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mrs-delaney · 8 days ago

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Hide | Chapter Fourteen | Angels Like You

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pairing: joe burrow x riley carter (oc) word count: 10.5k ish requested: no ⚠️ just a little warning: joe gets hurt in this one—not graphic, but it’s serious—and the emotional vibes are very much “something’s not right.” if that’s a tough headspace, skip or pause as needed.

📝 this story is only posted on wattpad and tumblr under miss_delaney. if you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. 🚫 do not repost, translate, or share my work without permission. 🌻 requests: closed! 💌 want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment or message me.

Author’s Note: posting two days in a row?? wild. who is she??

work’s been a little slow this week so i’ve been writing in between meetings (sorry to my boss..even though he sees me fuckin' around). this one’s a bit shorter, but it felt right to give it its own space.

this chapter's got that underlying hurt—you know, where nothing's actually exploded but everything still feels wrong somehow. not broken exactly, just... uneasy. like everyone's walking on eggshells but trying to pretend they're not. that's kind of where we are right now.

this part of the story is loosely based on real events. creative liberties were taken. timelines were bent.

thanks for being here. i really mean it. 💛

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

August 26

Joe walks off the sideline still thinking about Riley's voice when she hung up on him days ago. The preseason game against the Commanders just ended—they won, 24-17—but he spent most of it watching from the bench, his mind three thousand miles away. He played one series in the first quarter, handed off twice, and that was it.

"Good game, Joe," someone calls out, maybe a coach, maybe a teammate. He nods without really seeing them, already pulling his phone from his locker.

Still no response to any of his texts. It feels like an eternity of silence.

Joe showers quickly, throws on sweats and a hoodie, and ignores the team bus idling outside the stadium. Instead, he calls Sarah.

"I need a jet," he says without preamble.

"Tonight? Joe, you just played—"

"Tonight. To LAX. How fast can you make it happen?"

There's a pause. Sarah's been his assistant for two years; she knows when not to ask questions. "Give me an hour. Where are you going from LAX?"

"I'll figure it out when I get there."

The drive to the private airfield outside Washington gives Joe time to think, which is both a blessing and a curse. He keeps replaying Riley's voice from that phone call—When push comes to shove, I'm the problem you need to manage—and realizing she wasn't wrong.

He tries calling her again as he waits for the jet to be prepped. Straight to voicemail, same as it's been for days.

"Riley, it's me again," he says after the beep. "I know you probably don't want to hear from me right now, but... just call me back. Please."

He hangs up and immediately wants to try again, but forces himself to put the phone away. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have by now.

The pilot doesn't ask questions about the last-minute flight or why Joe looks like shit.

He pulls out his phone and stares at his last text to Riley: Still hoping you'll be there Saturday.

She never responded. Which means she's probably not coming to Cincinnati. Which means this thing between them might actually be over, might have ended with that terrible phone call where he said all the wrong things and she hung up on him.

Joe opens a new message and starts typing: I'm coming to see you.

He deletes it. Tries again: We need to talk.

Deletes that too.

The truth is, he's terrified she'll tell him not to come. That she'll say she doesn't want to see him, that they're done, that he's too late. So instead of giving her the chance to reject him, he's just going to show up and hope she'll at least let him explain.

It's not his usual approach—Joe plans things, thinks them through, weighs the options. But planning hasn't been working when it comes to Riley. Every time he tries to be careful, to manage the situation, he makes it worse.

Maybe it's time to stop being careful.

The flight attendant offers him dinner, but Joe's stomach is too twisted to eat. He accepts water instead and uses the wifi to book a rental car, then immediately second-guesses the choice. Should he take an Uber? Less traceable, but also less reliable if Riley wants him to leave quickly.

God, he doesn't even know if she's home. For all he knows, she could be anywhere—New Orleans, Nashville, Colorado, literally anywhere. He hasn't heard from her team either, despite texting Pete directly yesterday.

Joe stares out the window at the dark expanse of America passing below and tries to figure out what he's going to say when he sees her. I'm sorryseems inadequate. I was scared sounds like an excuse. I love you feels true but not enough - not when love hasn't stopped him from hurting her.

His phone buzzes with a text from his dad: How'd the game go?

Joe types back: Fine. Flying to LA.

The response comes quickly: Good. Bring her home.

It's such a simple statement. Bring her home. Like she belongs there, like she belongs with him. Even though they haven't met her yet.

The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom: "We'll be beginning our descent into Los Angeles in about twenty minutes."

Joe's hands start to sweat. Twenty minutes until he finds out if the person he loves still wants anything to do with him.

He tries her number one more time. It rings once, twice, three times, then goes to voicemail.

"It's me," he says. "I... I'm sorry about everything. About the phone call, about not being there when you needed me, about being an idiot. I'm going to try to fix this, okay? If you'll let me."

He hangs up and immediately regrets it. He should have said more, should have explained, should have told her he was coming. But it's too late now.

The rental car is waiting. Joe plugs Riley's address into the GPS and drives.

The drive from LAX to Laurel Canyon takes forty minutes. Joe's locked in now, the way he gets before big games. One objective: get to Riley. Everything else is noise.

But what if she's not alone?

It's been days since they talked. Days for her to decide she's done with his shit, done with being treated like a secret, done with dating someone who chooses his image over her every time it matters. Someone like maybe Dom.

Joe pushes the thought away and focuses on driving, on the narrow roads and expensive houses hidden behind gates and perfectly manicured hedges. Riley's neighborhood is quiet, peaceful, the kind of place where showing up unannounced at midnight might get the cops called.

He turns onto her street. Her house sits at the end of a curved driveway, lights on in the living room. Her car's the only one there.

Joe parks on the street and sits in the rental car for a full minute, staring at her front door. This is it. This is where he finds out if he still has her or if he's lost the best thing that's ever happened to him.

He gets out of the car and walks to her door.

Once he reaches her front door he just stands there, hand raised to knock, suddenly terrified of what comes next.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on her living room floor, acoustic guitar balanced across her lap, surrounded by scattered pieces of paper covered in crossed-out lines and half-formed verses. It's past 1 AM, but sleep feels impossible when her chest is this tight with words that need to come out.

She strums the same chord progression she's been working on for the past hour, humming a melody that feels too raw to sing at full voice yet. The notebook beside her is open to a page that reads:

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me I'm everything they said I would be

She stops playing and scratches out the second line, tries again:

I'm everything you didn't want me to be

That's not right either. Riley sets the guitar aside and pulls her knees to her chest, staring at the mess of papers around her. Days of not responding to Joe, days of writing songs that all sound like goodbye letters she'll never send.

