," Riley continued, her voice softer now. "But after Ethan... I got used to protecting myself. Keeping expectations low."

"You can talk to me about him, you know," Joe said carefully. "About what happened."

Riley was quiet for a moment. "Not much to tell. Three years of back and forth. Great when it was good, toxic when it wasn't. Classic musician relationship drama."

"Sounds exhausting," Joe observed.

"It was," Riley agreed. "That's why I'm trying to be more... I don't know, intentional? About not repeating patterns."

Another silence, but this one comfortable, expectant rather than tense.

"So now that I know," Joe said finally, "can I wish you happy birthday? Or is that still crossing a line?"

He could hear the smile in Riley's voice when she answered. "You can wish me happy birthday. Just don't make a big deal about it."

"Noted," Joe said, a smile forming on his own lips. "Happy almost birthday, Riley."

"Thank you," she murmured. Then, with a hint of teasing, "Are you still mad at me?"

Joe considered this. "I wasn't mad. Just... confused. Hurt, maybe."

"I really am sorry," Riley said again. "I overthink things sometimes."

"I noticed," Joe said dryly.

Riley laughed, the sound flowing through him like warm honey. "Shut up. You overthink things too."

"Maybe," Joe conceded. "But I'm working on it."

The conversation shifted then, becoming easier as they slipped back into their usual rhythm. Riley told him about the vineyard, about Roberto and Gina, about the medieval village they'd visited that day. Joe shared stories from his training session, from dinner with his parents the night before.

It was nearly an hour later when Riley's voice had grown soft with approaching sleep.

"I should let you go," Joe said reluctantly. "It's late there."

"Mmm," Riley agreed, stifling a yawn. "This bed is ridiculous. Like sleeping on a cloud."

"Wish I was there," Joe said, the words slipping out before he could consider them.

There was a pause, and when Riley spoke again, her voice was warm, intimate. "I wish you were too."

Joe's chest tightened with something that felt dangerously close to longing. "Next time," he said softly.

"Promise?" Riley asked, and beneath the playfulness, there was vulnerability.

"Promise," Joe replied without hesitation.

After they hung up, Joe sat for a long time in the quiet of his bedroom, staring at the dark screen of his phone. The hurt from earlier had dissolved, replaced by a clearer understanding. Riley's fear wasn't about keeping him at a distance—it was about protecting whatever was growing between them. From expectation, from obligation, from anything that might damage its natural evolution.

He could understand that. Respect it, even.

Still, as he finally settled down to sleep, a plan was already forming in his mind. Birthday or not, significance or not, some things deserved to be acknowledged. And he knew exactly how he wanted to do it.

In Italy, Riley curled onto her side, Joe's LSU bracelet still on her wrist as she drifted toward sleep. The weight that had been pressing on her chest all day had lifted, replaced by a warm contentment. He'd understood. More than that, he'd listened, really listened, to her fumbling explanation.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Riley fell asleep with a smile on her face, the distance between Italy and Cincinnati feeling somehow less vast than it had that morning.

Joe stared at his laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Google Maps had led him to a florist in Ripatransone, the nearest town to Roberto and Gina's vineyard based on Riley's descriptions. But the website was entirely in Italian, with no obvious way to place an international order.

"Dammit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. It was 4:30 AM in Cincinnati—the middle of the night for him, but a reasonable morning hour in Italy. Riley's birthday was tomorrow, which left him little time to arrange something special.

He reached for his phone and called the only person he knew who might help.

"This better be good, Burrow," Mark's sleep-roughened voice answered after four rings.

"I need a favor," Joe said without preamble.

A rustling sound came through the line—Mark sitting up in bed, probably. "At four-thirty in the morning?"

"It's not a football thing," Joe admitted.

There was a pause. "Riley?" Mark guessed.

"Yeah." Joe exhaled. "Her birthday's tomorrow. She's in Italy at some vineyard. I need to get flowers delivered there, but the websites are all in Italian and—"

"Jesus, Joe," Mark interrupted, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're calling me before dawn to help you send a girl flowers? Isn't this what Sarah is for?"

"Sarah doesn't have your connections," Joe said bluntly. "And I need someone who can make this happen, not just try."

Mark chuckled. "Well, well. Look who's serious." There was another pause, then Mark's voice softened slightly. "Not just any girl, huh?"

