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stevie-petey · 4 months ago

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lonely hearts club

You kiss her forehead and pull Steve up from the couch, putting your jacket on and tossing him his. “Our Valentine’s day wouldn’t be the same without someone crying or throwing up. We’re going. Dinner can wait.” Steve wraps an arm around your waist. “She’s right. This is just tradition for us. A sacred thing we look forward to every year.” “You two confuse me so much.” Nancy laughs wetly, overwhelmed by your kindness. “We get that a lot.” Steve kisses your temple. “C’mon, angelface. The lesbians need us.”

Summary: ten valentines days with steve. some years it's romantic, some years it's heartbreaking, but for better or worse, he's your forever valentine.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, mentions of vomit, pregnancy, cheating (steve doesnt cheat)

Words: 11.9k

Before you swing in: happy valentines day !! is this a day late ? sure. but we're going to ignore that ! heres a cute little fic of valentines day with steve throughout the years. joe touring really influenced this because i made steve a rockstar but honestly it fit tbh. anyways, hope you enjoy !

Somehow it’s always Steve who you spend Valentine’s day with.

In high school it’s because of academic obligations. You’re student body president and Steve is the president of the key club. Each year when February rolls around, the two of you are responsible for hanging pink streamers in the gym and selling enough tickets to afford a decent DJ.

Thanks to the infectious Valentine’s day yearning for love and potential makeouts under the bleachers, the Lonely Hearts dance always manages to draw in a crowd. That, and Steve promises that anyone who buys a ticket is guaranteed a dance with him.

It’s gross and highly exploitative. And also quite brilliant.

You never cash in your ticket, though. While Steve spends the night spinning around girls dressed in pinks and reds and whites, you’re manning the punch bowl to make sure no one spikes it.

Each year, Steve finds a way to sneak gin into the cherry liquid behind your back.

“I’d stop serving little Benny there that punch of yours.” Steve slides next to you, dressed in all black with a rose pinned to his ribbed vest. He reeks, a terrible concoction of every perfume worn by the girls he’s spent all night with.

Benny, a small, frail fourteen year old with eyes too big for his comically small glasses, hiccups. His hand is extended towards you, empty cup waiting for more. His face is flushed and he sways ever so slightly.

You sigh. “How much gin did you pour in this time, Harrington?”

“An entire bottle.”

“I hate you, you know.”

Steve laughs. “Not my fault that you never catch me.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you glare at him. “I still hate you.” Then, remembering that a severely intoxicated Benny is still waiting for his drink, you gently tap the kid’s arm. “Why don’t you go sit in a corner, buddy?”

Benny hiccups again and stumbles away. Steve snickers, but his laughter turns into a yelp of pain when you kick him in the shin. “Don’t you have girls to dance with?”

“Not if you keep kicking me like that,” he winces, rubbing his quickly bruising injury. “Jesus, are those heels made of steel?”

“Why are you still talking to me?”

“Can’t a guy talk to his most consistent girl?”

A snort masks the reddening of your cheeks. “Real flattering, Harrington.”

“I’m serious!” Steve nudges his shoulder against yours. He’s smiling wide at you, charming as ever. “You realize this is like, our third year spending Valentine’s day together, right?”

You roll your eyes. “We’re only spending it together for a school dance.”

“Still makes you my longest running Valentine, Y/N.” He winks, smug, and you want to stain his pretty face with the cherry red of the punch before you. He’s close to you now, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne under all the perfume that taints it.

Suddenly your mouth goes dry. You look up at him and find that he’s already staring down at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t shy away from the proximity that only seems to be growing smaller and smaller between you.

“Steve!” Heather Morgan stomps over, the ruffles of her lilac dress swishing with her forceful steps. She stops in front of you and him, though she doesn’t bother to acknowledge you. “I thought I was guaranteed a dance?”

Three Valentine’s days with Steve Harrington, countless prom committee meetings and club organization conferences, shared lunch periods and classes, all have led to the intimate knowledge of the lines of his face and how every miniscule twinge of muscle reveals everything he’s feeling.

The forced smile that he gives Heather, eyebrows drawn together and eyes dim, is nothing like the bright and overwhelming smile he gave you only moments ago.

“You’re absolutely right.” Steve holds his hand out to the girl and walks towards her. “With all the hard work Y/N put into this dance, it’d be a shame if I let it go to waste and not abide by my promise.”

Your cheeks burn at the indirect compliment and Heather simply rolls her eyes. She yanks Steve’s arm and he gives you one last weary, yet shy and gentle, smile that’s etched alongside his freckles and moles.

–

After graduating and moving to Chicago for college, you figure that maybe your first Valentine’s day in a big city will be spent with someone who doesn’t get freshmen drunk and dance with demanding girls.

Then, your first week in intro to philosophy, you meet Oliver.

He enters five minutes late, out of breath and frantic, and blindly throws himself into the first seat he finds. In his rush, he doesn’t see you until he’s thrown his jacket off and hears your quiet, “ouch.”

“Oh, my god.” His blue eyes are wide as he stares at you in horror, taking in the scene before him. He’s completely thrown his jacket on top of you. “I-I am so sorry!”

His British accent nearly sends your brain reeling. Oliver is tall, his black hair makes his skin appear almost luminescent, and there’s a dimple in his cheek that softens the harshness of his accented vowels.

“It’s fine,” you shrug the jacket off, too shy to say much else. He’s arguably the most perfect man you’ve ever met and it’s eight in the morning and you’re not quite sure if this is a dream. “Just… caught me by surprise?”

“Christ, I’m genuinely so sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I-I overslept and I only just switched into this class quite literally twelve hours ago and–”

“Top row,” your professor clears her throat, glaring at you and Oliver. “Is Aristotle really so interesting to you that you decide to interrupt my class in glee?”

You’re beet red, frozen in shame and fear, but Oliver simply laughs and ducks in head. “My apologies, Miss. Please, continue.”

Even the professor is charmed by his accent, and she shakes her head with a slight chuckle. She carries on with the lecture and Oliver is quiet next to you. You don’t speak for the rest of class, but during the last five minutes, a note slides across your desk.

Coffee?

– Oliver (the dunce who threw his jacket on you)

A second coffee date follows the first. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth and sixth until they slowly turn into dinner dates. Sneaking into each other’s apartments when your roommates aren’t home. Kissing as you lazily study together in bed.

Late January comes and you think that you’ve finally, finally, found someone to spend Valentine’s day with. Someone real and yours and lovely.

Oliver tells you to meet him at his apartment at 7:30 for dinner. He’s promised you homemade roast, a recipe from his mother. Valentine’s day will be a quiet dinner with only candlelight as your company. No streamers or spiked punch; it’s everything you could’ve ever wanted.

“The potatoes need a few more minutes, then we can eat.” Oliver kisses your forehead as he wipes his hands with a towel. The kitchen is warm, the smell of herbs and garlic infiltrate the air. On the counter the beef is resting, its aroma enough to make your mouth water.

You take a sip of wine. “Thank god.”

“Hungry, are we?”

“A home cooked meal by my hot boyfriend?” You raise your glass. “Of course I’m hungry!”

Oliver laughs, kissing you again. “Well, good thing I have all night to feed you–”

The front door slams, startling the two of you, and someone calls out, “Sorry! Sorry, please ignore me!”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass hearing their voice.

Oliver groans, “one second, babe.” He leaves your side, but you don’t follow, too afraid to face what’s waiting for you on the other side of the wall.

“I thought I told you I had the apartment tonight?” You hear Oliver hiss at the intruder.

“You did! I just-I kinda left my guitar here and Robin will kill me if I–”

“Hurry up!”

“What, your date can’t wait five seconds?” A laugh, pleased with his own joke. You close your eyes, imagining the scrunch of his nose and tilt of his lips; you haven’t forgotten the details of his face, even after months of not seeing him.

Oliver mumbles something and you strain your ears to listen. He sounds upset, anxious, arguing with the other person in the room, and something akin to unease creeps into your stomach.

“Relax, man. Just go finish that bizarre British dinner for Bianca.”

Silence.

You set down the wineglass and finally walk into the living room. The click of your heels is the only evidence of life within the apartment. Oliver stands near the door. His eyes are closed, he doesn’t want to face you just yet.

Steve’s back is turned to you. His posture is relaxed, natural. He isn’t aware of what he’s just undone.

“Long time no see, Harrington.” Your arms are crossed, shielding yourself from what’s to come. Your voice sounds more confident than you feel. “I guess you’re the roommate I never got to meet.”

He spins around quickly, almost falling over, recognizing your voice immediately. His childish stumbling tells you that he almost doesn’t want to believe it. When Steve’s eyes land on you, they soften, warm brown filling with fondness once more.

“Y/N!”

Steve steps forward as if to hug you, but then seems to remember where he is, what he had previously been talking about with Oliver. He stops, the fondness in his eyes diminishing to confusion, then slowly to anger.

“You’re… not Bianca.”

“Evidently not.” Your laugh is bitter.

Steve narrows his eyes at Oliver. “What the hell, man? You told me you were dating some chic named Bianca.” He points a bewildered finger at you. “This is Y/N.”

“In my defense,” Oliver sighs tiredly, clapping his hands together in a defeated manner. “I didn’t think you’d know either one of them, so. This is just brilliant.”

“Are you dating them both?” Steve’s eyes bulge out of his head. If you weren’t on the brink of crying and throwing up, you’d laugh at his poor state of shock.

“That’s how cheating works, Steve.” You say weakly.

Oliver tries to say something, but he’s drowned out by Steve’s yelling. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Steve–” He tries again.

“No! I-I was unknowingly an accomplice in your cheating?”

“I did try to hide them both from you–”

“You’re such a jackass! I thought the British were supposed to be posh and all that-that bloody bullshit!”

You touch the back of Steve’s elbow. You’re mortified and embarrassed and you really want to cry right now. No words come out. Your mouth won’t open. All you can do is hope that your touch is enough.

Immediately Steve stops yelling. He tugs you against his chest, understanding everything the touch meant. He doesn’t care that it’s been six months since he’s seen you or that you were never particularly close in the first place. He wipes the tears that have started to fall from your eyes with a tenderness you didn’t know was innate within him.

“I’m taking you home,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Go get your things, alright?”

Weak and numb, you do as you’re told.

“Y/N, wait–” Oliver tries to reach out for you.

Steve steps between you. The look on his face is violent, almost frightening. You’ve never seen him like this. “Don’t.”

Oliver stumbles back. It’s enough of a distraction for you to quickly grab your purse and keys, vision blurry from tears as your body shakes. Every nerve, every fiber of your skeletal body is screaming at you to run.

When you’re ready, Steve uses his body to prevent Oliver from looking at you. His hands are gentle as he guides you to his car. He whispers reassurances, rubs circles into your back, and allows you to cry the entire way home.

It doesn’t surprise you when Steve doesn’t leave after parking in front of your apartment. It also doesn’t surprise you when he walks you to your door and lets himself in.

“Stay here,” he all but shoves you onto the couch before making his way to your kitchen. He walks through the apartment as if he’s done so his entire life. “I’ll be right back.”

“What are you–”

“Less talking, more crying!”

You curl yourself into a small ball, too tired to argue with Steve. While you have no idea what the hell he’s doing, you’re relieved that your roommate, Jane, is out with her boyfriend for the night.

At least someone is having a happy Valentine’s day.

Steve returns with two pints of ice cream and spoons. He’s already opened one of them and hands it to you as he plops onto the couch. “Figured you’d have a stash.”

The ice cream he hands you is your favorite flavor. You don’t remember ever telling him this. “How did you–”

“This is our fourth Valentine’s day in a row, Y/N,” Steve pokes your side. “When are you gonna stop questioning my loyalty to our sacred tradition?”

Mouth cold from ice cream and face hot from crying, Steve manages to pull a laugh out of you. It’s feeble and small and more of a grimace than something joyous, but it’s more than you ever thought was possible.

Steve laughs with you, knocking his own pint of ice cream against yours. “To Valentine's day, angelface.”

“To Valentine’s day,” you sniff, laughing again. The moment is bizarre and not at all how you envisioned spending the day, but somehow it’s wonderful and reminiscent of the years before. There’s only one thing missing. “I miss the pink streamers.”

“I’ll hang some up next year.” Steve promises, winking at you as he always seems to do, falling back in familiarity.

You rest your head against the couch, warm, and hum thoughtfully. Steve always keeps his promises, and you can almost envision the messily strewn up streamers and tacky holiday decorations he would find and insist on using. The apartment would be full of light and warmth, and the thought makes you smile.

“I’d like that.”

–

Inexplicably, Steve becomes your best friend.

He all but declares Oliver dead to him and refuses to step foot in their apartment unless it’s to eat or sleep. He cuts off all contact with the guy without even blinking. You try telling Steve that he doesn’t have to jeopardize his relationship with his roommate and he scoffs at you.

“I’m giving that motherfucker the coldest shoulder known to man, Y/N. Whether you like it or not.”

And there isn’t anything else to talk about, really.

Slowly Steve starts spending all his time at your apartment to avoid his, and you find yourself actually enjoying his company. He doesn’t stray far from your room and he always brings over extra napkins from the restaurant he works at, saving you an extra five dollars a week in household supplies.

Plus, Steve introduces you to his coworker Robin, and she’s so enthralling and chaotic and vibrant that it’s only natural that when she becomes your best friend, Steve does, too.

Spring semester ends and Jane announces that she’s moving out to live with her boyfriend come summer. The first person you call is Steve. He moves in a week later.

“Have you looked over the sheet music yet?” Robin has her legs tossed over your lap as the two of you sit on the couch. Steve sits on the floor, leaning his head against the couch, his hair tickling the bare skin of your leg.

You’re watching some movie that Steve had been dying to see. It’s Valentine’s day and he’s begged you to let him watch some cheesy romance movie he saw an ad for. He claims it’s to get into the holiday spirit, but you know it’s because he has a crush on Patrick Swayze.

Robin tagged along because she has a crush on Jennifer Grey.

“Hey, doofus!” She throws popcorn at Steve’s head when he doesn’t respond to her question.

“Can you at least aim for my face?” He flicks the popcorn out of his hair, cringing. “The butter makes my hair feel gross.”

You ruffle the locks, shaking his head in the process and he swats you away, albeit without any cruelty or malice. “Could be from all that hairspray you drown it in.”

“I’m with Y/N on this one,” Robin leans forward, invading Steve’s space with ease. “Anyways, did you read the music or not? Kelly wants your opinion before our gig tonight.”

“Why does she care what I think?”

“Because you’re the lead singer?” Robin looks at you. “Do you think all that hairspray has rotted his brain?”

You shrug. “Probably.”

Steve flips the both of you off and you giggle together at his annoyance. Ever since meeting Robin, making Steve’s life as miserable as possible has become your favorite thing to do together.

Robin then asks again about the song and she and Steve fall into a conversation about Kelly and her obsession with their other bandmate Connor and whether or not the song is actually good or if it’s just another attempt for her to win him over.

You watch them talk with a lazy smile. They become so animated when they discuss music, and you admire how well they work together. It doesn’t surprise you that they formed a band together after only being friends for two days. They take music seriously, obsess over it in a way you don’t think you’ll ever quite understand, but that you will always admire.

“You’re coming to our gig tonight, right?” Steve suddenly turns to you, eyes pleading and hopeful.

“Where is it again?”

“The Vexture. We go on at ten.”

Robin has turned her hopeful eyes to you as well and you shift uncomfortably. The Vexture is a grungy club that’s always packed with people looking for someone to call their own, and given the fact that it’s currently Valentine’s day, it’ll only be worse.

The thought makes you nauseous.

Steve sees you grimace and he immediately throws himself into your lap. “No. Absolutely not. You have to come.”

“I haven’t even said anything–”

“You were going to bail!”

“I–I wasn’t!”

Robin pinches your cheek. “You’re a terrible liar, dear.”

You try to argue but Steve covers your mouth. You thrash underneath him, completely opposed to his body weight on you and his grimy hands covering your mouth, but he’s freakishly strong and Robin is a traitor who helps him hold you down.

“Look, Y/N.” Steve’s hair falls in your face. “We all know that last year was rough.”

“Fuck Oliver!” Robin shouts, wringing her hands together as if envisioning choking him.

“What she said. Anyways, you took a hard hit. It’s understandable. But I refuse to let you spend Valentine’s day all alone, alright? You haven’t dated anyone in months. You’re coming tonight.”

You want to bite him, to kick him off and pinch his skin, but you know he’s right. Deflating, you cross your arms and reluctantly nod.

Steve and Robin cheer, jostling you around, and despite the annoyance and fear you’re feeling, you can’t help but laugh at their childish joy.

“Love the enthusiasm, but can you guys get off me now?” You croak out in between laughs.

They scramble off the couch and Robin helps you up. She fixes your hair and kisses the tip of your nose. “We have three hours to make you irresistible tonight.”

“I’m not dressing up–”

“You have no free will when it comes to me.” Robin smiles wickedly and grabs your hand, pulling you to your room, having long forgotten about the movie that’s still playing in the background.

“Can I join?” Steve calls after the two of you.

Robin slams the door in his face.

The Vexture is loud and overflowing with people by the time you get there. The lights are dimmed and Robin has to hold your hand as she guides you through the crowd. Since they’re performing, they’re allowed to cut the long lines and are able to get you the best seats in the house: backstage.

“You made it!” Kelly throws her long and lithe arms around you. She smells of vanilla and honey and her hair is tied in loose knots. Glitter adorns her eyelids and pink hearts dot her cheeks.

“I’m being held against my will,” you shout into her ear, hugging her tightly. “But I’m here.”

Connor pats your back and chuckles. He’s matching Kelly’s heart theme with a pink heart painted on his own cheek. “Well, at least you’ll have a good time!”

Steve hands him a guitar and checks his hair in the mirror. Robin dressed him in a white button down and demanded that he leave the first four buttons undone. The exposed strip of skin from the base of his neck to the swell of his chest burns your lips.

“We ready?” Steve pulls you by the waist, flush against him, and winks at his bandmates.

Kelly and Robin cheer and Connor slams his drumsticks together. A cheer of your own tumbles from your lips, allowing your body to lean against Steve’s, and his fingers dig into your side as his chest rumbles with pleasure.

The crowd erupts when they get on stage. They all get into their places. Robin with her keyboard. Kelly and the bass. Connor behind his drum set. And Steve, front and center of the stage, smiling into the mic as his fingers pick at his guitar.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” He’s a natural on stage. People scream his name and he plays into it with such confidence and charm. Steve smirks, knowing he has the audience in the palm of his hand. “That’s what I like to hear!”

He plays the first few notes of the song they’re starting with tonight. Easy and light. He’s setting the audience up, tempting them, leaving them wanting more.

Steve grabs the base of the microphone and tilts his head at the crowd. “Who’s here with their Valentine tonight?”

Almost everyone cheers and whistles. Hands get thrown into the air and lovers kiss the smiles off each other’s face.

“Hell yeah!” Steve laughs, high on the energy in the room. He plays a few more notes, turns his head away from the crowd as he does so. You watch him, curious, and find that he’s looking at you.

When he has your attention, Steve laughs again and goes back to the mic. He’s smiling wide, cheeks pink. “You know, I’m also here with a Valentine tonight.”

The audience gasps and cheers and claps for him. Robin wolf whistles, loud and obnoxious, teasing eyes looking only at you. Kelly snickers and Connor points one of his drum sticks at you, clutching his heart dramatically.

The apples of your cheeks pinch together a glorious red and Steve can’t take his eyes off you. His eyes, soft as they always are when he looks at you, are like molten earth. He smiles into the mic again, unable to look away from you.

“This is our fifth Valentine’s day together,” he tells the crowd, smiling so much he’s almost slurring his words. “I kinda hope that this angelface will always be my Valentine.”

Robin whistles again and the roar of the Vexture is so loud now that you can’t hear anything besides the blood rushing in your head. Steve screams along with the crowd and Connor counts the band in and there’s music all around you and dancing and Steve’s sweat drips down his chest and there’s a burning deep within your stomach.

He’s beautiful.

You hope that he’ll always be your Valentine, too.

–

Sophia enters your life early junior year. You find her in your kitchen one morning wearing one of Steve’s old t-shirts, and you make her a cup of coffee.

She’s nice. Her hair is bronzy and she has incredible green eyes and an angelic laugh. She studies English and she’s the only other person besides your classmates who has read Plato, so you’re honestly quite fond of her, and you can see how Steve falls for her hard and fast.

Robin, however, has other thoughts.

“I don’t trust her.” She says one day in January. Steve is at Sophia’s, so you invited Robin over to bake cookies and watch the latest episode of a show you both enjoy.

You frown at her. “Why not? I think Sophia is nice.”

“Ever notice how the only way we can all collectively describe her as is nice?” Robin shivers. “What kind of psycho only has one personality trait?”

Well. There isn’t a lot you can argue with there. Sure, everyone who has met Sophia has liked her, but when you think about it, Robin’s right. They’ve all described her as nice, maybe quiet, but always nice.

“I think you’re just overprotective of Steve.” You try to defend. You like Sophia. She’s become a very loose, very distant, acquaintance. “Just give her some time.”

“They’ve been dating for months now, Y/N. She creeps me out.”

“Sophia isn’t some off putting creature, Robin–”

“Guys!” Steve barrels through the front door. You and Robin both scream, but he ignores your terror and throws himself at the two of you. “How much do you guys love me?”

Robin responds with, “how much money do you want?” while you reply, “depends on the day.”

Steve breathes heavily, grasping your hand. “I need you guys to please, please do me the biggest favor.”

“Did you kill someone?” You pull your hand away, weary of the scene before you.

“What? No! I just–” Steve inhales sharply. “It’s Sophia.”

“I knew it!” Robins screeches, but you jump and cover her mouth. She tries to scream through your silencing, but her words are muffled and jumbled.

You smile at Steve awkwardly. “Don’t mind her. What’s going on with Sophia?”

“She wants to go on a double date for Valentine’s day.” You and Robin stare at him as if he’s insane, and Steve groans. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, alright? But she-uh. I guess she’s had some shitty Valentine’s days in the past and thought it’d be better if we had other people with us? As a safeguard?”

“That’s…” Concerning, you want to say, but Steve is staring at you, pleading, and you really don’t feel like dealing with his anxious monologues. “Interesting.”

He rubs his face. “It’s insane, I know, but I just… I really like this girl, you know? So if one of you could just–”

“I’m out.” Robin raises her hands and you shoot her an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but I actually have plans this year and I really don’t feel like spending them with Steve.”

“And you think I don’t have plans?” You ask them, offended, and Steve looks at the ground and Robin suddenly finds the tile very interesting. “Okay. At least pretend that I have some dignity.”

“I’m sure you have a lot of dignity, angelface.” Steve tries to amend. “And you’d have even more dignity if you went on a double date with me and Sophia. I’ll even find someone to be your date!”

In theory, it sounds like your worst nightmare. Spending a night with a loved up Steve and Sophia while you’re with some guy you met only hours ago. All because Steve’s girlfriend doesn’t feel comfortable enough spending Valentine’s day alone with him.

But Steve has had to hold your hand through a nasty breakup and other horrific dating exploits since then. He’s held your hair up when you’ve been sick. Makes you your favorite snacks during busy exam seasons. He cleans your room when he knows you’re exhausted.

Steve is your best friend. The least you can do is this.

“Fine,” you finally give in. “But the guy better be hot.”

The guy Steve finds you is, in fact, incredibly hot. His name is Max and he meets you and Steve outside the restaurant dressed in a well tailored suit.

“Where’d you find this guy?” You whisper to Steve while Max isn’t looking.

“He knew Connor in high school.” He whispers back. “Makes a lot of money. Works in finance.”

Your mouth drops, but you quickly cover it up when Max opens the door for you and Steve. He’s a perfect gentleman and rests his hand on the small of your back. “You guys been to this restaurant before?”

“A few times together, but I don’t think my girlfriend Sophia has been here yet.” Steve sits down and grabs a menu before checking his watch. “Actually, she should be here by now.”

Max’s face twists slightly. “Her name is Sophia?”

“Max?” Sophia, rushing towards your table, stops and gasps out his name as if she’s been stabbed.

“Oh, dear.” You set down your menu. Something tells you that there won’t be any eating tonight.

“Sophia?” Max nearly falls to his knees in front of her, eyes shining at the girl as if she’s hung all the moon and stars with her delicate fingers.

They stare at one another, neither moving, and Steve looks between them with a bitter taste in his mouth. “So… you guys know each other?”

Sophia winces and Max coughs.

You grab your purse. “Steve, why don’t we head home–”

“What’s going on here?” His voice is strained. He looks at Sophia and you see the upset he tries to suppress. The clench of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. “Soph, who is this guy?”

“He’s no one, I promise–”

Max steps forward. “We dated for a few years.”

“Years?” Steve exclaims.

“Broke up on Valentine’s day last year, actually.” He looks at Sophia with a pained expression. “I… I missed you.”

Steve falls against his seat in disbelief. Sophia holds the base of her throat in a weak attempt to soothe herself.

“You’re really not helping, Max.” You glare at him, rubbing your friend’s shoulder as he sits at the table, mourning. Steve’s mouth doesn’t seem to be able to close and he’s looking at Sophia as if trying to silently plead with her to tell him that none of this is real.

Except is it, and Sophia closes her eyes. “I-I can’t do this, Steve.”

Her apology sends the chair flying back as he stands abruptly, desperately reaching for her in the crowded restaurant while you and Max remain silent. “Wait, can’t we just–”

“I should go.” She’s crying and the green of her eyes are a startling shade of brilliance. She really is quite lovely; the beauty breaks your heart. Steve calls after her as she leaves.

You hold him back. He screams at you to let him go, but you know that this time you have to be the one to break his fall. To catch him as he caught you the year Oliver broke your heart. There are tears in his eyes and his hoarse voice begs the girl to stay, but she’s long gone.

Max stands there in the wreckage. He doesn’t know what to do or who to follow.

“Just go,” you tell him, pulling Steve back down to sit. He collapses into your side, too ashamed to cry and too exhausted to care. He’s weak against you and your arms encase him. Max doesn’t move, and your voice raises before you can stop it. “Go!”

He listens, and the other patrons in the restaurant watch as yet another person runs from your table. A waitress gives you a pitying smile that you don’t reciprocate.

Steve hides his face in your neck and you gently cup his cheek to make him look at you. “Hey,” you say when his eyes finally focus on you. “Let’s get you a drink, okay?”

He drops his head on the table with a defeated sigh. “Give me whatever liquor they got.”

“The stronger the better?”

“Yes.”

“Coming right up.” You wave a waiter down and order four shots and two beers. Steve doesn’t say anything while you order, but he does shift closer to you once the waiter is gone.

The buzz of the restaurant is low, though full of laughter and conversation. You sit with Steve, fingers stroking through his hair as his head remains on the table. He lost all sense of pride the moment he begged Sophia to stay, so he allows your nails to scratch his scalp.

Drinks get set on the table and Steve throws both of his shots back before you can even pick one of yours up. He wipes his mouth and cringes at the taste. You stare at him, slightly concerned. “Alright over there?”

“Need more liquor.”

You stroke his cheek. “How cute. You think I’m going to let you drink your sorrows away.”

He bats your hand away. “I don’t know if you’re all caught up, but I just got dumped on Valentine’s day, Y/N.”

“And?” You laugh at him. “That happened to me too, buddy. You’re officially a part of the lonely hearts club. How’s it feel?”

Steve drops his head back onto the table. “It feels like we’re fucking cursed.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you clink your beer against his. “Cheers.”

It’s quiet for a while. You finish your shots and sip slowly at your beer. Steve remains hidden away at the table, refusing to sit up and face the reality of heartbreak. You allow him to take all the time he needs, replenishing his drinks when he runs low. He’s quiet, but he knocks his knee against yours every time you squeeze his hand.

I’m here.

Thank you.

The chatter in the restaurant dies down and you pay the tab and help carry Steve home. He’s significantly more drunk than you are, and you’re relieved that you chose to eat somewhere close enough to walk. He stumbles the entire way home and you have to cling onto his hand so that he doesn’t fall.

Steve drags your body onto the couch the second you open the apartment door. He collapses on top of you. His arms hold your waist and his nose presses against your neck. You bring your hands to his hair and sync your breathing with his.

“Think it’ll always be like this?” Steve murmurs after a while. “You and me and goddamn Valentine’s day?”

Six years of sharing the holiday together. Six years of being each other’s person to spend the day with and draw cheesy cards for. Six years of laughter and tears and secret glances and inside jokes.

Six years, and yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“We’re best friends, Steve.” You whisper into his ear, lips brushing skin. “Of course it’ll always be like this.”

He shivers at the sensation of your lips. Alcohol burns through his system. He finds himself upset that he drank tonight. He wonders what would’ve happened had he not met Sophia. If he had taken you to the restaurant alone and left sober.

Steve wonders if he would’ve kissed you then. If you would’ve let him.

But he had met Sophia. He’d taken you to the restaurant to have dinner with her. He got drunk tonight to forget the way she tasted. You walked him home because you couldn’t trust him to take care of himself. And now he’s too afraid to kiss you because he knows it could ruin everything he’s so carefully built with you.

He falls asleep to your heartbeat.

–

“Who gets married on Valentine’s day?” Robin tugs at her dress in disgust. “I mean, that should just be illegal.”

You help her fix her dress and shrug. “I don’t know. I think it’s sweet.”

“That’s because Steve’s walking you down the aisle tonight. You’re biased.”

“He’s the best man and I’m the maid of honor,” you poke her stomach. “It’s quite literally tradition to walk down the aisle as a pair.”

Kelly, who has been fixing her makeup the entire conversation, peeks her head from behind the mirror. “To be honest, Connor and I did intentionally plan for Steve to walk you down the aisle.”

Your jaw drops. “Kelly!”

“The two of you are just so cute!” She laughs. “You’re two of our closest friends. We want what’s best for you, so Connor and I figured we’d just give you guys a little push.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Believe me. I’ve been trying to get them together for years now. What is this, your eighth year of being each other’s Valentine’s?”

Your head whips to her. “It’s only our seventh. And what do you mean you’ve been trying for years?”

“I’m practically the reason Steve moved in with you. He wanted to live with me months before you asked him to move in. Naturally, I’m a prophet, and I told him no. Now here you guys are, walking down the aisle together. Tada!”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean, it worked!” Robin frowns. “Well. Sort of.”

You’re speechless and Kelly takes pity on you. She walks over and rests a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, I love you. Connor and Robin love you. Steve loves you. You know that, right?”

“I…” You’d be a liar if you said the thought never crossed your mind. Especially after the breakup with Sophia. You’ve always been close with Steve, but in the last year there’s been this shift that you haven’t been able to describe.

There’s coffee waiting for you every morning. He holds your hand and strokes his thumb against your palm. Steve ends up falling asleep in your bed most nights now, wrapped around you as his breath warms your skin. His own room has slowly been turned into a makeshift studio for his music.

Sometimes you catch Steve staring at you, and sometimes the heat of his gaze doesn’t scare you.

But sometimes it does.

“Why are we even talking about this?” You deflect, setting your eyes on Kelly and her gorgeous veil. “You’re getting married in less than an hour. Can’t we talk about that?”

“Babe, all I’ve done for the last year is talk about this goddamn wedding. I’m the bride and right now I demand that we gossip.”

Robin laughs at you and you’re about to make up some excuse about needing to go organize the roses again when the bride’s door opens. Kelly yelps and covers her dress as you and Robin step in front of her to block the intruder’s view.

“Relax,” Steve holds his hands up. “It’s just me. Unfortunately, I’m not the groom.”

