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elethial · 9 days ago

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Joseph acting jealous about jalen after being the one that got with Bridget first

we never tell - joe burrow

summary turns out joe burrow doesn't take kindly to being treated like a stranger

content 18+, smut, angst, language, alcohol

part five

You’re getting flashbacks. Stuck in some hole-in-the-wall bar that smells like spilled beer and victory. The sort of place that's seen a thousand celebrations and will see a thousand more.

You're pressed between bodies that reek of adrenaline, trying to make yourself small in a corner booth while Dom argues with someone about LSU's defensive line. The noise is overwhelming, too many voices layered over bad music, the kind of chaos that makes your skull feel too tight.

You shouldn't be here.

Especially not when Joe keeps drifting closer to your end of the table, finding excuses to lean over Dom's shoulder, to grab napkins from the dispenser next to you, to brush past you under the pretense of squeezing through the crowded space.

Each time, you find a reason to move: bathroom, bar, outside for air. Anything to avoid being in his orbit for too long.

"You want another drink?" Dom's voice cuts through your spiral, and you realize you've been staring at the same spot on the table for who knows how long.

"I'm fine," you lie, even though your vodka soda has been empty for twenty minutes.

He gives you that look, the one that says he's not buying it but won't push. "I'm getting one anyway."

You have to scoot out of the booth to let him pass, the awkward shuffle making you want to melt. When you slide back in Dom's absence leaves a gaping space between you and Joe. You perch on the very edge of the seat, as far from him as possible while still technically sitting down.

"I'll come help you carry," someone whose name you didn’t catch says, pushing back from the table and following him.

Dom walks towards the bar, his jersey already stained with something that could either be beer or barbecue sauce. He looks happy, loose in a way you haven't seen him in months. This is his element—celebrating with friends that weren’t his but suddenly are. Basking in reflected glory, being part of something bigger than himself.

Everyone here looks the same, drunk on victory and possibility, wearing their colors like badges of honor. You feel like an imposter in your simple black top, like everyone can see that you don't belong.

"Come on, just for a little bit," Dom had pleaded outside the Mercedes-Benz stadium, still buzzing from the win. "The guys are celebrating. It'll be fun."

You should be at dinner with your parents right now, somewhere quiet with cloth stitched napkins and muted conversations. Somewhere safe. Instead, you're trapped in this testosterone-fueled victory lap because Dom wouldn't take no for an answer.

Fun. Right.

Your mom had looked disappointed when you chose the bar over dinner, her hand lingering on your arm like she wanted to pull you back. "You sure, honey? We could all go together. Have a nice meal."

But here you are, nursing regret in liquid form, trying not to think about the last time you talked to Joe. And definitely not thinking about the last time you saw Joe face to face.

You smell his cologne and your body goes traitor, remembering what your mind has spent months trying to forget. The urge to run wars with the urge to lean closer, and both options feel like jumping off a cliff.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and your stomach does a familiar flip before you even check the screen.

Holy shit you saw that game?? 👀

you: sooo when were you gonna tell me you're some star qb

You feel eyes on you and look over to catch Joe staring at your screen. His jaw is tight, and there's something unreadable in his expression as he takes in what you've written.

You tilt your phone away instinctively, but he doesn't look away. For a long moment, you're locked in this stare, heart hammering as his eyes search yours like he's trying to make sense of something.

Then, maybe out of spite—or desperation—you adjust your grip, angling the phone just enough for him to see Jalen’s name lighting up your screen as another message comes through.

You hate that you want him to care. Hate that you’re performing for an audience of one, using someone else’s attention like a weapon. But when his mouth tenses and steel flashes behind his eyes, a sick satisfaction curls in your stomach.

From across the table, Ja’marr calls out a question to Joe and his attention reluctantly shifts. You exhale a breath you didn't realize you were holding, angling your phone away this time as another response comes through.

jalen: Ain’t noo way you saw the game

you: saw you get your ass kicked

jalen: Ouch. And here I thought you were sweet

you: you thought wrong

you: :)

You're smiling despite yourself, the first real smile you've managed all day. Something about texting Jalen feels easy, like you can be the version of yourself that doesn't carry the weight of all this drama.

you: seriously though how did you not mention you’re oklahoma’s qb

jalen: How did you not mention you're apparently an LSU fan

Your mind drifts back to your initial message to him towards the beginning of the game. You'd been half-watching, half-scrolling through your phone, when the big screen lit up with Oklahoma's starting lineup. One by one, they announced the players, each name echoing through the Superdome as the camera followed them onto the field.