"No," Joe said quietly. "Not just any girl."

"Alright," Mark relented. "Give me the details. I know a guy who handles VIP concierge services in Europe."

Meanwhile, at the vineyard, Riley woke to Laura bouncing onto her bed, already dressed in jeans and a light sweater.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" Laura announced, nudging Riley's shoulder. "Gina's making that almond french toast you love."

Riley groaned, burying her face in the pillow. "What time is it?"

"Nearly nine," Laura replied. "Practically lunchtime by normal standards."

Riley smiled despite herself, remembering their conversation last night. The tension that had been building since their stilted texts had melted away during their call. He'd understood—really understood—why she hadn't told him about her birthday.

"Actually," Riley said, sitting up and stretching, "Joe and I talked last night. After everyone went to bed."

Laura's eyebrows shot up with interest. "And? You seem less... I don't know, twitchy today."

"We sorted it out," Riley said, sliding out of bed. "He found out about my birthday through Haley's Instagram post."

"Told you he would," Laura said, not bothering to hide her smugness. "So how'd he take it?"

Riley paused, thinking about the unexpected depth of their conversation. "Better than I expected. He actually got why I hadn't told him."

"Hmm," Laura hummed, studying Riley's face. "Maybe he has more emotional depth than I gave him credit for."

Riley threw a pillow at her friend. "Come on, I need coffee before you start analyzing my love life with Haley and Gina."

Laura dodged the pillow with practiced ease, laughing as she stood up. "Fine, fine. But don't think this conversation is over. Gina's going to extract every detail over breakfast."

"Great," Riley said dryly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "At least there'll be food to distract me from the interrogation."

The kitchen was already bustling when they made their way downstairs. Morning sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a golden glow over the weathered wooden table where Bob was setting down a platter of fresh fruit. Gina stood at the stove, flipping what looked like her famous almond French toast, while Pete lounged at the counter nursing a cup of coffee.

"The birthday girl arrives!" Gina announced, abandoning her post to envelop Riley in a warm hug that smelled of cinnamon and butter. "Many happy returns, my dear one."

"Thanks, Gina," Riley said, feeling the familiar warm glow that always came with birthdays at the vineyard. Here, birthdays were simple, joyful celebrations—good food, good wine, good company. No pressure, no expectations.

"I made your favorite," Gina said, gesturing to the French toast. "And Bob picked fresh figs this morning."

Riley's stomach growled appreciatively as she accepted the steaming mug of coffee Pete handed her. "You guys spoil me."

"It's your birthday," Pete shrugged, his voice still rough with sleep. "Only happens once a year."

"Speaking of which," Haley said, emerging from the pantry with a jar of honey, "how did lover boy take the news?"

Riley shot Laura an accusatory glance, but her friend just shrugged innocently. "News travels fast around here."

"He took it just fine," Riley said, trying to sound casual as she doctored her coffee. "We talked it out. He understood."

"He understood?" Andy repeated skeptically, appearing in the doorway. His hair was still wet from the shower, sticking up at odd angles. "What guy 'understands' being kept in the dark about something like that?"

"A guy who listens," Riley said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. "He got why I didn't tell him."

After a leisurely breakfast punctuated by laughter and stories—many at Riley's expense—they gathered in the sunlit kitchen where Gina was putting the finishing touches on a homemade birthday cake. The simple elegance of the tradition—good food, good company, no fuss about presents—was exactly why Riley loved celebrating here.

"Every year I try to outdo myself," Gina said, carefully placing fresh strawberries around the edge of the cream-frosted cake. "This year, I add the lemon zest to the cream. You tell me if it's better."

"It's perfect already," Riley said, leaning against the counter and stealing a stray strawberry.

Bob appeared from his study, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. "From Gina and me," he said, presenting it to Riley with a warm smile. "Nothing fancy, but we thought of you when we saw it."

Riley unwrapped it carefully to reveal a handmade leather journal, its cover soft and worn like it had been waiting years just for her.

"For your songs," Gina explained. "You always say you lose your ideas on scraps of paper."

"I don't lose them," Riley protested with a laugh. "I just... temporarily misplace them."

As they were preparing to move to the terrace for cake, the sound of tires on gravel announced a visitor. Bob went to investigate, returning moments later with a delivery man bearing an enormous arrangement of sunflowers and wildflowers.