Kelly shakes his head at him fondly. “What do you want, Steve?”

“Connor sent me here because apparently I lack the ability to shut the fuck up and it was stressing him out.”

You snort and Robin hunches over as she giggles. Kelly smirks. “Yeah. I believe that.”

Steve sticks his tongue out at the three of you, and the conversation from earlier gets dropped. He helps you and Robin with the rest of Kelly’s makeup. He irons her dress, showers her with compliments, and your heart constricts every time he touches the edge of your silk dress with childlike wonder.

“You look beautiful, Y/N.” He whispers when it’s just the two of you. The door to the aisle hasn’t opened yet. The rest of the wedding party stands behind you, waiting.

A blush coats your cheeks. You loop your arm through his and bask in his fondness. “Thank you,” your hand rests on his chest. “You look quite handsome yourself.”

And he does. Steve is cruelly beautiful in his suit. His tie matches the lace of your dress and you want to pull the end of it and bring his lips to yours. He stares down at your lips and you wonder if he’s thinking about yours, before the music starts.

The door opens. Down the long, carpeted length of the church stands Connor. There are flowers everywhere and Steve grabs the hand that rests against his forearm. He squeezes it, takes a deep breath, and together you walk down the aisle.

During the wedding Robin cries. The vows are exchanged and she has to cover her mouth to contain the sobs that spill from her. Steve catches your eye from across the pew and the two of you smile at your friend, your love for her forming into one.

Sometime late into the night Steve finds you. He hands you a drink before promptly dragging you to the dancefloor. You protest, shy, but he doesn’t listen.

“I told myself I’d dance with the prettiest girl at this wedding, angelface. And it just so happens that that girl is you.”

You laugh at him, following his hands as he guides you through the motions of dancing. “Don’t let Kelly hear you, otherwise she’ll strangle you.”

“Let her,” Steve spins you, eliciting more giggles to fall from your pretty lips. “I’ll die a happy man now that I’ve danced with you.”

“That was disgusting.”

“And charming. Don’t forget charming.” He spins you again before bringing your bodies even closer together. “You know what this reminds me of?”

You gaze up at Steve. “What?”

“The Lonely Hearts dance.”

Exasperated laughter follows his confession. “You’re really thinking about our high school dance right now?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Every year I was dying to dance with you.” Steve’s thumbs stroke up and down the sides of your waist. His grip on you tightens. His voice lowers and you recognize the adoration that paints his brown eyes. The air between you stills. Steve dips his head, his forehead brushes yours. “And now I finally got that dance.”

You don’t breathe. If you do, you’re afraid that the exhale would shatter the fragility of this moment.

“Was it worth it?” You don’t recognize your own voice and the breathy way it comes out. Your hands move up Steve’s chest and snake around his neck. His head knocks against yours, your noses centimeters apart, lips separated by inches.

You feel Steve’s smile more than you really see it. “You tell me.”

He kisses you, cradling your body as if it were made to fit into the crevices of his palms. Lips move against lips and your skin hums at the sensation of finally welcoming him home. His skin greets you with a soft tenderness and your lips coat his mouth with sugary sweetness.

“Get a room!” Robin throws a napkin at the two of you, forcing you apart, and when you come up for air you see the biggest smile on her face.

You hide in Steve’s neck, embarrassed, though not enough to not leave small, fluttery kisses on every mole your lips can find. You’re already addicted to feeling him shiver beneath you.

“Seems we have a wedding to plan for next year!” Connor raises his beer and points at you and Steve, cackling loudly.

Kelly is next to him and she kisses her husband’s cheek and beams at him. “It took ‘em long enough!”

“Do you guys mind?” Steve pulls you away from the dancefloor, glaring at his closest friends who all love him endlessly and whom he loves even more, and basks in your giggling as he whisks you away. “I’m trying to kiss Y/N here!”

“Use protection!” Robin calls out while Connor and Kelly whistle and cat call.

Steve finds an empty closet and no one can find you for the rest of the night. Kelly never lets you live it down, Connor commends you for the bravery, and Robin has to wipe away her tears.

–

Your first semester of senior year, Steve and Robin’s band gets signed. The record label is apparently legendary because they collapse onto the ground screaming when they get the phone call. Twenty minutes later, Connor and Kelly are at your apartment screaming alongside them.

Two weeks later they book tickets to New York and you help Steve pack his bags. Everything happens so quickly and it’s almost nauseating trying to keep up.

“We’re in the studio from nine to five every weekday, so I’ll call you every day at six.” Steve folds a pair of jeans and hands them for you to place in his suitcase. “Weekends I’ll call you at five so that we can eat dinner together.”

You give him an odd look. “Don’t you want to go explore the city while you’re there?”

“I mean, sure. But I can do that during the day. The moment the clock strikes five or six, it’s my girl’s time.”

“Steve…” You’re so stupidly in love with him sometimes. “I don’t want you worrying about me while you’re there. This is a huge opportunity for you.”

“Who said anything about worrying about you?” Steve walks up behind you and kisses your neck. “Angelface, I’m worried I might die after the first week without you.”

Your hands brush through his hair. “You’ll be fine, Stevie. I guarantee that in five days tops you’ll be having too much fun to miss me.”

“Wrong. I will be talking everyone’s ears off about you and will probably get banned from a lot of bars because of it.”

Sighing, you turn and face him, pressing a soft kiss to his brow. “Steve, it’s only for a few months. Each day we’re apart will be one day closer to being together.”

“How about no days apart and every day together?”

You kiss him, slowly and drawn out, as if time is on your side and you’re in excess of it. Steve hums against you, tightening his arms in a lazy hug, and you know that you’ll miss him forever.

The first few weeks are hard without Steve. You’ve never lived on your own before and you’ve never really spent a day without him since you were eighteen. Now you’re twenty-one and there’s no one to kiss you awake or make faces in the mirror with you as you brush your teeth.

What’s worse is that Robin is gone, too. And Kelly. And Connor.

Their absence makes you realize that you direly need other friends who aren’t in a literal band together.

Steve keeps his promise and calls you every day. He always asks about how your day has been, he tells you every detail about his. He tells you that he’s started writing all his thoughts down in a notebook that he wants to tell you so that he doesn’t forget, and it makes you ache even more.

The months pass by slowly. December drips into January and then February greets you with her winter’s kiss. There’s snow in Chicago and even more to come, and you know Steve will be excited to see it when he gets back.

Which coincidentally happens to be Valentine’s day.

And also the day you get violent food poisoning.

After months of being apart, the first time Steve sees you again is with your head in the toilet bowl, hacking up your lungs and dying.

“Oh, Jesus.” He drops his bags and comes running over, immediately gathering your hair so that you don’t get it dirty as yet another wave of nausea hits you.

“Welcome home.” you say in between bouts of bile. Truly, you think this is a new low that you’ve reached. Here you are, deathly ill and incredibly sweaty, while your lovely boyfriend has just arrived home after months of missing each other. “Sorry that you have to see this.”

Steve rubs your back and sits with you on the ground. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even spilling your guts out I think you’re hot.”

“That’s sweet,” you throw up again. “Would you be a dear and kill me now?”

He laughs, massaging your tender body, and doesn’t once leave your side. He flushes the toilet for you when needed. He gets a rag and soaks it in cold water and rubs it across your forehead to help regulate your fever. He hums to you when your stomach twists in pain.

Eventually the nausea settles enough for you to ask Steve to carry you to bed. He does, and he sets you down gently before crawling in next to you. He fits your body against his, hand on your stomach as if he himself can ease its ache.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is raspy, the acidic bile still lingering. “I’m sure this isn’t the grand reunion and Valentine’s day that you had in mind.”

“I’m laying in bed with you and you love me.” Steve kisses your overheated forehead. “That’s all I ever want for Valentine’s day.”

Your eyes fall shut and you exhale shakily. “I just… I wanted our first Valentine’s to be special. I had it all planned out. I rented your favorite movie and bought all the ingredients to make the gnocchi you love so much, and then as I was folding the laundry I just-I died.”

“Food poisoning. America’s silent killer.” Your laugh rings in Steve’s ears and he smiles, kissing your face again and again and again. He runs his nose down your chin, brushes the hair out of your face. “Besides, this isn’t our first Valentine’s. I’m counting all the ones we spent together single and lonely whether you like it or not.”

“The fifth one wasn’t so bad,” you muse. You still remember the roar of the Vexture as Steve announced that you were his Valentine. “You were annoyingly charming that night.”

“That was me declaring my love for you, you know.”

You turn to him, startled. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” Steve clutches his chest. “There I was, telling the love of my life that I wanted her to be my Valentine forever, and then in the end she friendzones me. Truly brutal stuff.”

“But that was years ago! We were nineteen, there’s no way in hell you were actually in love with me.”

He grabs your hand and kisses it. “Y/N, I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen. I was just waiting for you to like me back.”

The idea of Steve being in love with you since you were kids nearly sends you back to throwing up. You’re overwhelmed by it. By the idea that someone could’ve loved you for as long as he has. That he still loves you now. For nearly a decade.

“Y/N? You got all quiet over there. You alive?” Steve pokes your cheek and it’s then that you know that there was never anyone else for you. You were his from the moment he walked into student council and demanded cleaner mirrors in the men’s bathroom.

“I love you.” You tell him. They’re the only words created for what you have.

Steve scrunches his face in an endearing manner. “I love you, too.”

“Now tell me all about New York.”

And he does.

–

Robin tells you that tour life is romanticized and that within the first week you’ll strangle her and Steve to death, but you don’t believe her. When you see the size of the bus the five of you will be staying in for months on end, you start to second guess what she’s said.

“It’s… cozy?”

Connor huffs at you. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“It’ll be fun, guys!” You try again to make light of the situation, though really you also don’t believe what you’re saying. “I mean, think about how much closer we’ll be after this.”

“Weren’t you a philosophy major?” Connor looks at you skeptically. “Isn’t the whole schtick of those old white dudes pessimism?”

Steve throws an arm around you. “She graduated top of her class, actually. And yes. Those old white dudes loved being bitter bitches.”

“I think Y/N’s right.” Kelly joins in now. “We’re a family. It can’t be that bad.”

“Famous last words.” Robin mutters.

They are, in fact, famous last words.

Connor learns that he gets car sick easily on day two. Kelly learns that she has a fear of car sickness on day three. Robin leaves her keyboard at one of the venues they play at the second week and doesn’t realize it until you’re already at the next venue an entire state away. Steve loses his voice after the sixth show and spends the entire bus ride to the next venue sulking.

You, however, are honestly having a great time. You didn’t get to travel with the band last year due to school, and now that you’ve graduated, you’re enamored with seeing places that aren’t native to Illinois or Indiana.

“Steve, if you gargle salt water in my ear one more time, I will shave your head in your sleep.” Robin threatens during week four. Her eye is twitching and you truly do believe that she has a razor hidden somewhere.

“I have to protect my voice.” He argues, pouring more warm water into a cup before mixing salt in. “I can’t lose it again!”

“That was a pretty rough show.” Connor says from his bunk. Being nearly 6’4, he barely even fits in it. His legs hang off awkwardly and he’s been complaining about his back for weeks now.

“I thought Robin sang pretty well.” Nancy, the band’s tour photographer, says quietly from the makeshift kitchenette. She joined during the third show and you think Robin’s been in love with her since the fourth one.

“Uh, thanks. I guess.” She squeaks out, hiding behind you in a not so subtle manner. You pat her hand, sympathetic.

Steve gargles and spits the water into the sink. “Robin has an incredible voice, I agree. But that’s besides the point. We’re on the clock full time, even if we don’t have a show tonight.”

“And tell me, my dear wife, why we don’t have a show tonight?” Connor sings to Kelly.

“Why, my dear husband, I do believe it’s because it’s Valentine’s day and Stevie over here demanded the night off so that he can court our beloved Y/N.”

Steve rolls his eyes at them and you laugh. “In our defense, we haven’t exactly had a normal Valentine’s day together. We’re in dire need of one normal night.”

Nancy tilts her head at you. “But aren’t you guys together?”

“Yeah, but we weren’t for a while.”

“One Valentine’s day Y/N found out her boyfriend was cheating on her, who also just so happened to be my roommate.”

Robin throws her head back and shouts, “Fuck Oliver!” And Connor and Kelly join.

“Thanks, guys.” Steve turns back to Nancy. “Another year I made Y/N go on a blind double date with me and a girl I was dating at the time. Turns out, the guy I brought for Y/N was also the ex boyfriend of my girlfriend. So that was fun.”

“One year we actually walked down the aisle together. Before we were even dating.” Nancy’s eyes widen and you shrug at her. “We were in the same wedding party.”

“Happy anniversary, babe.” Connor blows a kiss to Kelly and she catches it, blowing him one back.

“And last year I got horrendous food poisoning and Steve had to drive me to the hospital since I was so dehydrated. He cried filling out my paperwork.”

“I did.”

Nancy looks between you and Steve. “And this year, you guys will…?”

“I’m taking Y/N out to a nice, totally normal and totally romantic dinner. I’m going to wine and dine my girl and then we’re going to cuddle in our way too small bunk bed and sleep.”

You beam at everyone. “It’s a pretty good plan.”

Except you and Steve don’t even make it to your reservation. Later that night, right before you call a taxi, Nancy bursts through the bus door with a frantic look in her eyes. You drop the phone and rush to her. “Woah, hey. What’s going on?”

“Have you seen Robin?” There are tear stains on her delicate face.

Steve’s body tenses. “Last time we saw her was when she left with you guys, why?”

“I–” A broken sob prevents Nancy from telling him anything else, and you take her into your arms.

You soothe her, your own worry for your friend setting your body on edge. Steve shares a look with you, both wondering what the hell is happening. Robin left with Nancy and the others hours ago to go check out some local bar, and now here Nancy is, crying in your arms, with Robin nowhere to be found.

“Nance,” drying the girl’s tears, you try to get her to calm down enough to speak. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? Take a deep breath and then let it out slowly.”

You inhale, so does she, and after several seconds you exhale long and slow. Nancy’s breath stutters and her tears soak the white blouse she looks so delicate in, but still she breathes.

Steve stands over the two of you, arms crossed with his eyebrows pinched together in worry. He taps his foot and you know it’s taking everything within him not to tear down the entire town to find his best friend.

“What happened with Robin, Nance?” Steve gently asks her, crouching down to her eye level. “Is she okay? Are you okay?”

Nancy wipes her face and sniffs. She can’t look at you or Steve. Her eyes face only the ground as she picks at her nails. “We… We kissed.”

“That’s…” Steve looks at you, silently asking if he should be elated or concerned, and all you can do is shrug helplessly at him. “That’s-that’s great, right? I mean, you two were totally love at first sight. Like, Romeo and Juliet but without the, you know. Death. I mean, at least I hope there’s no death, but seeing as you’re currently crying I’m a little nervous–”

“What my boyfriend is trying to say is that we’re happy for you guys, but also a little concerned.” You interrupt Steve’s ramble. “What happened after the kiss?”

Nancy continues picking at her nails. Her crying has subsided but her face remains broken and anguished. Her eyebrows knit together and her mouth draws into a thin line. “I-I kissed her, and then she just… She ran.”

“Shit,” you sigh, dropping your head.

Steve throws his own head back and curses as well. “Another category five.”

“Yup.”

Nancy turns to you. “Category five? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You wince, grabbing her hand in hopes of quelling her sudden anger. “Look, Robin is…”

“A gem.” Steve finishes for you, and you nod at him.

“She’s my best friend, and she’s incredibly brave and charismatic and bold. I’ve seen her punch men five times her size. She always speaks her mind and never takes no for an answer, but she’s also vulnerable. She hides a lot behind her humor.”

“When I first met Robin, she was going through a pretty rough breakup.” Steve sits next to you and Nancy now. “And since then she’s become the worst person imaginable when it comes to dating. She always freaks out and leaves the relationship before they can leave her. And a category five freakout is… bad.”

“We’ve only seen it once before with some girl she met at a gig a few years back. They kissed and Robin locked herself in the bathroom and refused to leave until the girl was gone.” You tuck Nancy’s hair behind her ear. “We aren’t telling you this to scare you, we’re telling you this because you clearly love Robin, and she loves you. She’s just… she’s been hurt before.”

Nancy slouches on the couch. “But I don’t want to hurt her! I didn’t even mean to kiss her, but she looked so pretty under the purple lighting and was laughing at some stupid joke I made and-and suddenly we were kissing and it was incredible and then–”

“Category five.” Steve mimes an explosion with his hands. You glare at him.

“How about this, we’ll find Robin for you and bring her back here. I think the two of you just really need to talk about this.”

Steve raises his hand. “I personally think they just need to makeout.” You elbow his side and he groans in pain. “Yeah, okay. That was fair.”

“I can’t ask you guys to do that.” Nancy sniffs. “You were so excited for your date tonight and you’ve already done enough.”

Steve wraps an arm around your waist. “She’s right. This is just tradition for us. A sacred thing we look forward to every year.”

“You two confuse me so much.” Nancy laughs wetly, overwhelmed by your kindness.

“We get that a lot.” Steve kisses your temple. “C’mon, angelface. The lesbians need us.”

Nancy nearly chokes on her laughter and you giggle as well. The bus door closes and it’s just open road before you. You’re in the middle of Wisconsin with nothing but grass and dirt for miles ahead. Wherever Robin ended up running off to, you sincerely hope it’s close.

In the end, you and Steve end up walking nearly two miles to a nearby gas station and find Robin face deep in a pint of ice cream. Her cheeks are smeared in chocolate and her puffy eyes are red. The moment you find her, Steve throws himself into her arms and you hold them both as she starts to cry.

It takes several conversations, many tissues, and a few threats before you’re able to convince Robin to walk back to the bus with you. She freaks out the entire two miles and Steve has to fully pick her up at one point to prevent her from fleeing, but eventually you’re standing in front of the bus door with Robin’s iron grip on your hand.

“I-I can’t do this.” She chokes out, short of breath as panic sets in again. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“You can,” Steve pokes her cheek, though his hand rubs her shoulder with affection. “And you will.”

“What if she hates me now?”

You hook your chin over Robin’s shoulder, butting your head with hers. “Then we’ll be here to catch you, dummy. But we won’t need to, because Nancy is currently pacing the bus waiting to kiss your pretty face again.”

Robin’s body tenses and she gets ready to run, but Steve swoops her into his arms and you yank the door open so that he can throw her inside. She screams, but you slam the door shut and Steve helps you keep it closed as her fists pound against it.

“Let me out!” Robin screeches, throwing her body against the door.

“Kiss and make up! Those are the rules!” You scream back, clenching your teeth to keep your footing.

Robin screams again and Steve has to throw his entire body weight back to keep her inside, but eventually her anger exhausts her and soon there’s only silence within the bus. You and Steve press your ears to the door, breaths held so as not to miss anything, and faintly, very faintly, you hear Nancy’s soft voice mixing with Robin’s embarrassed tears.

Stepping back, Steve holds his hand for you to high five, which you gladly accept. “God, we’re great.”

“The best matchmakers this town has ever seen.”

Steve tugs you against him and holds you close to his chest, inhaling your scent and humming in content. You melt into him and he holds you for a while, just the two of you, swaying softly together as the gentle February wind dances around you.

“I think year nine went pretty well.” You murmur into Steve’s skin.

He buries his face in your hair. “I have a feeling year ten will be even better.”

–

The band’s breakout album, Angelface, becomes an instant success. It tops every chart, critics praise it, fans scream along to all the songs, and Steve claims that you’re the reason for it.

“I name an album after you and suddenly it sells a million copies overnight.” He nips at your neck, humming when you writhe beneath him. “You’re my good luck charm, angelface.”

You want to tease him and call him crazy, but when his hand comes up to massage your breast through its thin fabric, your moans drown out the noise in your mind.

Connor and Kelly buy a house with a studio built inside of it. The band rehearses there every day in preparation for their next album. Robin brings Nancy along, the two of them always giggling quietly to themselves in between sessions. Nancy becomes the band’s official photographer. All the photos are of Robin.

Steve surprises you one day with the keys to your own home. He tells you that the second the money from Angelface was his, he went out and bought the house the next day. The home is much bigger than the apartment you once shared together, though small enough to still feel intimate. There are mahogany floors and a bay window in your bedroom and you couldn’t be more in love with it.

February comes and Steve sits you down at the kitchen table with a pen and paper in front of him.

“Alright,” he says, setting his hands on the table with an air of authority to him. “Valentine’s day is approaching. We know what that means.”

“That disaster is ahead.” You nod solemnly, following along.

“Exactly, so here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to make you a fancy dinner without anything that can possibly get you sick. No eggs. No meat. No dairy. Nothing prone to yacking.”

“Not sure what that leaves you with, but I’m listening.”

Steve writes everything down. “There will be only electric candles because I’m now terrified that the only disaster left is a house fire, and I spent a concerning amount of money on this house.”

“I fear the same.”

“Perfect. I’ll get us some wine and a movie to rent. Our landline will be turned off so that absolutely no one can contact us. We’re going AWOL here, Y/N. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You lean forward and place your head in your hand. “What if Robin tries calling, though?”

“I love her, but we landed her a girlfriend last year. She owes us this Valentine’s day.”

“Touché.”

Steve looks down at his list. “Okay. Am I missing anything?”

You think for a moment. “No, I think that’s all, just don’t forget I have a doctor’s appointment that day so I won’t be home until a bit later.”

“Already accounted for that. I’ll be buying undisclosed decorations for the house to surprise you with.”

“Undisclosed? How many spy movies did you watch before this?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

True to his word, Steve does decorate the house while you’re gone. You get back from your appointment and your home is an explosion of pinks and reds. There are streamers everywhere and a small disco ball hangs from your living room ceiling. Music from your high school years plays softly in the background and the house smells of acidic tomato and garlic.

“Steve?” You call out, breathless as you walk towards the kitchen. He’s spared no expense. The floor is littered with roses and there’s wine waiting for you on the table with small electric candles flickering in the darkness.

“Do you like it?” You turn around and find Steve holding a bouquet of roses, dressed in a familiar tuxedo. It’s all black and his ribbed vest has the same rose pinned to it that it did back when you were in high school trying to stop him from pouring gin into the punch.

Your heart beats wildly and an overwhelming mix of emotions simmer in your stomach. “You’re…”

“The best boyfriend in the world? I know.” Steve grabs the wine and pops it open, pouring you a glass. He hands it to you with a wink, but you don’t accept the drink. He tilts his head in confusion. “I thought you loved red wine?”

“I-I do.” You’re quick to reassure him. “But after my doctor’s appointment today, I’m not so sure I should have any.”

Your heartbeat spikes again and Steve sets the glasses down immediately. He’s at your side a second later, worry for you written all over his handsome face. “You said it was just a regular checkup. Are you alright? Are you sick again? I-I can drive you to the hospital, just let me turn off the stove before we actually do have a house fire–”

“Steve,” your voice cracks with love and warmth. He looks up at you, pink lips parted in a small frown that you want to kiss better. “I can’t have wine for nine months.”

“Nine..? That’s an oddly specific number.” His lips turn downwards. “Is it like, some type of allergy now, or–?”

“No, Stevie.” You cup his face with a smile. Grabbing his hands, you bring them to your stomach. His palms lay flush against your abdomen, warm, and something in his face shifts. His eyes widen slightly, soft air escapes him, and your face burns from how wide you smile. “It isn’t an allergy.”

“You’re–?” He doesn’t want to say it, afraid that if he does, that if he’s wrong, his heart would be broken in an irrevocable way.

You nod, brushing his hair back. “I’m about ten weeks along.”

Steve sinks to his knees, dropping his head to your stomach and staring at it with an innocent gaze of love. His eyes fill with wonder, with tears. “Y/N.”

He whispers your name like a sacred prayer, lips pressing to the flesh over and over again as your fingers tangle in his hair and your joy coats his skin.

“I know we’re young, but…” You whisper down to him. ��I want this. I really, really want this.”

“I want this, too.” Steve slides his hands up your body and stands, cradling you in his arms while his face buries itself into your neck. You can feel his tears wet your skin, the slight trembling of his body. “God, I want this.”

Your lips ghost the shell of his ear, down the veins in his neck, the crest of his collarbones and the lines of his jaw. Steve pulls you, closer and closer and closer, until your skin is his and his breath is yours.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Stevie.”

Steve smiles down at you. His face has changed since you first met ten years ago. The lines around his eyes have deepened slightly, his boyish smile is now more charming than endearing, and his jaw has become more defined.

His eyes, however, are the same eyes you fell in love with all those years ago. The toffee brown still reminiscent of the student council meetings you always bickered in. They’re still soft when he looks at you, open and lovely as they were at the Lonely Hearts dance.

There is still so much love that is embedded in Steve’s hand woven features for you. His hands stroke your stomach and your lips are against his. The excess of love is syrupy thick.

All it took was ten Valentine’s days.

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#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x fem #stranger things #m's writing #fluff #this is such a cheesy one #i was smiling so hard writing it my god #havent done purely fluff in so long

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mikaylathenerd5 · 3 months ago

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Fever Tide + Roman Reigns

Masterlist ৹ Join My Taglist

Roman Reigns + Imani Jackson

Content Warning: This story contains explicit sexual content, detailed descriptions of a young child experiencing a high fever and medical distress, strong language, and references to a past relationship conflict. These elements may be unsettling or inappropriate for some readers. Please proceed with caution. (18+ readers only)

A/N: I used my regular taglist for this one-shot. If you like to be added or if I missed anyone, please let me know. I might go to Google Forms for the taglist to help ✨

Word Count: 6k

The night draped Davis Islands in a sultry shroud, the Gulf’s salty breath oozing through Imani’s condo balcony doors, flung wide to the Bayshore Boulevard shoreline where waves hissed and foamed against the sand, their restless murmur a faint echo of her own unease. The air conditioner chugged valiantly, its cool gusts battling the sticky Tampa heat that plastered her tank top to her skin, leaving a sheen of sweat across her collarbone—but it was nothing compared to the searing furnace of her one-year-old daughter, Journi, pressed against her chest. The toddler’s fever had spiked to 103.7, her tiny body a limp, scorching weight in Imani’s arms, her breath coming in shallow, uneven rasps that clawed at Imani’s heart.

Normally, Journi was a whirlwind of chaos and joy—bare feet slapping the beach as she chased sandpipers, her high-pitched giggles ricocheting off the tide pools, her chubby hands splashing in the surf while Imani trailed her with a bottle of sunscreen, half-laughing, half-scolding, “Journi, slow down, baby—you’re gonna wear Mama out!” as the sun dipped below the horizon. Tonight, that spark was extinguished, replaced by faint whimpers that barely broke the surface of her fevered haze, her damp curls plastered to her flushed cheeks, her brown eyes—Joe’s eyes, deep and soulful—glassy and unfocused, staring past her into some unseen void.

Imani paced the condo’s hardwood floors, her bare feet sticking to the polished oak with each anxious step, the faint squeak of the wood underscoring the dread twisting her gut. The seashell wind chimes dangling from the balcony rail clinked in the breeze, their delicate notes a mocking counterpoint to the chaos spiraling within her. “Come on, Journi, talk to me,” she murmured, her voice trembling as she shifted her daughter in her arms, brushing a cool rag across her forehead, the cloth already warm from her heat. “You gotta tell Mama what’s wrong—give me something, baby girl.” Journi only whimpered, a soft “Dada” escaping her lips, faint and pleading, and Imani’s chest tightened, her breath hitching. “I know, sweetie, you want Daddy—I’m trying, okay? We’re gonna get you fixed up.”

She’d fled to this condo five weeks ago after the split, trading their sprawling house a mile away for this sleek, modern box perched on the water’s edge, craving the soothing rhythm of the waves to drown out the silence Joe’s absence left behind—a silence that rang louder than Journi’s laughter ever had. That old house still held him like a ghost: the garage where he’d built his home gym, its walls lined with racks of iron and the faint tang of metal and sweat; the kitchen where his cologne lingered in the air long after he’d gone; the deck where they’d watched sunsets over the Gulf, Joe whispering, “This is us, baby—forever right here,” as his arm slung around her shoulders, her head resting on his chest while Journi cooed in her lap.

“I thought I could do this alone,” she muttered to herself, pacing faster, the hardwood creaking under her weight. “Thought I’d be fine without you, Joe—but look at me now, losing it ‘cause I can’t figure this out.”

She’d tried everything that evening. Hours earlier, she’d filled the bathtub with lukewarm water, the faucet’s steady drip punctuating Journi’s weak protests as Imani lowered her in, cradling her slippery body against her own. “Shh, it’s okay, baby girl,” she’d soothed, her voice cracking as she splashed water over Journi’s back, the toddler’s kicks growing feebler, her whines splintering into sobs. “Mama’s got you—just gotta cool you down, alright? You’re burning up on me.”

She’d dried her off with a towel soft as a cloud, dressed her in a thin cotton onesie dotted with dolphins, and propped her against a nest of pillows on the couch, the TV flickering with some mindless cartoon Journi usually loved—bright fish darting across the screen. “Look, baby—your fishies,” Imani had said, forcing a smile, her hands shaking as she adjusted the pillows. “You love these, right? Stay with me, Journi—don’t scare Mama like this.” But Journi’s eyes stayed half-lidded, her head lolling, her tiny “Dada” murmurs the only response, and the fever crept higher, a relentless tide Imani couldn’t stem.

By the time the sun sank into the Gulf, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, Journi’s cries had faded to those soft, broken murmurs—little gasps that barely carried across the room—and Imani’s resolve shattered like glass under a hammer. “I can’t do this—I can’t,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks as she yanked on Joe’s old San Francisco 49ers hoodie, a faded, oversized relic he’d left behind in the chaos of their breakup five weeks ago, its worn cotton settling over her frame like a second skin, the sleeves dangling past her wrists, still faintly spiced with his cologne—sandalwood and sweat, a scent that tugged at her chest with every breath.

“You’re coming with me, Joe—even if it’s just this damn hoodie,” she muttered, grabbing the diaper bag from the hall closet, stuffing it with essentials—diapers, a spare onesie, the prescription bottle of Tylenol, a pacifier Journi hadn’t touched in hours—her movements frantic, mechanical, driven by a mother’s instinct she couldn’t name. She scooped Journi up, the toddler’s heat searing through the hoodie, and strapped her into the car seat with fumbling fingers, her daughter’s head slumping against the padded side. “Hang on, baby girl,” she said, her voice breaking as she buckled the straps, “we’re gonna fix this—I promise you, we’re getting Daddy, and he’s gonna make it better.”

She sped down Bayshore Boulevard, the palm trees blurring into shadowy streaks, their fronds swaying in the breeze like silent sentinels, the bay’s dark shimmer glinting to her right—a vast, restless mirror to her spiraling fear. “Stay with me, Journi,” she said, her voice tight as she glanced at the rearview mirror, Journi’s glassy eyes catching the streetlights’ glow. “You’re my fighter, right? You don’t quit on Mama—don’t you dare quit now.”

Her hands trembled worse as she dialed Joe, the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, the steering wheel slick with sweat under her grip. They hadn’t spoken since their fight five weeks ago—a brutal clash of exhaustion and unspoken hurts, his WWE road schedule grinding against her late-night drafting sessions, resentment festering like a wound until it exploded in a storm of shouted words and slammed doors. He’d stayed in their old house, surrounded by the life they’d built, while she’d fled to this condo, dragging Journi and a suitcase of regrets with her. But Journi needed him now—his strength, his calm, the way he could make their daughter smile even on the darkest days—and Imani’s pride crumbled under the weight of that need.