And then: "At quarterback, number one, Jalen Hurts!"

Your phone had nearly slipped from your hands.

There he was, larger than life on the jumbotron—the same honey-brown eyes, the same easy smile, but dressed in Oklahoma crimson instead of the casual clothes you'd seen him in back home. Stats flashed across the screen: 32 passing touchdowns, 20 rushing touchdowns, 3,851 passing yards. Numbers that meant he was really, really good.

Before the screen could flash on to the next player, you quickly snapped a photo and sent it to him along with a string of question marks. What you didn’t notice was how blaringly obvious the pool of purple and gold that you were swimming in looked in the picture.

You: touche

"Oh my god, no way!"

The voice is bright and excited, cutting through the noise of the bar clearly. You look up to see her weaving through the crowd, face lit up with genuine delight. Behind her, Nate follows with the kind of resigned expression that suggests this wasn't his idea.

Your stomach drops.

Dom appears at your side, fresh drinks in hand, wearing a grin that looks suspiciously planned. "Surprise!" he announces, like it's Christmas morning.

You paste on a smile, one that might’ve been genuine if not for everything that happened a year ago. "Wow," you manage, standing to greet them both. "I had no idea you were coming."

Even as you're going through the motions, your attention keeps drifting to Joe's reaction. He's gone very still, that careful mask slipping into place as Bridget gets closer.

She reaches you first, practically buzzing, her cheeks flushed with excitement and probably alcohol. She's wearing LSU colors, a purple top that brings out her eyes, gold jewelry that catches the light. She looks perfect, like she belongs.

Part of you wants to hate her—for her posts, for being here, for the way she fits into Joe's world. But she's warm and genuine, and that makes it worse somehow. Because it would be easier if she were awful. Easier to justify the sickening jealousy that crawls about when you see her.

"I've missed you," she pulls back to look at your face. "When Dom called however many weeks ago and said he could get us here for tonight, I've been excited since."

"Weeks?" The word slips out before you can stop it, and you catch the guilty flicker in your brother's expression as he sets drinks down on the table.

"Right after we found out your family was coming to the game," Nate confirms, reaching over to dap up the other guys. "Dom said we had to be here for the game. Make it a proper reunion since no Tahoe trip for you this year."

The pieces click into place with sickening clarity.

Your brother orchestrated this. Set you up like pieces on a chessboard, and you walked right into it. The betrayal tastes metallic, makes your hands shake as you realize how naive you've been. Does he know? About your encounters, about the phone calls, about how you've been walking around with Joe's name carved into you like scar tissue? The thought makes you want to disappear into the floor.

But Bridget doesn't seem to notice your stillness, too focused on turning her attention to Joe.

"Hey," she speaks to him. It’s almost personal the way she looks at him, not desperate or clingy, but like she has every right to be here, in this moment, celebrating his victory alongside all of you.

Joe stands from the booth to greet her properly, and you're suddenly standing beside each other, close enough that you can feel the tension radiating off him.

Before he can react, Bridget's leaning in for a hug. It's brief but intimate, her hands resting against his shoulders. The awkward pat on her arm he gives her seems more obligatory than friendly.

When Joe pulls back, he steps away too quickly and his shoulder knocks into you, sending you stumbling back against the edge of the booth. His hand darts out instinctively, curling around your arm to steady you before you can fully lose balance.

The contact lingers for a second longer than it should. His touch is careful, but you can feel the way his fingers flex like he doesn’t really want to let go.

His skin against yours is muscle memory, your body recognizing his touch before your brain can build its defenses. For one terrifying second, you want to melt into it. Your pulse skitters like a trapped bird, and you jerk away because staying means drowning.

You lean away as far as the limited space allows and his face briefly twitches. You tear your gaze away from him only to lock eyes with Ja'Marr, who's been watching the two of you with barely concealed interest.