Her phone sits face-down on the coffee table, silent since she finally set up the new one yesterday and saw all his unanswered messages flood in at once. She'd read them, all of them, but couldn't bring herself to respond. What was there to say? That she missed him? That she was tired of feeling like a problem he needed to solve?

Riley reaches for the guitar again, finds the melody, tries a different approach:

They say that misery loves company It's not your fault I ruin everything

The knock at her front door makes her freeze mid-strum.

She glances at the clock on her phone. 1:23 AM. Who the hell shows up at her house at 1:23 in the morning?

The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

Riley sets the guitar aside and pads to the front door in her bare feet, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her mid-thigh and shorts that disappear under the hem. She expects to see Pete through the peephole, or maybe Andy having another late-night crisis about some girl.

Instead, she sees Joe Burrow standing on her doorstep in sweats and a hoodie, looking like he just traveled three thousand miles to be there.

Which, apparently, he did.

Riley stares through the peephole for a full ten seconds, convinced she's hallucinating. Joe doesn't make grand gestures. Joe doesn't show up unannounced. Joe definitely doesn't fly across the country in the middle of the night.

But there he is.

She unlocks the door and opens it slowly, not trusting her voice yet.

"Hi," he says simply.

Riley blinks at him, still processing. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to make sure you get on a plane to Cincinnati."

Riley stares at him. "You... what?"

"Your flight. Tomorrow. I need to know you're still coming."

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Of all the things she might have expected Joe to say, this wasn't one of them. "You flew here to ask me that?"

"I flew here because I fucked up…again."

Riley stares at him for another long moment. "You got that right," she says finally.

She steps back from the door, and Joe takes it as an invitation to come inside. The living room is covered in evidence of sleepless nights: papers scattered across the coffee table and floor, her guitar propped against the couch, lyrics scrawled in her messy handwriting.

Riley closes the door behind him and crosses her arms, suddenly aware that she's barely dressed and he's standing in her living room in the middle of the night like this isn't completely insane.

"Shouldn't you be in Maryland?" she asks, trying to find her footing in this conversation.

"Game ended hours ago." Joe's looking at the papers around her guitar, probably reading the fragments of lyrics she's been working on. "You've been writing."

"I've been doing a lot of things." Riley moves to gather some of the papers, suddenly self-conscious about him seeing her raw thoughts scattered everywhere. "What do you want, Joe?"

"I want to know if you're coming to Cincinnati tomorrow."

Riley stops collecting papers and looks at him. "Why would I be coming to Cincinnati?"

"Your flight. You had a flight booked."

"Had being the key word." Riley sits down on the edge of her couch, putting some distance between them. "I canceled it."

Something shifts in Joe's expression. "When?"

"The other day. I'm exhausted with this, Joe."

"I know. That's why I'm here."

Riley looks at him for a long moment. "You think showing up fixes it?"

"I think not showing up definitely doesn't."

She's quiet, processing that. Joe stays where he is, not moving closer, not trying to crowd her space.

"My team lost their minds when they saw the headlines," he says finally. "Started talking about damage control and how this could affect my image. And I listened to them instead of calling you back first."

Riley doesn't respond right away.

"I panicked. When I saw those photos, when I heard what people were saying... I thought about protecting myself before I thought about protecting you."

Riley wraps her arms tighter around herself. "That's the problem, Joe. When things get hard, your first instinct is to pull away from me, not toward me."

"I know."

"Really? Do you Joe? Because this isn't the first time. Every time there's any kind of pressure or scrutiny, you treat me like I'm the complication."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "You're not a complication."

"Then why do I always feel like one?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment. "Because I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to have you in my life and deal with everyone else's opinions about it. So when things get complicated, I default to what I know - protecting what I can control."

"At least you're honest about it. But Joe, I can't keep being the thing you sacrifice every time you get scared." Riley shifts on the couch, pulling her knees closer. "I know I'm not easy. I know my life is messy and unpredictable and nothing like what you're used to. But I can't keep wondering if you're going to choose me or choose everyone else's opinion of me."

"I'm trying to figure out how to do that. Choose you."

Joe moves closer, crouching down in front of the couch so he can see her face. "Don't give up on this. On us."

Riley looks at him, eyes tired. "This hurts, Joe."

"I know. I don't want to hurt you. Stay with me while I figure it out?"

She studies his face like she's looking for something she's not sure is there. "You keep asking me to wait while you figure it out. But what if you don't? What if this is just who we are?"

"I don't want it to be."

"Wanting isn't the same as changing." She's quiet for a moment. "But yeah. Okay. I'll stay."

"Even though you shouldn't."

"Probably because I shouldn't."

Joe takes what feels like the first deep breath he's had in days.

He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it. Her fingers are cold, and he realizes she's been sitting here for hours writing, probably not taking care of herself the way she does when she's processing something hard.

"Come here," he says quietly, and gently pulls her up from the couch.

Riley stands on unsteady legs, and Joe wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. She melts into him immediately, her face pressed against his hoodie, and he can feel some of the tension leave her body.

They stand like that for a long moment, just holding each other. Joe rests his chin on top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, feeling the relief wash over him that she's here, that she's his, that she said okay.

Riley's arms tighten around his waist, and Joe realizes she's crying - not sobs, just quiet tears that soak through his hoodie.

"I missed you," she whispers against his chest.

"I missed you too," he says, his voice rough. "So much."

* * *

They stay like that, wrapped around each other in her living room surrounded by scattered lyrics and the evidence of her sleepless nights. It's relief and comfort and the simple fact that they fit together, even when everything else feels broken.

Riley pulls back just enough to look at his face, her hands coming up to rest against his chest. "You hate grand gestures."

"I had to. I was going crazy."

She studies his expression, searching for something. When she finds it, Joe leans down and kisses her.

It's soft at first, tentative, like he's not sure if this is allowed. But Riley's hands fist in his hoodie, and she kisses him back with weeks of missing him, and Joe makes a small sound against her mouth that goes straight through her.

"Bird," he breathes against her lips.

"I know," she whispers. "I know."

She takes his hand and leads him down the hall to her bedroom, and this time it's different from every other time they've been together. Slower, more careful. Like they're both afraid the other might disappear.