The line rang twice, each trill a stab to her nerves, before his deep voice rumbled through, rough with exhaustion, thick with the late hour. “Imani? What’s up? It’s late—everything okay?”

“Joe, it’s Journi,” she said, her voice quaking as she sped past the yacht club, its white boats bobbing ghostly in the dark, their masts swaying like skeletal fingers against the night sky. “She’s burning up—103.7. Barely moving. I’m heading to Tampa General—please, I need you.”

“What the hell?” His tone sharpened instantly, urgency slicing through the fatigue, yanking him awake. “103.7? When did this start? What’s she doing—talk to me, Imani.”

“It’s been climbing since this afternoon,” she said, her eyes darting to Journi in the rearview mirror, the toddler’s chest rising in shallow, uneven hitches, her car seat straps loose around her limp frame. “She was fussy this morning when I dropped her at daycare—cranky, tugging her ears—but I thought it was teething, maybe a cold. After work, it spiked fast—she was 103 by six. I’ve tried everything—medicine, a bath, cool air—but she’s fading, Joe. She keeps calling for you, just ‘Dada’ over and over, and I—I can’t get through to her.”

“Fuck, okay, I’m coming,” he said, his voice a whip-crack of determination, the faint clang of weights settling echoing through the line—his home gym, where he’d been pounding iron into the early hours, chasing sleep that wouldn’t come. “She’s talking? That’s good—she’s still fighting. What’s she look like right now?”

“Barely awake,” Imani said, tears stinging her eyes, blurring the road into a smear of headlights and palm shadows. “Her eyes are glassy, half-open—she’s so hot, Joe, and she’s not moving much, just limp. She’s saying ‘Dada’ like she’s begging for you—it’s breaking me.”

“Alright, listen,” he said, softer now but firm, a lifeline cutting through her panic. “She’s tough, like you—our little warrior, remember how she crawled outta that crib at eight months? I’m grabbing my keys—been in the gym all night, couldn’t sleep without you two here. You still on Bayshore?”

“Past the yacht club,” she said, the bay’s edge glinting to her right, a dark expanse dotted with the faint lights of distant boats. “Traffic’s light, but I’m freaking out—feels like I’m losing her, Joe, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t—you’re doing good, baby, you’re getting her there,” he said, his voice a steady anchor pulling her from the edge. “She’s not quitting, and neither are you—hold it together for her, Imani, you’re stronger than this. I’m ten minutes out—less if I push it. Dropping a dumbbell now,” he added, a soft thud punctuating his words, the sound of metal hitting the garage floor a promise of his haste. “She still awake?”

“Barely,” Imani whispered, her throat tight, the words scraping out. “Her eyes keep fluttering—she’s fighting, but she’s so weak. Joe, hurry—please, she needs you.”

“I’m out the garage door—truck’s running,” he said, his voice rough with urgency, the faint jingle of keys audible over the line. “I’m flooring it, baby—tell her Daddy’s coming, keep her with us. Call me if anything changes, Imani—anything, you hear me?” The line cut, abrupt and final, leaving Journi’s soft, pained “Dada” murmuring from the backseat, a fragile thread of sound that pierced her chest like a shard of glass.

At Tampa General Hospital, the ER’s antiseptic chill sliced through the humid salt air clinging to Joe’s hoodie, the fabric heavy with the Gulf’s breath, her own sweat, and the faint musk of Journi’s fevered skin. Imani sat in the waiting area, her legs jittering against the cold tile floor, rocking Journi in her arms, the toddler’s hot cheek pressed into the faded Niners logo, her tiny fingers twitching weakly against the cotton, leaving damp smudges from her clammy palms.

The room buzzed with muted chaos—beeping monitors, the shuffle of nurses’ shoes, a distant cough, the low hum of a TV bolted to the wall playing some late-night infomercial—but it all blurred into a dull roar beneath the pounding of Imani’s pulse. “Hang in there, baby girl,” she whispered, her lips brushing Journi’s curls, the damp strands sticking to her mouth. “Daddy’s almost here—we’re gonna be okay, you and me, just stay with Mama.” She’d stumbled through the automatic doors fifteen minutes ago, Journi cradled against her chest, her voice cracking as she’d begged the triage nurse—“She’s burning up, please, help her—she’s only one!”—and they’d whisked her through the paperwork with a speed that only deepened her terror, her hands shaking as she scrawled her name on forms she barely read.

A nurse approached now, her navy scrubs crisp against the sterile white walls, a clipboard clutched in her hand, her voice calm but brisk, cutting through Imani’s haze. “Ms. Jackson? We’ve got a room ready for Journi—exam room three. Follow me, please.”

“Thank God,” Imani said, her voice a shaky exhale as she rose, cradling Journi closer, the toddler’s weight heavier with every step. “She’s been like this all day—I can’t get her fever down, and she’s barely responding. Is she gonna be okay?” The nurse gave a tight, professional nod, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the linoleum as she led the way down a fluorescent-lit hallway, the lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of angry bees.

“We’ll get her checked out fast,” the nurse said, her tone steady but clipped. “Doctor’s waiting—just keep her comfortable ‘til we’re in there.”

Imani nodded, a jerky motion, and followed, her breath hitching as they entered exam room three, the door clicking shut behind them with a hollow thud, sealing them into a small, clinical box—white walls glaring under harsh lights, a narrow bed with crinkly paper stretched across it, a sink dripping faintly in the corner, its rhythmic plink a maddening counterpoint to her racing thoughts, and a single chair shoved against the wall, its vinyl cushion cracked and peeling. The air smelled of bleach and iodine, sharp and biting, a stark contrast to the briny warmth she’d left behind.

She settled onto the bed, the paper crinkling under her weight, Journi in her lap, and tugged the hoodie’s sleeves over her hands, the fabric soft and worn, the scent of Joe—sandalwood, sweat, a hint of the cedar from their old deck—curling around her like a fragile lifeline. Journi stirred, her glassy eyes fluttering open, a weak whimper escaping her cracked lips, and Imani brushed her curls back with trembling fingers, the damp strands sticking to her palm. “Daddy’s coming, baby,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears she wouldn’t let fall. “He’s almost here—just hold on for me, okay? Mama’s right here, and Daddy’s gonna fix everything—you know he always does.”

The door swung open minutes later, hinges creaking, and Joe stormed in, his massive frame swallowing the room, a tidal wave of presence and heat that filled the space like a thunderclap. His hair was a damp, messy bun, strands clinging to his neck and jaw, sweat-darkened from his late-night session in the garage gym, and he wore black gym shorts that hugged his thick thighs and a sleeveless tee stretched tight over his broad chest, the fabric damp with sweat, clinging to the ridges of muscle beneath, his tattooed arms gleaming under the fluorescent lights, ink swirling across his skin like a map of his battles. His Nike sneakers—black with a white swoosh, scuffed from countless gym sessions—squeaked faintly against the linoleum, a softer sound than the heavy thud of boots, and his duffel bag—still packed from his last road trip—hit the floor with a muffled thump as he crossed to her in two strides.

“Imani—thank fuck,” he said, his voice rough with relief as his eyes locked on her first—dark, searching, a flicker of something soft breaking through the worry—then dropped to Journi, his whole expression crumpling with a love so raw it stole the air from the room, worry etching deep furrows into his brow.

“Hey, princess,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, tender rumble as he sank to a knee beside the bed, the linoleum cool against his skin. “Daddy’s here—hey, baby girl, look at me.” His massive hand brushed Journi’s forehead, gentle as a whisper despite its size, calluses rough against her fevered skin, and she whimpered, a faint, needy sound, reaching for him with shaky, outstretched fingers, her tiny nails digging into his wrist. “You hanging in there for me? Huh? Talk to Daddy—gimme one of those smiles, come on.”

“Daddy…” Journi croaked, her voice a hoarse, insistent thread, barely audible but piercing, and she leaned toward him, tiny hands grasping at his shirt, tugging with all the strength her little body could muster, leaving faint sweat stains on the gray cotton. “Dada,” she repeated, her glassy eyes flickering with recognition, and Joe’s face melted, his eyes glistening as he scooped her up, his arms engulfing her small frame, and settled onto the bed beside Imani, the mattress dipping under his weight, springs groaning faintly.

Journi nestled against his chest, her head tucking under his chin, her curls tickling his beard, her hot breath puffing against his collarbone as she clung to him, a lifeline in her fevered haze. “Shh, I got you, sweetheart—I’m right here,” he murmured, rocking her gently, his massive hand cradling her back, feeling the heat radiating through her onesie—dolphins faded from too many washes—as his lips pressed to her curls, leaving a soft kiss, inhaling her baby scent—sweat and lavender shampoo, now tinged with the sour edge of sickness.

“You’re burning up, huh? But you’re my tough girl—ain’t nobody stronger than you, princess,” he said, humming that lullaby from their old house—waves and stars weaving through his deep, soothing baritone, a melody he’d sung to her since she was a newborn swaddled in his arms on their deck. Journi’s eyelids drooped, her breathing easing slightly, though still ragged. “Gonna kick this fever’s ass, just like Daddy kicks ass in the ring—gonna show it who’s boss, right?”

He shifted her in his arms, brushing her cheek with his thumb, the pad rough against her soft skin, and she gripped his finger tight, her little fist trembling but fierce. “That’s it, baby—hold onto me,” he cooed, his voice thick with pride, a faint crack breaking through. “You’re doing so good—Daddy’s so proud of you.”

He glanced at Imani, his free hand resting on Journi’s back, fingers splayed wide, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat through the thin fabric. “How long’s she been like this?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, threaded with a worry he couldn’t hide. “You said it spiked after work—what happened, Imani? Gimme the rundown.”

“Since this afternoon,” Imani said, shifting closer, her knee brushing his thigh, the contact sending a jolt through her—familiar, electric, a tether to what they’d been. “She was fussy when I left for work—rubbing her ears, whining more than usual. I told daycare to keep an eye on her, figured it was teething or something small. Picked her up at five, and she was warm, clingy—wouldn’t let go of me. By six, it was 103—I gave her Tylenol, bathed her, tried cool rags, but it hit 103.7 an hour ago. She’s fading, Joe—she’s been calling for you all night, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t fix it alone.”

“Damn, baby, you should’ve called me sooner,” he said, his tone gentle but edged with frustration, kissing Journi’s forehead again, her skin scorching against his lips, her curls damp under his touch as she mumbled “Dada” once more, her tiny fist curling tighter into his shirt. “She’s fighting, though—look at her, still holding on. You did good getting her here—don’t beat yourself up, alright?”

“I tried, Joe—I swear I tried,” Imani said, her voice cracking as she leaned into him, her shoulder brushing his arm. “I thought I could handle it, but she kept getting worse, and I—I panicked. She needs you—she always calms down when you’re here.”

“She’s got me now,” he said, his voice softening as he nuzzled Journi’s cheek, his beard brushing her skin as he whispered, “Look at you, fighting like a champ—gonna be splashing me in the tide pools soon, huh? Chasing those crabs again, making Mama yell at us both?” Journi nuzzled closer, a faint hum escaping her—a ghost of her usual giggle—and he chuckled softly, the sound rough with unshed tears, rubbing slow circles on her back with his palm. “That’s my girl—rest up, princess, Daddy’s not going anywhere.”

He turned to Imani, his gaze softening as it swept over her—the way his hoodie dwarfed her frame, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the tension in her shoulders pulling the fabric taut. “You’re wearing my hoodie,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, tender and bittersweet. “Still fits you better than it ever did me.”

“Couldn’t let it go,” she admitted, tugging the frayed hem, her fingers brushing the worn stitching, the logo faded from years of wear. “Feels like you—like the nights we’d sit on the deck, you sneaking this over me when it got chilly. Keeps me grounded when I’m falling apart.”

His eyes darkened, raw emotion flickering across his face—longing, regret, a love that never faded. “I’ve missed her so damn much,” he said, cradling Journi closer, her soft snores vibrating against his chest. “Missed you too, Imani—fuck, I’ve missed you more than I can say. That house—it’s empty without you two. Every corner’s got your blueprints, her toys, your voice yelling at me to pick up my weights—it’s killing me, baby, living there alone these five weeks.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered, leaning into the warmth of his hand as it rested on her knee, his thumb brushing her skin in a slow, grounding stroke. “She points at the waves every day, saying ‘Dada’—every sunset, she’s looking for you out there. I tell her, ‘Daddy’s coming home soon,’ even when I didn’t know if you would.”

“I’ve been lifting in that gym every damn night,” he said, voice low and rough, his eyes glinting with a sheen of tears he wouldn’t let fall, “staring at the Gulf from our deck, watching those waves, wishing I’d fought harder—wishing I’d chased you down that night five weeks ago, dragged you back inside instead of letting you walk away with my whole world. We fucked up, Imani—both of us, bad.”

“Yeah,” she said, tears pricking her eyes, her voice barely audible over Journi’s soft snores. “I miss the house—your coffee sneaking onto my desk, that stupid smirk when I’d catch you; your laugh when Journi smeared peas on your face; even tripping over your weights, cursing you out while you grinned.”

“I miss your blueprints all over the counter—pencil shavings in my socks, drove me nuts,” he said, chuckling, a low rumble that stirred Journi slightly, and he hushed her with a gentle pat. “Miss hearing you yell ‘Joseph!’ from the bedroom when I’d wake you up with her crawling over us. I want us back, baby—I need you back.”

“Me too,” she said, her voice breaking as a memory hit—their breakup, sharp and jagged.

It had been a humid night five weeks back, the Gulf breeze heavy through their old house’s open windows, carrying the tang of salt and regret. Journi was asleep in her crib, her mobile spinning lazily, while Imani stood in the kitchen, blueprints scattered across the counter, her laptop glowing blue over her tired face. Joe stormed in, fresh from a two-week road trip, his duffel hitting the floor with a thud. “You didn’t even call,” he’d snapped, voice tight, eyes stormy. “I’m out there breaking my body, and you can’t pick up the phone?” She’d fired back, exhaustion boiling over, “I’m drowning here, Joe—work, Journi, all of it! You’re never around!” Words cut deep—him shouting, “You’re shutting me out, Imani—I can’t reach you anymore!”; her yelling, “You chose the ring over us—missed her first steps for a damn crowd!” “Maybe we’re better off apart,” she’d choked out, grabbing Journi as he roared, “Fine, go!”—the door slamming as she left, their love fracturing.

The doctor entered, interrupting, and confirmed Journi’s double ear infection—treatable with antibiotics. “She’ll be okay,” he said, and Imani exhaled, “Thank God.” They lingered, Joe cradling Journi as the nurse explained care, Imani asking, “How soon ‘til the fever drops?” Their hands brushed signing forms, and Joe drove them home, saying, “I’ve got you both—let’s go.”

Back at her condo, the ocean breeze wove through the open balcony doors, a cool, salty whisper tangling with the AC’s hum, the air alive with the Gulf’s briny kiss and the faint floral trace of Journi’s lavender shampoo. The living room was a soft chaos—blankets strewn across the couch from her earlier vigil, a half-empty bottle of Pedialyte on the coffee table, its cap askew, the TV still flickering with muted cartoons, fish darting across the screen in silent loops.

Journi slept soundly in her crib now, tucked into the nursery down the hall, her fever easing under the medicine’s mercy, the antibiotic already working its quiet magic. Her stuffed dolphin—a gift from Joe after a road trip to Miami—was clutched tight in her tiny fist, its plush fins bent from her grip, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, soft snores crackling through the baby monitor on the nightstand.

Imani stood in the nursery doorway, her silhouette framed by the seashell nightlight’s amber glow, its light spilling across the hardwood floor in warm pools, catching the edges of Journi’s crib, the dolphin mobile swaying faintly above her. She’d kicked off her sneakers by the front door, her bare feet cool against the wood, Joe’s hoodie still hanging loose on her frame, the hem brushing her thighs as she watched her daughter sleep, the tension in her chest unwinding thread by thread with each breath Journi took.

Joe’s presence loomed behind her, a wall of heat and strength radiating from his massive frame, his gym-worn tee clinging to his sweat-damp skin, the faint creak of the floorboards under his Nike sneakers breaking the silence as he stepped closer. His hands settled on her hips, warm and possessive, fingers digging slightly into the curve of her waist through the hoodie, pulling her back against his solid chest, his heartbeat thudding through the thin fabric into her spine, a steady drumbeat that synced with her own.

“She’s a fighter,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of her neck, his breath a hot caress that sent shivers racing down her spine, pooling low in her belly. “Like you—toughest woman I’ve ever known.”

Imani turned in his arms, the movement slow, deliberate, and they were chest-to-chest, the air between them sparking like a live wire, thick with unspoken need and a love that refused to die despite the five weeks apart. “Missed you,” she said, her voice low and raw, her hands fisting in his tee, the cotton damp under her fingers as she surged up, crashing her lips into his with a desperation that clawed at her soul, a hunger that had simmered beneath her skin since the night she’d walked away.

Joe groaned, a raw, primal rumble that vibrated deep in his chest, his arms banding around her waist, crushing her against him as he kissed her back—fierce, ravenous, a tidal wave of passion and devotion drowning them both. Their tongues tangled, a frantic dance of salt and sweetness, her tears mixing with his sweat, the taste of him—coffee, mint, the faint metallic edge of the gym—flooding her senses, every brush of his lips a reclamation of the time they’d lost, a vow carved into the space between them to never let go again.

They stumbled down the hall to her bedroom, a frantic, breathless tangle of limbs and longing, their footsteps uneven against the hardwood, the walls blurring past in a haze of need. His tee hit the driftwood dresser with a muted thud, the fabric catching on a drawer knob before sliding to the floor, his old Niners hoodie snagging on his shorts as they fell in a heap onto the seashell rug, the woven fibers rough against her bare calves.

Her fingers clawed at his briefs with trembling urgency, tearing them down his thighs, revealing the masterpiece of his body: broad shoulders rippling with muscle honed in countless late-night gym sessions, the skin taut and glistening with sweat; abs carved like stone, each ridge defined under the dim light spilling from the hallway; thighs thick and powerful, corded with strength from years in the ring, his arousal straining—long, thick, pulsing with need—a living testament to how desperately he’d yearned for her, every inch of him a map of their shared history.

He peeled off her leggings with reverence, his rough palms gliding up her calves, calluses scraping her skin as he traced the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, worshipping every inch with a tenderness that belied the fire in his eyes. He pressed her back against the bed, the mattress sinking under their combined weight, the springs creaking in protest as the headboard tapped the wall, the sound swallowed by the Gulf’s distant roar through the open balcony doors.

He loomed over her, his massive frame a sheltering shadow, the heat of him radiating into her skin, his eyes blazing with a love so fierce it stole her breath, and he lowered himself between her thighs, his hands spreading her wide with a tenderness that trembled against the raw power coiled in his muscles. His beard grazed her inner thighs, rough and electric, sending sparks up her spine as he kissed her skin—slow, deliberate, each press of his lips a searing brand of longing, the faint stubble scraping her like a match struck against flint.

“Missed this,” he rasped, his voice low and wrecked, barely above a growl, his breath fanning hot over her core, teasing her with its proximity. His tongue flicked out, tasting her, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he lapped at her—hungry, unrestrained, his lips sucking her clit with a pull that made her hips buck off the mattress, her fingers twisting in his damp hair, pulling him closer, the strands slick with sweat between her knuckles. The wet sounds of his mouth mingled with the waves crashing outside, a primal rhythm that synced with her pounding heart.

“Joe,” she gasped, her voice breaking, hands tugging harder as he devoured her, his tongue plunging and swirling. “Fuck, baby,” he growled against her, the vibration jolting through her core, his hands gripping her thighs tighter, holding her open as he sucked harder. “More,” she begged, hips bucking again, her thighs trembling against his shoulders. “You’re everything,” he muttered, his voice rough with adoration, driving her to the edge with a relentless hunger that matched the storm in his eyes. “Yes,” she moaned, her breath hitching, and he growled, “Come for me,” his tongue relentless until she shattered, a sharp “Joe—yes!” tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her like a breaker on the shore, her thighs clamping around his head, her body trembling through the blinding rush, her nails digging into his scalp.

He rose, licking his lips with a slow, deliberate swipe, his eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide with want as he climbed over her, his massive frame caging her in, the heat of his skin searing against hers, sweat beading on his brow and dripping onto her collarbone. “Need you,” he muttered, his voice a rough plea, kissing her hard, letting her taste herself on his tongue—sweet and tangy, mingled with his sweat and love—their breaths ragged, tangling in the space between them.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him close, her hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the taut muscle flex beneath her palms, the ink of his tattoos shifting with each breath. “Now—please,” she whispered, urgent, her voice a breathy command as she guided him to her, her fingers trembling against his skin. He thrust in slow, deep, stretching her inch by exquisite inch until she moaned, the fullness overwhelming, his forehead pressed to hers, their sweat mingling, salt stinging her lips as she tasted it.

“Imani—shit,” he groaned, voice thick with reverence, his hands sliding under her—one cupping her ass to lift her hips, the other fisting in her hair—as he moved, harder, faster, the bed creaking loud, the springs protesting, the waves outside crashing in sync with the slap of their bodies. “Harder,” she panted, nails raking down his back, digging into the scars and ink that told their story—his battles in the ring, their battles at home—her touch igniting him, urging him deeper.

“Mine,” he growled, low and primal, hips snapping with a force that rattled the bedframe, his lips finding her neck, sucking hard to leave marks—his marks—branding her with a possessive heat that made her arch into him. “Yours,” she gasped, meeting his thrusts, her hips rolling to match his rhythm, their connection a dance of raw need and tender worship. “Feel me,” he rasped, pounding deeper, the headboard banging against the wall in a staccato beat, their bodies slick with sweat and sea air.

“Joe—God,” she cried, hands sliding to his face, cupping his jaw, feeling the tension there as he drove into her. She broke—“Joe!”—clenching around him as pleasure surged again, a second wave crashing through her, white-hot and relentless, her thighs shaking against his hips. He followed, a guttural “Fuck, baby!” tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep, spilling into her, hot and pulsing, his body shuddering as he gave her everything, their breaths tangling in a messy, desperate kiss.

Still trembling, her body buzzing with aftershocks, she pushed against his chest, her eyes blazing with a fierce, tender resolve. “My turn,” she said, her voice husky and raw, and he rolled them, his back hitting the mattress with a soft thud, the sheets tangling around his legs as she straddled him, her thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of her pressing against him.

His arousal, still hard, glistened with their combined release, and she sank onto him slowly, a moan spilling from her lips as he filled her again, the new angle stretching her in a way that made her gasp, her hands bracing against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath her palms, the sweat-slicked skin hot under her touch. “Take it,” he groaned, hands gripping her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, eyes locked on hers, wide with awe and hunger.

“Joe—God,” she gasped, rocking—slow at first, savoring the way he stretched her, then faster, the bed shaking beneath them, the frame groaning as she took control, her curls bouncing with each movement, sweat dripping from her brow onto his chest. “Fuck, Imani,” he rasped, thrusting up to meet her, their rhythm wild and unrestrained, her nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks as she drove them higher, the wet slap of their bodies echoing in the room, mingling with the Gulf’s roar outside.

“You’re perfect,” he growled, hands roaming her curves, sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples through the hoodie’s fabric as she moaned, her head tipping back, the tension coiling tight in her core. “With me,” she panted, grinding harder, her thighs quaking. “Always,” he rasped, gripping her tight, thrusting up hard. She cried, “Yes!” as her third orgasm ripped through her, a relentless tide that left her trembling, dragging him with her as he roared, “Imani—damn!” spilling into her once more, his release a hot, shuddering flood that bound them, their bodies locked in a trembling, sacred union.

They collapsed, a sweaty, panting tangle of limbs, his arms pulling her down against his chest, her head nestled in the crook of his neck, his heartbeat a wild drum beneath her ear, slowing gradually as their breaths synced. The sheets were a damp, twisted mess around them, the air heavy with the scent of salt, sweat, and sex, the Gulf’s whisper drifting through the balcony doors, a soft serenade to their reunion.

His hands roamed her back, tracing lazy, reverent patterns on her damp skin—swirls over her spine, circles on her shoulders—his lips brushing her forehead, her cheeks, her lips in soft, lingering kisses that spoke of forever, his beard tickling her skin with each touch. “No more running,” he murmured, voice rough with love, his arm tightening around her waist, holding her like she might slip away again if he let go.

She nuzzled closer, her fingers threading through his hair, still damp with sweat, tracing the ink on his chest. “Come home,” she whispered, smiling against his skin, the scent of him—sweat, salt, that faint sandalwood—wrapping around her like a promise, tears of joy glistening in her eyes as she felt the steady rise and fall of his breaths, the warmth of him grounding her.

He tilted her chin up with a gentle finger, kissing her slow and deep, his tongue tracing her lips before slipping inside, a tender claim as the dawn painted the sky pink beyond the balcony, streaks of light filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. “You, me, Journi—forever,” he said, his voice a vow etched in every syllable, low and steady, his eyes locked on hers, brimming with a love that could weather any storm.

“Me too,” she whispered, her hand finding his, their fingers lacing together, calluses against smooth skin, a perfect fit as they lay there, tangled in sheets and love, the future stretching out before them like the endless horizon beyond the waves, pink and gold and full of promise.

As the Gulf’s waves settle into dawn, Joe, Imani, and Journi find their way back to each other—a family reborn in the heat of the night. Loved this? Hit that like, reblog it to share the feels, and drop a comment with your thoughts—I’d love to hear from you! Follow me for more, and check out my other stories for extra doses of drama, heart, and heat. Thanks for reading!

#roman reigns smut #roman reigns fluff #roman reigns #roman reigns x black!reader #roman reigns x black oc #wwe fic #the bloodline #the tribal chief #wwe smut #wwe one shot #roman reigns one shot #roman reigns imagine #wwe imagine

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honeydippedfiction · 3 months ago

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Unfinshed Business {JB9}

Red Zone Sequel

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Synopsis: The game isn’t over—Y/N is still keeping Joe Burrow on his toes, letting him in just enough to keep him chasing. But the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend she’s not feeling it too. Joe’s all in. Y/N’s still holding back. The question is… how much longer before she finally gives in?

Warnings: Heavy Flirting & Tension, Joe Being Down Horrendous, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Mild Language, Slight Possessiveness, Jealousy, Joe is a naughty boy (some slight steamy dirty talk), illusions to smut but no actual smut scene sorry I couldn't resist to add the sexual tension I got that period horniness and decided fuck it.

WC: 37k

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A/N: This does switch back and forth from your pov and Joe's pov. They will be separated by the orange banner. (Should we do a part 3? A little steamier??)

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

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Joe Burrow was a problem.

A persistent, patient, down-to-the-wire problem.

You thought that maybe, just maybe, giving in a little bit—letting him kiss you, letting him see that you weren’t as unaffected as you pretended to be—might be enough to slow him down. Enough to make him ease up.

But no. It only made things worse. And that was the most frustrating part. The truth? You were running out of ways to convince yourself that you weren’t just as tangled up in him as he was in you.

"You still ignoring me, Y/N?" His voice was smooth, teasing, and filled with that trademark charm as he casually fell into step beside you, just outside the Bengals’ facility.

You didn’t bother to look at him, focusing instead on the tiles beneath your feet, willing your heart to stop racing. "Not ignoring. Just choosing peace," you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Peace?" Joe scoffed, the sound of his footsteps matching yours as he walked alongside you. "Sweetheart, I’ve been nothing but good to you."

You rolled your eyes, pushing the door to the locker room open with more force than necessary. "Exactly," you muttered, stepping through the doorway without sparing him a glance. And there it was. The problem laid bare.

Joe Burrow was supposed to be a fling. A harmless crush. A fun little distraction to watch him squirm. Something to feed your ego. But instead? He made it impossible to pretend that this was still just a game.

He kept showing up everywhere. At practice. In the hallway. In the locker room. Always popping up when you least expected him, making it harder to ignore the pull you felt every time he was near. Now, as you stepped into the equipment room, fully expecting him to head off to practice like he should, you weren’t even surprised when he followed you inside and shut the door behind him.

"Joe," you sighed, turning to face him, hands on your hips. "You have practice."

"Five minutes," he corrected, leaning back against the door with his arms crossed, looking far too relaxed for someone who had a whole team depending on him. "Plenty of time." You arched a brow, trying to suppress a grin. "For what?"

Joe’s eyes darkened with amusement, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "To ask why you’re still acting like this isn’t real."

Your breath hitched. The room seemed to close in on you. Your mind went blank, and for a second, all you could hear was the hammering of your pulse in your ears. You forced yourself to scoff, trying to sound casual, but your throat went dry. "What are you talking about?"

Joe exhaled softly, his demeanor shifting. He pushed off the door and took a small step closer to you. "Y/N," he said, his voice softer now, more serious. "I see the way you look at me. The way you react when I get too close."

Your pulse spiked. But you couldn’t let him see it. You couldn’t let him win. "You’re imagining things," you muttered, trying to regain control. Joe’s quiet laugh sent a shiver down your spine as he stepped closer, his presence all-encompassing. "Am I?"

Your back hit the counter, the cold metal pressing into your skin. You hated the way he made you feel cornered. "Joe—" You started, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice low and challenging, like he was daring you to push him away. "Tell me you don’t feel this, and I’ll walk out that door right now."

Your throat went dry. Because you couldn’t say it. Because you did feel it. You had felt it from the moment you first saw him. The slow burn, the chemistry that had sparked between you two like wildfire. But letting it consume you? That meant giving up control. And you weren’t sure you were ready to do that.

Joe studied your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. The smirk that usually played on his lips had disappeared, replaced by something deeper. Something real.

"That’s what I thought," he said, almost like a quiet victory.

Without another word, he pushed off the counter, running a hand through his hair as he stepped back. "I’ll see you after practice," he said, the finality in his voice undeniable.

He turned to leave. You should have let him go. You should have. But before you could stop yourself, your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. The action was instinctive—too fast for you to process the consequences.

Joe froze, the muscles in his arm tightening beneath your fingers. His blue eyes flickered down to where you were holding him before slowly meeting your gaze again. There was no cockiness there, no teasing glint. Just curiosity, like he was waiting for you to make the next move. You exhaled shakily, trying to steady yourself. "I never said you could leave."

Joe’s lips twitched. It wasn’t a full-on smirk, but it was close. "You never said I could stay, either."

You released his wrist, your hands instinctively crossing over your chest as you looked away, trying to regain some semblance of control. "You’re impossible," you muttered, rolling your eyes. Joe shrugged, a casual gesture that made his muscles shift under his fitted t-shirt. "And you love it."

You hated how right he was. For weeks, you’d been convincing yourself that this was just harmless flirtation. That it was all just fun. But fun didn’t make your hands shake. Fun didn’t make your breath hitch every time he got too close.

Fun didn’t leave you wondering if maybe, just maybe, you were falling for him. Joe’s gaze softened as he watched you, the teasing gone from his expression. "What are you so scared of, Y/N?"

The question hit you like a punch to the stomach. You froze, unsure how to respond. "I’m not—" you started, but the words felt hollow. "Yeah, you are." His voice was soft but sure. "And I just wanna know why."

Your heart twisted. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. How could you explain the truth? That no one had ever chased you like this before? That you weren’t afraid of falling for him, but afraid of him falling for you first—and then changing his mind when things got too real?

Joe was watching you closely, waiting for something—anything—that would tell him what was going on inside your head. But all you could do was stare back, struggling to find the right words.

Finally, he sighed, stepping back slightly as he ran a hand over his face. "Look," he said, his tone more resigned now. "I know I talk a big game. I know I push. But I need you to understand something."

Your pulse raced, and you swallowed hard. "I’m not going anywhere," he said simply, his gaze never leaving yours. "You can push me away. You can fight this all you want. But I’m still gonna be here."