"For Signorina Carter," the man announced, presenting the bouquet with a flourish.

Riley's breath caught. The flowers were stunning—vibrant yellows and purples, arranged with sprigs of fragrant herbs and local blooms. Not roses or lilies or anything formally romantic, but wildflowers that seemed to capture the essence of the Tuscan countryside.

"Who are they from?" Haley asked, eyes wide.

Riley's hands trembled slightly as she reached for the small card nestled among the blooms.

Riley — Happy Birthday. Not making a big deal about it, just acknowledging it exists. The flowers reminded me of you — wild, colorful, impossible to ignore. Talk soon. — Joe

Something warm and unexpected bloomed in Riley's chest. He'd found the perfect middle ground—acknowledging her birthday without the grand gesture she'd feared, sending something meaningful without making it excessive.

"Those are from the football boy?" Gina asked, peering over Riley's shoulder at the card.

Riley nodded, not trusting her voice at that moment.

"He has good taste," Gina declared. "Elegant but not too formal. Shows he knows you."

"Well," Laura said simply, watching Riley's face carefully. "Looks like your worry was for nothing."

Riley pressed the card to her chest, unable to suppress her smile. "Yeah, I guess so."

As the others exclaimed over the flowers—Bob particularly impressed that Joe had managed to arrange a delivery to their remote location—Riley slipped away to call Joe. It was early in Cincinnati, but she couldn't wait.

He answered on the third ring, his voice clear and energized. "Hey, birthday girl."

"Joe," Riley said, words failing her for a moment. "They're beautiful."

"You like them?" The hint of uncertainty in his voice made her heart clench.

"I love them," she said softly. "But how did you even arrange this? We're in the middle of nowhere, Italy."

Joe's low chuckle warmed her from the inside out. "I know a guy who knows a guy."

"Of course you do."

"Not too much?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. "I was trying to find the middle ground."

"Perfect," Riley assured him. "Just right."

There was a comfortable silence, filled with things unsaid but understood.

"I wish you were here," Riley said softly, the words slipping out before she could consider them.

"Yeah," Joe agreed, his voice rough with something like longing. "Me too."

"So," Joe asked after a moment, "what's the birthday plan today?"

“Bob’s making his famous dinner tonight,” Riley said, leaning against the stone wall as she glanced back toward the kitchen, where Bob was already barking instructions at anyone who dared wander too close. “He spends all day in there, everything from scratch. By the time he’s done, we’re practically rolling out of our chairs.”

“Sounds like my kind of meal,” Joe said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh, it’s serious business,” Riley continued. “And after we’ve eaten enough to put us in a food coma, the real entertainment starts.”

“Which is?”

“Karaoke.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of last year, when Bob had dragged Andy onstage for an off-key rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” “These two mild-mannered vineyard owners turn into absolute karaoke monsters after a few glasses of their own wine. Bob will break out the grappa, and before you know it, Gina’s belting out power ballads like her life depends on it.”

Joe chuckled, and she could hear the genuine amusement in his voice. “Even you?”

“Especially me,” Riley admitted, feeling her face warm. “Something about being offstage, in a place where it doesn’t matter, makes it more fun. Besides, they’ll guilt-trip you into it if you try to refuse. It’s just easier to give in.”

“What’s your go-to song?”

“Depends how much wine I’ve had,” Riley said, grinning. “Early in the night, it’s usually something respectable. Like Janis Joplin or Fleetwood Mac. But by midnight… I’m making questionable decisions. Last year, I tried to do Whitney Houston, and it was… ambitious.”

Joe laughed, and it sent warmth flooding through her chest. “You got videos to back up this story?”

“Oh, plenty,” Riley shot back. “I’ll send you some evidence later. Fair warning—it could seriously damage my professional reputation.”

“Can’t wait,” Joe said, and there was that familiar, easy warmth in his tone again. “You better deliver.”

“Trust me, it’s unforgettable,” she teased. “Mostly because Bob’s grappa is like drinking paint thinner. By the time it’s my turn to sing, I’m half convinced I’m hitting every note.”

“Sounds like I’m missing out,” Joe said, his voice going softer.

“You are,” Riley admitted, the words slipping out before she could catch them. “Next time.”