Joe pulls off his hoodie while Riley sits on the edge of her bed, just watching him. When he reaches for the hem of her oversized t-shirt, she lets him pull it over her head, and then they're skin to skin for the first time in too long.

"I thought I fucked this up forever," Joe says quietly, his forehead resting against hers.

"You didn't," Riley says, even though they both know how close he came.

When he touches her, it's with reverence, like he's memorizing every inch. When she moves against him, it's with a kind of desperate tenderness, like she's trying to pour all her forgiveness into the space between their bodies.

It's not gentle, not really. They cling to each other, pace quick and rough, both of them chasing relief and something like grace. Neither of them talks. Just the sound of skin and breath, desperate and seeking, like they're trying to say I'm sorry, I love you, don't leave again—all without words.

"Joe," Riley breathes against his mouth, her hands fisted in his hair.

"Me too," he says back, his voice rough.

She pulls him closer, desperate. "Don't—" she starts, then stops, but Joe knows what she means.

"I won't," he promises against her throat. "I'm not stopping. I'm not going anywhere."

When she's close, she whispers his name like a prayer, over and over, and Joe has to bite down on her shoulder to keep from falling apart completely.

"Please," she whispers, and he knows what she needs.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs back.

When Riley comes, it’s quiet, her body shaking with it, face pressed to his shoulder. Joe follows right after, everything tightening at once, her name muffled against her skin.

After, they don’t move. He just holds her, breathing her in, as if he could anchor himself to this moment and never let go.

"Come back with me," Joe says eventually.

"Joe."

"Please, Riley."

"You know I will." She sighs. "When do you want to leave?"

"In the morning? When we wake up?"

"Okay."

She settles back against his chest, and Joe feels something ease in his chest that's been tight for days. It's not fixed - he knows that. The conversation they had in the living room doesn't solve the fundamental problem between them. But she's here, and she's his, and tomorrow they'll figure out the rest.

* * *

Early September

Riley stares out the airplane window at the darkness below, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. The red-eye from Cincinnati to London is half empty, which means she has an entire row to herself to spread out and pretend she's not exhausted down to her bones.

Thirty-six hours. She could have stayed in London, slept off the jet lag, maybe seen a show in the West End. But no—she flew to Cincinnati instead, burning through her only real break because she thought things might be different after LA. Thirty-six hours of watching Joe slip right back into the same patterns that broke them apart in the first place.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Pete: Safe flight. Get some sleep. Love you.

She types back: Can't sleep. Too wired.

What she doesn't text is that nothing has changed. That Joe flying to LA, showing up at her door, asking her to stay with him—none of it actually fixed the thing that's wrong between them.

Yesterday afternoon, Joe's living room:

"The Steelers run a lot of zone coverage on third down," Joe muttered to himself, remote in hand, rewinding the same play for the fourth time.

Riley looked up from her book—she'd given up trying to have a conversation twenty minutes earlier. "Joe."

"Mmm?" He didn't look away from the screen.

"Remember when you said you were trying to figure out how to choose me?"

That got his attention. He paused the film and turned to her. "I am trying."

"Yeah? Because this feels exactly like it did before."

Joe's jaw tightened slightly. "It's Week 1, Riley. This is important."

"And I'm not?"

"That's not what I said."

But Riley could see it in his face—the same look he got whenever football took priority. The same wall going up.

Riley shifts in her seat now, curling sideways against the window. The flight attendant offers her a blanket, which she accepts with a tired smile.

Her phone lights up with a message from Joe: Miss you already.

She stares at the text for a long moment before responding: Miss you too.

But the truth is she doesn't just miss him—she misses who he used to be with her. The Joe who would actually turn off his phone. Who cared about her day, not just the parts that fit around football. This version feels like someone else entirely.

This morning, Joe's kitchen:

"I can drive you to the airport," Joe offered, grabbing his keys.

"It's fine. I called a car."

"You sure? I don't have meetings until noon."

Riley could see he was already mentally somewhere else—probably thinking about practice, about the game plan, about everything except the fact that she was leaving again. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He kissed her goodbye at the door, distracted and quick. "Text me when you land?"

"I will."

But they both knew he probably wouldn't see it until hours later, buried between messages from coaches and teammates and everyone else who took precedence during football season.

Riley closes her eyes and tries to find a comfortable position. Seven more hours until London, then a full day of interviews where she'll have to smile and talk about her music while running on no sleep and too much caffeine.

Her phone buzzes again. A text from Andy: How was Cincinnati?

She types and deletes three different responses before settling on: Fine.

It's not fine, though. Nothing about this feels fine. Joe said he was trying to figure out how to choose her, but the moment football season started, everything went right back to how it was before.

She's still the only one reaching. Loving him is starting to feel like chasing him.

Riley looks at her phone again. Joe's "miss you already" text, her automatic "Miss you too" response. A week ago, that exchange would have made her heart race. Now it just feels hollow.

When did she become the only one reaching? When did loving him start feeling like chasing him?

Seven hours to London. Seven hours to figure out how to smile and talk about her music while pretending everything's fine.

For the first time since that night in her living room when Joe asked her to stay with him, Riley wonders if she should have said no.

* * *

September-1st Game of the Season

Riley - 2:47 PM London time (9:47 AM Cincinnati): Good luck today baby. I know you're going to be amazing.

Riley - 3:15 PM: Thinking about you. Wish I could be there.

Riley - 4:30 PM: Still no response? Everything okay?

Riley - 5:45 PM: Joe?

Riley stares at her phone screen in her London hotel room, watching the delivered messages pile up with no response. She's been up since 6 AM doing BBC Radio interviews, but all she can think about is Joe's first game of the season starting in an hour.

Riley - 6:00 PM (1:00 PM Cincinnati - Kickoff): Game's starting. I'm watching on my laptop. You've got this.

She settles into bed with her laptop balanced on her knees, the NFL app streaming the Bengals vs. Steelers game. The hotel room is dark except for the glow of the screen, and Riley pulls a blanket around herself as she watches Joe take the field.

Riley - 6:23 PM: You look so focused out there. Doing amazing.

Riley - 6:45 PM: I have no idea what's happening but you look good doing it.

Riley - 7:30 PM (Halftime): They're winning but you've got this. Second half.

The Bengals are struggling. Pittsburgh's defense is relentless, and Joe's getting pressured on every play. Riley finds herself holding her breath every time he drops back to pass, texting encouragement she knows he won't see until after the game.