The weight of his words hit you like a wave. You could see it in his eyes. He meant it. And God help you, you believed him.

Joe exhaled through his nose, his expression softening as he nodded toward the door. "I really do have practice now," he said quietly. You nodded, still trying to process everything. "Right."

He lingered for a moment longer, like he was waiting for you to say something—anything. But you stayed silent, unable to find the words. Finally, with one last lingering look, Joe turned and walked out the door, leaving you standing there, pulse racing and mind spinning, unsure of what you were supposed to do next.

---

You needed to focus. That was the only thought running through your head as you walked onto the practice field, duffel bag slung over your shoulder. You tried to shake off the conversation you’d just had with Joe, but it was impossible.

His words echoed in your mind like an unwelcome soundtrack. "I’m not going anywhere."

"You can push me away. You can fight this all you want. But I’m still gonna be here." You swallowed hard, your heart racing. Because, for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t sure if you were winning anymore.

"Girl, you good?" The voice snapped you out of your thoughts. Imani, one of the other equipment managers, sidled up beside you with a knowing grin on her face. "I’m fine," you muttered, adjusting the strap on your bag.

Imani didn’t buy it. "Mmhmm." She eyed you like she could see right through you. "And that wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain quarterback making heart eyes at you, would it?"

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

Imani snorted, crossing her arms. "Joe. Burrow." She said his name slowly, clearly amused. "That man has been locked in on you since you walked out here." Your breath hitched in your throat, and for a second, you panicked. "You’re imagining things," you said quickly, trying to mask the tension in your voice. "Oh, am I?" Imani raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Then why is he staring at you right now?"

Your heart skipped a beat. You weren’t sure you could handle whatever was happening. But you weren’t about to let Imani see you crumble. Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to stay calm. You turned slowly, keeping your cool, and—

The second you made eye contact, Joe’s lips curved into that infuriating smirk. Like he knew exactly how you felt. Like he could feel the nervous energy radiating off you, even from across the field.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to let him see how much he was affecting you. Instead, you lifted your chin, arched an eyebrow, and gave Imani a slow, unimpressed look. "See? Completely normal."

Imani burst out laughing, shoving your shoulder lightly. "Oh, you’re full of shit."

You huffed, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. "Shut up and help me set up the water station."

Imani grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just don’t get too distracted, loverboy is still watching." You couldn’t help it. You didn’t dare turn around again. Because if Joe was still watching you? You weren’t sure you could handle the weight of it.

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Joe knew he should be focused on practice. He really did.

But how the hell was he supposed to concentrate on a drill when she was standing there?

The early morning sun was already casting long shadows over the field, and everyone else was in motion, running drills, sprinting routes, and executing plays like they were supposed to. Meanwhile, Joe's mind was elsewhere, and it had nothing to do with football.

He had been trying—really trying—to be patient. Trying to give Y/N the space she’d so clearly asked for. He had backed off, let her have her distance, even when every fiber of his being was telling him to pull her closer. He had to let her think she was still in control. Let her feel like she had the upper hand, even though he could see through all of her games.

But, damn it, she made it hard.

The way she had looked at him earlier? That slow, deliberate arch of her brow—like she was challenging him, daring him to make the first move. And then that casual, dismissive turn of her head, like he wasn’t worth her time? That wasn’t accidental.

No, that was calculated.

That was payback for cornering her in the equipment room. For pushing her to the point where she couldn’t keep pretending anymore. And Joe felt it. Every damn second of it.

"Joe! Focus!"

Zac Taylor’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts like a knife, snapping him back to reality. Joe blinked, shaking his head as if he could clear the fog and ground himself back in the moment.

"Yeah, I’m good," he called back, his voice a little more strained than he intended as he planted his feet in the right position, adjusting his stance.

Ja’Marr Chase, ever the troublemaker, snickered beside him. "Yeah? 'Cause it looks like your head’s over by the water station with Y/N." Joe didn’t even bother denying it. Instead, he shot Ja’Marr a quick look, his lips twitching with a half-hearted grin. "Run the damn route, Chase," he muttered. Ja’Marr only laughed louder, shaking his head and jogging off to take his position.

Joe exhaled sharply, trying to force himself to focus, to get his head back in the game. He took the snap, feeling the ball hit his fingers, the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him. He dropped back, his eyes scanning the field, zeroing in on Ja’Marr as he sprinted down the sideline.

But the moment the ball left his hands, his gaze shot right back to her.

Y/N.

She was still standing by the water station, talking to Imani. Arms crossed, casual, but Joe could see right through the act. She was pretending like she didn’t notice him watching, pretending like she wasn’t aware of how much attention she was commanding.

But Joe could see it. Every little detail.

The way her shoulders were stiff, a subtle tension in the way she held herself, like she was trying to keep her distance but couldn’t quite do it. The way her fingers flexed against her bicep as if to keep herself from fidgeting. And most telling of all—the way she refused to turn around.

Because she knew. She knew he was watching.

And that?

That was a win for Joe.

Because no matter how much she tried to act like she was unaffected, no matter how many times she threw that cool, uninterested façade his way, she couldn’t hide what was happening between them. She couldn’t pretend that the chemistry wasn’t there. The tension, the pull—it was real for both of them.

For all her games, for all her teasing, for all her pretending, Joe knew the truth. She felt it too.

And that? That was all Joe needed.

Because he was done waiting for her to admit it. Done waiting for her to make the first move. If she wanted to play hard to get, fine. But he wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines forever.

The ball hit its mark with a perfect spiral, but Joe's mind was still with her. It was time to take the game to the next level.

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You told yourself, over and over again, that you weren’t going to look at him. Not again. Not today. You refused to. But damn it, it was impossible.

No matter how hard you tried to ignore him, you could feel Joe’s gaze burning through you. It wasn’t just his eyes—it was the way he seemed to know exactly when to focus on you, when to make sure you were aware of him. You could practically hear the weight of his stare, even without looking.

"Everything okay, Y/N?" Imani’s voice broke through your thoughts, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Fine," you muttered, focusing all your energy on refilling one of the water bottles. You twisted the cap back on with an exaggerated force, more violently than necessary, as if that could channel all your frustration.

Imani raised an eyebrow, her grin widening as she leaned in just a little too close. "Uh-huh. And I assume you just hulk-smashed that Gatorade because…?"

You sighed, pressing your lips together to keep from snapping. "Do you ever mind your business?"

Imani didn’t even try to hold back the laugh. She let it out in a full cackle, drawing the attention of a couple of teammates nearby. "Oh, never," she shot back, completely unapologetic. She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Especially not when a certain quarterback is about three seconds away from running a whole-ass fade route just to get closer to you."

Your heart did a little flip before you could stop it. You didn’t want it to, but it did anyway. And because you were weak—because you couldn’t resist—it happened. You glanced.

Joe was still on the field, still deep in the middle of drills. But his focus was different. His head tilted just slightly in your direction after every play. The movements were subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else—but not to you.

And, of course, the second your eyes locked with his—That damn smirk.

It appeared like he’d been waiting for it, like he’d known exactly when you’d cave and look. The smirk was cocky, teasing, all-knowing, and yet somehow... it made your stomach churn in the most inconvenient way. God, he was so frustrating.

Your teeth clenched, and your jaw tightened. You quickly spun around, focusing all your energy on Imani instead. "I hope he gets sacked," you muttered, your voice betraying none of the chaos swirling inside you.

Imani’s laugh was loud enough to make some of the other equipment managers glance over. "Oh, so you’re mad mad," she teased, her grin far too pleased with herself.

You ignored her, forcing yourself to keep your face neutral, but you couldn’t stop the heat that crept up your neck. You hated that she was right. You hated that you were flustered.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be in control, the one pulling all the strings. You were supposed to be the one teasing him, making him sweat. But now? Now, you were the one feeling like you were losing your grip on the game.

You exhaled sharply, but your mind refused to quiet down. Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

And, more troubling, why did you feel like you were starting to care more than you should? The memory of what Joe had said to you earlier kept playing on a loop, whether you wanted it to or not.

"I’m not going anywhere."

His words echoed in your head. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the tightness in your chest. The words lingered, sitting heavier now than they had before. They weren't just words. They weren’t a simple promise—they were a challenge, an assertion that he wasn’t going to back off. That no matter what games you played, he wasn’t going anywhere.

And suddenly, in a way that scared you, you were starting to think...

Maybe you didn’t want him to.

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Joe could feel it—the shift. The subtle change that told him Y/N was finally starting to crack.

It was in the way her fingers gripped the water bottle so tightly, like it had personally wronged her. The way her shoulders were tense, her posture stiff, like she was holding something back. The irritation was obvious, but so was something else.

Desire.

Good.

For weeks now, she’d been making him play her game—pushing him away, acting like she was unaffected. But Joe? He was done with that. He’d played nice long enough, walked on the fine line she’d set, and let her pretend she was the one in control. But that was about to change.

He wanted her, and he wasn’t going to keep pretending like he didn’t. The thing was, he wasn’t the only one who wanted this—he could see it in her eyes, in the way she reacted to him. Now all he had to do was push a little more. Get her to admit it.

The moment practice ended, after he threw his last perfect spiral of the day, Joe made a decision. A very intentional one. Instead of heading to the locker room with the rest of the guys, laughing and joking with them about the day’s drills, he cut a path straight for the water station—right toward her.

As he jogged closer, he saw her posture stiffen. He could practically feel the tension radiating off her from ten feet away. But she didn’t leave. She didn’t even step back.

Progress.

Joe slowed his pace, coming to a stop in front of her. She didn’t look up right away, but when she did, her eyes were sharp—guarded, like she was bracing for whatever he was about to say.

"Water?" Joe asked smoothly, his voice casual, like he hadn’t just been watching her from across the field for the last hour. Y/N squinted, clearly skeptical, her brow furrowing as she crossed her arms. "You could’ve grabbed one from the sideline," she shot back, her tone flat, as if she was dismissing him.

Joe didn’t break his gaze. Instead, he gave her a slow, teasing smirk. "But then I wouldn’t get to see you."

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by his comment. It was a small thing—barely noticeable to anyone else—but to Joe? It was a victory.

Gotcha.

Y/N quickly recovered, her face slipping back into its usual cool, unimpressed mask. She reached for a bottle from the cooler and handed it to him with a practiced indifference. "You’re insufferable."

Joe took the bottle, twisting off the cap with a deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. He brought it to his lips, taking a slow sip, all the while watching her carefully, gauging her every reaction. "And you love it," he shot back, his voice low and confident.

Y/N rolled her eyes—classic move. But there was something there. The way her lips twitched, just barely, as if she was fighting a smile. She wasn’t as unaffected as she liked to pretend.

And Joe? He knew he was winning.

The air between them crackled with tension, a charged silence hanging in the space where words should’ve been. Y/N looked away first, pretending to busy herself with the cooler. But Joe saw it. He saw the way her eyes lingered just a second too long before she snapped back to reality.

Now the real game began. Joe didn’t move. Didn’t break the moment. He just waited—patient, still. Letting the silence stretch, giving her the space to crack even more.

Because he knew what was coming. She just had to admit it. Admit that she wanted him just as badly as he wanted her. The ball was in her court now.

♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪

“So, you’re really going to sit here and pretend like Joe Burrow didn’t just flirt with you in front of the entire team? In 4K?”

Imani’s voice pulled you from your thoughts as you tossed another sweaty jersey into the laundry bin. The smell of fresh grass and sweat lingered in the air, mixing with the muted hum of the locker room. You weren’t in the mood for her teasing today—well, not for this particular brand of teasing anyway.

You sighed, pressing the jersey into the bin with more force than necessary. "Imani, I swear to God—"

But she wasn’t listening, of course. She was already on a roll, practically bouncing on her feet with excitement. "I mean, come on. The man jogged over here," she continued, waving her hand around dramatically, as if her words would hit you harder if she made the gestures big enough. "He risked post-practice soreness just to grab a water bottle from you. If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is."

You pressed your lips together, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. You couldn’t deal with this right now. You forced yourself to focus on folding the towels in front of you, hands moving carefully as if they could distract your mind from everything else. “Can we please talk about something else?”

Imani, of course, wasn’t having it. She gave you an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Why? Because you’re finally realizing you might be just as down bad for him as he is for you?”

Your breath caught in your throat for just a split second, and that was all the answer she needed. You scoffed, tossing a towel at her head in an attempt to shut her up. “Shut up.”

But Imani caught it effortlessly, grinning all the while. “Fine, fine. We’ll change the subject,” she said with a mock surrender, but you could tell she was only getting started. Leaning against the counter with a casual air, she crossed her arms. “What are you doing this weekend?”

You shrugged, not looking up from the towels. “Nothing planned yet. Why?” Imani’s grin grew wider, if possible. “Perfect. We’re going out tomorrow night.”

You paused mid-fold, your mind trying to process the shift in the conversation. “Define ‘we.’”

“Me, a few of the other equipment girls, some of the guys…” She trailed off for dramatic effect, leaning forward with a teasing glint in her eyes. “Joe’s coming too.”

Your stomach did a flip, but you forced yourself not to show it. “And?” Imani gasped, hand flying to her chest. “And? Girl, are you serious? You and Joe in the same club? With alcohol involved? The tension alone might set the place on fire!”

You shook your head, trying to shove a stack of clean towels into the cabinet, pretending her words didn’t affect you. “I’m going for me, not for him.”

“Mmhmm,” Imani said, dragging the sound out as she smirked. “Whatever you say.”

You huffed, ignoring her smirk and focusing on getting the towels neatly stacked. Because, deep down, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe you did need a distraction. Maybe this night out was exactly what you needed. Something to help you forget about Joe Burrow—his smirk, his eyes, the way he always seemed to be just a little too close for comfort.

But you couldn’t deny it. No matter how hard you tried to push him out of your head, no matter how many times you told yourself that this was just another night, just a little fun with friends, Joe was still going to be the only thing on your mind.

---

It was finally Saturday night, and you were standing in front of your vanity mirror, staring at your reflection with a mixture of frustration and anticipation. You had spent all day convincing yourself that this was just a regular night out—nothing more, nothing less. Just drinks, music, and a little fun with Imani and the girls.

Joe Burrow showing up? Completely irrelevant.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you focused on your hair, carefully parting your curls and styling them half-up, half-down. Every movement was deliberate, calming in its familiarity. You were so concentrated on getting the shape just right that you barely heard your phone buzzing beside you.

Without thinking, you reached for it and swiped to answer the FaceTime call. “Yeah?” You muttered, still adjusting your curls, trying to focus.

The deep, familiar voice that greeted you made your hands pause mid-motion. “Damn mamas.”

Your stomach dropped at the sound of his voice, and your heart skipped a beat. You finally looked at the screen, and there he was.

Joe.

He was lounging back on what looked like his couch, dressed in a gray hoodie slightly unzipped, looking relaxed but impossibly confident. The smirk on his face was casual, but there was something about it that made your chest tighten.

Shit. You didn’t know what to say. Joe raised an eyebrow as he leaned in closer, his gaze never leaving the screen. “You gonna keep ignoring me, or—”

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What do you want, Burrow?”

He hummed, amusement clear in his tone as he tilted his head slightly, his eyes dancing with something you couldn’t quite place. “I didn’t even say anything yet, and you’re already mad at me?”

“I’m not mad,” you muttered, still trying to regain some sense of control. Your fingers fumbled with your hair tie as you glanced at the screen briefly before setting your phone down against the vanity so you could finish getting ready.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Joe replied smoothly, clearly enjoying the way you were trying to focus. “Going somewhere?”

You didn’t answer right away, instead focusing on brushing your edges into place.

Joe chuckled. “So that’s a yes.”

You sighed, finally glancing at him through the mirror. “Why did you call me, Joe?”

He shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A guy can’t just talk to a beautiful woman now?”

You froze for half a second—just long enough for Joe to catch it, the smirk deepening on his face. He was watching you too closely, and the realization made your stomach do another somersault. You narrowed your eyes at him through the mirror. “Not when it’s you, Joey.”

The second the name left your mouth, you regretted it.

Joe’s brows lifted slightly, and that cocky, shit-eating grin spread across his face. “Joey, huh?”

You tensed, your entire body going rigid. “Shut up.”

“Oh no,” he drawled, his eyes practically glowing with amusement and something more. “You can’t take it back now. Say it again.”

“Not a chance.”

Joe laughed, a low, full sound that made your skin tingle. He leaned in closer to the camera, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “You know, you keep trying to fight this, but it’s getting real obvious that you’re losing.”

You swallowed hard, focusing back on your hair, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Burrow.”

“I sleep just fine,” he shot back smoothly. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

Your grip on your comb tightened, your heart racing in your chest.

Because deep down, you knew that after this conversation…

You weren’t going to be getting much sleep tonight. You needed to change the subject fast.

Because the way Joe was looking at you through the screen, all relaxed and smug, like he could see how flustered he was making you?

Yeah, that was dangerous.

So you grabbed onto the first distraction you could think of. "Shouldn’t you be getting ready?"

Joe just blinked, completely unbothered. "For what?"

You scoffed, adjusting the band of your half-up ponytail. "Don’t play dumb, Burrow."

Joe smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Where are we going, babe?" He sat up a little, grin widening.

Your hands froze.

Babe?

You inhaled sharply through your nose, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "You already know where we’re going."

"Yeah," Joe said casually, stretching his arms behind his head. "But I like hearing you say it." You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly left your skull. "You are so annoying."

Joe just grinned, clearly enjoying himself way too much. "And yet, you’re still on the phone with me." Your jaw clenched. "Not for long." With that, you made a big show of reaching for the phone and pretending to hang up, flipping the screen over dramatically.

But you didn’t actually end the call. Because, despite all your protests, you weren’t quite ready to stop talking to him yet.

And Joe?

He knew it.

"You’re not slick, Y/N," his voice came through the speaker, dripping with amusement. "I can still hear you breathing."

You huffed, flipping the phone back over to find Joe shaking his head at you, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Go get ready, Burrow," you muttered, finally giving in. Joe smirked, eyes flickering over you one last time before he leaned back into his couch. "Yes, ma’am."

And with that, he actually hung up—before you could even think of a response. Leaving you sitting there, heat creeping up your neck, heart racing…

And entirely too aware that you were in so much trouble.

♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪

Joe had never been the type to overthink things. Football was simple—instinct. Life? Take it as it comes. He prided himself on his ability to roll with the punches, to remain unfazed, even when things got chaotic.

But Y/N?

She was different.

Ever since that FaceTime call, Joe's mind had been stuck on her. He couldn't shake the way her breath had hitched when he called her babe—just the slightest, barely perceptible flinch, but it had hit him harder than he expected. She’d tried to act like she was unaffected when she flipped the phone over to hang up on him, but he knew better. She’d left him on the line, hadn’t she?

And then, there was that slip of the tongue. The way she’d called him “Joey.” Not a name she had ever used before.

She was slipping, and Joe could feel it. He could see the cracks in her armor, feel her resistance starting to waver, and he was so damn close to breaking through. "Damn, you’re really deep in thought over there, huh?" Ja'Marr's voice broke through his mental haze, pulling him back to the present.

Joe blinked, momentarily disoriented, before Ja'Marr elbowed him in the ribs with a grin. "I’m fine," Joe muttered, his hand gripping his drink a little too tightly as he took a sip. Ja'Marr didn’t buy it. "Yeah? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to start journaling about your feelings."

Joe sighed, setting his drink down with a soft clink. “You got something to say, or what?”

Ja'Marr’s smirk grew as he glanced toward the entrance of the club. "Oh, nothing. Just that your girlfriend is here."

Joe froze. His heart gave an unexpected lurch in his chest, and his pulse quickened. "She’s—what?" he muttered, his gaze snapping to the front of the club where a small group was making their way inside.

And there she was.

Y/N.

Joe couldn’t find words. He just stood there, rooted to the spot, watching her walk into the club like she owned the place.

It was unfair, really—how good she looked. She was dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged her in all the right places, her natural curls bouncing around her face, framing her features perfectly. He’d watched her spend time on her hair earlier, the careful way she styled it over FaceTime, and now, seeing it in person, he couldn’t help but appreciate the way it fell so effortlessly, so naturally, around her shoulders.

The dim club lights seemed to highlight everything about her—her glowing skin, the smooth way she moved, every step exuding a kind of quiet confidence. And even though she hadn’t seen him yet, the moment his eyes locked on her, he felt it. The punch to his gut, the warmth spreading across his chest.

His heart stammered against his ribs like it had a mind of its own. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

"Bro," Ja'Marr laughed, nudging him again with an amused look on his face. "Breathe."

Joe exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to tear his eyes away from her, only to find himself scanning every little detail about her: the way her eyes caught the light as she smiled, the gentle sway of her hips, the soft laugh she shared with Imani as she passed by.

But even as he tried to shake himself out of the trance, it was clear: He was so damn gone.

She hadn’t even looked at him yet, and he already felt like she had him in a vice grip. He was helpless, utterly captivated by the way she moved, by the way she owned the space she occupied. Every part of him was drawn to her. She was everything he wanted—and it had never felt so painfully obvious.

The realization hit him with full force.

Yeah, he was down bad.

So down bad, in fact, that it scared him a little.

♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪

You had spent the last thirty minutes in an internal tug-of-war, trying desperately to talk yourself down from the panic bubbling just beneath the surface. It was just a night out with Imani and the girls, right? Nothing too serious. You had told yourself that at least a dozen times, but every step closer to the club made your nerves twist tighter in your chest.

The pulsating bass of the music hit you the second you stepped through the door, vibrating through your body as it mixed with the low murmur of voices and clinking glasses. But despite the chaotic energy of the club, something felt different tonight. You couldn't quite pinpoint it—maybe it was the way your heart was hammering a little faster than usual, or maybe it was because Joe Burrow, Cincinnati’s golden boy, was only a few steps away, settled in the VIP section, watching the crowd with his trademark smirk.

You tried not to think about him, of course. You were here to enjoy yourself, not get caught up in thoughts of a quarterback who had made your life a lot more complicated than you’d planned. But as you pushed your way into the club, the weight of his proximity pressed against you like a palpable force.

Imani was already ahead of you, weaving her way through the crowd with that confident sway of hers, pulling you toward the bar. "Don’t look now," she whispered mischievously, leaning in close. "But Joe is already looking at you, babe. You better get your game face on."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you gave her a playful shove. "You’re so annoying," you muttered, trying not to let her words get to you.

But Imani wasn’t backing down. She just grinned, all too smug. "No, seriously. He’s definitely staring. You’ve got him all the way messed up."

"Shut up," you said, not even bothering to glance in the direction she was pointing. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction tonight. You weren’t.

But then, of course, Imani’s voice dropped into that teasing tone you knew all too well. "Wait, wait, wait," she said, practically purring with mischief. "When Joe sees you walk in, he might go into cardiac arrest, Y/N. Like, I’m honestly worried for him."

A flush crept up your neck at her words, but you didn’t let it show. "You need to chill," you muttered, hoping your voice was steady enough to mask the heat gathering in your cheeks. You were trying to convince yourself you weren’t affected, but the words came out too quickly, too defensively.

Before Imani could respond, another girl from your group—Keisha, who worked with you in the equipment room—chimed in from behind. "No, seriously," she said, her tone appreciative and almost in awe. "Y/N? You look drop-dead sexy. Like, even Joe might need a minute to process that one, might send that old man into the nursing home early."

The second she spoke, it was like someone turned up the temperature in the room. You felt your face flame, your chest tighten as you struggled to control your breathing. You couldn’t deny the effect Joe had on you, no matter how hard you tried to bury it. But you weren’t about to let your friends see how badly you were struggling. You weren’t about to let them know just how much you hated how much he affected you.

You shook your head quickly, trying to shake off the rising heat. "You guys are crazy," you said, forcing a casual tone as you moved toward the bar. "Let’s just get drinks."

Imani shot you a sly look, her eyes glinting with amusement, as she followed you with Keisha in tow. "Alright, alright. But we both know what’s about to happen when Joe sees you."

You grabbed the first drink the bartender handed you, taking a long sip and focusing on the cool burn of the alcohol. Anything to distract yourself from the pounding of your heart, from the way the bass thrummed in your chest, threatening to give away just how much your nerves were racing.

Imani leaned in closer to you, her teasing tone still evident in her voice. "You know you’re gonna have to face him at some point tonight, right?"

"I’ll be fine," you muttered, still determined not to look his way. You didn’t even want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had you rattled. "But you? You’re the one who’s got a little too much faith in what you think is going on here."

Imani’s smirk deepened as she took a sip of her own drink, then casually glanced over at the VIP section. "If only you knew, Y/N. If only you knew..."

Your stomach flipped at her words, a knot of uncertainty tightening in your gut. And suddenly, the weight of the night settled over you in a way that it hadn’t before. It wasn’t just a night out with the girls anymore. It wasn’t just about drinks and music. It was about him—Joe. You couldn’t escape it, no matter how much you tried to.

As much as you tried to lose yourself in the noise of the club, a quiet voice deep down told you that tonight, you weren’t going to be able to hide from him. You couldn’t. The tension had been building for weeks, and no matter how many distractions you tried to find, you knew that sooner or later, your paths would collide.

And when they did? You weren’t sure either of you would walk away unscathed.

---

You were doing great. Truly.

The night was still young, and so far, you had managed to avoid Joe's gaze completely. You weren’t even going to let him distract you—not tonight. You were here to have fun, to let loose with Imani and Keisha. The music was pounding, the lights flashing, the crowd buzzing with energy. You felt the rhythm of the night seep into your bones as you took another sip of your drink, laughing at something Imani had said. This was about enjoying the moment, nothing more. And you weren’t going to let him—especially him—ruin it.

"So, Y/N," Keisha said, her voice teasing, but with a knowing lilt that had you immediately bracing yourself. "How long are you gonna pretend you don’t feel him staring?"

Your grip on your glass tightened. "Can we talk about literally anything else?" you sighed, a little more exasperated than you meant. Imani, of course, wasn't about to let that slide. She grinned and nudged your side, her smirk impossible to ignore. "We could, but this is way more fun."

You rolled your eyes, trying to look casual as you turned back toward the bar to order another drink. But before you could even get the bartender’s attention, Imani gasped and grabbed your arm, her fingers digging into your sleeve.

"Ohhh, Y/N…" she purred, her voice dripping with mischief.

Your stomach plummeted. "What?" Imani tilted her head toward the VIP section, her eyes wide with that exaggerated, teasing look she loved so much. Despite every instinct screaming at you not to look, your eyes followed the direction she’d pointed, and in that moment, you realized just how much trouble you were in.

Big mistake.

There he was.

Joe.

Leaning back against the plush velvet of the couch, his posture effortlessly confident. One arm casually draped over the backrest, the other holding a drink. His gaze was fixed on you, completely unapologetic, like he was the only person in the room who mattered. And God, it felt like he was the only person in the room. His eyes locked on yours, and you felt an involuntary shiver run down your spine.

His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, from your heels, to the curve of your legs, pausing just above your waist, before finally meeting your eyes again. His stare was intense, like he was studying you, cataloging every detail. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat creep up your neck and spread across your chest.

And then—because of course he did—he took a slow sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. It was infuriating. It was maddening. And yet, you couldn’t look away.

Asshole.

You quickly turned back to the bar, your pulse racing despite yourself. The warmth of his gaze still burned on your skin, and you could feel the heat creeping up your spine, despite the cold glass of your drink in your hand. Keisha whistled low, a sharp sound that caught your attention as she shook her head in mock sympathy. "Oh, girl. You are done for."

"I hate all of you," you muttered, taking a sip from your drink, but it felt hollow. The bitterness of the alcohol didn’t seem to mask the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Imani, ever the troublemaker, giggled. "Oh, babe. Hate us all you want, but the real question is—"

She paused, savoring the moment as she took a slow sip from her drink, her eyes glinting with mischief as she nudged you again. "How long are you gonna pretend you don’t want him to come over here?"

Your fingers tightened around your glass. The question struck too close to home, and for a brief second, you couldn’t even bring yourself to look at Imani. She was right, of course. You weren’t going to say it out loud—hell, you weren’t even going to acknowledge the fact that, deep down, you already knew what was about to happen.

You weren’t ready to admit it, but the truth hung in the air between you and Imani, thick and undeniable.

You already knew Joe was going to find you. He always did. It was just a matter of when.

---

You should have known. You should have expected it.

Because the moment Ja’Marr Chase appeared, swaggering toward you and the girls with that all-too-familiar glint in his eye, you could feel it in your gut—the inevitable was coming. It was a matter of time.

"Alright, ladies," he said, clapping his hands together with a grin that promised trouble. "VIP’s waiting on you."

Keisha’s face lit up like Christmas morning, her smile wide and eager. Imani, on the other hand, grinned like she already knew this moment was coming. And you? You worked hard to keep your expression neutral, even as your stomach did somersaults. The last thing you needed right now was to let the anxiety get the better of you.

Imani hooked her arm around Ja’Marr’s, practically bouncing as she fell into step beside him. "Oh, we’re getting escorted now?" she teased, her voice dripping with playfulness. "Look at us."

Ja’Marr chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at you with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Anything for the queens, right?"

You rolled your eyes, taking a slow sip from your drink to distract yourself from the sudden flutter of nerves creeping up your spine. The music thudded in the background, but you could feel it in your chest now—the beat of the night syncing with your pulse.

And then, as if the universe hadn’t already handed you enough, Ja’Marr’s voice cut through the noise, his words aimed directly at you. "So, Y/N… when are you gonna put my best friend out of his misery?"

Your heart stammered, and for a split second, everything around you seemed to slow down. But instead of reacting, you blinked, playing it cool. Feigning innocence was second nature by now. "Who?"

Ja’Marr burst into laughter, shaking his head as he kept walking. "Oh, we’re doing that tonight, huh?"

You kept your gaze straight ahead, determined not to let him get under your skin. "I have no idea what you’re talking about," you said, smoothly deflecting the question as you tried to keep your pace even. Ja’Marr only grinned wider. "Right. Okay. Well, just so you know… dude hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in."

Your breath hitched—just for a second—but you covered it quickly with a casual sip of your drink, shrugging nonchalantly. "He should learn to blink, then."

Ja’Marr howled with laughter, shaking his head, clearly pleased with himself as he led the group into the VIP section. The banter didn’t stop, and neither did the uneasy thrill running through you.

As the group entered, the atmosphere shifted. The lights were dimmer here, the music a background hum instead of a thumping force, and you felt the familiar rush of being in this space, with people you knew and liked. Hugs, handshakes, and casual greetings followed as everyone exchanged pleasantries. You caught up with a few of the guys you worked with, letting their familiarity ease some of the tension in your shoulders.

But then—he was the only one left to greet.

Joe.

Your heart skipped a beat the moment your eyes found him. And, God, did it ever feel like you had been struck by lightning.

Because, damn.

He looked too good.

His black fitted tee clung to his broad shoulders, and the chain resting against his collarbone added a touch of laid-back swagger that made your stomach flutter. His fresh cut only emphasized his jawline, the stubble along his chin sharp and deliberate. He leaned back against the couch, legs spread comfortably apart, as he watched you approach. He hadn’t even bothered to take another sip of his drink since you walked in. No, he was just waiting. Waiting for you.

For a brief moment, you hesitated. It was only a second, but it felt like an eternity. His eyes never left you, their intensity locking you in place. And when you hesitated, when your body seemed to freeze in that half-second of indecision, his lips curled into a knowing smirk.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he set his drink down on the table.