“Next time,” Joe echoed, and she could hear the weight of it, like he was tucking the promise away somewhere safe.

Bob's special birthday dinner exceeded even Riley's high expectations. The long wooden table on the terrace overflowed with traditional Italian dishes—handmade pasta with wild boar ragu, platters of local cheeses and cured meats, roasted vegetables drizzled with the estate's own olive oil, and bread still warm from the oven. The wine flowed freely, each bottle accompanied by Bob's passionate explanation of its origin and character.

As they finished the final course, Gina emerged from the kitchen with a simple but elegant cake adorned with fresh berries and a single candle.

"Make a wish, cara," she instructed as she set it before Riley.

Riley closed her eyes briefly, the image of Joe appearing unbidden in her mind before she blew out the candle to cheers and applause.

Laura raised her glass. "To Riley—the only person I know who manages to be wildly successful while still being the same disaster we all love. Happy birthday!"

"To Riley!" echoed around the table.

After dessert and coffee, when everyone was pleasantly full and warm with wine, Bob disappeared into a back room and returned with a clear bottle of liquid and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"It is time," he announced dramatically, "for the birthday grappa!"

"Oh no," Andy groaned, though his eyes were alight with anticipation. "Not the grappa."

"Always the grappa," Bob corrected, already pouring small glasses for everyone. "And then—karaoke!"

The karaoke setup was charmingly makeshift—an old television connected to a basic system with two microphones and speakers that had seen better days. But what it lacked in sophistication, it made up for in spirit.

Gina, predictably, went first, her accent thickening as she belted out a passionate rendition of a power ballad, arms spread wide as if performing at an arena instead of their dining room.

"The birthday girl must do a solo!" Bob insisted, already scrolling through the karaoke selections.

"No way," Riley protested, though without much conviction. "I'm not nearly drunk enough for a solo."

"That can be arranged," Bob winked, already refilling her glass.

Riley took the offered grappa, wincing slightly as she swallowed. "Fine, but I get to pick the song."

She scrolled through the surprisingly extensive catalog until she found exactly what she was looking for, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. The familiar synthetic pop intro filled the room, and her friends erupted in laughter and cheers.

"Of course!" Laura shouted, already clapping along. "Perfect choice!"

Riley grabbed the microphone, tossing her hair dramatically as she slipped into performance mode. Unlike her stage presence with the band, this was pure fun—exaggerated movements, playful expressions, and zero concern for technical perfection.

She pointed dramatically at her friends during the verses, using her phone as a prop, completely hamming it up. By the time she hit the chorus, she was dancing around the makeshift stage area, her earlier hesitation completely forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Everyone joined in for the chorus, shouting the iconic "Call me maybe" line while Riley conducted them with sweeping gestures. Bob was recording the whole thing on his phone, swaying enthusiastically while Gina clapped in perfect rhythm beside him.

"Bob's 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' last year nearly brought down the house," Laura called out, leaning toward Riley. "Literally - he knocked over that antique vase during the dramatic finale!"

"It was worth it!" Bob declared proudly, not missing a beat as he continued recording Riley's performance.

Andy jumped up to join Riley for the bridge, the two of them back-to-back in an improvised choreography that suggested they'd done this before. Haley and Laura provided enthusiastic backup vocals, complete with synchronized hand movements.

As Riley launched into the final chorus, she was laughing too hard to hit the notes properly, but it didn't matter. This wasn't about skill—it was about joy, about being surrounded by people who loved her exactly as she was, ridiculous dance moves and all.

When the song ended, she took an exaggerated bow to thunderous applause and whistles. Bob immediately wrapped her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet.

"Bravissima!" he declared. "Now this is how you celebrate a birthday!"

Riley collapsed onto the couch, breathless and laughing, accepting another glass of wine from Laura.

"I'm definitely sending that to Joe," Haley teased, waving her phone where she'd captured the entire performance.

"Don't you dare," Riley protested, making a half-hearted grab for the phone, but her smile gave her away. Maybe she wouldn't mind if Joe saw this side of her—carefree and ridiculous, surrounded by the people who knew her best.

As the night continued with more performances—Andy's surprisingly tender rendition of an old blues standard, Pete and Laura's dramatically choreographed duet—Riley found herself taking out her own phone. Before she could overthink it, she scrolled to a short clip of her performance that Laura had sent to their group chat and attached it to a message to Joe.