There's recognition in his expression that makes heat crawl up your neck. You wonder what he sees, whether the careful distance you've maintained looks as desperate as it feels. Whether everyone in this space can read the story written in the space between you and Joe.

"Sorry," Joe mutters beside you. The first words he’s spoken to you since the messages stopped coming. It had been a couple days after his birthday with no reply from you, when he finally took the hint.

For what? You want to bite back.

"It's fine," you opt for instead.

You tear your gaze away from Ja'Marr and scan the faces around you. Nate is settling into conversation with one of Joe's teammates, the others are making room for everyone, and Dom is watching you.

When your eyes meet his, you raise your eyebrows slightly—that silent sibling language you've perfected over the years. What?

He shakes his head once and looks away, but not before you catch an unfamiliar edge to him.

There's a shuffle as people start sliding into the booth, Bridget claiming the spot next to where Joe was sitting, Nate squeezing in beside her, Dom and one of the teammates on the other side. You make sure to slide in last, again perching on the very edge of the seat where you can bolt if you need to.

Joe is seated beside you, and you're hyper-aware of the space between you… or lack thereof. The booth that felt too small before now feels suffocating with everyone new crammed in.

Bridget is talking about the flight, about how excited she was to surprise everyone, and you nod along. Nate is talking about the game, how he and Bridget made friends with some random people near the student section, and you smile at his jokes.

Your phone buzzes again, probably Jalen responding to your last message, but you don't check it. Can't, really, not with Joe sitting right there, not with the memory of his face when he saw you texting someone about being a "star QB."

More people keep filtering into the bar, LSU students still riding the high of victory, Oklahoma fans drowning their sorrows, the energy getting louder and more chaotic by the minute.

You're ready to jump out of your own skin. The noise of the bar fades to white static as your nervous system floods with the need to escape. Anything but sitting here, drowning in the space between what you want and what you can't have, between who you're trying to be and who you become when he's near.

"—right?" Bridget's voice is directed at you, and you realize she's looking at you expectantly.

"Sorry, what?"

"I was saying how crazy it is that we're all here together. Like old times again."

"Yeah," you manage, forcing a smile. "Crazy."

But it doesn't feel like old times. It feels like wearing clothes that used to fit but now pinch in all the wrong places. Joe takes a sip of his drink, and you catch the movement in your peripheral vision, dialed into everything he does.

You start thinking of excuses. Headache. Stomach ache. Parents expecting you back. Anything to get out of here, away from the weight of Joe's presence and prying eyes.

That's when you spot him.

At first, you're not sure—it’s gotten so crowded, bodies shifting and blocking your view. But there's familiarity within the figure near the main bar area, the way he carries himself. You crane your neck slightly, trying to get a better look without being obvious about it.

Oklahoma crimson. The right height. Could it be—?

One of the guys he's with notices you staring and nudges him, pointing in your direction. When Jalen turns and looks, his face breaks into a smile you remember.

Heat crawls up your neck once again tonight, embarrassed at being caught staring, but also relieved beyond measure that it's actually him instead of some stranger. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips in response.

Jalen raises his hand and waves you over, tilting his head toward where he's standing. You slide out of the booth during a natural lull in conversation, your heart hammering so hard you're sure everyone can hear it over the noise.

Your legs feel unsteady as you navigate through the crowd, not from alcohol but from the sheer effort of holding yourself together for so long. You can still feel the phantom heat of Joe's body next to yours, the way your skin buzzed every time he shifted in his seat, the careful choreography of making sure no part of you accidentally touched any part of him.

By the time you reach Jalen, you’re full of something that feels dangerously close to gratitude. He represents everything that booth didn't—ease, simplicity, the possibility of a conversation that doesn't require you to search every word for hidden meanings.

"Look who decided to join the losing side."

"Someone had to check on you," you say, surprised by how normal your voice sounds when everything inside you feels like it's vibrating at the wrong frequency.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Check on me? I'm not the one who looks like I'd rather be anywhere else."

Before you can respond, he glances over your shoulder toward the booth, his expression shifting slightly. "So," he says, taking a sip of his drink, "you know half the LSU team or something?"

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your voice light. "Family friend."