You didn’t know what came first—the sharp intake of breath you couldn’t contain or the sudden rush of adrenaline flooding your veins. Either way, your world tilted when he pushed himself up from the couch and took those few steps toward you, closing the space between you with quiet confidence.

The air between you shifted. It thickened.

Your breath caught, and suddenly the noise around you felt distant, muffled by the pounding of your own heartbeat. It was like everything stopped when he stood in front of you, his presence looming large and unmistakable. The scent of him, warm and familiar, wrapped around you like a slow, deliberate fire.

And then—without warning—his arms were around you.

It was a hug. Casual, but still something more. His body was warm, strong, and when he pulled you close, it was just enough to make your skin tingle, but not enough to make it obvious to anyone else.

And when he murmured, his voice low, teasing, against your ear, "Took you long enough," before pulling away, you swore the ground had shifted beneath your feet.

The heat in your chest flared, and for a moment, you could hardly breathe.

You were done for. You needed a second. Maybe two.

Because what Joe just did? That wasn’t a normal hug. No, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t friendly. It was something entirely different. Something that made your heart race and your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t explain. The kind of hug that lingered long after the moment had passed. The kind that left you wondering if you could ever shake the feeling of his warmth against your skin.

Even as he pulled away, the imprint of his body stayed with you, pressed into your senses, reminding you of the closeness, the heat, and that undeniable pull between you two.

And you hated that you couldn’t just forget it.

Because Joe? He knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t in a rush to let go. No, he stayed right there, just a little too close, his gaze never leaving yours. And that smirk? It was the kind that made your stomach tighten, your breath hitching in your chest.

"Lost for words?" he murmured, his voice low enough that it was just for you, but loud enough that it felt like a private dare.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, even though every nerve in your body screamed at you to look away. "In your dreams, Burrow," you said, trying to muster some strength in your tone, but it came out a little too breathless.

Joe’s smirk only widened, and his blue eyes twinkled with a glimmer of mischief—something that made your pulse leap in your throat. "You’re in them more than you think, sweetheart," he said, each word like a quiet challenge.

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you couldn’t decide if you wanted to crawl into a hole and hide or just lean into whatever it was he was offering.

You needed to get out of here. Before you did something stupid. But before you could even formulate a plan to escape, Imani’s voice rang through the air, interrupting the intense bubble that had formed between you and Joe.

"You two done eye-fucking, or should we come back later?"

You snapped your head to the side, your gaze darting over to Imani, who stood there like she was watching the most entertaining reality show unfold. She took a slow sip of her drink, looking far too pleased with herself for someone who was clearly enjoying your discomfort.

Joe, of course, just chuckled, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. "Don’t be jealous, Imani." Imani’s grin was full of mischief, her eyes sparkling as she responded, "Oh, trust me, I’m thriving watching you crash and burn."

You couldn’t help but glare at her, your cheeks flushing with heat. You grabbed your drink from the table, taking a long, much-needed sip to try and calm your racing heart. "You are so lucky I like you," you muttered, but there was no denying the heat in your face.

"Oh, I know," she shot back, completely unfazed by your frustration.

Just then, Ja’Marr slid into the conversation, his presence a welcomed distraction. He casually tossed an arm around Imani’s shoulders and gave you a teasing grin before turning to Joe. "Man, I don’t know how much more of this you can take."

Joe shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes still locked on you, the intensity of his stare never wavering. "I’ve got patience."

Ja’Marr raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Yeah? You sure about that?" Joe didn’t even blink. He didn’t break eye contact with you, didn’t falter for even a second. "For her? Always."

Your heart slammed against your ribs, the sound of it ringing in your ears. You were going to lose this game. Because Joe?

Joe wasn’t just playing anymore. He was all in.

And suddenly, the weight of everything hanging between you two settled over you like a heavy, inescapable truth. This wasn’t a casual flirtation. It wasn’t a fleeting moment of interest. He wasn’t going to back down, not now, not with the way he was looking at you.

And you? You didn’t know if you were ready for whatever came next, but you could already tell—you weren’t going to get a choice.

You needed air. Desperately. Because the way Joe spoke—so casual, so sure—had your heart in a damn chokehold.

"For her? Always."

It was like it was the easiest thing in the world for him. Like he wasn’t sitting there, making it damn near impossible for you to keep pretending that this wasn’t affecting you. That he wasn’t affecting you.

You had been playing a game. A careful one. But Joe? Joe had already won. You just weren’t ready to admit it yet.

The weight of the moment settled into the pit of your stomach, but instead of acknowledging the way your breath had hitched or the way your fingers tightened around your glass, you rolled your eyes and took a slow sip, masking the turbulence inside.

"You really think you’re smooth, huh?" you said, your voice dripping with feigned indifference.

Joe didn’t even flinch. His smirk only grew wider, and he tilted his head slightly, leaning in just enough to make you feel every inch of his presence.

"I don’t think, sweetheart. I know."

Oh, this man.

You couldn’t tell if you wanted to punch him, kiss him, or let him rearrange your guts seven ways to Sunday. And that was the problem. Ja'Marr, of course, couldn’t resist. He leaned forward and slapped Joe on the back with a laugh that boomed through the air. "Ohhh, bro, you are down catastrophic for her."

Imani joined in, unable to hide her amusement as she stirred her drink, her lips curling into a playful grin. "Honestly, it’s a little embarrassing at this point."

But Joe? Joe didn’t care. Not even a little. Instead of reacting, he just leaned back into the couch, taking another sip of his drink. His eyes never wavered from you, as if he was completely unapologetic about everything he was doing. And that?

That was the part that scared you the most. Because if Joe Burrow wanted something, he didn’t stop until he got it. And right now? That something was you.

"Anyway," Keisha’s voice sliced through the tension, smooth and cutting. "We’re here to have a good time, right? So, who’s dancing?"

Imani’s eyes lit up instantly. "Me! Y/N, let’s go!"

It was the perfect out. You almost jumped at it. "Absolutely," you said, your voice a little too eager as you grabbed your drink and set it down. Joe raised a brow, his gaze still firmly locked on you. "Running away from me already?"

You shot him a sly smile, leaning down just enough to tease him. "Who said I was running?"

Before he could fire back, you turned and slipped past the table, heading toward the crowd with Imani, forcing yourself not to look back. Because you knew—If you did? You’d see Joe Burrow, watching you like he was already plotting his next move.

The bass thumped in your chest as you let Imani pull you deeper into the sea of bodies, laughter and music filling the air. The noise, the motion—it was a welcome distraction. You needed this—needed the beat of the music to drown out the way your heart was still pounding in your chest, still reverberating with the echo of Joe’s words.

But no matter how much you danced, no matter how much you threw yourself into the rhythm, you could still feel him.

He was there. Watching. Waiting. Joe Burrow didn’t chase. He lured. And you? You were already halfway caught in his web, weren’t you?

"Okay, but damn," Imani laughed, spinning toward you and gripping your shoulders. She eyed you with a knowing smile. "Are you sure you don’t wanna turn around? 'Cause I’m willing to bet good money that man is staring at you like you’re the only person in this entire club."

You swallowed, trying to shake the way your skin prickled at the thought, but you fought to keep your voice steady. "Let him stare."

Imani whistled low, her grin mischievous. "Oof. You’re playing a dangerous game, babe."

Tell me about it. Because as much as you wanted to act like you were unaffected, you knew better. Joe wasn’t just flirting for fun. He wasn’t the type to play a game he didn’t intend to win.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure you wanted him to lose. It was like a wave crashing over you, the pull between you two growing stronger by the second, impossible to ignore.

Then, almost on cue, your skin prickled. The air around you shifted as a presence approached—a familiar, undeniable presence.

A hand, warm and confident, landed lightly on your waist.

Joe.

You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him. The moment he touched you, everything in the room seemed to fade into the background. The music, the chatter, the rhythm of the crowd—it all vanished, leaving only the sensation of his hand, his heat, and his voice, smooth and teasing, right against your ear.

"Still not running?" His words sent a jolt through you, the heat from his breath washing over your skin. You exhaled sharply, steadying yourself before you tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze. There was no avoiding it now. No pretending.

"Told you," you said, your voice soft, but with a challenge hidden beneath. "I never was."

His smirk deepened, almost smug, as if he had already won.

"Good."

And just like that, the game was far from over. If anything, it had only just begun. And you had no idea how much longer you could keep playing.

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Joe’s eyes never left you as you disappeared into the crowd. He watched you move, graceful and effortless, weaving through bodies like you were already a part of the night. His smirk remained, unwavering—confident.

You thought you were slipping away. Thought you were putting distance between yourself and whatever this was.

But Joe knew better.

You weren’t running. Not from him. You were waiting. Waiting for him to make his next move, because you knew—he knew—that it wasn’t over. You wouldn’t be able to keep pretending, not for much longer. And he’d be there, watching, waiting for the exact moment when you’d be ready to stop pretending too.

He let the music and chatter swirl around him as he kept his gaze fixed on the way you moved through the crowd, even when you made no effort to look back. But he knew you felt him. He could always tell when you were thinking about him, even if you were doing your best to act like you weren’t.

Just as he was about to take another sip of his drink, Ja'Marr’s voice rang out, pulling Joe back to reality.

"Ohhh, bro, you are gone."

Joe’s smirk faltered only for a second, his attention snapping back to his best friend, who was watching him like he’d just caught him red-handed. Which, to be fair, he had.

Joe just shrugged, nonchalant, and took another slow sip of his drink, unfazed by Ja'Marr’s teasing. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ja'Marr howled, leaning forward and shaking his head. “Lying straight to my face is crazy.”

Tee, not one to miss a beat, smirked as he twirled the straw in his drink, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “It’s actually cute—how down bad you are.”

Joe rolled his eyes, but he didn’t bother denying it. What was the point? Anyone with half a brain could see the way his eyes followed you, the way his attention was always on you. Hell, even he could feel the weight of it in his chest, but that wasn’t something he was about to admit aloud.

Joe Burrow didn’t do pretending.

"You know," Ja'Marr continued, his grin practically splitting his face in half, "I distinctly remember you talking all that game about not getting caught up. About how you were focused—"

“I am focused,” Joe cut in smoothly, his voice low and sure. Ja'Marr snorted, obviously entertained. “Yeah? Focused on what, exactly? ‘Cause it sure ain’t the game right now.”

Joe leaned back into the plush couch, a slow smile curling at the corner of his lips. He wasn’t about to stand here and entertain Ja'Marr’s teasing, not when he already knew the score. Not when it was already decided. He wasn’t focused on the game at all right now. Not when you were here. Not when everything about tonight had shifted because of you.

He could feel it in his bones—the pull toward you, the connection that had been there from the moment you walked in. It wasn’t something he could fight, no matter how hard he tried.

Joe didn’t even flinch as Ja'Marr watched him with raised eyebrows, waiting for a response. The truth was, he didn’t have to say a word. He didn’t need to justify anything to anyone. He’d made up his mind.

Because the truth was simple: He was going to get you. No matter how long it took. No matter how much he had to wait. He just had to be patient. And Joe Burrow was always patient when it came to getting what he wanted.

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The music thudded in your chest, its heavy beat reverberating through your body as you moved with Imani and Keisha. The club was alive with energy, the lights flashing in time with the pulse of the music. You let the rhythm take over, letting go of everything else for just a moment, immersing yourself in the heat of the night. The sweat on your skin, the way your hips swayed in time with the bass—it was everything you needed.

Or at least, it should have been.

But despite your best efforts to forget the world outside this moment, your gaze inevitably flickered back to the table. To him.

Joe.

It was like your eyes had a mind of their own. And it wasn’t just you. You weren’t the only one watching.

A girl, tall, blonde, and impossibly stunning, had slid up beside him. Her movements were smooth, practiced—she was all ease and elegance, the kind of woman who could make every gesture look effortless. Her fingers brushed against Joe’s sleeve, soft and deliberate, and you couldn’t miss the way she leaned in close, her lips curling into a smile that practically oozed flirtation.

You froze mid-step.

Joe didn’t pull away. Didn’t seem even slightly bothered. Instead, he sat back in his chair, drink in hand, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he let her talk, let her touch him. He didn’t shut it down. Didn’t push her away. He just… let it happen.

Your stomach twisted, and suddenly, the air felt a little thicker, a little heavier. You tried to focus on the music, on the laughter around you, on the moment you were in with Imani and Keisha. But the scene at the table kept creeping into your mind.

Jealousy. It hit you like a wave, fast and unrelenting, spreading through your chest like fire. Your pulse picked up—this time for an entirely different reason. God, you hated the feeling. It made you feel exposed, raw, like you were suddenly an open book for anyone to read.

This was fine, right? He could do what he wanted. You weren’t together. You weren’t even—

"Y/N."

Imani’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, her fingers snapping in front of your face. “Hello? Earth to my bestie?” You blinked, snapping back to the present, shaking your head quickly as you tried to refocus. "What?"

Imani narrowed her eyes, following your line of sight with a knowing smirk that made your stomach flip. She didn’t need to say a word. She could see exactly what you were looking at. “Ohhh.”

You scowled, instantly regretting not hiding it better. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.” She grinned mischievously, swaying her hips dramatically as she pulled you back into the movement. “But damn, babe, if looks could kill? That poor girl would be six feet under.”

Keisha cackled beside you, clearly entertained. "You might as well go over there and mark your territory."

You rolled your eyes, but it was weak, unconvincing. “I don’t care.”

Lies. Big, fat, obvious lies. Because as much as you tried to focus on the music, on the energy of the night, on the very reason you’d come out here—to forget—your eyes kept drifting back. Back to Joe, to that tall blonde, to the way they seemed so comfortable together.

And the jealousy? It only burned hotter. A slow, smoldering heat that pooled in your stomach and churned in your chest. You hated how it made you feel—small, uncertain. It was like you were watching something you had no right to watch, but couldn’t look away from.

Imani bumped your shoulder, her grin widening. “Still pretending you don’t care?” she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.

You glanced at her, trying to act casual. “I said I don’t.”

But even as you spoke the words, you knew they weren’t true. You were lying to her. To yourself.

And the worst part?

Joe knew exactly how to make you feel like this. You really thought you could let it go.

That you could breathe through it—swallow it down—and pretend it didn’t bother you. That you could walk away from the situation, put it out of your mind, and enjoy the night like it was any other. But, as you made your way back to the VIP section with the girls, and you saw her still there, still leaning in to Joe like she was the only one in the damn club?

Any chance of letting it go? Yeah, that went right out the window.

Your blood simmered, the heat in your veins starting to bubble over. You couldn’t stop staring at her—tall, poised, with her fingers grazing his arm like they’d been there for years. She was close enough now that you could see the way her eyes sparkled up at him, the coy smile on her lips. Your stomach twisted with a mix of frustration and something else—something hot, sharp, and entirely too familiar.

She was practically attached to him, her body angled toward his like they were in the middle of some private conversation that only the two of them shared. And it took every ounce of control not to march straight over there, rip her hand off his arm, and put an end to whatever was happening between them.

But Joe? He wasn’t exactly reciprocating. Not in the obvious, flirtatious way you feared. His posture was loose, relaxed, the same way he was with anyone who spoke to him. But from this angle, it sure as hell looked like he was entertaining it.

And that? That was unacceptable.

You felt the pulse of anger thrum through your body, making your fingers twitch with the urge to act. But before you could let it take over, you felt a soft, teasing nudge at your side.

Imani leaned in close, her voice low and laced with amusement. “Go get your man.” You snapped your gaze toward her, eyes narrowing. “Joe is not my man.” Imani just giggled, unfazed, taking a slow sip of her drink as if she had all the time in the world. “Mmhmm. Sure, babe.”

Keisha, ever the accomplice, hummed in agreement, her smirk widening. “Yeah, tell that to the way you’re about two seconds from ripping that girl’s extensions out.”

You scowled at both of them, but neither one seemed even remotely bothered by your irritation. They were used to this—used to you pretending not to care, pretending to play it cool when the truth was written all over your face.

Because they knew.

They knew damn well that no matter how many times you said it—no matter how much you tried to act unbothered by the scene unfolding right in front of you—your heart was already beating faster, your body already moving before you could even think about stopping it.

And just like that, you found yourself pushing up from the couch. Your hand smoothed down the fabric of your dress, the movement automatic, as if your body had already made the decision before your mind had caught up.

Imani and Keisha didn’t need to say a word. They just watched, knowing what was about to happen. You weren’t going to stand there and let it go. You couldn’t.

And as your eyes drifted toward Joe, you saw his gaze shift upward, locking onto yours with that same lazy, knowing smirk that seemed to never leave his face. The kind of smirk that told you, without a doubt, that he had been waiting for this exact moment.

He’d known you couldn’t walk away. He’d known you’d come for him eventually. The realization hit you hard in the chest. Your heart skipped a beat. You were already halfway there, making your way toward him, and you weren’t sure what you were going to do when you got there.

But Joe?

He was already one step ahead.

Joe’s eyes didn’t leave you. That damn smirk of his only grew wider, like he knew exactly what you were thinking, like he’d been waiting for you to react. To care. To do something.

And maybe you did care. Maybe more than you should have. But you weren’t about to let him see that.

So instead of marching right up to his side like some jealous, territorial girlfriend—which, for the record, you definitely were not—you turned sharply, deliberately facing the rest of the group. You grabbed your drink off the table, your fingers curling around the glass as you took a slow, measured sip, forcing yourself to keep your expression cool. Calm. Unbothered.

Ja’Marr, of course, wasn’t about to let that slide.

“Ayo, what’s up with you?” He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a knowing grin. “You’ve been mean-mugging since you walked back over here. What, you good?”

Before you could even attempt to dodge the question, Imani—your traitorous best friend—leaned in with that sing-song voice you hated when it was used against you. “She’s mad because Joe’s little friend over there won’t take a damn hint.”

You whipped your head toward her. “Imani.”

Ja’Marr’s grin spread wider, like a kid who had just unwrapped the best present on Christmas morning. “Ohhh, so you’re jealous?”

You rolled your eyes, taking another slow sip of your drink, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t about to throw it in someone’s face. “I’m not jealous.”

Imani snorted. “Sure, babe.”

Ja’Marr howled with laughter, slapping his hand against the couch like he had just witnessed the best thing in the world. “Nah, this is great. Go ahead, Y/N—stake your claim.”

You let out a sharp breath, fixing him with a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Joe isn’t mine.”

Ja’Marr just shook his head, still laughing. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

Tee, ever the instigator, leaned in with a wicked smirk. “Meanwhile, lover boy over there is still watching you like he’s waiting for you to do something.”

And despite every ounce of restraint you had, despite how hard you tried to focus on something, anything else—your eyes flickered back to Joe.

And sure enough, there he was, still sitting at the table with the blonde. But his attention? It wasn’t on her. Not at all. His eyes were locked on you, unwavering, watching you, testing you.

Daring you. It was almost too easy for him, wasn’t it? And damn it—You were this close to giving him exactly what he wanted.

You huffed, trying to ignore the smug looks surrounding you. “I’m getting another drink,” you announced, grabbing your empty glass off the table. Ja’Marr smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah? Or are you just running from your feelings?”

“Boy, shut up,” you muttered, giving him a half-hearted glare.

He just laughed, while Imani and Keisha exchanged looks, both of them grinning like they had front-row seats to their favorite soap opera. You didn’t dignify their teasing with another response. Instead, you turned on your heel, walking toward the bar with a clear mission in mind—get a drink, zone out, forget about Joe, and take control of the night.

You were not going to let him get in your head.

Not tonight.

The bar was crowded, the air thick with chatter and the sound of bottles clinking, but you squeezed into an open spot, drumming your fingers on the counter while you waited for the bartender to acknowledge you.

You were just about to check your phone when a voice broke through the noise, smooth and casual. “Didn’t think someone like you would be out here alone.”

You turned, already unimpressed. A guy—tall, decent-looking, with that confident smirk that made it clear he thought the world revolved around him—was leaning against the bar, clearly expecting you to be interested.

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said I was alone?”

His grin widened, like he thought you were flirting with him. “Ah, so the mystery deepens.”

You exhaled, over it already. “Look, I’m just here for a drink.”

He seemed undeterred, his eyes dropping down over you with a look that made you itch to leave. “Fair enough,” he said, still undeterred, before his gaze lingered a little too long. “But maybe after that, I can buy you another?”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly, pretending to consider it. “Mmm… yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

His smirk faltered just slightly, but he recovered quickly. “Damn, not even a shot?”

“Not even a sip.”

Before he could reply, your drink was placed in front of you. You grabbed it, flashing him a tight-lipped smile that you didn’t mean.

“Have a good night,” you said, already turning on your heel.

You could feel his disappointed stare as you walked away, but you refused to give him a second glance. The last thing you needed was another distraction.

Instead of heading back to the VIP section, instead of dealing with the heated tension between you and Joe, you walked straight to the dance floor, determination settling into your bones. If Joe Burrow wanted to play games, then fine. You were done pretending you didn’t care. But you weren’t going to lose. Not to him. Not tonight.

The music thudded in your chest, and as the beat took over, you let yourself lose control, letting the rhythm guide you. Your body moved with the crowd, the heat of the dance floor seeping through your skin, but even as you let the music drown out the rest of the world, you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you.

Joe Burrow wanted a game? You could play. And you wouldn’t be the one who lost.

The music throbbed through your veins, the bass reverberating beneath your feet as you lost yourself in the rhythm. This was what you needed—a distraction. A way to escape the constant buzz of Joe Burrow in your head. To focus on anything other than the way he had your emotions in a vice grip tonight.

For a moment, it worked. The beat seemed to drown everything out. You moved with the crowd, feeling the heat of the dance floor seep through your skin. The air was thick with energy, laughter, and bodies swaying in perfect sync, and for the first time tonight, you felt like you could breathe.

But of course, peace was too much to ask for. Just as the song dropped into its hook, a voice cut through the music like a knife. “Guess I finally caught you.”

You stilled. A sigh escaped you before you even turned around, already knowing who it was. The same guy from the bar. He was smirking like he’d just won a prize, all cocky confidence and misplaced charm.

Great. Just what you needed tonight. You weren’t interested. Not in him. Not in anyone other than Joe Burrow. But as your gaze involuntarily flickered toward the VIP section, your stomach twisted, the tension in your chest tightening once again.

There she was. Little Miss Blondie. Still there. Still smiling up at Joe like she was the only person in the world. Still trailing her fingers along his arm like she had every damn right to.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck that way. Fine. If Joe wanted to sit there and entertain her, you were going to do the same.

You turned back to the guy, plastering a small smirk on your face, determined to act like you didn’t feel the jealousy simmering in your veins. “One song,” you said, making sure your voice didn’t betray you. His face lit up, his eyes practically sparkling like he’d just won the lottery. “I’ll take it.”

He moved closer, his hands finding your waist as you swayed to the music. There was just enough space between you to make it clear that this was nothing more than a fleeting distraction. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care—but either way, you weren’t worried about him. The real problem was across the room. The real problem was Joe.

You could feel his eyes on you, even from across the club. You knew he was watching. You could almost see him there, sitting back, relaxed, with that trademark smirk on his face. He was probably pretending like none of this phased him. Like he wasn’t playing whatever game he thought this was. But you knew better. And god, it pissed you off.

You made it through the song—barely—before you stepped back, your hands slipping away from the guy’s waist. You gave him a polite but firm nod. “Thanks, but I’m heading back to my friends.”

He started to say something, but you were already moving, already weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, determined to shake off the sour tension creeping up your chest.

But as soon as you stepped up into the roped-off VIP section, everything soured in an instant. Her laugh. That high-pitched, airy, fake laugh. It rang out like a bell, cutting through the air and twisting the knife in your chest.

Your jaw clenched. Hard. You just—you couldn’t do it anymore.

The small group around you fell silent, all eyes flicking between you and Joe. They were waiting, expecting. Their silence felt heavy, like they could already see the storm brewing in your eyes.

Ja’Marr was the first to lean back with a smug grin same as Tee, like they already knew exactly what was coming. Keisha raised a brow, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she took a slow sip of her drink. Imani—of course—was full-on grinning, clearly loving every second of this. They knew. They knew this was your breaking point. And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

Without another thought, you moved. Or rather, stalked. Every step was purposeful, every step driven by the red-hot jealousy simmering beneath your skin. You didn’t even care that you could feel the weight of their gazes on you as you moved past the others and toward Joe and Blondie.

And when you finally reached them, when Joe’s eyes met yours, something flickered in them—interest, amusement, that damn challenge that you had seen all night. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. But you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t need to.

You placed your hand on his chest, just enough to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. His eyes darkened ever so slightly, but you didn’t give him the chance to respond.

Leaning in just enough to make a point, you let your voice drip with a possessive smoothness that was impossible to ignore. “Hey, baby,” you said, your tone smooth and laced with everything you were feeling. “Miss me?” The words hung in the air between you, and just like that, the ball was back in Joe Burrow’s court. And now, it was his move.

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Oh, he lived for this. For the way your touch burned through his shirt. For the way your voice dripped with something dangerous—something possessive—something you weren’t quite ready to admit yet. For the way you walked up to him, put your hand on his chest, and staked your claim like it was second nature.

Joe didn’t move. Didn’t have to. Because his focus? His attention? It was already on you. And the blonde?

Yeah—he had already forgotten she was even there. "Miss me?" you had said, like you weren’t the one who had spent the last hour pretending you didn’t care.

Joe smirked, tilting his head slightly as he glanced down at you. "Didn’t know you left." The challenge was clear in his voice, the teasing flicker in his gaze enough to make your fingers tighten just slightly against his chest. Oh, he had you now.

The blonde let out an awkward laugh, clearly picking up on the shift in the air. "Uh, I should probably—"

"Yeah, you should," Imani cut in from the side, taking a slow sip of her drink, barely containing her amusement. Joe swore he saw Ja’Marr biting back a grin.

The blonde hesitated for half a second before she got the hint, mumbling some excuse before slipping away. Not that Joe cared. Because all his focus was on you. You, standing in front of him, still trying to act like you were in control of this situation, still trying to play a game you were losing.

Joe leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. "Jealous, sweetheart?" Your jaw tightened, but your expression didn’t crack. "I don’t get jealous." Joe chuckled, low and knowing. "Then what do you call this?"

You didn’t answer right away. You just held his gaze, like you were weighing your next move—like you knew that whatever you did next, however you played this, there was no coming back from it.

Then—You dragged your fingers slowly down his chest before stepping even closer, pressing up into him until there was barely any space between you. "I call it," you murmured, tilting your head just enough for your lips to brush the edge of his jaw, "making sure you remember who you actually want."

Joe’s grip on his drink tightened. Damn. You weren’t playing fair anymore. Ja’Marr let out a loud, exaggerated "ohhh shiiit," while Imani straight-up screamed in excitement.

Joe, though? Joe just grinned, eyes darkening as he finally—finally—rested a hand on your hip. "You really think I forgot?" he murmured, voice low, teasing, dangerous. Your breath hitched. And just like that—Joe Burrow had you in a chokehold.

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Oh, this man. This smug, insufferable, cocky man. Joe Burrow had the audacity to look at you like that—like he had you right where he wanted you. Like you weren’t the one who had walked over and reclaimed the moment, the one who had come up to him and put the ball back in his court. Like you hadn’t just staked your claim in front of everyone.

And maybe… maybe he wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t about to let him win that easily. Instead of letting your breath hitch—like it wanted to, like your body wanted to betray you— you smirked, tilting your chin up just slightly. You’d be damned if you let him see how much his touch had already affected you.

“I don’t know, Burrow,” you hummed, dragging a single finger slowly down the front of his shirt. The contact was light, almost playful, but the tension between you both was anything but. “Seemed like you were entertaining her just fine.”

Joe chuckled—a full-bodied, deep laugh, one that made your insides twist with frustration. He was enjoying this. Every single second of it. Like you were a puzzle he was slowly figuring out. Like you were his to control.

“She was talking,” he said, shrugging casually, like this was just a normal conversation. “I was listening.”

“Listening,” you repeated, dryly, a brow raised, challenging him to explain this one away. Joe’s grip on your hip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to make your pulse stutter. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he drawled, the word rolling off his tongue like a slow burn, “that’s what normal people do in conversations.”

Damn him. You hated how he could make you feel so undone with just a few words. You hated that the way he said sweetheart made your stomach flip in ways you couldn’t control.

And most of all? You hated that he wasn’t even slightly fazed by any of it. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He knew. He’d won the second you walked over here, and the realization was like a bucket of cold water. He was playing you, and damn it, you were letting him.

Ja’Marr, still sitting back like this was all one big personal show for him, laughed out loud. “Nah, Y/N, you can’t be mad at him for having manners.”

Imani, always the instigator, giggled. “She’s not mad, she’s pressed.”

Keisha, ever the voice of reason—or maybe just the voice of trouble—whistled. “She’s about three seconds from just kissing him and getting it over with.”

You shot them all a glare, feeling the heat creep up your neck, a flush creeping across your skin. And then, just as you were about to snap, Joe’s voice, smooth and taunting, broke through the tension. “That true, sweetheart?”

You hated him. You hated the smug grin on his face, the way he was enjoying watching you squirm. And yet—You hated how badly you wanted to wipe that grin off his face. You hated that the fastest way to do that… was exactly what Keisha had said.

Before you could think twice, before you could talk yourself out of it, you moved. One hand slid up to rest firmly on his chest, the other curving around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The space between you closed, and you leaned in, lips just barely brushing against his. Not a kiss. Not yet.

But it was a promise. A threat. “You tell me, Burrow,” you murmured, your voice just loud enough for only him to hear. “Do I seem pressed to you?” Joe exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing at your hip, a subtle sign that he was trying—and failing—not to lose control. And for the first time tonight—You had him exactly where you wanted him.

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Oh, you were good. Damn good. Joe had been in control of this little game all night, carefully pulling the strings, watching your every reaction, waiting for you to crack. He’d played you like a pro, enjoying every second of the back and forth, the silent tension between you. But now?

Now, it was different. Because the second your lips brushed against his, the second your fingers curled around the back of his neck, the second your voice—low, teasing, dangerously sweet—ghosted against his mouth, Joe felt it.

That shift. It wasn’t just the game anymore. It wasn’t even about the playful power struggle or who had control. It was about you. And the way you had him in a chokehold without even trying.

Ja’Marr let out a loud, exaggerated whistle from the couch. “Whew, Burrow, you gonna let her do you like that?” Keisha snorted, clearly enjoying every second. “He loves it.” Imani clapped her hands, giggling. “Ohhh, she’s got him.”

Joe barely heard them. Because all of his focus was on you. On the way your body pressed against his, on the way your lips hovered just barely out of reach. Every inch of his body was on high alert, every part of him screaming to close that space, to finally kiss you like he’d been wanting to all night.

But Joe didn’t. Not yet. He still had some semblance of control, and damn it, he was holding on to it. His grip on your waist tightened. He tilted his head slightly, considering. He was debating—calculating—just how far he wanted to push this. Testing his own patience, testing the tension that had been building all night.

Then, his lips barely ghosted against yours. His breath was warm against your skin as he murmured, his voice low, teasing, but dangerous all the same, “You tell me, sweetheart—are you ready to admit that you want me?”

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t back down. But Joe could feel it—the way your breath hitched, the slight flicker of uncertainty in your expression. The realization, that split-second moment where you realized you had just as much to lose in this game as he did. And that? That was what made Joe smirk. Because right now? Right now, he had you.

Maybe you had him, too. Maybe this entire night had been one long power struggle between two people who were far too stubborn to admit what everyone else already knew.

But right now, as the world seemed to disappear around them, as the music faded into the background, one thing was clear: Joe wasn’t going anywhere. And neither were you.