Riley: Birthday karaoke in full swing. Grappa is dangerous. Miss you.

She hit send before she could second-guess the last two words, then set her phone aside, rejoining the celebration. Tonight was about being present with the people here, but that didn't mean she couldn't share a small piece of it with the person who'd somehow worked his way into her thoughts even from thousands of miles away.

Back in Cincinnati, Joe was in the middle of a late-night film session when his phone lit up with Riley's message. The video of last season's playoff game against Buffalo paused on his laptop screen as he reached for his phone, a small smile forming when he saw her name.

He studied the short clip she'd sent—Riley performing with theatrical abandon, clearly enjoying herself in a way that was different from her professional performances. This was Riley unguarded, surrounded by people who knew her best, slightly drunk on what he assumed was the infamous grappa she'd mentioned. Considering it was probably 2 AM in Italy, the celebration was clearly in full swing.

But it was the last two words that caught him off guard: "Miss you."

Joe stared at those words longer than the video itself, something warm spreading through his chest. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating his response. The structured, careful part of him—the part that had gotten him this far in his career—wanted to keep things light. But another part, the one that had been growing steadily since meeting Riley, pushed for honesty.

Miss you too. More than makes sense.

He hit send before he could overthink it, then set the phone down, running a hand through his hair as he tried to refocus on the game film. But his thoughts kept drifting to Riley—to her laugh, to the vineyard she'd described, to the way she'd looked at him before leaving for the airport.

With a sigh, Joe closed his laptop. The Buffalo game could wait until morning. He glanced around his pristine living room, at the careful order he maintained in every aspect of his life. His home was his sanctuary, his private space—one he rarely invited others into. Even teammates seldom made it past the front door.

An idea took shape, one that surprised even him with its unexpectedness. What if, instead of Riley going back to LA after Italy, she came here? To Cincinnati. To his home.

The thought made him pause. Bringing someone into his space, into the carefully ordered world he'd created for himself—it wasn't something he did lightly. With previous relationships, he'd maintained separation, keeping his personal sanctuary untouched. But with Riley, the idea of her here, in his space, didn't trigger his usual resistance.

It felt right. Necessary, even.

Joe picked up his phone again, no message from Riley yet. She was probably still lost in the karaoke party with her friends and the vineyard owners. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he'd call her and ask her to come to Cincinnati. The idea transformed from impulsive thought to deliberate decision as he stood, something almost like anticipation building in his chest at the prospect of seeing her again—here, in the space that was most authentically his.

Afternoon sunlight flooded Riley's room at the vineyard, despite her best efforts to keep it at bay by drawing the heavy shutters. She groaned softly, the aftermath of Bob's notorious grappa making itself known with a dull throb behind her eyes. Memories of last night's karaoke session flooded back—Gina's dramatic power ballads, Andy's surprisingly decent Frank Sinatra impression, and her own enthusiastic performance that she'd impulsively shared with Joe.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Riley fumbled for it, squinting at the screen. Joe's name appeared, and she felt a flutter of something warm beneath her hangover. She cleared her throat before answering.

"Hey, quarterback," she managed, voice still rough despite the late hour.

"Did I wake you?" Joe asked, his voice clear and alert. Of course he'd already been up for hours.

"No," Riley lied, pushing herself up against the headboard. "Well, maybe. What time is it there?"

"Just after nine," Joe replied. "Afternoon for you, right?"

Riley glanced at the time. Almost 2 PM. "Yeah, but time works differently in Italy. Especially after grappa."

Joe's low chuckle came through the line. "Looked like you were having fun last night."

"I may have gotten a little carried away," Riley admitted, smiling at the memory. "Did I embarrass myself with that video?"

"Not at all," Joe assured her. "I liked seeing that side of you."

A comfortable silence settled between them before Joe spoke again, his tone shifting slightly.

"So, I've been thinking," he began, and something in his voice made Riley sit up straighter. "What if you didn't go back to LA after Italy?"

Riley's breath caught. "What do you mean?"

"Come to Cincinnati instead," Joe clarified. "Just for a few days. Before you have to be back in the studio."

The question hung between them, weighted with implication. This wasn't just a casual invitation—it was Joe opening his world to her, asking her to step into his carefully ordered life.