Riley - 8:15 PM: That hit looked bad. Are you okay?

Riley - 8:47 PM: Come on baby. One touchdown. You can do this.

Riley - 9:20 PM (Game ends, Bengals lose 21-10): I'm sorry. You played your heart out. You'll get them next time.

Riley - 9:45 PM: Joe? Just want to make sure you're okay.

Riley - 11:30 PM: I know you're probably in meetings or with the team. Call me when you can?

Riley - 1:15 AM: Are you ignoring me?

It's nearly 2 AM London time when Riley's phone finally buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. She answers immediately, and Joe's face appears on screen—hair still damp from the shower, jaw tight with frustration.

"Hey," she says softly. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. We lost." His voice is flat, exhausted.

"I watched the whole game. You looked good out there, even though they kept hitting you—"

"Riley, I don't want to talk about the game."

She blinks, taken aback by his tone. "Okay. I was just... I was trying to be supportive. I sent you texts all day."

"I don't check my phone on game days."

"What?"

Joe rubs his face with his hands. "I don't talk to anyone the day before or day of games. I go dark."

Riley stares at him through the screen. "You never told me that."

"I thought you knew."

"How would I know that? You've never mentioned it once." Her voice gets sharper. "I stayed up all night watching your game, Joe. I've been worried sick because you weren't responding to anything."

"I can't be thinking about texts when I'm trying to prepare."

"I wasn't asking you to respond during the game. But before? After? Some acknowledgment that your girlfriend exists?"

Joe's expression hardens. "This is exactly why I don't talk to people on game days. I can't deal with this right now."

"Deal with what? Me caring about you?"

"I lost, Riley. I threw two interceptions. The last thing I need is—"

"Is what? Support? Someone who care about you trying to be there for you?"

"I need space to process this."

Riley feels something cold settle in her chest. "Space from me."

"Space from everyone."

"But especially me."

Joe doesn't deny it, and that silence says everything.

"I can't do this," Riley says quietly. "I can't keep being shut out of the most important part of your life."

"Football has to come first during the season. You know that."

"I know that football is important. What I didn't know is that means I don't exist."

Joe's jaw tightens. "That's not fair."

"Are you kidding me? When do I come first, Joe? When do I get to matter?"

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in her dark hotel room, staring at the black screen of her phone. It's 2:30 AM in London, and she has morning interviews in six hours. But all she can think about is the look on Joe's face when she asked when she gets to matter.

Like it was a question he'd never considered before.

Riley's phone buzzes less than five minutes after she ended the call. Joe's name appears on the screen.

She stares at it for two rings before answering.

"What?"

"Don't hang up." Joe's voice is quieter now, less sharp. "Please."

Riley doesn't say anything, but she doesn't hang up either.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have taken the loss out on you."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"And I should have told you about game days. I assumed you knew, but you didn't. That's on me."

Riley shifts against her hotel pillows, exhausted. "Joe, I stayed up all night to watch you play. I was trying to support you."

"I know. And I appreciate that, I do. I just... I don't think clearly after losses."

"It's not just about tonight. It's about me not knowing basic things about your life. About feeling like I'm always on the outside of the most important part of who you are."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I'll try to be more upfront about what game day stuff looks like for me. What the season looks like. I don't want you feeling shut out."

"Okay."

"Are we okay?"

Riley closes her eyes. She's too tired to fight, too tired to explain again why this hurt. "Yeah. We're okay."

"Get some sleep. I know you have early interviews."

"Yeah. I do."

"Riley?"

"What?"

"Thank you. For watching. For caring. I know I didn't say that before."

"You're welcome."

After they hang up, Riley lies in the dark staring at the ceiling. Joe apologized, promised to be more communicative about his boundaries. It should feel like progress.

Instead, it just feels like another conversation where she has to adjust her expectations to fit his world.

Riley sets an alarm and tries to fall asleep.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on the floor of the rehearsal studio, still catching her breath from running through "Lonely Is the Muse" for the tenth time today. The mock stage setup towers behind her—lights, risers, even a replica of the LED backdrop that will follow them around the world. Her phone is propped against her water bottle as she FaceTimes Joe, who's presumably at home in Cincinnati.

"You should see this setup," she says, angling the phone so he can see the stage. "It's insane. Andy designed this whole lighting sequence that syncs with the guitar solo in 'Lilith,' and Pete's been working on these harmonies that—"

"That's cool," Joe says, but his attention seems split. Riley can see him looking at something off-camera.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Just checking something real quick." He looks back at the phone. "Sorry. The stage looks good."

Riley tries not to let her irritation show. "We've been rehearsing for twelve hours a day. I'm exhausted but also kind of terrified and excited all at the same time. Tour starts in three weeks."

"You'll be great. You always are."

"I hope so." Riley shifts, tucking her legs under her. "Actually, I was thinking—you have your bye week coming up, right? End of October?"

"Yeah."

"You should come here. See the rehearsals, hang out while we're in prep mode. I could show you around the studio complex, introduce you to everyone properly." Riley's voice gets more animated as she talks. "You could watch us work through the setlist, see what this whole thing looks like from the inside."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I don't know, Riley."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean, bye weeks are usually when I catch up on rest. Recovery. I don't really go anywhere during the season."

Riley frowns. "But it's your week off. And I'm asking you to come see something that's really important to me."

"I know it's important—"

"I don't think you do. Because it feels like you think my work is just a fun little hobby compared to yours."

"That's not true."

"Then why won't you come?"

Joe runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You get on a plane, you come to LA, you spend time with your girlfriend. What's complicated about that?"

"Riley, we're still laying low, remember? After the whole Ethan thing? My team thinks it's better if I'm not seen—"

"Your team thinks it's better if you're not seen with me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant." Riley's voice gets sharper. "Joe, that was two months ago. How long are we supposed to hide because my drunk ex made a scene?"

"It's not hiding, it's being smart. The season just started, and things are going well, and I don't want to create any distractions—"

"I'm a distraction."

"No, the media attention is a distraction."

"Same thing." Riley stands up, pacing the small area in front of her phone. "God, we're right back where we started, aren't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're still more worried about how things look than about being with me. Nothing's actually changed."

Joe's jaw tightens. "Come on, Riley. I've been trying to be better about communication—"

"Communication isn't the only problem, Joe. The problem is that you don't want to be seen with me. The problem is that I've flown to Cincinnati three times in the past month, but you won't come here once because you're worried about your precious image."