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Oh, Joe thought he had you? The little smirk on his face, the way his fingers dug into your waist like he was daring you to break, the confidence that practically radiated off him—yeah, no. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had won, not when you were so far from being done.

So instead of answering his question, instead of letting him claim the upper hand, you curled your lips into a slow, teasing smirk—just as dangerous, just as confident as his.

Then—You leaned in, just enough for your noses to brush, your breath warm and purposeful against his lips. You could feel the subtle shift in his body as he tensed, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you murmured, letting the words hang between you like a challenge. Joe’s grip tightened. His body went still for a second, like you’d just thrown him off balance—just for a heartbeat, but it was enough.

From the background, Ja’Marr’s voice rang out, filled with disbelief and amusement. “OH SHIT. She’s playing with you, bro!”

Keisha was howling with laughter, barely able to contain herself, while Imani was clutching her chest like she’d just witnessed the most glorious thing in the world. But Joe? Joe was silent. For the first time tonight, he didn’t know what to say. He was caught, and he knew it. And you? You loved it.

So, you took the next step—trailing your fingers slowly down his arm, letting each touch linger a little longer than it needed to, before slipping your hand into his.

"Come on, Burrow," you said, voice smooth as velvet, completely unbothered, as if you were having the time of your life and he was just another part of the show. "Let’s dance."

Without even giving him a chance to respond, without waiting to see if he would follow, you turned and pulled him toward the dance floor, your fingers locked tightly with his. You didn’t look back.

And the moment you stepped onto the floor, the entire VIP section erupted. Ja’Marr damn near fell off the couch laughing, his voice booming across the room. “Ohhh, he’s so down bad.” Imani squealed in excitement, barely able to keep herself together. “MY GIRL!” Keisha, ever the one to just shake her head and grin, murmured to herself, “That man never stood a chance.”

But Joe? Joe didn’t say a word. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t hesitate. Because his hand? It was already locked with yours, his body already moving in rhythm with yours. It was like the decision had been made before he even realized it. He was following you. And there was no going back now.

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You were dangerous. Not in the obvious way, no. Not in the way people would normally notice at first glance. But Joe? Joe knew better.

He knew how you got inside his head. How you played this game with an ease that only someone who understood the rules could. How you walked that fine line between teasing and torturing him, dragging him along just far enough to make him want more, but never quite enough to make him stop.

And now? Now you were leading him through the crowd, your fingers tangled with his, your body moving through the space between people like you owned it. Like you knew exactly where you were going, like you knew damn well he would follow.

And follow you, he did. Because, at this point? There wasn’t a single thing that could’ve kept him from doing just that.

The second you reached the dance floor, you let go of his hand, turning to face him, that same damn smirk still playing at the corners of your lips. It was like a challenge, an unspoken dare that left no room for second guessing.

"Don’t tell me you’re all talk, Burrow," you teased, your voice dripping with challenge, like you were testing his limits. Joe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly in amusement. “Sweetheart, you know better than that.”

And then? Then he moved. Closed the distance between you with a predatory ease, his body shifting, his steps quickening until there was no space left to hide. His hand slid effortlessly to your waist, his fingers curling there, familiar and confident. The other splayed across your lower back, his touch firm but not demanding. Not forcing you into this, but giving you the option to pull away if you wanted.

But you didn’t. Instead, you let your arms drape around his neck, your body melting into his as the music swirled around you. The beat thrummed in the air, vibrating between your bodies like a second heartbeat. And that? That was all the confirmation Joe needed.

His fingers flexed against your waist, tightening just slightly as he guided you, moving with you like you two had done this a thousand times before. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d held you like this, the first time he’d gotten lost in the rhythm with you.

Because, in some way, maybe it wasn’t. This? This was just another dance. Another push and pull. Another round in the game you two had been playing since the second you met. But the difference now? Now, Joe was damn sure of one thing. He wasn’t letting you walk away from him this time.

So, as the music wrapped around you both, as your bodies moved in sync and the world seemed to disappear around you, Joe held you close—closer than ever. And in that moment, as the crowd around you seemed to blur into the background, he knew this was no longer just a game. This was something real. And neither of you were walking away from it.

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This was getting dangerous. Not the game, not the teasing, not even the way Joe's hands fit against your waist like they were meant to be there. No, the dangerous part was how much you liked it.

How easy it was to fall into his rhythm. How natural it felt to be this close. How the heat of his body pressed against yours sent a slow, burning ache through you that had nothing to do with the packed dance floor.

Joe wasn't rushing this. He wasn't playing this like a man desperate to win—no, he was patient, guiding you through the music, his hands firm but never forceful, his breath warm against your skin.

And the worst part? You weren't thinking about the blonde. You weren’t thinking about your little stunt, about staking your claim, about making a point. Because right now? Right now, you weren't in control. Joe was. And judging by the way his grip tightened on your hips, the way his eyes darkened just slightly as you moved together, the way his fingers brushed against the bare skin of your back—Yeah. He knew it, too.

"You gonna admit it yet?" he murmured, voice smooth, teasing, full of something that made your stomach flip. You blinked up at him, still trying to play it cool, still trying to act like your heart wasn’t hammering against your ribs. "Admit what?"

Joe smirked. "That you want me." Your breath hitched before you could stop it, and he noticed. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed against your waist, the way his jaw tensed, the way his gaze flickered to your lips for just a second too long.

Oh, he was feeling this just as much as you were. Good. You tilted your head, pressing just a little closer, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "Make me."

Joe exhaled sharply, his grip tightening—And just like that, the game was over. Because whatever happened next? It wasn't about winning anymore.

The energy between you two was dangerous. The kind of energy that crackled in the air, thick with something unspoken, something heavy, something that neither of you was willing to put into words just yet.

Because that would make it real. And if it became real, there was no going back. So instead of letting yourself completely fall into it, instead of giving in the way Joe clearly wanted you to, you kept your walls up just enough. Just enough to keep teasing. Just enough to make him break first.

Because, sure—he had gotten to you earlier. Had made you jealous, made your stomach twist watching that blonde bat her lashes at him like she actually had a chance. And yeah, he had made your brain short-circuit out here on this dance floor more times than you wanted to admit. But if he thought you were going to fold just like that? Not a chance.

So you let your fingers drag slowly down the back of his neck, feeling the way he tensed under your touch. Let your lips part just slightly as your body swayed against his, your movements smooth, deliberate, taunting.

And when his grip on your waist tightened, when his breath hitched just barely, when his fingers flexed against the small of your back like he was trying to keep his composure?

You knew it was working. You tilted your head slightly, lips barely brushing his ear. "What’s wrong, Burrow?" you murmured, voice teasing, pushing, challenging. "Starting to feel it?"

Joe exhaled sharply, his fingers pressing into your waist. "Sweetheart," he said, voice rougher than before, darker, more controlled—barely controlled. "You know I’ve been feeling it."

Your stomach flipped. Because he wasn’t even pretending anymore. But you weren’t done yet. You let your lips ghost just over his jaw—not quite a kiss, but close enough. Close enough to make him want it. Close enough to drive him insane.

"You sure?" you whispered, your smirk returning. "Because you’re still holding back." Joe swore under his breath, his hands gripping your waist tighter, his body pressing just a little closer. And just like that—

You knew. You knew he was right there. Right on the edge. Just like you had been earlier. Now, it was his turn to break.

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Joe was done. Done with the games. Done with the teasing. Done pretending like this was just harmless flirting, like it was nothing more than a simple back-and-forth—like it wasn’t something bigger, something neither of them had the guts to admit out loud.

Because the way you had looked at him just now? The way your fingers traced the back of his neck, the way your lips had hovered just inches from his jaw, the way your body had moved against his—no. He wasn’t imagining it. This was real.

And Joe was done waiting for you to admit it. Done playing the part of the patient man, waiting for the right moment. The right moment was now. It had been now for a while, if he was being honest with himself. The tension between you two had reached its peak, and tonight—this moment—had built up to something that couldn't just be brushed aside.

There was no denying it anymore. So, without a second thought, without giving either of you a chance to overthink it, Joe made his move.

He slid his hands from your waist, holding you for just a second longer than necessary, and turned you fully to face him. There was no question in his mind now. He wasn’t about to let you walk away from this—he wasn’t going to let you slip out of his grasp when you were so damn close.

And then—He kissed you. And damn, if it wasn’t the best decision he’d ever made.

The moment his lips met yours, everything in Joe’s world shifted. The noise of the club faded away, the crowded dance floor became an afterthought, and all he could feel, all he could hear, was the way your breath hitched against him, the way your body melted into his, the way your lips parted with an eagerness that mirrored his own.

The teasing, the games, the back-and-forth had been leading up to this very moment, and now, with your lips pressed against his, it was clear: this was real.

Your hands gripped his shirt, your fingers curling into the fabric as if you were afraid he’d pull away, afraid you’d lose this connection. Your body pressed flush against his, fitting together perfectly, like the world had designed this moment just for you two. Joe could feel every inch of you against him—the heat, the pressure, the undeniable pull between you both. He couldn’t get enough of it.

His hands moved to your back, pulling you even closer, keeping you locked in his arms as the kiss deepened. There was no hesitation anymore. No uncertainty. There was only the feeling of your body against his, the rhythm of the music thumping in time with your hearts. The slow, deliberate way you melted against him only made him want you more. It was the kind of kiss that you didn’t just experience—it consumed you, wrapped you up in its intensity.

From the VIP section? It was total chaos. Tee and Ja'Marr’s loud whoop of joy cut through the noise of the club. "LET’S GOOO!" Ja'Marr shouted, his voice thick with excitement, the sound of it echoing in Joe’s ears even as he continued kissing you. It was like he couldn’t help himself—he had been watching this entire scene unfold, waiting for the inevitable, and now that it was happening, he couldn’t contain his excitement.

Imani, on the other hand, was practically beside herself. She let out a squeal, clapping her hands and grinning like this was the best thing to ever happen in her life. "Oh my god, YES!" she screamed, her voice high-pitched with excitement, her energy infectious.

Keisha, never one to hold back, whistled loudly, shaking her head with a knowing smile. "I knew it," she said with a laugh. "He was never going to stand a chance." But Joe? Joe couldn’t hear any of it. Not really.

Not when you were this close. Not when you were pressed against him like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment. All the noise, all the chaos, all the background chatter faded into nothing as he focused solely on you. On your lips. On the way your hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him even closer, like you couldn’t get enough either. And as that kiss continued, the rest of the world seemed to slip away.

He pulled back for just a second, his lips hovering over yours, his breath coming in shallow, heated gasps. He could feel the way your chest rose and fell against him, your pulse racing as fast as his. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb gently brushing across your bottom lip, feeling the soft heat of your skin beneath his touch.

His voice was low, husky. "I wasn’t imagining this," he murmured, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t asking you for confirmation—he already knew.

But the look in your eyes when you met his gaze? It told him everything he needed to know. You weren’t pretending anymore. Not now. Not after that kiss.

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Your heart was racing. Your brain? Completely scrambled. Because Joe Burrow had just kissed you. Again. And worse? You had kissed him back. Again.

Like it was inevitable. Like all the teasing, all the pushing, all the little games you’d been playing had been leading up to this moment. And now that it had happened, now that your lips had finally found his once more, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t exactly what you had wanted.

But here’s the thing—when you finally pulled away, your breath still uneven, your hands still gripping his shirt like you might fall if you didn’t hold on, the first thing that slipped past your lips was—“Why’d you do that?” Joe didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Instead, his grip on your waist stayed firm, grounding you, while his other hand reached up, his thumb tracing lightly along your jaw. His touch was so gentle, yet it held so much weight as he tilted your face up, making sure you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Because I wasn’t joking, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, and full of something that made your stomach do flips. “I’m serious about this. About you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. The words hit you harder than you’d expected. Because no. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be fun—a game, a little back and forth, a push and pull. You had set the rules, hadn’t you? You were in control of this.

Joe wasn’t supposed to mean it. He wasn’t supposed to turn this from teasing into something real. But looking at him now? The way his eyes searched yours, intense and unrelenting, the way his grip on you never wavered, the way his entire body seemed to be giving you the space to leave if you wanted to—

You knew. He meant it. And the worst part? You felt it too. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you. Your fingers tightened instinctively around his shirt, your lips parting slightly as if you were about to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. Because what could you say?

This man—this calm, collected quarterback, the one who dominated the field and your thoughts, who never seemed to lose his cool, the one everyone respected—was completely, undeniably, wrapped around your finger.

And that? That terrified you. Because you had spent all this time thinking you were the one in control, thinking you could manage this, keep your distance. But now? Now it was clear that the lines between control and vulnerability had blurred, and you were standing in the middle of something that felt way too real for comfort.

The night had flown by in a blur. One moment, you were dancing, teasing, pretending like Joe Burrow wasn’t making your brain short-circuit every few seconds.

And then, the next thing you knew? His lips were on yours. His hands were firm on your waist, holding you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched. And just like that, everything you had been trying to ignore—the chemistry, the pull, the undeniable connection—came crashing down around you.

And now—Now, the music was still faint in the background, barely a hum as your group made their way toward the exit. The night had wound down, and you had been ready to leave with Imani and Keisha. You had already grabbed your purse, the familiar comfort of the bag in your hand, fully prepared to slip into the backseat, trying to act like nothing had happened, like this whole rollercoaster of emotions wasn’t still swirling inside you.

But then— Joe had other plans. “I got her,” he said, his voice casual, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it wasn’t the reason your pulse quickened and your stomach twisted in a knot you couldn’t untangle.

You lifted your eyes to meet his, and of course, of course, he looked completely unbothered, like he wasn’t throwing you completely off your game right now. His confidence radiated from him, and for a moment, you wondered how he managed to keep it together so effortlessly when you were clearly falling apart.

Keisha, with her typical smirk, bit back a laugh. “Ohhh, you got her, huh?”

Imani was bouncing on her heels, practically vibrating with excitement. “I mean, I don’t see a problem with that,” she teased, nudging your shoulder, clearly thrilled at the entire spectacle.

You shot her a look, a mix of annoyance and something you couldn’t quite place. But you quickly turned your gaze back to Joe, your mind trying to keep the walls up, trying to ignore the fact that your heart was pounding.

You forced your voice to stay steady, as if you still had some semblance of control. “You sure? I can just—”

“I’m sure,” Joe interrupted smoothly, cutting you off before you could finish your sentence. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument.

Your throat went dry. Because, dammit. You should say no. You should go with your girls, put a little distance between yourself and the man who had just told you he was serious about you. You should walk away, keep your composure intact. But instead? You nodded. “Okay.”

Ja’Marr, who had been watching the entire exchange unfold with a look of amusement, let out a low whistle. “Oh yeah. She’s cooked,” he said, his voice dripping with knowing humor. Your head snapped toward him, a mix of irritation and disbelief flashing across your face. “Shut up.”

Joe? Joe just smirked. Because he knew. He knew he had won this round. He knew that despite your best efforts to keep your distance, you were letting him in. And as much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, he could feel it. You were letting him.

And the worst part? You were letting yourself want him too.

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Joe knew it. He knew from the moment you let him take you home that things were no longer simple. No longer just a game. He knew it the second you walked beside him, arms crossed, lips pressed together in that way that made you look cool, like you weren’t fazed, like you were totally in control. But Joe saw right through it.

He saw the way your breath hitched when his hand brushed against yours. The way your eyes flickered to his lips for a split second before you snapped your gaze away, like you hadn’t meant to do it but couldn’t help it. The way you shifted with every step, like you were fighting something inside, trying to keep your composure when all your body wanted to do was give in.

And Joe? Joe was feeling himself. Because for once, the girl who had been playing him all night was flustered. The girl who had spent the entire evening making him sweat, making him chase after her, was now the one caught off guard.

"You good?" he asked, smirking like he knew exactly what was going on inside your head. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly in an effort to look unaffected. "Perfect," you shot back, but even the sharpness in your voice didn’t quite mask the way your pulse was still racing.

Joe chuckled, his grin widening as he shoved his hands casually in his pockets. "Could’ve fooled me," he teased, his tone light, but his eyes were sharp—he could feel the tension, could see the way your walls were crumbling bit by bit.

You let out a sharp breath, clearly done with his games, and shook your head in exasperation. Honestly? That’s what made this so fun. The back and forth, the tension building to a point where neither of you could tell who was really in control.

But then—before he could tease you further, before he could throw another sarcastic remark your way—You grabbed his shirt. Without a second thought, you pulled him down, and kissed him.

And Joe? Yeah, he short-circuited. One second, he had the upper hand. The next? You were kissing him like you owned him. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him, knew exactly how to push him to the edge and leave him breathless.

He had been prepared for anything. Except that. And when you pulled away, smirking with satisfaction, eyes gleaming with the kind of victory he knew all too well, Joe knew. He was owned. Completely. Because his hands were already sliding to your waist, his body leaning in as if it was second nature, as if he couldn’t stop himself from wanting more. He wasn’t ready for you to stop. He needed more, but—

"Take me home, Burrow," you said, breaking the moment with one simple sentence. You had the audacity to slip right out of his hold, sliding into the passenger seat as if nothing had just happened, leaving him standing there, dumbfounded.

Dazed. Breathless. Completely done for. Joe ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He needed to collect himself. Because damn. He was so down bad. And the worst part? He wasn’t even mad about it. Not in the slightest.

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The second you slipped into the car, closing the door behind you, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. What the hell had just happened?

Your heart was still pounding in your chest, the warmth of his touch still lingering on your skin where his hands had been. You could still feel the weight of his lips against yours, still hear the way he had instinctively chased you, like he couldn’t help himself, like you had him just as messed up as he had you.

And that? That was dangerous. This was never supposed to happen. You had a plan—flirt, tease, keep it light, keep things fun. This was supposed to be a little game. A little push and pull. Joe wasn’t supposed to make you feel this way.

He wasn’t supposed to be the one you couldn’t get out of your head, the one whose touch made your skin buzz, whose kiss made you lose track of time. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who had you questioning everything. But here you were. In his car. Heart racing. Wondering how the hell you had ended up here.

You glanced out the window, and for a second, you saw Joe still standing outside, running a hand down his face like he was trying to pull himself together. He took a deep breath, the kind of breath someone takes when they’re not quite sure what to do with themselves after everything had just been turned upside down.

And that? That made you smirk. For the first time all night, you weren’t the only one feeling like you were seconds away from unraveling. Joe Burrow was feeling it, too. And damn, if that didn’t feel good.

A second later, the driver’s side door opened, and Joe slid in next to you, the scent of his cologne filling the car. For a moment, the two of you just sat there in silence. The weight of what had just happened hung between you, but neither of you spoke, not just yet.

Then—"That was foul," Joe muttered, shaking his head with a small grin tugging at his lips. You bit back a smile, trying to act unaffected. "What was?" Joe shot you a look. "You know what." You shrugged nonchalantly, feigning innocence. "You started it." Joe scoffed, turning the key in the ignition. The deep rumble of the engine filled the car, and he shifted into drive. "Nah," he said, smirking as he eased the car onto the road, "pretty sure I just finished it."

And damn. That shouldn’t have made your stomach flip the way it did. But it did. And as Joe pulled onto the road, one hand resting casually on the wheel, the other on his thigh, a lazy smirk still playing on his lips, you realized something. This game you’d been playing? Yeah. It wasn’t a game anymore. The rules had changed.

Oh, hell no. Joe thought he had the last word? Thought he had wrapped everything up, thought that smirk of his had somehow ended this little back-and-forth? Not a chance in hell. If anyone was going to finish this, it was going to be you.

The car rolled to a stop in front of your apartment building. The engine hummed quietly as Joe shifted into park, his hands still resting on the steering wheel. He was too calm, too collected, like he had it all figured out. He glanced at you, waiting for you to say something. And that? That gave you the perfect opening.

Turning toward him, you kept your voice smooth, controlled, your gaze unwavering as if your heart wasn’t currently racing in your chest. "You coming up?" The words slipped out before you could even think about it.

Joe blinked, just for a second, his eyes narrowing as he processed what you’d said. The tension in his jaw was immediate, his grip tightening around the steering wheel like he wasn’t sure if you were toying with him again or if this was for real.

Then—just as expected—that damn smirk spread across his face. "Oh, now you wanna spend more time with me?" His voice was laced with amusement, his eyes glinting with that playful arrogance that always seemed to get under your skin. You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your cool. "Forget it, Burrow."

Joe chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Nah, nah, I’m coming," he said smoothly, shooting you a knowing glance. "Just think it’s funny how you pretend to fight this when we both know—"

"Do not finish that sentence," you shot back, your voice laced with warning. Joe’s grin widened, but he held up his hands in mock surrender. "Noted." The second the two of you stepped into the building’s lobby, the air between you shifted again—only this time, it was different.

Gone were the games, the teasing, the back-and-forth. No more playing around. This was something else. Something heavier. Something... real.

Joe stood beside you as you pressed the button for your floor. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds, like he was trying to decipher what was going on in your mind. But truthfully? You weren’t sure what you were thinking.

All you knew was that, despite everything, you were letting him in—just a little bit. The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped out, Joe following close behind you. You fumbled briefly for your keys before unlocking the door and stepping inside. With a quick flick of your wrist, you turned on the light and heard Joe’s footsteps trailing in behind you. You couldn’t deny the flutter in your chest. This wasn’t just casual anymore. This felt... different.

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Joe had barely taken three steps into your apartment before his lips parted with an impressed breath. "Damn, this is cute." You turned to him, arching an eyebrow. "Cute?" Joe grinned, his eyes roaming around the space, taking in the details. The soft lighting, the comfy-looking couch, the faint scent of candles filling the air. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected. "Yeah, real homey. Didn’t think you’d be the type."

You crossed your arms, trying to appear unaffected, but he could see the challenge in your eyes. "And what, exactly, did you expect?"

Joe smirked, shrugging slightly. "Something with more... edge." You scoffed, shaking your head as you rolled your eyes. "Right, because just because I give you attitude means my apartment has to have black walls and neon lights?"

Joe chuckled, stepping further into the room, his hands still stuffed in his pockets. "Didn’t say that." His lips quirked in amusement. "But... you do have a reputation to uphold, sweetheart." You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched. "Right, because now you know me so well."

Joe grinned wider, watching the way you softened under his teasing. There was something about the way you joked back, the way you didn’t shut him out completely, that made his stomach flip. He had expected you to keep those walls up, but instead, you’d dropped them just a little, even if only for tonight.

And yeah—he liked it. You glanced over your shoulder toward the kitchen. "You want a drink?" Joe’s smirk deepened. "Depends. What are we drinking?" You raised an eyebrow as you walked toward the counter. "Whiskey—if you can handle it."

Joe’s laugh was low and easy, his voice smooth. "Oh, now I know you’re just trying to impress me." You grabbed two glasses, turning back toward him with a roll of your eyes. "Please. If anything, you should be impressing me, Burrow."

Joe leaned casually against the counter, watching the way you moved with such ease in your own space. He liked the way the light reflected off your skin, the way you didn’t act like you were trying to impress anyone. You were comfortable. Comfortable enough to joke, to let him see this side of you. And that? That meant more to him than he was willing to admit.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his voice taking on that deeper, more dangerous tone that always seemed to get under your skin. "How do you want me to impress you?"

You shot him a challenging look over your shoulder as you filled the glasses with whiskey, your gaze lingering on him for just a moment longer than necessary. "Surprise me."

Joe couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. Oh, this wasn’t a game anymore. This was real. And judging by the way your eyes glimmered, you were just as aware of that as he was.

Water. It was probably the smartest choice, considering how the night had unfolded, considering how your pulse was still hammering in your chest and your body still tingling from the heat of Joe’s presence. The tension, the words you’d exchanged, the brief touches—it was enough to make you feel like you were floating.

You couldn’t pretend the night hadn’t shifted something inside you. So, when you walked to the kitchen, you opted for the simplest, most neutral drink. Ice-cold water. You poured it into two glasses, the coolness a sharp contrast to the heat still lingering between you.

Turning around, you froze for a second. There he was, already leaning casually against your kitchen island, looking at you like he knew exactly what was going on in your mind. That cocky, knowing look was back—the one that made your heart skip and your mind race. You narrowed your eyes as you handed him his glass. "Why do you look like that?" Joe’s lips quirked upward as he took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving you. "Like what?"

You rolled your eyes, setting your own glass down on the counter and crossing your arms. "Like you think you’ve won something." Joe let out a soft chuckle, setting his glass down with a little too much satisfaction. "I mean... haven’t I?" You scoffed, fighting the urge to laugh. "Absolutely not."

His grin only widened, a lazy smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. "I don’t know, sweetheart. You did invite me up. Now you're giving me water, making sure I stay hydrated. Real thoughtful of you." You huffed, resisting the urge to roll your eyes again. "Oh my God, it’s water, Joe. Don’t flatter yourself." Joe shook his head, clearly amused. "So defensive."

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a smile, knowing that if you said anything, he’d somehow find a way to turn it into another victory for himself. Instead, you took a slow sip of your water, the cool liquid calming your nerves, if only a little.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable in its own way. The conversation naturally shifted to easier things—just the two of you, standing in the soft glow of the kitchen, talking and teasing in that effortless rhythm that had developed over the past few hours. It was the kind of casual banter that felt too easy, too natural, and that made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Because, damn. This was too easy. Joe was leaning against your kitchen island like he belonged there, his body relaxed and at ease in your space. His posture, the way his eyes moved over you—he didn’t seem in a rush to leave. And you? You were too caught up in the moment to push him away.

That look in his eyes—intent, unreadable—had a way of making your heart race, even when your brain told you to slow down. But you didn’t. Not yet. Before you could second-guess yourself, before the logical part of you could talk you out of it, the words slipped out before you could stop them. "Do you want to stay over?"

Joe stilled. For a brief moment, everything seemed to pause. The weight of your words lingered in the air between you, charged with something deeper than simple flirtation. And then, as if everything shifted back into place, his lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. He set his glass down with a gentle clink and tilted his head, his eyes softening just a little. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice low and certain. "I do." And just like that, it was done. Neither of you was walking away from this.

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you kept your face as neutral as possible, unwilling to let him see how much his words affected you. You turned toward the sink, setting both glasses down with a soft clink, giving yourself a moment to collect yourself. You needed to focus. You needed to—

But as you turned back around, Joe’s eyes were still locked on you. Watching. Waiting. His gaze, intense and unwavering, like he was savoring the quiet tension hanging between you. This was no longer playful or teasing. This wasn’t the game you’d been playing all night. This was real. The air felt thicker now, heavier with the weight of everything unspoken. It was almost suffocating in its intensity.

And yet, as if pulled by some invisible force, you moved toward him. The silence lingered just a little too long before you finally broke it, the words coming out without thinking, without hesitation.

You extended your hand toward him. His gaze flickered down to your hand, then back up to meet your eyes. For a split second, you thought he might tease you. That he might throw something playful back at you, make you second-guess yourself like he had a million times before.

But he didn’t. Instead, without a word, he reached out and took your hand. His fingers were warm, solid, the pressure of his grip steady and reassuring. There was no playfulness, no joke. Just the simple truth in the way he held you. You didn’t say anything more, just let him follow you as you led him to your room. The quiet was now filled with anticipation, with everything you hadn’t said hanging in the air, and everything you both knew had already begun.

You opened the door to your room, the space familiar and personal, yet somehow new with him standing there. His presence seemed to fill it, like he was meant to be here all along. And as you looked back at him, your pulse quickened in ways you couldn’t ignore. There was no going back now. This was it. The game was over.

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The moment Y/N opened the door, Joe took his sweet time soaking in the space. The room—hell, the whole apartment—wasn’t what he expected. It was warm, inviting, cozy, the kind of place that felt lived in. And yet, there was something about it that still screamed, her. Every detail, from the throw pillows on the couch to the delicate light fixtures, felt curated with care.

"Wow," he murmured, stepping further into the room, letting his eyes wander over everything. He could feel the soft glow of the lamps against his skin, the faint scent of something floral in the air—maybe lavender? Y/N, already used to his reactions, sighed. "What now, Burrow?"

Joe smirked and straightened his posture, hands on his hips, surveying the space like he was critiquing a piece of art. "Just saying… kinda expected something a little more intimidating. You know, maybe a couple of warning signs? A ‘Beware of Attitude’ poster or something?"

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "You love to hear yourself talk, huh?" Joe chuckled, leaning against the wall, unbothered. "You're just now figuring that out?"

She didn’t dignify him with a response and walked toward her closet, opening the door with a casual flick. Joe remained where he was, letting his eyes wander over the room, appreciating the way the space had been carefully arranged, and yet still seemed... unpolished. It felt authentic. It felt real.

As she rummaged through the closet, he could hear her mumbling under her breath about how she "had to have something around here for this situation." Then, without warning, she tossed something at him. Joe caught it effortlessly, lifting it to examine it—a sweatshirt and some sweatpants. Old, worn, not exactly high-end, but comfortable looking. Definitely not her style. "They’re my brother’s," she explained nonchalantly, not bothering to turn around. "Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in jeans."

Joe grinned, raising an eyebrow. "So you do care about my comfort after all." Y/N shot him a sideways glance as she walked toward the bathroom. "Don’t push it, Burrow." He stood there for a moment, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Yeah, he was down bad—harder than he ever thought he could be. But the worst part? He didn’t care.

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After changing and taking off all the makeup that had been plastered on for hours, you finally felt like you were regaining a little control of the situation. Your thoughts felt a little clearer. But that clarity was fleeting, because when you stepped out of the bathroom, you froze. There, near the foot of your bed, stood Joe. And he was shirtless. Wearing the sweatpants you had tossed to him.

The dim lighting from your lamp hit his abs just right, making them stand out like some kind of perfect advertisement for every goddamn workout routine ever. It wasn’t just that his body was on display, though—it was the way he looked like he belonged here. In your space. Like this was his natural place to be.

And then, of course, he caught you staring. His lips twitched upward, amusement dancing in his eyes as they met yours. "Something wrong, sweetheart?" You blinked, trying to snap yourself out of the stupor you had suddenly found yourself in. Of course, Joe Burrow would have that effect on you. "Put a damn shirt on," you managed to say, your voice far steadier than you felt.

Joe grinned, as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. "You gave me a sweatshirt, not an order." You huffed, tossing an extra toothbrush his way, hoping that the small act would snap you both back to normal. "Brush your teeth and shut up." Joe’s grin only widened as he caught the toothbrush mid-air. "Yes, ma’am," he said, voice low, teasing.

You turned back to the bathroom, biting back the smile that was threatening to creep across your face. You had to keep it together. You had to. But the feeling of Joe’s presence so close, so casual, just... there, was starting to cloud your mind. You could hear him moving around behind you, the sound of him brushing his teeth next to you somehow feeling absurdly domestic. You couldn’t even explain why it made your heart thud in your chest. But then, just when you thought you could breathe again—he did it.

You glanced back over at him, eyes narrowing as you saw him rubbing your face wash into his skin. "Seriously?" You couldn’t hold back the disbelief in your voice. Joe looked over at you, unabashedly grinning. "What? Gotta keep this face camera-ready." You shook your head, exhaling a laugh despite yourself. "I swear, Burrow, you have no shame."

But even as you said it, you couldn't quite stop yourself from shaking your head with a smile. The way he acted, the way he seemed so comfortable here, in your space, was... unsettling. It felt too easy. Too natural. And that? That was dangerous.

You finished up your routine, trying to ignore the fact that Joe Burrow was now part of your evening routine—brushing his teeth in your bathroom, swiping your face wash, just standing in your space like he had every right to be there. And you? You were still trying to figure out how in the hell this had gotten so far so quickly. But now? Now, you weren’t sure you wanted to stop it.