"I'd have to change my flight," Riley said, already mentally calculating what that would involve.

"I could take care of that," Joe offered, then paused. "If you wanted."

Riley stared out the window at the rolling hills of Le Marche, turning the idea over in her mind. Going to Cincinnati meant something more significant than their weekend in New Orleans. That had been neutral territory, a Mardi Gras bubble. This would be Joe's home turf, his real life.

"What would we do in Cincinnati?" she asked, stalling for time.

"I have some ideas," Joe said, a hint of something warmer in his voice. "Things you might like. Or we could just... be. No itinerary. No expectations."

No expectations. The words echoed in Riley's mind, reminding her of their conversation about her birthday. Joe had understood her hesitation then, had found the perfect middle ground. She trusted him to do the same now.

"Joe Burrow without an itinerary?" she teased, deflecting slightly. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I can be spontaneous," he protested mildly. "Sometimes."

Riley laughed, the sound carrying over the hillside. "Name one spontaneous thing you've done this year that wasn't related to me."

The silence on the other end was telling.

"That's what I thought," Riley said, smiling into the phone.

"So is that a yes?" Joe's voice was hopeful but not pushing.

Riley took a deep breath. The sensible answer was no. She had sessions scheduled, meetings with the label about release strategy, a half-dozen other commitments waiting in LA. But none of it felt as important as the possibility contained in Joe's invitation.

"Yes," she said finally. "I'd like that."

Even through the phone, she could feel his smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Riley confirmed, a flutter of something like excitement coursing through her. "But I'm warning you now, I'm terrible at packing. I'll probably show up with completely inappropriate clothing for whatever you have planned."

"Noted," Joe said, relief and pleasure evident in his voice. "I'll send the flight details tomorrow."

They talked a little longer, making loose plans. When they finally hung up, Riley sat for a moment longer, staring out at the vineyard. The decision felt momentous somehow, a deliberate step toward something rather than her usual pattern of letting things unfold around her.

Laura's voice interrupted her thoughts as she appeared in the doorway. "Well? What's got you smiling like that?"

"I'm going to Cincinnati instead of LA," Riley admitted, still processing it herself.

Laura's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? When did this happen?"

"Just now," Riley said, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "He called and asked, and it just... felt right."

Laura studied her friend's face, taking a thoughtful sip of her wine. "You two barely know each other, but I haven't seen you light up like this in a long time."

Riley looked out at the vineyard, then back to Laura with a half-shrug. "It's different with him. I can't explain it exactly. It's like..." she paused, searching for the words. "It's like we're from completely different worlds, but somehow it works."

"Must be," Laura agreed, her expression softening as she studied Riley's face. "It's nice, you know."

"What is?"

"Seeing you like this again. Open." Laura's eyes were knowing. "After Ethan, you've been so..."

"Closed off?" Riley supplied.

"I was going to say selective about who gets past the stage persona," Laura corrected gently. "That's not like you. You've always been the one who dives in headfirst."

Riley didn't have to ask what she meant. After Ethan, she'd built walls around certain parts of herself. She'd still been Riley—still impulsive, still adventurous in almost every aspect of her life—but when it came to letting someone in, really in, she'd kept the door firmly shut.

But Joe had somehow slipped through that defense without even trying. From that first conversation in New York, there had been something about him that made her want to let him see the real her, not just the version she showed the world.

Laura nudged her shoulder. "Pete's going to give you so much shit about this."

Riley groaned, already imagining the teasing she'd endure from her bandmates. "Worth it," she decided.

Laura nudged her shoulder. "Pete's going to give you so much shit about this."

Riley groaned, already imagining the teasing she'd endure from her bandmates. "Worth it," she decided.

Haley appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of wine. "Worth what? Did I miss something important?"

"Only Riley deciding to go to Cincinnati instead of LA," Laura said with exaggerated casualness.

Haley's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? Just like that?"

Riley pointed accusingly at Laura. "Don't make it sound so impulsive. It's just for a few days."

"Everything you do is impulsive," Haley countered, entering the room fully. She glanced at Riley's chaotic packing situation and winced. "So what are you planning to wear in Cincinnati?"

Riley looked down at her mess of clothes. "I mean, it's cold here too. I've got warm stuff."