"Ah." He nods along, smiling again.

"Speaking of," you say quickly, "when exactly were you planning to mention that you're apparently some hotshot quarterback? I had to find out by seeing your face on a jumbotron."

Jalen grins, the deflection working exactly as you'd hoped. "Hey, I told you I played football at a different school. Not my fault you never bothered to ask which one."

"You said you played football! You didn't say you were..." you gesture vaguely at the TV screens around the bar, where highlights from the game are still playing on loop, "...that."

"What, good?" His grin widens. "I definitely told you I was good."

"There's good, and then there's..." You trail off, shaking your head. "Okay, fine. I should have asked more questions."

"Should've googled me," he teases. "Very first result would've told you everything you needed to know."

"Who googles people anymore?" You. You do.

"Smart people who want to know if they're texting Heisman candidates."

You laugh despite yourself, and it feels good. "Heisman candidate? Aren't you humble." His eyes are dancing with amusement, and you realize you're smiling too much, laughing too easily. You feel like you can finally breathe.

Which is, of course, exactly when everything goes to hell.

"SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!"

The chanting is loud enough to cut through every other conversation in the place, and you don't need to look to know where it's coming from. Joe's voice rises above the rest, commanding and celebratory. It draws nearly every eye in the room.

"Sounds like your crew's getting started," Jalen observes out loud.

Before you can respond, the entire group is moving like a tide toward the bar and then they're there, surrounding you and Jalen like a wave crashing over a quiet shore. The careful distance you'd put between yourself and all of this evaporates in seconds.

"There she is!" Dom shouts, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Joe's buying everyone drinks!"

You're suddenly pressed between bodies again, the peace you'd found with Jalen shattered as LSU purple and gold invades your space. But it's not Dom you're watching, it's Joe, whose attention is fixed on Jalen with an intensity that makes you waver.

There's a moment of recognition, though the two have never met. Joe's jaw tightens subtly, and something cold flickers before the mask slides back into place.

"Well, well," Joe extends a hand toward Jalen and suddenly sports a smile that doesn’t quite touch the rest of him. "Jalen Hurts. Hell of a game tonight."

"Joe Burrow," Jalen responds, taking the offered hand. His smile genuine. "Appreciate it, man. Y'all played lights out."

The handshake lasts longer than expected, and you can feel the tension crackling between them. Two quarterbacks, two different worlds, sizing each other up with the kind of professional courtesy that barely conceals something sharper underneath.

"This is Jalen," you say quickly, turning to the others, desperate to diffuse whatever this is becoming. "Jalen, this is…" You rattle off introductions, watching as the guys exchange pleasantries, everyone playing their parts in this strange theater of sportsmanship.

But you can feel Joe watching you the entire time, tracking every interaction, every smile you give Jalen, every moment of ease between you two. There's possessiveness in the way he stalks, something that makes your skin feel too hot and too tight.

"So you two know each other?" Bridget asks, genuine curiosity in her voice as she looks between you and Jalen.

"We met back home," you say carefully, overly focused on Joe's attention. "Few months ago."

"Small world," Joe says, and there's an edge to his voice that only you seem to catch. "Amazing how people just... turn up places."

Jalen's eyes flick between you and Joe, and you see the moment he picks up on the undercurrent. His expression doesn't change, but something does in his posture, a subtle straightening that suggests he's reading the room just fine.

"Actually," you say, taking a small step toward Jalen, "we were just going to—"

"Oh no, no, no," Joe interrupts, his hand shooting out to catch your arm before you can move any farther. His grip is firm, his smile still mockingly wide and friendly. "Come on, we're just getting started here. Stay and celebrate with us."

You want to pull away, but doing so would draw attention you can't afford. Instead, you freeze, caught between the warmth of his hand and the weight of everyone's expectant gazes.

"Yeah, absolutely," Jalen says after a moment, his voice easy and accommodating. "I'm in no rush."

Joe orders another round of beers for him and the guys, shots for everyone else who wants because even he's not stupid enough to risk getting caught drinking hard liquor in public during playoff season.

The rest of the night unfolds in fragments, each moment feeling both too long and too brief.