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Joe was done for. He knew it. The moment he stepped into her world, the moment he let himself get lost in the way she moved, the way she made every little thing look effortless, he was done. Completely, utterly smitten. And what was worse? It happened so damn fast. One minute, they were bantering over drinks, and the next—he found himself standing there, toothbrush still clutched in his hand, completely mesmerized by her as she finished up her nightly routine.

Every little thing she did seemed to captivate him. The way she ran a hand through her hair, the way her eyes flicked to the mirror as she wiped away the last traces of makeup—it was all so… normal, but to Joe? It felt like he was watching something sacred, like he shouldn’t be this close. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, even if he tried.

And then, of course, she caught him staring. Because how could she not? She turned to face him, one eyebrow cocked, her lips twitching like she was holding back a smirk. "You good, Burrow?" she asked, voice light, teasing. "Or do you wanna fight since you’ve got such a staring problem?"

Joe didn’t miss a beat. He couldn’t help it. "Only fight I’m in is the one for your heart." He could see the way her face immediately twisted into that unimpressed expression she always wore when he said something too cheesy. And still, his grin spread wider. "That was so corny," she muttered, shaking her head, clearly trying not to smile. Joe shrugged, unapologetic, his smirk never fading. "But it worked."

Her eyes rolled as she tied her curls up into a loose bun, clearly not impressed by his charm. But then, before he could say anything else, she grabbed his hand without so much as another word and led him toward the bedroom.

And yeah. Joe could definitely get used to this. He wasn’t sure if it was the way she effortlessly pulled him into her world, or how natural it felt to just be there with her—but whatever it was, he was all in.

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You couldn’t escape the awareness of him. The way his hand held yours with such casual confidence, like he had every right to be here. The warmth of his grip, solid and comforting. The way his presence filled the room, making it feel less like your space and more like a place you two could both belong to.

It was subtle, but it was there—his easy manner, the way he moved so naturally in your space. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last. You quickly shoved the thought to the back of your mind, focusing on the more pressing issue at hand: keeping your dignity intact.

You dropped his hand, walking over to your drawer and rummaging through it. "Pick something," you said, tossing him the TV remote, trying to ignore the fact that his presence was making your heart beat a little faster. "I’ve got to deal with this hair."

You didn’t feel like having him see you in a bonnet tonight—not yet, at least. Not when things were still so new, still so... raw. The TV clicked on, the soft hum of the machine filling the silence between you. But then, just as you were about to tie up your curls, you heard it.

The unmistakable opening score of Star Wars. You froze, slowly turning around to find Joe leaning back against the headboard, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You’re serious?" you asked, crossing your arms, trying to hide the smirk creeping onto your face despite yourself.

Joe just raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "What? It’s a classic." You narrowed your eyes, trying to act unimpressed, but the truth was... you already knew. "You’re such a nerd."

Joe smirked, eyes flicking down to where you stood near the bed. "And yet," he said, almost too smug for his own good, "you’re still letting me stay." You couldn’t help but chuckle at that, even if it was just to hide the nervous fluttering in your stomach. You grabbed your headscarf and walked toward the bed, deciding it was better to just ignore him.

But, of course, Joe wasn’t done yet. "By the way," he started, glancing around the room like he had just noticed something curious, "why do you have a king-size bed when you’re like not even tall enough to ride any coasters at an amusement park?" Your head snapped around so fast you thought you might give yourself whiplash. The audacity. Joe saw the look on your face and couldn’t help but laugh.

"First of all," you said, climbing onto the bed and sitting beside him, making sure to give him your best deadpan expression, "disrespectful." Joe grinned, unbothered, settling deeper into the pillows. "Just saying, seems unnecessary." You shot him a look, trying not to smile, but it was hard. His charm—his cockiness—was impossible to ignore. "Second, You keep talking, and you’re gonna be sleeping on the floor."

Joe just chuckled, his eyes still full of amusement as he lazily shifted his focus back to the screen. "Nah," he said, smirking at you out of the corner of his eye. "You like me too much for that. Now what's third?"

You nearly grabbed a pillow and threw it at him—almost. But instead, you settled back into the bed, watching the screen, though your thoughts kept drifting to the guy beside you, to the way he made everything feel so... effortless. So easy. It was like he'd slipped into your life without any effort, making everything feel too comfortable, too familiar. And you couldn’t quite decide if that scared you or thrilled you. Maybe both.

Joe Burrow was insufferable. He was smug, cocky—impossibly sure of himself, sitting there in your bed like he belonged there. Like you wanted him there. And what made it worse? He knew he was right. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Rolling your eyes, "What makes you think I had a 'third'?" Joe grinned turning towards you. "Because you always feel the need to be a smartass." You snorted at that, he wasn't wrong but since he wanted to keep this game going, why not make him sweat a little. You let your hand trace down his jawline letting your finger twist in the necklace that lie across his delicious collar bone.

Just for a split second you could feel his breath stutter. Smirking you look into his eyes, tugging the chain to pull him closer. Your lips just barely brushing against his, your eyes flickered down to his lips as his tongue flickered out to wet them in anticipation before snapping back up to meet his blown out eyes. "Hmm the way you’re looking at me right now… Fuck, I know other things I can ride that would be a hell of a lot more fun than some old rollercoaster."

For a split second, time seemed to slow. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, thick and suffocating, as if the world outside had momentarily ceased to exist. You could feel the heat of Joe’s breath—warm and shallow—just a whisper away from your lips. Your fingers, tracing the delicate chain around his neck, pulled him closer, an invisible thread tying you both together in that charged moment. His pulse was just as quick as yours, and you could see it in the way his eyes widened, pupils dilating with surprise and something darker, something that was just barely held in check.

Every teasing word, every playful barb you’d exchanged up until now felt like mere prelude. This was the tipping point. The line between camaraderie and something deeper was thin, so thin you could almost reach through it and touch what had always been simmering beneath the surface. But you weren’t ready to cross it yet. Not yet.

You smirked, savoring the way his breath caught. That soft hitch in his chest told you everything you needed to know—he wasn’t as unaffected as he liked to appear. But you weren’t about to make it too easy for him. No. The thrill was in the chase, the subtle game you played where every move made him want you just a little more, but kept him dangling on the edge of uncertainty.

With a small, deliberate tug on the necklace, you pulled him just a fraction closer, your lips brushing against his, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him but not quite close enough for either of you to claim what you both wanted. His breath was a soft, quick exhale, and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips—a move so simple, yet it sent a shiver straight down your spine. His eyes locked onto yours, wide and glassy, lips parted slightly in anticipation. It was almost maddening how much he wanted this. How much you wanted this.

You could feel the control slipping from both of you, the precarious balance shifting.

But you weren’t going to give in yet.

Pulling back just enough to let the tension snap, you let the chain slip from your fingers. You turned away, your gaze drifting back to the TV screen as if nothing had happened. The absence of his closeness left a strange, aching void, but you fought to keep your composure, pretending that you hadn’t just made everything more difficult than it already was. You tried to focus on the show playing before you, but the only thing that filled your mind now was the lingering sensation of his breath on your skin, the way his body had moved under your touch, and how desperately you wanted to close the distance between you again.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the soft hum of the television. Joe didn’t say a word, and neither did you. The silence hung heavy in the air, more loaded than any conversation could ever be. It was as if you both were holding your breath, waiting for the other to make the next move.

The air between you and Joe crackled with a tension that neither of you were ready to acknowledge, but both of you felt in every nerve. The soft, almost electric buzz of anticipation still clung to the space around you, even as you pretended to focus on the TV screen. His proximity lingered, an unspoken reminder of everything that had almost happened, everything that could still happen.

Before you could fully process it, Joe shifted again, his body moving with that lazy, almost predatory ease. His posture leaned back further, his legs stretched out comfortably as if he owned the space, as if he owned you in that moment. The smirk that crept across his lips was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the effect he was having on you. It was the kind of look that could make your skin burn without him even touching you.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a challenge in his gaze—dark, hungry, like he was daring you to acknowledge it. He opened his mouth, and when he spoke, his voice was low, husky, and teasing, like a whispered secret only meant for your ears.

“You’re already imagining it, aren’t you?” Joe said, his words sliding from his lips with a smoothness that made the air around you feel thick with heat. "How it’d feel if I was deep in you right now, you’d love to know what it’d feel like to be pinned beneath me while I wreck you with my cock until you can’t remember your name. Bet you can’t stop thinking about it." He chuckled, dark and amused.

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat for a split second. It was the way he said it—so sure, so confident, as if he could see right through you, as if he knew exactly what was running through your mind. You felt that familiar warmth spread through your chest, a flush creeping up your neck as the tension between you both thickened like a slow burn.

Joe licked his lips, eyes locked on yours. "Would you like it hard and fast, baby? Or would you want it slow and deep, just to feel me drag myself along your tight little cunt? I’d bet you’d like both. You’d want me to fuck you however I please."

Your pulse picked up its pace, hammering in your ears. You’d been trying to ignore the way his presence had been messing with you, trying to act like you were unaffected, but there was no escaping it now. His words had shattered any pretense you’d built up, leaving you vulnerable to the dangerous pull he was wielding with such casual mastery.

You tried to cover it, tried to play it cool, but the words came out clipped and far too breathless. “You’re insane,” you managed, your voice faltering for just a second. “You think I’d just let you—”

He cut you off before you could finish, his smirk only deepening. “I don’t think,” he said softly, his voice a caress, a whisper just loud enough for you to hear, “I know.”

And then, before you could respond, he shifted closer. His breath brushed against your ear, his proximity invading every space you thought was safe. The air felt thick, charged. You could feel his lips just a hair’s breadth away from your skin, the temptation of him lingering, impossible to ignore.

A shudder ran through you, and you had to fight the instinct to close the distance between you. You bit your lip, but it didn’t stop the rush of heat that flooded your chest, or the way your heart raced.

He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. And you hated him for it.

You could barely focus, and all at once, you wanted him—wanted him in a way that was impossible to deny. The control you’d tried so hard to maintain was slipping from your grasp.

You let out a shaky breath and turned your head slightly to the side, pretending to refocus on the TV, though you couldn’t have cared less about what was on the screen. Your hand gripped the pillow beneath you a little tighter than necessary, and you cursed yourself for how easily he had undone you.

But he wasn’t done. You could feel it.

He leaned in, his voice dropping lower, just enough to make your pulse race. “What’s it going to take, huh? A little push?” He brushed his hand casually across your arm, a graze so light it was almost cruel, but it was enough to send a jolt of desire straight to your core. “Because I’ll give you exactly what you want, sweetheart... But only if you admit it.”

The challenge hung in the air, thick and charged with promises neither of you were brave enough to say out loud. You were both teetering on the edge, one look away from crossing the line neither of you had been willing to cross—until now.

The audacity. You let out a dramatic sigh, shifting the pillows around you with exaggerated care, trying to focus on the TV screen in front of you instead of him. You side-eyed him as he relaxed, casually leaning back against the headboard, his eyes still locked on the screen as if he wasn’t aware of the effect he was having on you.

"You do realize you’re only here because I allowed it, right?" you said, your voice dripping with feigned disinterest. Joe didn’t even look at you, his smirk still present as he responded in that annoyingly smooth voice of his. "Of course. You’re so generous." You couldn’t help it. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms in a move that was both defensive and defiant. "Damn right, I am."

That made Joe finally glance over at you, and you cursed the way his blue eyes sparkled in the low light, the way his lips twitched like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Your stomach did this weird little flip, and you hated that it did.

"Appreciate the hospitality, sweetheart," he murmured, voice just low enough that you could feel it in your chest. You fought the smile that threatened to break through your carefully constructed mask of indifference. No. Not tonight.

"Good. You should," you said, hoping your voice stayed steady. Joe's grin only deepened, and you hated the way it made your heart race. But, of course, he couldn’t leave it there. Without missing a beat, he casually slung his arm over the back of the headboard, his fingers brushing just lightly across your shoulder, barely there.

It was subtle. Too subtle. But you felt it. Your pulse kicked up, heat blooming on your skin, and your whole body felt like it was on high alert. You swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on the movie again, trying to focus on anything but the way your body was reacting to him. It was fine. You could handle this. You’d handled worse, after all. So why did it feel like he was slowly breaking down your walls, one teasing glance at a time?

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Joe was fighting a smirk. He could feel the tension in the air—felt the way her whole body stiffened when his fingers brushed against her shoulder. He saw the way she immediately pretended to be completely unaffected, the way her lips stayed pressed together like she wasn’t about to lose her cool.

And yeah, maybe he was pushing it, but the fact that she was still sitting next to him, still letting him stay in her space, told him everything he needed to know. She hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t kicked him out.

That had to mean something, right? He glanced at her again, watching as she made quick work of adjusting her headscarf, smoothing it into place. There was something so... domestic about

the way she did it. The quiet intimacy in the movement made his chest tighten for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t just the way she looked—though, damn, she looked good, even in the middle of her bedtime routine—but the way she made him feel. Like he belonged here. Like he wanted to be here. Yeah, he’d been smitten before, but now? Now, he was done for.

"Comfortable?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, watching her carefully as he leaned back against the headboard, giving her space but still staying close enough that she couldn’t ignore him. She shot him a quick, pointed look. "Why? You need more space, big guy?" Joe chuckled, shaking his head, the grin never leaving his face. "Nah, just checking. Wouldn’t want you to feel crowded."

You huffed, shifting slightly, pulling the blanket a little more snugly around you as you muttered, "I will kick you off this bed." The words were playful, but Joe could see the way her body was so careful not to lean too far away from him, the way she stayed right there, just close enough. He sank further into the pillows, his eyes never leaving hers as he grinned again, completely unbothered. "Nah," he said, his voice full of quiet confidence, "You like me too much for that."

He could see the way her gaze flicked to his lips for just a split second, before she forced her eyes back to the TV, but it didn’t matter. Joe knew. He knew he was right. There was no way she was kicking him out now. No chance in hell.

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The audacity of this man. Joe Burrow, sitting there with that smug little grin on his face, sprawled out like he owned the place—like he’d paid the rent and was perfectly entitled to lounge around in your bed.

You eyed him for a long moment, your mind spinning. You could throw him out, make him leave. It wouldn’t be the hardest thing in the world, right? Just a little nudge to remind him who was in charge here.

But then Joe shifted, stretching out even further, getting impossibly more comfortable. The warmth of his arm brushed against yours, and for just a second, something inside you shifted. Something unfamiliar but welcome. Suddenly, you weren’t sure you wanted him anywhere else. Not that you’d ever admit that. You blinked, shaking off the feeling, and instead, you pulled the blanket up higher, trying to ignore the way your heart rate picked up at his closeness. "You better not snore, Burrow."

Joe’s lips curved into that infuriating smirk of his as he turned his head to look at you. "Oh, so you’re really letting me stay now?" You couldn’t hide the way your lips twitched at the challenge in his voice. "You’re already in the bed. I’d rather not deal with your whining if I made you leave." Joe chuckled, the sound low and warm, like he was savoring the way you’d just conceded. "Mhm. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

You huffed, your gaze snapping back to the TV as if that would help you ignore the way your skin felt heated. The last thing you needed was for him to notice the way your face was flushing. But damn it, Joe knew exactly what he was doing.

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Joe had to bite back a grin. For all her attitude, all the sass that radiated off her like a shield, she was still letting him stay. Still sitting so close that he could feel the heat from her body. Still letting the warmth between them linger like it had every right to. And that? That was a win.

He leaned back, enjoying the moment, letting the silence settle between them. He could practically feel her trying to keep her cool, but Joe wasn’t the type to let things be too quiet for too long. He was too used to filling empty spaces with his own brand of trouble.

"You do this with every guy, or am I just special?" he asked, keeping his voice light, teasing. He saw the way her head snapped toward him. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, the fire in them sparking with that familiar defiance. The way she looked at him was almost enough to make him laugh out loud.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice incredulous, as if the very suggestion offended her. Joe shrugged casually, one arm draped behind his head as he leaned back further into the bed, pretending to be nonchalant. "Just wondering. If this is, like, a regular thing for you. You know, bringing NFL quarterbacks home, letting them stay in your bed, pretending like you don’t wanna cuddle them." Her mouth fell open, disbelief written all over her face. "Cuddle you?"

Joe smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Just saying, sweetheart. If it happens, I won’t stop you." She let out the most exaggerated scoff he’d ever heard, almost like she was trying to hide the fact that she was smiling beneath it. "Oh my God, you are impossible."

Joe grinned, knowing he’d gotten to her. He shifted ever so slightly, just enough so that his thigh brushed against hers under the blanket. It was the smallest move, but it did exactly what he wanted. She didn’t move away. "And yet," he said, his voice low, "I’m still here."

He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, like she was deciding how much effort it would take to kick him out. He knew she was thinking about it, weighing her options. Her lips pressed together in that familiar way, but it was clear—she wasn’t going to follow through. After a beat, she huffed, her eyes rolling again, but this time it was more playful than annoyed. She turned her attention back to the TV, clearly pretending to ignore him.

Joe fought the urge to laugh out loud. He’d won again. You liked him. And no matter how hard you tried to fight it, no matter how many walls you built between the two of you, Joe knew one thing for sure: You weren’t kicking him out tonight. Not now. Not ever.

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You didn’t even hesitate. Grabbing the nearest pillow, you swung it right at Joe with a little more force than necessary, enjoying the satisfying smack it made when it collided with his chest. "You talk too much, Burrow," you shot at him, your voice dripping with mock annoyance. Joe’s laughter filled the room, low and genuine, and damn it—you liked the sound. Way more than you should.

It was the kind of laugh that didn’t feel forced. The kind that came from somewhere deep inside, warm and rich, and made your chest tighten in a way you were absolutely not prepared for. The kind of laugh that made you want to hear it again, even though you were supposed to be annoyed. Yeah. That was dangerous.

You quickly pushed those thoughts aside, determined to get back on track. You weren’t going to let him win just because of some laugh. You had to get the upper hand back. "You know," you started, adjusting the blanket around you, keeping your voice casual, "for someone who plays football for a living, you sure do spend a lot of time running your mouth."

Joe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he glanced over at you, his eyes gleaming with that familiar cocky spark. "And yet," he said, voice teasing, "you’re still listening." You scoffed, flipping onto your side to face him. Resting your head on your hand, you leaned in just a little, your eyes narrowing in mock judgment. "More like tolerating," you corrected, your tone playful but sharp.

Joe smirked, his gaze flicking down to where your fingers were toying absentmindedly with the edge of the blanket. "Mhm. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart." You narrowed your eyes further, but the glint of amusement in your eyes betrayed your irritation. "Keep pushing, Burrow. You will wake up on the floor," you warned, but there was no real threat in your words.

Joe just grinned, completely unfazed, and casually turned his attention back to the TV like he wasn’t even the least bit intimidated. "Nah," he said easily, his confidence a challenge. "I think I’ll be just fine right here." You rolled your eyes, the corner of your lips twitching with a reluctant smile. But the thing was, you didn’t move away. You didn’t shove him off the bed. You didn’t actually kick him out. Instead, you stayed right there, just a few inches away, your body still very much aware of his presence next to you.

You had no idea how you ended up here. One minute, you were exchanging playful barbs with Joe Burrow, each one trying to outdo the other, threatening to kick him off the bed, and pretending that you were completely unaffected. The next?

You were getting comfortable. Like, really comfortable. The movie played on, its action-filled scenes and dramatic music filling the silence between you two, but it was as if the world outside of Joe and you had faded away. Your focus wasn’t on the plot anymore. No, you were more aware of the subtle weight of his body next to you, the warmth of his arm resting against the pillows, his presence so solid beside you that it felt… natural.

So, screw it. You let yourself relax, and before your mind could overthink it or tell you that this was a terrible idea, you shifted slightly. Your head moved until it rested against his chest. Joe froze for a brief moment, his body tensing under you like he wasn’t quite expecting the contact, like he had to process that you’d actually done it.

But then—He moved. His arm slid around your shoulder, pulling you in just the slightest bit closer. His hand settled on your hip, steady and warm, grounding you against him. And that? That was dangerous. Because it felt good. Too good.

You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, a rhythm that matched the pace of your own. The familiarity of it startled you. In that moment, you felt more at ease than you should have. Like this wasn’t the first time you'd found yourself so close to him, despite the absurdity of it all.

Then, you heard it. His heart. Racing. Faster now. Your lips curled into a small, smug grin as you tilted your head just enough to look up at him, your voice low, teasing. "You’re gonna have a heart attack, Burrow," you whispered, a playful challenge in your tone.

Joe let out a breath, his chest rising and falling beneath you. He shook his head, but there was no hiding the smile in his voice as he squeezed your side just slightly. "Yeah, well," he muttered, his voice still rough with amusement, "whose fault is that?"

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling pleased with yourself for getting that reaction. For once, you had the upper hand. And for a moment, Joe Burrow was speechless. He had nothing to say. Nothing to add. Which, frankly, was a small victory you weren’t about to let slip by unnoticed.

You let out a small, satisfied sigh, letting your head stay exactly where it was, perfectly content in the stillness that had settled between you. Joe's arm was around you, his presence felt in every subtle movement, every beat of his heart. And for once, the game didn’t feel like it was about to end. For once? It was just the two of you.

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Joe wasn’t about to let you have the last word. Not after you’d just completely wrecked him with that "not unless you ask nicely" line. No, he wasn’t going to let it slide that easily. So, doing what he did best—pushing his luck—he let his voice drop into that low, teasing tone of his. "What, no goodnight kiss?" he murmured, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he waited for your reaction.

He could feel it almost immediately—the way your body tensed, the way you smiled against his chest like you’d been waiting for him to say something like that. "Oh?" you hummed, the words laced with amusement, but you didn’t pull away. Not just yet. "You want me to kiss you goodnight, Burrow?"

Joe’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I mean, it’s only fair, don’t you think?" You let out a little huff, a sound that made Joe grin even more, as if you were considering his request. The suspense was delicious. Finally, you tilted your head up, your gaze meeting his, and he could feel the shift in the air between you two.

"You’re greedy," you said, lips twitching into the smallest smile, your voice teasing. "You already got one kiss tonight." Joe shrugged nonchalantly, though he couldn’t stop the playful smirk that tugged at his lips. "Yeah, and?"

You rolled your eyes, shifting just enough so your face was dangerously close to his. He could feel your breath warm against his skin. "You’re awfully needy for a star quarterback," you said with a smirk, your voice low and amused.

Joe chuckled softly, the sound rich and genuine. His fingers brushed against your waist, almost absentmindedly, but the way you reacted told him it wasn’t as casual as you were pretending. "Only when it comes to you, sweetheart."

Your breath hitched. Just slightly. So quick, he almost missed it. Almost. But he didn’t. And that? It made him smirk wider. Because finally—finally—he had you just as flustered as you had him earlier. "Goodnight, Burrow," you murmured, tapping his chest lightly before rolling over, facing away from him. Joe grinned, watching you for a moment before he shook his head. He settled back into the pillows, pulling his arm around you once more, this time securing you just a little closer. But you didn’t move away. Didn’t push him off. You didn’t tell him to stop. And that? That told him everything he needed to know.

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You could feel him smirking behind you. That cocky, self-assured smirk that was so typical of Joe Burrow, like he knew he had you flustered. And yeah, okay, maybe you were a little flustered. Just a little. But you’d rather die than admit that to him. No. He was not getting that satisfaction. So, you decided to throw him off his game.

Without a word, you shifted in his arms, turning just enough to lean in and plant the softest, most innocent kiss on his cheek. A kiss so light, so quick, it barely lasted a second. Then, just as quickly, you pulled away and settled back against your pillow, as if nothing had happened.

Joe froze. For the millionth time that night, his brain seemed to short-circuit, unable to process what had just happened. He lay still, his arm still around you, but there was a moment of complete silence. And then—"That’s not a real goodnight kiss," he pouted, full-on pouted. His lips poked out just enough to make you giggle. You raised an eyebrow, playing innocent. "Oh?" you said, voice sweet with mock innocence. "You didn’t specify, Burrow. You just said you wanted a goodnight kiss."

Joe huffed, clearly unimpressed. He crossed his arms, still pouting like a child. And somehow, it only made him more endearing. You laughed, reaching up to pat his cheek playfully, as if to reassure him that his dramatic little act wasn’t going to work. "You’ll live." Joe narrowed his eyes at you, his fake temper tantrum almost cartoonish. "Barely," he muttered, his voice dripping with exaggerated dissatisfaction.

You grinned, feeling thoroughly entertained by the sight of Joe Burrow—NFL superstar, MVP contender—pouting like he’d just been robbed of his favorite toy. You turned over, snuggling deeper into your pillow, your body a little warmer from the playful exchange. "Goodnight, Burrow," you murmured, closing your eyes, letting the soft rhythm of your breathing fill the space between you two. Joe sighed dramatically, the sound loud in the quiet room, like he was truly suffering. "Night, sweetheart," he muttered, his voice still tinged with that playful annoyance.

And even though he clearly wanted more, even though he probably wasn’t entirely satisfied, he still held you. And yeah, maybe he did pout for a little longer than necessary, but at the end of the day? You were still in his arms. So really? He wasn’t losing at all.

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Joe should have seen it coming. You were nothing if not a menace, and of course, you had to flip the script on him—giving him the softest, sweetest little kiss on the cheek like that was supposed to be enough. Like it hadn’t completely wrecked him all over again. He wasn’t even sure if you realized what you had just done. And to make it worse? You were giggling about it. Giggling like his suffering was some kind of joke.

Unbelievable.

Joe could practically hear his pride shattering with each quiet chuckle you let out. That laugh of yours—it did something to him. Made him weak, in a way he hated to admit. So yeah, maybe he pouted a little. He might have exaggerated it, pushing his bottom lip out just a bit too far to make sure you noticed how utterly unimpressed he was. Maybe he let out a dramatic sigh just to let you know how displeased he was. He wasn’t mad. Not really. But damn, you made him work for everything.

And maybe, just maybe, he held you just a little tighter as you settled back into your spot, letting his arm slip around your waist like it had every right to be there. Like he had some claim on you, whether you knew it or not. Which, if you asked him, he absolutely did. But Joe wasn’t going to push his luck. Not yet.

You were still here. Still letting him hold you. Still resting against him like this was normal, like you didn’t mind the heat of his body, the rhythm of his breathing against your back. And that? That was enough for now. For now, he could live with it. So, he let the silence settle in around you both, the hum of the TV and the soft rustle of the blanket the only sound between you. His thumb brushed against the fabric of your shirt, idly tracing the outline of your waist, as if he had all the time in the world. He let his thoughts wander—thoughts about how comfortable this felt. Too comfortable. About how easy it was to fall into this.

And just when he thought you had finally fallen asleep, the quiet voice beside him shattered the moment, sending a small jolt of surprise through him. "Still pouting?" you murmured, the teasing lilt in your voice clear despite the sleepiness. Joe let out a huff, his lips quirking into a smirk as he shook his head. "No," he said, his voice low and calm, though there was a hint of defiance in it.

A pause. Then, your voice again, thick with amusement and the sleep that was creeping into your words: "Liar." Joe felt a grin tug at his lips. "You wound me, sweetheart," he replied, putting on a mock hurt expression, though he couldn’t help the way his voice softened as he spoke. You let out a soft, sleepy laugh, the kind that wrapped around his heart like a warm blanket. "You’ll live," you said, your voice already fading into the edge of slumber. And damn it, maybe, just maybe, that was his new favorite sound. That soft laugh. That little glimpse into the way you let your guard down when you were tired, when you felt safe.

He didn’t want to think too much about it. Didn’t want to overanalyze the way his chest tightened when he heard it, or the way the moment felt like something more than just a casual night between two people. But in the quiet of the room, with only the soft glow of the TV screen to light your faces, Joe allowed himself to enjoy it. Allowed himself to revel in the fact that you were here, still in his arms. Still letting him in, even if just a little. And for now, that was enough.

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The first thing you registered was warmth. The second thing? Him. Your eyes fluttered open, groggy from sleep, and it took a second for your brain to catch up with the situation. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the feeling of his arm still draped loosely around your waist—it all felt too real, too present.Somewhere in the night, things had shifted. You’d ended up even closer than before. Like, really close. Your head was resting on Joe’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. His legs

were tangled with yours under the blankets, and his scent—a mix of soap and something woodsy, maybe his cologne—wrapped around you like a second skin. And worst of all? It felt right. The kind of right that sent an unwelcome flutter of warmth through your chest. You should move. You should create some much-needed space between the two of you. But instead, you just… stayed.

You studied him. His face, which was usually sharp and focused, was soft in sleep, relaxed in a way you rarely saw. His dark lashes were pressed against his cheeks, casting faint shadows across his skin. And when you looked closely, you noticed something you hadn’t before: the faint sprinkling of freckles across his nose and upper cheeks—something that should’ve been so obvious but had slipped under your radar in the past.

He looked—beautiful. Unfairly so. Your heart stuttered in your chest, and you mentally cursed yourself for the thought. Blinking a few times like that would somehow reset your brain. Nope. Still there. Still too close. Still too comfortable. Okay, time to move.

Carefully, you began to shift, trying to ease yourself out of the bed without waking him. Joe stirred slightly, his brow furrowing as if he was on the edge of waking, but after a few tense seconds, he settled back into the softness of sleep. You exhaled slowly, relieved, and slowly slipped free from his grip, careful not to disturb the blankets too much as you tucked them around him. Moving into the kitchen was a small act of survival. Cooking always worked as a distraction, something steady and productive. A safe distraction.

You pulled your hair into a messy bun, tying it tightly as you moved to pull everything you needed from the fridge. The rhythm of slicing vegetables, the sizzle of food hitting the hot pan—it all gave you something to focus on besides the warmth still lingering from the bed, still clinging to your skin.

As you worked, you grabbed your phone, setting it on the counter and starting up some soft music to fill the silence. The steady beat of the song echoed through the kitchen, settling your mind, distracting you from the sudden chaos of thoughts and feelings.

Until—

"Damn, you move fast." You jumped, the spatula in your hand nearly slipping from your grip. "Joe!" you snapped, spinning around quickly. "You scared the hell out of me!" Joe leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, as though he’d just barely woken up. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but there was that familiar, mischievous glint in them. And the worst part? He was smirking. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart," he drawled, his voice still thick with sleep. "Woke up and you were gone."

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the stove to focus on anything other than him. "You survived." Joe chuckled softly, stepping into the kitchen, his bare feet padding quietly against the floor as he moved closer. "Debatable," he said with a grin, leaning against the counter next to you. You kept your eyes on the pan, trying to ignore the way his presence filled the space—his warmth, his scent, that ridiculous smirk that had the audacity to make you smile despite yourself.

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Joe wasn’t sure what woke him up at first. Maybe it was the sudden absence of warmth, the soft spot where her body had been pressed against his only moments ago. Maybe it was the faint sound of music drifting in from the kitchen, a tune he hadn’t heard but could tell was familiar to her. Or maybe—just maybe—it was her.

Because the second he realized she wasn’t next to him anymore, his brain barely had time to catch up before his body was already moving. He found her easily, standing at the stove, completely at ease, the soft light from the kitchen casting a warm glow around her. And God—she looked good. Too good.

The loose cami pajama set she was wearing barely clung to her frame, the fabric falling in all the right ways, leaving just enough skin exposed to make his thoughts run wild. Her headscarf was still on, though a few stray pieces of curly hair had slipped free, framing her face in a way that looked effortlessly perfect. She looked like she belonged here—like this was all so natural to her.