"Riley—"

"When's the last time you came to my world? When's the last time you made an effort to see what my life looks like instead of me always fitting into yours?"

"I came to your show in LA—"

"You came to my show in July with your friends, and that's it." Riley's voice cracks slightly. "I'm about to go on tour, Joe. This is the last chance we have to spend time together before I'm gone for months, and you're worried about people taking pictures of us."

Joe is quiet, and Riley can see him processing what she's saying. Finally, he speaks. "I just think it's better to be careful right now."

Riley stops pacing. "Better for who?"

"For both of us."

"No, Joe. Better for you. This is better for you." She picks up her phone, bringing it closer to her face. "I'm tired of being your secret. I'm tired of being the thing you have to manage and protect and hide from the world."

"You're not—"

"I am, though. That's exactly what I am." Riley's voice gets quieter, more defeated. "You know what? Forget I asked. Enjoy your bye week. Rest up, recover, do whatever you need to do."

"Riley, don't hang up. Let's talk about this."

"What's there to talk about? You made your choice. You always make the same choice."

"That's not true."

Riley looks at him through the screen, this man she's been trying to love despite how hard he makes it. "Name one time you've chosen me over what's safe for your career. One time."

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it. The silence stretches between them.

"That's what I thought," Riley says quietly.

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in the empty rehearsal studio, surrounded by the elaborate stage setup that represents months of planning and preparation for the biggest tour of her career. In three weeks, she'll be performing these songs for thousands of people who love her music, who've been waiting for this moment almost as much as she has.

And the person she wants to share it with most is too worried about his image to show up.

She picks up her guitar and starts playing the opening chords to "Lonely Is the Muse," letting the music fill the silence Joe left behind.

* * *

Late October

Riley sits on Joe's couch, watching him ice his shin for the third time since she arrived two hours ago. He's been rotating between the couch and the kitchen, restless and irritated, moving the ice pack every few minutes like he can't get comfortable.

"How long has it been bothering you?" she asks, setting down her coffee.

"Couple weeks." Joe adjusts the ice pack, wincing slightly. "It's fine. Just annoying."

"Have you had it looked at?"

"Yeah. They said it's minor. Just needs rest."

Riley watches him fidget with the ice pack, his jaw tight with frustration. She flew in this morning from LA, using her one day off between rehearsal blocks to see him, and he's been like this since she walked in the door—distracted, moody, barely acknowledging that she's here.

"You've seemed off," she says carefully. She's been watching his games when she can, trying to understand his world better after their last fight.

Joe's head snaps up. "What?"

"In the games I've watched. You just look... frustrated. More than usual."

"Since when do you analyze my games?"

"Since I'm trying to understand what's going on with you." Riley shifts on the couch to face him. "You look different out there."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're limping around your house icing your leg every twenty minutes."

Joe stands up abruptly, the ice pack falling to the floor. "It's just a minor thing. Shin splints or something. It'll heal."

"Joe—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Riley stares at him as he paces to the kitchen, his movements stilted and careful. She's seen him frustrated before, but this feels different. Angrier. Like he's mad at his own body for betraying him.

"I'm trying to help," she says when he comes back with a different ice pack.

"I don't need help. I need this thing to stop hurting so I can play."

"Maybe you need to take some time—"

"I can't take time. We're 4-3, Riley. Every game matters."

"Your health matters too."

Joe laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My health matters when we're winning. Right now, I need to play through whatever this is."

Riley watches him settle back on the couch, immediately shifting to find a comfortable position for his leg. "Is this why you've been so..."

"So what?"

"Distant. Moody. Harder to reach than usual."

"I haven't been moody."

"Joe, I texted you good morning three days ago and you responded with 'ok.'"

"I was busy."

"With what? Icing your shin?"

Joe's expression darkens. "Don't."

"Don't what? Point out that you're taking your frustration out on me?"

"I'm not taking anything out on you."

"Then why does it feel like you resent me being here?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, staring at the ice pack on his shin. "I don't resent you being here."

"You haven't asked me about tour prep once since I got here. You haven't asked about my day, about the flight, about anything. I might as well be invisible."

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"I know. Your shin, the games, the pressure. I get it. But I'm here, Joe. I'm trying to be supportive, and you're acting like I'm bothering you."

Joe looks at her then, and for a moment his expression softens. "You're not bothering me."

"Then what's going on? Because this feels like more than just a sore leg."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Riley recognizes as him trying to find words he doesn't want to say. "Everything's off right now. My timing, my accuracy, my decision-making. And this stupid shin thing is making it worse because I can't plant my foot right."

"So fix it. See a specialist, get treatment, whatever you need to do."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because if they think it's serious, they'll want me to sit. And I can't sit. Not with how we're playing."

Riley stares at him. "You'd rather play hurt than take care of yourself?"

"I'd rather not let my team down."

"What about letting yourself down? What about letting me down by shutting me out every time something goes wrong?"

Joe's jaw tightens again. "That's not what I'm doing."

"But that's what it feels like. From where I'm sitting, it feels exactly like what you're doing."

They sit in silence for a moment, the tension thick between them. Riley watches Joe adjust the ice pack again, his movements careful and frustrated.

"Maybe I should just give you some space," she says finally.

"You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, I do. You clearly don't want company right now."

"Riley—"

But she's already standing, heading toward the stairs. "I'm going to go read or something. Let me know if you need anything."

Joe doesn't argue, doesn't get up from the couch, doesn't try to stop her.

Riley goes upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door behind her. She sits on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone, wondering why she keeps coming back to someone who makes her feel more alone when she's with him than when she's actually alone.

Twenty minutes later, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Joe opens the bedroom door quietly, like he's not sure if she wants to see him.

"Hey," he says from the doorway.

Riley looks up from her phone. "Hey."

"Can I come in?"

She nods, and Joe walks over to the bed, sitting down beside her with a slight wince as he adjusts his leg.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I've been an ass."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "This thing with my shin, it's got me all fucked up. I can't plant my foot right, and it's throwing off everything. My throws, my reads, my timing. Everything feels off."

Riley turns to face him. "So why take it out on me?"

"I don't know. Because you're here, I guess. Because it's easier than dealing with the fact that I might be losing a step."

"You're not losing a step. You're hurt."

"Same thing in this business."

Riley studies his face, seeing the frustration and fear he's been hiding behind his moodiness. "Joe, you can talk to me about this stuff. I want you to talk to me about it."

"I know. I just... I don't like feeling weak."