"You have two sweaters, both of which you've worn repeatedly without washing," Haley pointed out. "And that leather jacket with the broken zipper."

"I'll make it work," Riley shrugged. "It's not like I'm going to Antarctica."

"No, just Cincinnati," Laura said. "Where it's probably exactly as cold as it is here, but you'll have even fewer clothing options because most of what you brought is dirty."

Riley tossed a bundled pair of socks at her. "I'll figure it out. Maybe do some emergency laundry before I leave."

"Or you could just buy something there," Haley suggested practically.

"Or steal his clothes," Laura added with a smirk.

"Shut up, both of you," Riley laughed, but there was no heat in it.

Haley sat on the edge of the bed. "Football boy must be pretty special if you're willing to show up with half a functional wardrobe."

Riley didn't deny it, which made both Laura and Haley exchange knowing looks.

"Hey," Laura said, noticing Riley's contemplative expression. "You good with this? Really?"

Riley thought about Joe—his quiet confidence, his thoughtfulness, the way he'd somehow understood exactly what she needed for her birthday.

"Yeah," she said softly, certainty settling over her like a blanket. "I'm good with this."

Haley raised her glass in a toast. "Then I'm happy for you. Even if your packing skills remain atrocious."

Back in Cincinnati, Joe set his phone down and leaned back against his kitchen counter, a slow smile spreading across his face. Riley was coming here. To his city. His home.

The realization sent an unexpected surge of anticipation through him. He glanced around his Indian Hill home—the tasteful modern furnishings, the organized spaces, the large windows overlooking the lake. The house was massive—far bigger than what he really needed. It had never struck him as incomplete before, mostly because he never gave it much thought. It was a place to sleep, eat, and decompress when he had the rare off day. Functional. Efficient. Nothing unnecessary.

But now, imagining Riley here, he saw it through new eyes.

Would she find it too impersonal? The contrast with her vibrant New Orleans home was stark. Her space had felt lived-in, full of stories and meaning in every corner. His was beautiful but… unfinished. As though he’d moved in but never fully unpacked the parts of himself that would transform it from a house into a home.

Joe pushed off from the counter, walking through the rooms with a more critical eye. He pulled up a saved tab on his phone—the high-end turntable he’d researched obsessively after returning from New Orleans but hadn’t pulled the trigger on buying. Now there was a reason to finally make the purchase.

He picked up his phone, texting his assistant, Sarah.

Joe: Need a few things ASAP - high-end turntable delivered by Wednesday.

He screenshot the Pro-Ject model he’d been eyeing and sent it.

Joe: This one. Also need speakers—something good, but not obnoxious-looking. And a console table for it—don’t care what it looks like, just make it go with the house.

He paused, then added:

Joe: Also need warm clothes (women’s S/M) for someone coming from Italy. Cincinnati weather appropriate. Details tomorrow.

The response came almost immediately.

Sarah: On it. Any specific brands/style preferences for the clothes?

Joe: I have no idea. She wears vintage stuff. Just get options.

Sarah: Got it. Budget?

Joe: Whatever it takes.

Joe suddenly realized something and quickly typed another message.

Joe: Also need records. For the turntable.

Sarah: What kind of records?

Joe stared at his phone. Shit.

Joe: Fuck, I don’t know, Sarah. What do cool people listen to on vinyl?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Sarah: Turntable and vinyl? Whatever you’re doing, you’re really going for it, huh?

Joe: Yeah. Need help.

Sarah: This must be serious. I’m both concerned and entertained.

Joe: Not helpful, Sarah. You’re fired.

Sarah: You’re not firing me. You’d never put in the effort to train someone new, and you know it.

Joe: Fine. Not fired. But please help with the records.

Sarah: I know a guy at the record store. I’ll get you a “tastefully eclectic collection that doesn’t try too hard.” His words, not mine.

Joe: Perfect. Thanks.

Sarah: First turntables, now records. She must be something.

Joe: Don't worry about that.

Joe stared at the message for a long moment.

Joe: She is.

Strangely, the thought didn’t fill him with the usual anxiety that came with disruptions to his routine. Instead, it felt… energizing. Like Riley’s impending visit was bringing color to a part of his life that had been stuck in shades of gray for too long.

For the first time, his house didn’t quite feel like home—but maybe that was because home was becoming something different altogether. Something he was just beginning to understand.

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