Joe couldn’t look away. There was something about the way she moved—focused, relaxed, completely unaware that she was wrecking him. The soft swish of her hips as she stirred something in the pan, the delicate curve of her neck as she glanced up at the clock, checking the time.

The thought hit him deep in his chest, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through him. This wasn’t just a random, fleeting moment. This was… her. Right here. And he found himself in no rush to leave. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her, letting himself get used to the idea of this—her. Of how right it felt. Then, because he simply couldn’t help himself, he broke the silence. "Damn, you move fast." Y/N jumped, the spatula in her hand nearly clattering to the floor. She whipped around, eyes wide with surprise. "Joe!" she snapped, her voice sharp. "You scared the hell out of me."

A smug grin tugged at the corners of Joe’s mouth as he leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest. "Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart," he drawled, his voice still thick with sleep. "Woke up and you were gone."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, unfazed by his teasing. "You survived." Joe chuckled, taking a step forward into the kitchen, his gaze never leaving her as she moved with ease. Her movements were so fluid, so natural, it was almost as if she’d done this with him a thousand times before. That was what got him, more than anything else—the ease of it. The rightness of it. The way he fit in her space, how comfortable it all felt, even though he knew this wasn’t a normal situation.

"You always cook this early?" he asked, his voice still carrying that grogginess, a trace of lingering sleep. Y/N didn’t even glance at him, just hummed lightly as she flipped whatever was cooking in the pan. "Only when I have guests who pout about not getting real goodnight kisses." Joe huffed a small laugh, moving closer to stand beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. "You wound me, sweetheart." She shot him a quick glance, but didn’t skip a beat. "Oh, please," she scoffed, her tone teasing. "You’ll live."

That damn phrase again. Joe had to suppress a smile as he watched her reach for a plate, dishing up whatever smelled so damn good. "What’re we working with here?" he asked, leaning against the counter, trying to keep his tone light. "We?" she teased, raising a brow. "Last I checked, I’m the one cooking. You’re just standing there looking pretty."

Joe chuckled, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with mischief. "So you think I look pretty?" Y/N froze, just for a fraction of a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, but Joe? He caught it. The way her fingers twitched on the plate before she rolled her eyes, clearly trying to cover up the brief moment of hesitation.

"Oh my God, don’t start," she muttered, turning her attention back to the food. Joe’s grin only grew wider. "Too late." She handed him a plate, shaking her head, though he could tell she was trying to hide the smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "Just eat, Burrow." Joe took the plate from her, stepping closer and leaning in slightly, voice low and teasing. "Yes, ma’am."

And in that moment, despite the casual banter, despite everything happening so naturally between them, Joe felt a strange mix of satisfaction and something deeper. Something he hadn’t quite sorted out yet. But right now, he didn’t mind. Because he was here, and she was here, and the way she’d handed him that plate, her eyes soft but knowing, told him all he needed to know. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not just yet.

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You should’ve never let him stay over. Because now? Now Joe Burrow was in your kitchen, shirtless, looking too good for his own damn good, and throwing that cocky smirk your way like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And worse? You were letting him.

You handed him a plate, shaking your head as you turned back to the stove. "Just eat, Burrow." Joe didn’t move right away. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping low enough to send an electric shiver down your spine. "Yes, ma’am." You ignored the way your stomach flipped at his words, choosing instead to focus on literally anything else. You grabbed your own plate and walked over to the small dining area, hoping your face wasn’t betraying you. Joe followed, settling into the seat across from you, still looking far too pleased with himself for your liking.

You took a bite, keeping your eyes trained on your food, trying to act like your heart wasn’t doing flips. "So, what’s your plan for the day?" Joe chewed for a moment, glancing out the window before shrugging. "Dunno yet." You nodded, trying to keep the conversation casual. "Practice?" "Not until later," he said, his trademark smirk curling at the edges of his lips. "Why, you tryna get rid of me already?"

You rolled your eyes, trying to pretend his teasing didn’t have the effect it did on you. "Don’t flatter yourself, Burrow." Joe chuckled, taking another bite of his food. "Too late." You hated how easy it was to smile at that. You hated how natural this felt, how he made everything—everything—seem effortless. But most of all, you really, really hated the way your heart fluttered when you looked up and caught him already watching you. Because Joe Burrow wasn’t looking at you like this was some casual thing. No. He was looking at you like he was already in too deep.

And that? That terrified you more than anything.

You needed to look away. You should’ve looked away. But Joe was staring at you like you were the only thing in the damn room, and it was making your mind short-circuit. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your cool. "You really have a staring problem, Burrow." Joe didn’t hesitate for a second. "Can you blame me?" You sighed, shaking your head as you stabbed at your food, trying not to feel the heat that was suddenly creeping up your neck. "So damn corny." "And yet," he smirked, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself, "you’re still blushing." Your jaw tightened as you forced your gaze down to your plate. "Am not."

Joe raised a brow, his smirk growing. "Sure, sweetheart." You exhaled slowly, gripping your fork just a little tighter. He was enjoying this way too much. Time to turn the tables.

You casually tilted your head, letting your eyes flicker over him—just enough to make him feel it. His gaze flickered down to you, and you could tell he’d caught it. "You know," you said, your tone smooth, "for someone who got his full eight hours, you look kinda tired."

Joe arched a brow, intrigued but cautious. "That so?" You nodded slowly, taking a deliberate sip of your drink. "Yeah. Maybe you just weren’t sleeping well... maybe something—" you dragged your eyes down his bare chest, pausing just a second too long before flicking your gaze back up to his, "—was keeping you up?"

Joe’s smirk faltered. Just a little. But you saw it. And that was enough. He cleared his throat, reaching for his water like it was the most normal thing in the world. "You think you’re funny, huh?" You shrugged, fighting back the grin threatening to break free. "I know I am." Joe shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him as he took a sip of his drink. But then his eyes met yours again, and his expression darkened just slightly. "See, now you’re just playing with fire."

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand in a mock show of interest. "Oh? And what are you gonna do about it, Burrow?" For a brief moment, he didn’t move, just staring at you, weighing his options. Then—without warning—he stood.

His chair scraped softly against the floor as he walked around the table, his presence drawing closer, the air around you thickening with tension. He stopped when he was right next to you. So close. Too close. Leaning down, he brought his face dangerously close to yours, just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His voice was low, teasing, but with just the faintest edge of challenge. "Keep pushing and you’ll find out."

Your breath hitched, involuntary, before you could stop it. Joe’s lips curled into a grin. "That’s what I thought." And then—the cocky bastard—he reached over, snatched a bite of your food off your plate, and walked over to the sink like he hadn’t just short-circuited your entire brain. You stared at him, wide-eyed, as he hummed to himself, fully aware of what he’d just done. The nerve. The audacity. And yet... all you could think was how much you wanted to push him further.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain was still trying to catch up to whatever the hell just happened. Joe had won that round. And the worst part? He knew it. That cocky grin on his face—smug as hell, self-satisfied in a way that made your blood boil and your stomach flip all at once—only made it worse. He was so damn pleased with himself, and that, in turn, made you furious.

You turned in your chair, watching as he casually rinsed off his plate in the sink, as if he hadn’t just wrecked your whole mental state in the span of five seconds. He was totally unbothered, like this was just some casual, everyday thing for him, and you were just... here, trying to reboot your entire system.

Oh, hell no. This wasn’t over. You took a deep breath, letting it steady you. You weren’t going to let him get away with this. Not like this. With a quiet resolve, you stood up, carrying your plate over to the sink, brushing past him just enough to make it obvious that you were doing it on purpose. The faintest shift of your shoulder as you passed him was deliberate. "Didn’t take you for a food thief, Burrow."

Joe’s eyes flickered to you, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips. He dried his hands slowly, savoring the moment. "Didn’t take you for someone who blushes so easily, but here we are." You froze for just a fraction of a second, then whipped around, narrowing your eyes at him. "I don’t blush."

Joe’s smirk stretched into something more confident, more dangerous. He stepped a little closer, tilting his head, his gaze unwavering. "Sweetheart, you’ve been blushing since last night, maybe dare I say even a bit hot and bothered." You opened your mouth—then closed it, words dying before they could escape.

Because, okay—maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe he had a point, just a tiny one. But you’d rather die than admit that. Instead, you huffed, rolling your eyes as you turned back toward the counter, grabbing a towel to dry your hands. "You talk too much." Joe chuckled, his voice warm, laced with a knowing undertone. "And yet, you’re still here."

You fought back the involuntary warmth that crept into your cheeks, focusing instead on wiping down the counter in front of you. Don’t show him. "Don’t you have practice later?" you asked, hoping to shift the conversation, trying to deflect from the way your body was responding to his proximity. "Mhm," he answered nonchalantly, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Then maybe you should go," you suggested, voice a little quieter than you intended. Joe’s eyes flickered to you, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk. "You kicking me out?" You froze, the towel in your hand gripping a little tighter. Were you? Was that what you really wanted? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but the thought of him lingering here, of whatever this unspoken thing between you was—getting deeper, more tangled—that was dangerous. Too dangerous.

You turned to face him fully, fully prepared to say something casual, dismissive. A sharp “Yes” on the tip of your tongue. But then— Joe just looked at you. His eyes weren’t smug anymore. They weren’t teasing or playful. They were different. Intense. Too damn real. And the worst part? He wasn’t the only one feeling it. You felt it too. A weight, a pull, an understanding that this thing between you had shifted. It was already too far gone, and neither of you were ready to admit it.

Your chest tightened. Your breath hitched. You hated it. You hated the way your heart started to beat faster, the way the room felt smaller with him standing so close. You sighed, shaking your head, trying to shake off the feeling. "I hate you." Joe grinned, that same dangerous smile creeping across his face as he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "No, you don’t." You rolled your eyes, but this time, you didn’t argue.

Because, damn it, he was right. And you hated that even more. You should’ve argued. You should’ve thrown every sarcastic remark, every biting word, right at him. Told him he was cocky as hell, that you weren’t falling for him the way he clearly thought you were. But the truth? The truth was that lying to yourself was one thing. Lying to him? That was a whole different battle. One you’d never win.

Joe was still looking at you, his gaze soft but piercing, like he knew exactly what was going on in your head. Like he had some sort of power over you, some unseen thread tying him to you, and he was tugging on it, gently but surely.

And that? That pissed you off more than you cared to admit. You huffed, the sound barely escaping your lips as you tossed the towel onto the counter and brushed past him with a little more force than necessary. "Whatever, Burrow." Joe chuckled, following close behind you, his footsteps almost too close, like he was making sure you didn’t get too far ahead. "That’s all you got?" You flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, reaching for your phone to distract yourself. "I don’t owe you an essay, sir."

Joe plopped down next to you, his presence far too familiar, too at home as he threw an arm over the back of the couch, completely invading your space. "Sir?" he said with a grin, clearly entertained. "Damn, first you’re making me breakfast, now you’re calling me sir? Might have to stick around more often." You turned your head to face him, narrowing your eyes, fully aware of the playful teasing that danced behind his words. "Don’t get cute." Joe just leaned back, an all-knowing smirk spreading across his face. "Too late."

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket cut you off, pulling your attention away from his insufferably perfect face. He sighed dramatically, pulling the phone from his pocket with a roll of his eyes. "It’s Ja’Marr." You raised a brow, already suspicious of the kind of trouble Ja’Marr could stir up. "Oh? Here to come rescue you?"

Joe huffed a laugh, swiping the screen to answer. "What do you want, Chase?" Even through the phone, you could hear Ja’Marr’s grin. "You tell me, lover boy. You still at Y/N’s?" Your entire body tensed. The tension in your spine shot straight to your chest, and you couldn’t fight the slight flush creeping up your neck. Joe glanced at you, clearly sensing the shift, and smirked before answering, "Yeah, why?"

"Damn, you really didn’t come home?" Ja’Marr’s laughter echoed, like he found this entire situation endlessly amusing. "I knew you were down bad, but this is crazy." Joe just hummed in response, unfazed, like the teasing didn’t bother him at all. "You called just to be nosy?" "Nah, I was seeing if you wanted to hit the facility early, but clearly you busy." Joe raised an eyebrow. "I can still come—"

"Nah, nah, take your time, bro." Ja’Marr’s voice dropped into something even more amused, clearly loving every second of this. "Wouldn’t wanna interrupt your lil’ honeymoon." Joe laughed, shaking his head as he hung up the phone, clearly having had enough of Ja’Marr’s antics. He set the phone down on the coffee table, then turned to you, that damn grin still plastered on his face.

You blinked at him, your stomach knotting with a mixture of frustration and something you didn’t want to acknowledge. "I hate your friends." Joe’s smirk only widened. "No, you don’t." You groaned, shoving his arm off the couch with more force than necessary, your frustration bubbling up to the surface. "Stop saying that." Joe just chuckled, his eyes glinting with something playful. "Make me." And God help you—you wanted to.

You wanted to so badly, but there was something about the way he looked at you, the way his smile tugged at your insides like a magnet, that made it damn near impossible to resist. But you wouldn’t admit that. Not yet. So, instead, you just crossed your arms, staring at him with a raised brow, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding. "You really think you can just waltz in here, eat my food, steal my space, and make me want to throw myself at you, don’t you?"

Joe tilted his head, clearly amused. "Is that what you think I’m doing?" You couldn’t answer right away, because there it was—his cocky grin, his relaxed posture, his everything that just... fit with you, and it made your head spin. You knew you should say something snappy, something to regain control, but all that came out was a frustrated sigh. "I’m not falling for your charm, Burrow."

Joe leaned forward, his face inches from yours. "You say that now, but we both know better." And maybe you did. Maybe you both knew exactly where this was heading, and that, more than anything, scared you more than you wanted to admit.

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Joe froze, completely caught off guard. Because you were right there. So close that he could feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, and just like that, his mind short-circuited. Everything he had planned to say, everything he had prepared in his head, just... evaporated. The air between you felt charged, too close, too electric.

And then, before he could even catch up with the moment, you whispered, your voice low and teasing, smooth as velvet but with an edge. "You’d enjoy it too much." The words hung in the air, twisting around him like a trap he hadn’t even seen coming. It wasn’t just what you said—it was the way you said it, with that playful, dangerous edge that made his pulse pick up. He was trying to process it, trying to make sense of whatever the hell that meant, but then—just like that—you pulled back, smirking as you bumped him aside with your hip, leaving him standing there in a daze.

And you just walked away, like nothing had happened. His brain still hadn’t fully rebooted as he watched you stroll toward the sink. His chest tightened as he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face in an attempt to steady himself.

This woman was going to be the death of him. He stood there for a moment, collecting himself, trying to push the cloud of confusion from his mind. After what felt like an eternity, he finally shook his head, that familiar cocky smirk pulling at his lips once more. "Real cute, sweetheart," he called out, his voice smooth again, every ounce of confidence returning as he moved toward you. "But you do know payback’s a thing, right?"

You didn’t even flinch. You didn’t even pause as you rinsed off your plate. The nonchalance in the way you continued with your task made the moment all the more infuriating—and fascinating. "Oh?" you mused, glancing over your shoulder with a raised brow. "You think you can get me back, Burrow?"

He closed the distance between you, leaning in just enough that his voice dropped an octave, low and teasing. "Oh, I know I can." For the briefest moment, you faltered. It wasn’t long. A fraction of a second. But he saw it. He caught it—just that slight hesitation, that brief flash of uncertainty in your eyes.

And then, just as quickly, you recovered. You turned to face him fully, and there it was: the challenge in your gaze, daring him to follow through. "We’ll see about that." He tilted his head slightly, a knowing smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "That we will."

And in that moment, Joe knew something for certain—this wasn’t just some playful game anymore. This... this was a battle of wills. One he didn’t want to win, not really. Because as much as he liked the chase, as much as he enjoyed seeing you like this—unpredictable, teasing, completely in control—he didn’t want the game to end.

But damn it, he couldn’t figure out how you managed to keep winning, over and over again. He couldn’t figure out how, every time he thought he had the upper hand, you flipped the script with just a look, just a word. And yet, despite every nerve in his body urging him to keep pushing, to keep playing, there was something else gnawing at him.

Something deeper. Because for all the teasing, for all the back and forth, Joe realized that he didn’t just want to win. He wanted this to continue, to stretch out like a never-ending game. He didn’t want you to stop. And hell, if he was being honest, that terrified him. But it also thrilled him in a way he couldn’t shake.So, as you turned away, rinsing your plate and pretending like you hadn’t just thrown down the gauntlet, Joe let his smirk deepen. He was in way too deep. And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly where he wanted to be.

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You weren’t entirely sure how you kept coming out on top in this little game with Joe, but you’d be damned if you let him know just how close you were to cracking.

Because, honestly? One more look. One more smirk. One more low-voiced, cocky remark—and you’d be done for. It was a dangerous game you were playing. Every time you thought you had a handle on the situation, Joe would throw a curveball, and you'd be left scrambling. And God, it was infuriating how he made it all look so easy. But the worst part? You didn’t want to admit it, but you liked it. You liked the way he made your pulse quicken, the way your stomach did that flip whenever he got too close.

But no. You weren’t about to let him know how much he affected you. Not yet. So instead of acknowledging the way your stomach flipped at his words—his damn teasing, that grin that made you want to either kiss him or slap him—you turned off the sink, wiped your hands on a towel, and spun to face him.

You gave him your best innocent smile, the kind you knew drove him crazy. The kind that hid your nerves beneath a layer of sweetness. "What’s wrong, Burrow?" you mused, tapping your manicured finger to your chin, playing up the act. "You look a little… frustrated."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You think you’re cute, huh?" You grinned, letting your confidence take over. "You know I am."

Joe paused for a second, studying you, lips pressed tightly together, like he was trying to keep himself in check. You could practically feel the internal battle happening in real-time. His eyes narrowed slightly, clearly weighing his next move.

You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head, the way he was trying to figure out how to respond without giving too much away. And damn it, he was good at this. Finally, he spoke, voice slightly gruff as he broke the silence. "You’re lucky I like you, sweetheart." He stepped back, grabbing his phone from the counter, his eyes still on you.

Your grin widened, amusement dancing in your gaze. "Oh?" You leaned against the island, crossing your arms over your chest as you tilted your head. "Because I don’t think you’d stand a chance otherwise?" Joe shook his head with a soft laugh, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. "You’re a menace." You lifted a brow, keeping your gaze steady. "And you’re still here."

"Damn right I am." The way he said it sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe. You hated how your heart skipped at that simple, confident statement. The way he made it sound so easy—so assured—like there was never a version of this where he wouldn’t be standing there, with that cocky grin, in your space.

And you hated it even more that you wanted him to stay. You wanted this easy, comfortable... whatever it was between the two of you. You ignored that nagging feeling that threatened to bubble up and instead stretched, trying to act casual as you pushed the thoughts aside. "Well, since you refuse to leave," you said, feigning indifference, "I hope you at least plan on helping clean up."

Joe raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "I can leave, you know." You smirked back, crossing your arms. "No, you can’t." Joe’s grin deepened, the kind of grin that made your chest tighten and your thoughts scatter. He shook his head again, clearly amused, before stepping toward you, reaching for a dish towel. "You got me there, sweetheart."

The simple act of him grabbing the towel, without any protest, threw you off. For a second, you stood there, staring at him, trying to make sense of what was happening. He wasn’t even trying to argue, wasn’t trying to escape. He didn’t seem in any rush to go anywhere. He just… wanted to stay.

And that thought? It scared you more than you cared to admit. But what scared you even more? You wanted him to stay too. It was the kind of realization that hit you like a punch to the gut. Something that had been there all along, buried beneath layers of playful teasing and flirtation. And now, in this quiet, unexpected moment, you couldn't ignore it anymore.

"Alright, alright," you said, breaking the silence, your voice a little quieter now, softer. "Let’s get this done." Joe met your gaze, his smile still there, but there was something different about it now. Something almost… understanding. He reached for a dish and started drying it, and for the first time since he'd walked into your kitchen, you let yourself admit what had been growing inside you all morning.

This wasn’t just about the teasing anymore. The way he was acting, the way he was so damn comfortable in your space—it wasn’t just the playful back-and-forth. It was something deeper, something that was starting to feel too real, too raw. And God help you, but you didn’t want to pull away. You just weren’t sure you knew how to handle it when this game finally stopped being a game.

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Joe should’ve argued.

He should’ve said something smug, teased her, acted like he still had the upper hand in this little back-and-forth. But the second Y/N looked at him with that confident, almost effortless smile, and said, "No, you can’t," like it was a simple, undeniable fact, like she knew damn well he wasn’t going anywhere— Yeah. He was done for. Because she was right. He couldn’t leave. Didn’t want to.

It was strange, really. The way she could make him feel like this, like he was already part of her world, without even trying. He had spent so long chasing her, pushing her buttons, trying to get under her skin. And now? Now it felt like the tables had shifted in a way that made him realize he wasn’t the one calling the shots anymore. But the craziest part was that he didn’t mind. Not one bit. So instead of feeding into her little game and letting his usual cocky banter take over, Joe did what felt natural—he just grabbed the dish towel, threw it over his shoulder, and started rinsing off the plates while Y/N wiped down the counters. And honestly? It was almost too domestic.

Like something he could get used to way too easily. And that thought? That idea, that this could be his new normal? It sent a rush of warmth through him, but there was a tightness in his chest too. He didn’t want to overthink it, didn’t want to dive into how easy it felt to be in this space with her, to be near her. Because, yeah, it was dangerous. But did he care? Not even a little. Hell, he’d spent so much time chasing Y/N, playing it cool, waiting for her to finally stop running from whatever the hell this was between them. And now? Now she wasn’t running. Not really.

She was here, standing next to him, letting him into her space in ways he hadn’t expected. And the teasing? That little smirk she threw his way like she was still holding the reins? It was driving him insane. But, deep down, he knew she was letting him in more than she realized. She was slowly pulling down the walls she’d built around herself, and damn it, Joe loved it.

So, if she wanted to act like she still had the upper hand? Fine. He’d let her have that. For now. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t still test her. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t push just a little bit further, to see how long she could keep this up before she cracked.

"You know," he mused, drying off a plate and glancing over at her, "this is the longest you’ve ever willingly spent alone with me." Y/N paused, mid-wipe, the motion of her hand freezing for just a second before she recovered. But Joe saw it. That brief flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. He saw how she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting that, maybe, just maybe, he was right.

"Oh?" she said, feigning innocence, turning to face him with a little tilt of her head. "Didn’t realize we were keeping track." Joe smirked, setting the freshly dried plate down with careful precision. "I’m a numbers guy, sweetheart." She rolled her eyes, but Joe noticed it—the way her lips twitched, like she was fighting back a smile. She was trying to play it cool, but he could see through it. He always could. "You are so annoying," she muttered, shaking her head as she continued to clean. "And yet," Joe countered, leaning in just a little, not letting her off the hook that easily, "you’re still here."

The words hung in the air for a second, and Y/N froze. Just for a second. But it was enough for Joe to catch it. The way her shoulders tensed, the way she hesitated before continuing with the dishes. He could see the challenge in her eyes, the mix of defiance and something else, something that made her vulnerable, and damn it, he was getting closer to seeing all of it.

"What, nothing to say?" he pressed, feeling a surge of amusement at how well she was holding herself together. She blinked up at him, eyes wide for just a moment, before the deflection kicked in. Without missing a beat, Y/N grabbed the dish towel and threw it directly at his chest, catching him off guard.

"Finish drying, Burrow," she said, turning away as she moved toward the fridge, her voice light and playful as if she hadn’t just thrown him off balance. Joe laughed, shaking his head, catching the towel easily. Because damn it—She was really starting to let him in. And he was loving every second of it.

It wasn’t the teasing or the playful banter that made it so addictive. It was the little things—the way she let her guard down around him, even just a fraction of an inch at a time. She wasn’t as untouchable as she liked to make out. And that? That was exactly what made him want to keep pushing. Joe didn’t know where this was headed, but he knew one thing for sure. He didn’t want to stop.

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You needed to get it together. Because Joe was too good at this. Too good at making your brain short-circuit with just a few words, a smirk, a damn look. It was maddening. The worst part? He knew it.

He knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make your heart race with barely an effort. And here you were, standing in your own kitchen, pretending like you had any control over the situation when in reality, you were just waiting for him to break down your walls. But you couldn’t let him know that.

So instead of acknowledging the way your pulse quickened at the sound of his voice, you turned back to the fridge, pretending to search for something, anything to distract yourself from the magnetism of his presence. You cursed yourself silently, wishing you could just be normal around him. But Joe Burrow wasn’t just any guy. He was impossible to ignore.

"You need help, sweetheart?" His voice drifted from behind you, low and teasing, the words laced with that smug confidence you’d come to expect from him. Of course, he knew what you were doing. He always did. Straightening up, you grabbed the first thing your hand landed on—an orange—and turned around to face him with a forced, innocent smile. "Nope. Just making sure you don’t steal my food before you leave."

Joe raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk dancing on his lips as he leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed, the dish towel still slung over his shoulder like he belonged here. "Who said I was leaving?" Your breath hitched—just a fraction, but it was enough for Joe to catch it. You saw that smirk widen, deepening in that way that made you want to punch him in the arm and kiss him all at once. He was so damn annoying.

You rolled your eyes and made a show of peeling the orange, trying to act like you were completely unfazed. "Oh, so now you live here?" Joe’s grin only grew as he stepped closer, his body invading your space in that way he knew made you uneasy—and yet, you couldn’t pull away. "Maybe," he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that teasing edge. "You’d let me, wouldn’t you?"

You popped a piece of orange into your mouth, refusing to let him see how much his words actually flustered you. "You’re really pushing it, Burrow." He leaned in a little closer, tilting his head slightly, eyes sparkling with mischief. "And yet," he said, his voice dropping, "you still haven’t told me to leave."

Your stomach did that familiar little flip, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Because, damn it, he was right. You could’ve told him to go at any point this morning. You could’ve told him to pack up and leave, to stop hanging around like he owned the place. But you hadn’t. And you wouldn’t. Not now.As much as you hated to admit it—hated that this felt so effortless, so right—you liked having him here. You liked the way he made everything seem so simple, like the world had just narrowed down to the two of you. The easy back-and-forth, the teasing, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the room, without even trying. And you knew. You knew it was dangerous.

But instead of addressing the fluttering feeling in your chest, the one that made you want to stay lost in his eyes forever, you popped another piece of orange into your mouth, determined to remain unaffected. "You talk too much, you know that?" Joe chuckled, the sound warm and low, as he shook his head. "And you avoid too much, you know that?"

You hated how well he knew you. How he could read you like an open book, even when you were doing everything you could to keep your cards close to your chest. So, you did the only thing you could think of. You flicked an orange peel at him and walked away, needing the space, needing to get away from the way his presence made everything inside of you buzz with energy. Because screw Joe Burrow for getting under your skin. And screw you even more for letting him. As you walked away, you heard him laughing behind you, the sound light, carefree, like he had already won. And maybe, just maybe, he had. But damn it—this wasn’t over. Not yet. You weren’t going to give in. Not yet.

So, you did what you did best—deflected. "Avoid?" you repeated, playing the innocent card as you popped another piece of orange into your mouth. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Burrow." Joe huffed out a laugh, shaking his head like he expected this response. "Yeah, you do." You shrugged, tossing the last of the peel in the trash before turning back to him with a practiced, easy smile. "Nope. Sorry. Not ringing a bell."

Joe stared at you for a moment, his gaze heavy and calculating, as if he were trying to figure out the right move. His eyes didn’t leave yours, and there was a tension in the air now—something different, something you couldn’t brush off with your usual sarcasm. Then, just as you thought you might escape this game for a moment longer, he spoke again, his voice steady and unwavering.

"You know I’m serious about you, right?" Your stomach dropped. You blinked, caught completely off guard. "What?" He stepped closer, the movement slow but deliberate. His voice was firm now, no trace of the teasing edge it usually carried. "I’m not playing around, Y/N. I haven’t been since day one." Your breath hitched. This wasn’t Joe teasing anymore. This wasn’t some casual banter or some game you could pretend didn’t affect you. This was real.

"Whether you want to admit it or not," he continued, his voice low and raw, "I know you feel this too. And I get it—you can keep pretending like this is just some little game, but it’s not. Not for me." You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close he was now. You could feel his presence, smell his cologne, hear his steady breath mixing with yours. His blue eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you felt like he could see every single thought running through your head.

You hated that. You hated how well he could read you, how easily he seemed to know exactly what you were thinking. And worse? You hated that he was right. Because of course you felt it. How could you not? Joe Burrow had been relentless in his pursuit of you, never backing down, never giving up. From the moment he decided you were what he wanted, he had stayed there—steadfast, unflinching, like a rock you couldn’t break free from. And the worst part? You wanted him too.

But admitting that? Actually saying it out loud? That was terrifying. Letting yourself believe that someone like Joe—someone so sure about you—could actually be real? That was the part that made your chest tighten, your mind race. So, instead of facing it, you dodged, like you always did. "Wow," you teased, crossing your arms, trying to cover the way your heart was beating faster now. "Did you rehearse that in the mirror? Or was that just off the dome?" Joe sighed, running a hand down his face, clearly frustrated but holding back. It was like he was trying to be patient with you, but the calm was beginning to crack. "Y/N."

You hated the way he said your name—so soft, so serious. Like he wasn’t messing around anymore. Like he was laying everything on the line. "Why do you do that?" he asked, shaking his head, exasperated. "Why do you always run from this?" Your chest tightened. "I don’t run."

"You do." His voice was calm, too calm, as if he’d already won the argument. "Every time I get close, every time I show you that this is real, you find some excuse to pretend like you don’t care." You hated that he was right. You hated that he saw through your defenses like they were nothing more than paper walls. And you hated that you were helpless to stop it. You swallowed hard, searching for something to say—something to redirect, to get you out of this conversation, this moment that felt so real it almost hurt. But Joe wasn’t letting you escape this time. "I’m not going anywhere, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to something even more intense, like a promise. His eyes locked onto yours, unyielding, unwavering. "So why the hell are you still pretending like I will?"

And there it was. The question you’d been dodging all along. The one that made your heart race and your breath catch. You couldn’t answer it. Not out loud. Not yet. But the silence between you was thick with unspoken words, and even though your mind was screaming at you to pull back, to push him away, your body betrayed you. Joe wasn’t backing down. And neither were you. "Enough games," he murmured, voice husky, low—a promise. His eyes flickered to your lips for just a second before locking back onto your eyes. "Tell me to stop," he said, his voice rough, almost pleading, "And I will." But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You could feel the weight of it—the decision hanging in the air, the tension pulling you closer. Everything inside you screamed to walk away, to keep this distance, to protect yourself. But with Joe so close, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment, you did the only thing that made sense.

You pulled him in. And Joe? Joe met you halfway. His lips crashed into yours, urgent and certain, like he had been waiting for this moment for so long. His hands found your waist, fingers pressing into your sides like he wanted to make sure you were real, like he needed to hold you together, as if you might disappear if he didn’t. And you let him. You kissed him back with everything you had—every ounce of desire, every flicker of hope, every inch of need that had been building up inside you since the first moment you’d met him. God, this was Joe. And you were done pretending.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily—you both shared a quiet, breathless laugh. Joe let out a low chuckle, still shaky from the intensity of the kiss. "You’re gonna be the death of me." You smirked, still dazed, still feeling the lingering warmth of his lips against yours. "And yet, here you are."

Joe’s grin was soft, full of something you couldn’t quite name, and he pressed the gentlest kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "Here I am," he murmured, his voice full of something deeper now. Something you couldn’t fight anymore. And suddenly, you weren’t so sure who had won the game anymore.

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