"Being hurt isn't weak. Being an asshole to the people who care about you is."

Joe looks at her, and for the first time all day, he really sees her. "You flew here to see me."

"I did."

"And I've been treating you like shit since you walked in."

"Pretty much."

Joe reaches for her hand. "I'm sorry, Riley. Really. I don't want you to feel like you're not welcome here."

Riley squeezes his hand. "I just want to help. I want to be here for you when things are hard."

"You are. Even when I'm too stupid to appreciate it."

They sit in silence for a moment before Joe lies back on the bed, pulling Riley down with him. She curls up against his side, careful of his injured leg.

"I'm sorry I made you feel like you didn't matter."

Riley lifts her head to look at him. "Do I matter?"

"You matter the most Birdie."

* * *

November

The pocket collapses faster than Joe expects.

He's got Ja'Marr running a comeback route, sees the window opening, but Baltimore's pass rush is relentless tonight. Roquan Smith is coming hard from the left side, and Joe feels the familiar pressure that means he's got maybe half a second to get rid of the ball.

He steps up in the pocket, trying to buy time, but the protection breaks down completely. Bodies everywhere, purple jerseys converging. Joe scrambles right, looking for an escape route, the ball still tucked against his chest.

The hit comes from behind and to the side—a combination of defensive linemen collapsing the pocket. Joe goes down hard, his right hand hitting the turf first as he tries to brace his fall. The impact sends a shock wave up his arm, but it's not until he tries to push himself up that he feels it.

Sharp, electric pain shooting from his wrist straight up to his elbow.

Joe rolls over, sitting up on the field, and looks down at his right hand. It looks normal, but when he tries to flex his wrist, the pain is immediate and breathtaking. Not the dull ache of his shin, which has been manageable for weeks. This is different. This is wrong.

"You good, Joe?" Ja'Marr is standing over him, helmet off, concern written across his face.

Joe nods automatically, the way he always does, but when he tries to push himself to his feet using his right hand, the pain nearly makes him sick. He gets up using his left hand instead, cradling his right arm against his body.

The Ravens defense is celebrating—they got the sack, stopped the drive. The crowd at M&T Bank Stadium is deafening. Joe walks slowly toward the huddle, trying to shake off whatever's wrong with his wrist, but every step sends jarring pain up his arm.

"Let's go, offense!" he calls out, trying to sound normal, but his voice feels tight.

In the huddle, Joe holds the play sheet with his left hand. When he claps to break the huddle, he uses his left hand against his thigh instead of clapping normally. His teammates don't notice, but Joe notices everything. The way his right hand feels weak and unstable. The way gripping the football sends shooting pain through his wrist.

The next snap comes fast. Joe takes the ball, tries to set up for a quick slant to Tyler Boyd, but when he goes to release the ball, his wrist can't support the throwing motion. The ball wobbles out of his hand, falling incomplete five yards short of the target.

Joe stares down at his right hand, flexing his fingers. They move, but his wrist feels like it's full of broken glass.

"Joe!" Coach Taylor is calling for a timeout, jogging onto the field. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Joe says, but he's not good. He knows he's not good. He's played through pain before—the shin, countless bumps and bruises, the appendectomy his rookie year. This is different.

Dr. Sparks, the team physician, approaches with the medical staff. "What's going on?"

"Wrist," Joe says simply, holding up his right hand. "Landed on it weird."

Dr. Sparks takes Joe's hand, gently rotating the wrist. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that Joe has to bite back a curse.

"Can you grip?" Dr. Sparks asks, handing Joe a football.

Joe takes it with his right hand, tries to squeeze. His grip strength is maybe thirty percent of normal, and even that causes significant pain. When he tries to cock his arm back in a throwing motion, the pain is so intense his vision blurs for a second.

"I can't throw," Joe admits, the words feeling like giving up.

Coach Taylor's face falls. "Can you hand it off? Run some read-option?"

Joe tries to grip the ball again, tries to simulate a handoff motion. Even that simple movement sends pain shooting up his arm. "I don't think so."

The stadium noise fades into background static as Dr. Sparks examines Joe's wrist more thoroughly on the sideline. Teammates pat his shoulders as they pass, offering encouragement, but Joe barely hears them. All he can think about is the calendar in his head—nine games left in the season, playoffs within reach, everything they've worked for since August.

"We need to get this X-rayed," Dr. Sparks says quietly. "Tonight."

Joe looks out at the field, where Jake Browning is warming up, preparing to take over. The scoreboard shows 10-7 Ravens, second quarter, plenty of time to come back. Except Joe won't be the one leading the comeback.

"How bad?" Joe asks.

Dr. Sparks doesn't answer immediately, which tells Joe everything he needs to know.

As Joe walks toward the tunnel, his right arm held carefully against his body, he thinks about Riley. She's in New York doing press appearances, probably at some late night show, completely unaware that his season might have just ended on a routine play against a Baltimore pass rush that got home half a second too fast.

The crowd noise follows him into the tunnel—cheers for Baltimore, sympathy from the few Bengals fans who made the trip. Joe doesn't look back at the field. If this is as bad as it feels, he's already seen enough football for 2023.

In the locker room, alone except for medical staff, Joe sits on the training table and stares at his right hand. The hand that's supposed to hold footballs, sign autographs, win championships. The hand that's supposed to touch Riley's face when he tells her he loves her, whenever he finally works up the courage to say it.

Right now, it can barely hold a cup of water.

Dr. Sparks returns with preliminary results that confirm what Joe already knows: his season is over. The scapholunate ligament in his wrist is torn, requiring surgery and months of rehabilitation.

Joe nods when he hears the diagnosis, like he expected it. Because deep down, from the moment he hit the ground, he knew. You don't play quarterback in the NFL for five years without learning to distinguish between pain you can play through and pain that means something is fundamentally broken.

As the medical staff discusses surgery timelines and recovery protocols, Joe's phone buzzes with texts he can't respond to yet. Teammates, family, reporters. The outside world learning what happened.

But the person he most wants to talk to is in New York, probably charming some talk show host or doing interviews, completely unaware that everything just changed.

Joe closes his eyes and tries not to think about how long it's going to be before he can throw a football again. Tries not to think about Riley, and how she's going to drop everything to be here for him, just like she always does.

Tries not to think about how he doesn't deserve that kind of loyalty, but how desperately he needs it anyway.

* * *

Riley sits in the green room at The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, watching Thursday Night Football on her phone while Stephen's monologue plays on the monitor overhead. Pete, Andy, and Daniel are sprawled across the couches around her—they're all appearing together tonight, doing "Daylight" as a full band performance.

"Twenty minutes until we're on," Andy says, tuning his guitar. "You nervous?"

"Nah, this is easy compared to tour prep," Riley replies, though she's actually looking forward to it. Playing with the guys always feels more natural than solo appearances.

Daniel's practicing paradiddles on his thighs while Pete scrolls through his phone. Riley keeps her phone tilted toward herself, watching the Ravens at Bengals game. Joe mentioned this game in his last text—division rival, important for playoff positioning.

She sees him drop back to pass, the pocket collapsing, bodies in purple jerseys converging.

Then she sees him go down.

At first, it looks like any other sack. Joe gets hit, stays down for a moment, then starts to get up. But something about the way he's moving catches Riley's attention. He's cradling his right arm against his body, his throwing hand held carefully away from his body.

"Oh no," Riley whispers, sitting up straighter.

"What?" Pete looks over at her.

Riley doesn't answer, too focused on her phone screen. The next play makes it obvious. Joe takes the snap, tries to throw, and the ball comes out weak and wobbly, falling short of the receiver. Even Riley, who knows nothing about football technique, can see that throw was wrong.

"Shit," she breathes, turning her phone so the guys can see. "Something's wrong with Joe."

All three of them crowd around her phone now, watching as Joe walks toward the sideline, medical staff surrounding him. The camera zooms in on his face, and even through his helmet, Riley can see the frustration and pain written there.

"That's not good," Daniel says quietly.

"That looks really bad," Andy adds.

Riley's phone starts buzzing with notifications, but she keeps watching. Joe's on the sideline now, clearly not going back in. Jake Browning is warming up on the field.

A production assistant appears in the doorway. "Five minutes to places, everyone."

Riley looks up, torn between professional obligation and personal crisis. "I need to—"

"You need to perform," Pete says gently. "You can't do anything right now anyway. Do the song, then figure out what's next."

Riley nods, knowing he's right but hating it. She puts her phone in her jacket pocket, but her hands are shaking slightly.

"Hey," Andy says, catching her arm. "He's going to be okay."

"You don't know that."

"No, but I know you. And I know you'll go crazy if you don't at least try to get through this performance first."

Riley takes a deep breath, trying to center herself. "If I get through this song and fly out tonight, can you guys handle the interview? And tomorrow's press?"

"Of course," Daniel says immediately.

"Whatever you need," Pete adds.

Riley nods, grateful for the millionth time that these three have her back no matter what.

"Alright, let's go play a song."

The performance is muscle memory. Riley's done "Daylight" hundreds of times now, and playing with Pete, Andy, and Daniel feels natural even when her mind is three hundred miles away in Baltimore. She smiles when she's supposed to, and to anyone watching, she probably looks like an artist having fun promoting her upcoming tour.

But the entire time, all she can think about is Joe walking off that field, holding his wrist like something inside it was broken.

The moment they finish the song and the cameras cut to commercial, Riley is already moving.

"That was great, guys," Stephen says, shaking hands with the band. "We'll do a quick interview segment when we come back."

"Actually," Pete jumps in smoothly, "Riley has to step out for a family emergency, but we'd love to chat with you about the tour."

Riley shoots him a grateful look as she heads toward the exit. Her phone is already in her hand, pulling up flight apps as she walks.

"Riley!" Andy calls after her. "Text us when you know something."

She nods without looking back, already focused on getting to Cincinnati as fast as possible.

In the hallway outside the studio, Riley calls Scout while simultaneously booking the next available flight.

"Riley? How was Colbert?"

"Joe's hurt. I need to get to Cincinnati tonight. Can you handle the Morning Show appearance tomorrow, the guys are gonna do it alone. Can you make sure they are prepped?"

"Of course. How hurt?"

Riley pauses, watching the replay of Joe's injury that's now cycling on sports news. "Bad, I think. Really bad."

"Go. I'll handle everything here."

An hour later, Riley is in an Uber Black to JFK, still in her black leather jacket from the show. Her phone buzzes constantly with updates from ESPN, texts from friends who saw the news, missed calls from people wanting to know if she's okay.

But the only call that matters—from Joe himself—never comes.

Riley stares out the window at the New York City lights rushing past and tries not to think about what it means that he hasn't reached out. Tries not to think about how she's dropping everything, again, for someone who might not even want her there.

But she knows she doesn't really have a choice. When someone you love is hurt, you go. Even if the relationship is complicated, even if you've been fighting, even if you're not sure where you stand.

You go anyway.

* * *

Riley manages to get on the last flight to Cincinnati, a red-eye that doesn't leave until 11:47 PM. She sits in her window seat, finally allowing herself to process what just happened. Four hours ago she was getting ready to perform on national television. Now she's flying to Cincinnati because the man she loves got hurt and she couldn't stay away.

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude, Riley pulls out her phone and opens her text thread with Joe. Their last exchange was three days ago—him saying good luck with Colbert, her thanking him.

She starts typing.

I'm on a plane to Cincinnati. Landing at 3:20 AM. No use arguing about it, I'm already in the air. I'll call a car from the airport, don't worry about anything.

She hits send before she can second-guess herself.

The response comes faster than she expected.

Riley you didn't have to do that

I know. But I did.

I'm having someone pick you up. Don't argue.

Riley stares at his text, feeling something loosen in her chest. He's not telling her not to come. He's not angry that she dropped everything. He's making sure she gets to him safely.

Okay.

Thank you for coming.

Riley closes her eyes and leans back against the headrest. Outside the window, the lights of the East Coast pass by below. In a few hours, she'll be in Cincinnati, and whatever happens next, at least she'll be there.

Always, she types back. I'll always come.

* * *

Joe sits in the back of a team car leaving Baltimore, his right wrist wrapped and elevated against his chest. It's past midnight, and the highway stretches ahead—about six hours back to Cincinnati so he can see the team doctors first thing in the morning. His wrist throbs with every bump in the road despite the pain medication.

Riley's coming. She's on a plane right now, flying here because he got hurt, even though they've barely been talking and he's been a complete ass to her for weeks.

He calls his parents in Athens.

"Joey?" Robin Burrow answers on the second ring, her voice tight with worry. "We saw what happened. How bad is it?"

"Bad, Mom. Season-ending. I'm flying back to Cincinnati now to see the team doctors tomorrow."

"Oh, honey. We're so sorry."

"Listen, I need a favor, and it's kind of a big one."

"Anything."

Joe takes a breath. "Riley's flying in from New York. Her plane lands at 3:20 AM in Cincinnati, but I won't get home until around six or seven. Could you and Dad drive up and pick her up, then stay with her until I get there? I don't want her sitting alone in my house for hours."

There's a pause, and Joe can practically hear his mom's understanding smile through the phone.

"Of course we can do that. Your father's already getting his keys."

"Mom, I knows it's the middle of the night—"

"Joey, if that girl is dropping everything to come here for you, the least we can do is make sure she's taken care of until you get home."

Relief floods through him. "Thank you. Seriously."

"I'll find her," Robin says. "She'll probably look exhausted."

"Yeah, she just finished a TV show in New York and got on the first plane she could find."

"I'm finally going to meet her," Robin says, and Joe can hear the mixture of excitement and concern in her voice.

"Yeah. I just... I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Honey, she's coming because she loves you. The circumstances don't matter."

After they hang up, Joe texts Riley: My parents are driving up from Athens to pick you up. Robin and Jimmy Burrow, they'll be at baggage claim. They're going to stay with you at my house until I get home around 7 AM.

Riley's response comes quickly: Joe, it's 3 AM and you're asking your parents to drive two hours to pick me up? I can't let them do that.

Too late. Already asked. Dad's already in the car.

I'm going to feel terrible about this.

Don't. They want to meet you anyway. And I don't want you sitting alone in my house for hours.

This isn't exactly how I imagined meeting your parents.

Joe stares at that text for a long moment. He hadn't really thought about Riley meeting his family before, but now that it's happening, it feels right. Inevitable, maybe.

They're going to love you, he types back.

I hope so.

Promise. See you in Cincinnati.

* * *

X (Twitter)

@NFLNewsNow BREAKING: Bengals QB Joe Burrow suffers season-ending wrist injury during Thursday Night Football loss to Ravens. Surgery expected within days. #Bengals #NFL

@SportsCenter Joe Burrow's 2023 season is over. The Bengals QB suffered a scapholunate ligament tear in his right wrist during tonight's game in Baltimore. 📺: ESPN

@PopCultureDaily Riley Carter just performed on @colbertlateshow but apparently left before the interview portion? The band did the interview without her. Wonder what was so urgent 👀

@bengalsfan2012 Replying to @PopCultureDaily Wait wasn't this the night Joe got hurt? Timeline seems suspicious...

@musicnews247 UPDATE: Sources say Riley Carter had a "family emergency" and had to leave Colbert taping early. The Rambles covered for her during interview segment.

@rileystanaccount Something's not right. Riley NEVER misses interviews. She's been promoting this tour for months. What kind of family emergency happens at 11 PM on a Thursday?

@footballwife23 Did anyone else notice the timing? Joe gets hurt around 9:30 PM, Riley leaves Colbert around 11 PM. Just saying 👀👀

@bengalsbabes Replying to @footballwife23 I've been saying they're together for MONTHS. This basically confirms it

Instagram Stories & Posts

@entertainmenttonight 🚨 JUST IN: @rileycarter unexpectedly left tonight's @colbertlateshow taping due to "urgent family matter." The singer performed but skipped the interview portion. Swipe for more ➡️

@deuxmoi Submitted Anon: "Was at Colbert taping tonight. Riley Carter seemed fine during performance but left immediately after. Heard someone say she was getting calls during commercial break and looked really upset. Band members covered for her with Stephen."

@popsugar Riley Carter makes rare early exit from late night TV 👀 The "Daylight" singer left @colbertlateshow before her scheduled interview, citing family emergency. This comes just hours after Bengals QB Joe Burrow's season-ending injury... 🤔 #RileyCarter #JoeBurrow

r/bengals

Title: Anyone else think Riley Carter is flying to Cincinnati right now? Posted 3 hours ago

The timing is too perfect. Joe gets hurt around 9:30, she leaves Colbert around 11. "Family emergency" my ass. She's definitely on a plane.

UPDATE: Just checked flight tracking apps. There was a red-eye from JFK to CVG that left at 11:47 PM. Landing at 3:20 AM. 👀

Top comment: No way they're actually together though right? Wouldn't we have seen them by now?

Reply: They've been SUPER private if they are. Remember all those rumors that started back in February? But nothing ever confirmed even after all these months.

Reply: If this is real, Joe's making a huge mistake. She's nothing but drama and bad headlines. Remember that bar fight with her ex? We don't need that circus around our franchise QB.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. She's been linked to like 3 different guys this year. Party girl with substance abuse rumors. Joe needs to focus on football, not babysitting some rock star.

Reply: Called it months ago - she's a clout chaser. Probably saw Joe get hurt and smelled an opportunity for sympathy headlines.

Reply: If Joe's really dating her, his performance this season makes SO much sense now. Dude's been off his game.

r/rileycarter

Title: What "family emergency" happens at 11 PM on a Thursday??? Posted 2 hours ago

Riley has never, and I mean NEVER, bailed on a major interview. She's done shows while sick, she's done press with bronchitis, she showed up to that radio interview the day after her grandma's funeral.

This is about a boy. Specifically a quarterback boy. Calling it now.

Top comment: The math is mathing. Joe injury -> Riley panic -> immediate flight to Cincinnati.

Reply: But why would she do that if they're not serious? You don't drop everything for a casual thing.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. This feels like real relationship territory.

TikTok

@nflteaa (457K followers) Video showing side-by-side timeline "POV: You're connecting the dots 👀"

Sound: "And all the pieces fall right into place"

Comments: "NO WAY this is a coincidence" "She really said family emergency and got on a plane to Cincinnati I can't 😭" "This is either the most romantic thing ever or I'm delusional" "Plot twist: they've been dating this whole time"

@popculture.detective (1.2M followers) Video compilation of clips

Comments: "The way she RAN to that airport"

"This is giving secret relationship energy"

"Imagine dropping everything and flying across the country for someone 🥺"

"OK but if this is real they're actually perfect together???"

@riley.carter.updates (89K followers) Screenshot of Colbert audience member's tweet "GUYS. I was at the taping. Riley did her performance but then just... left. Didn't do the interview. Band said 'family emergency' but she looked completely shaken. Security rushed her out during commercial break."

Text overlay: "Family emergency or boyfriend emergency? 👀"