Jalen somehow manages to secure two seats a little ways away, further from the main ruckus but still close enough to the others where it isn’t anything too intimate. You find yourself leaning into simple conversations with him, the kind that flows without effort despite everything swirling around you.

Somewhere along the way, you’d found out that when he left Alabama, Ohio State had actually been one of the schools he looked at. He spent some time there, met a few people, and now pops back whenever he gets the chance.

"So what's your New Year's looking like?" he asks, twirling his beer bottle between his hands. "Seems like I will now be free."

You laugh, "I don't know yet. Probably something lowkey. What about you?"

"Depends," he says, voice tilting just enough to make you look up. "Maybe I'll find myself back in Ohio for a bit. Check on some of those connections I mentioned."

The suggestion hangs between you, loaded with possibility. "That could be nice," you say, trying to keep your voice casual even as warmth spreads through your chest.

"Could be," he agrees, his eyes holding yours a beat longer than necessary.

Behind you, Dom tells some elaborate story about nearly getting kicked out of the Superdome for sneaking into the wrong section, complete with exaggerated reenactments that have half the group in stitches. When Jalen makes a dry comment about Dom's "criminal mastermind" skills, it makes you laugh.

And then, unmistakably, you feel Joe's shoulder pressing against your back. His presence is domineering. You freeze, once again caught between the urge to lean into it and the knowledge that you absolutely cannot.

The moment you stop laughing, he steps away as if nothing happened.

It happens again twenty minutes later when Jalen tells you about the time his teammate accidentally ordered twenty pizzas to the wrong address. Your laugh bubbles up, and there Joe is again, a wall of heat at your back, close enough to make your skin buzz with awareness.

You start to wonder if it's intentional. If he's testing something, pushing boundaries just to see what you'll do.

Later, when the conversation splits into smaller groups, you find yourself inadvertently eavesdropping on Bridget and Joe. She's gotten progressively more animated as the night has worn on, her cheeks flushed, movements a little looser.

"So what are you doing for New Year's?" she asks, leaning closer to Joe. "Please tell me you're not just going to sit at home alone."

Joe shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. "Haven't decided."

"Come on," she presses, her hand finding his arm. "We should do something fun."

"Maybe," Joe says, but his voice is flat.

You watch this exchange with a strange mix of emotions. Part of you wants to feel vindicated—see, he's not interested in her. But mostly you feel something else entirely as you observe him throughout the rest of the night.

The way he throws his head back when Justin tells a story about his rookie year. How Joe genuinely lights up talking about the game, about plays that worked, about the feeling of everything clicking into place. It’s a side of Joe that you don't get to see often anymore. And, despite everything between you, watching him happy makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

He deserves this. This joy, this success, this moment of pure celebration.

The thought surprises you with its sincerity.

As the night wears on, the bar begins to thin out. The post-game high starts to fade into exhaustion, and you realize your head is actually starting to pound—whether from the noise, the alcohol, or the emotional whiplash of the evening, you're not sure.

You're rubbing your temples when you hear one of Jalen's teammates call out, "Hurts! We're heading back. You coming?"

Jalen glances at you, then back at his friend. "Yeah, probably should."

"Actually," you say, seizing the opening, "I think I'm ready to head back too."

"Oh, well let me give you a ride," Jalen offers immediately. "Uber prices are probably insane right now, especially with the game traffic."

It's such a reasonable offer, such a normal thing to suggest, that you're already nodding when Joe's voice cuts through the conversation.

"Oh, nah man, that's good of you but we were probably heading back soon anyway—"

"No!" Bridget interrupts, her voice a little too loud for you right now. "You promised me darts last year, remember? We never got to play. Come on, just one game?"

Your face twists before you can control it, and when you look at Joe, his expression has gone completely pale. There's something almost panicked in his eyes as they dart between you and Bridget, like he's trying to figure out how to navigate this without making everything worse.

But the damage is already done. The reminder of the past year, of all the reasons you spent months learning how to forget sits among you.

"It's fine," you say quickly. "Jalen, if you don't mind..."

"Of course not," he’s already standing, eyes moving to Joe, before back to you. "Ready when you are."

You gather your things with shaking hands, say your goodbyes with a smile that feels like it might crack your face. Joe doesn't say anything as you leave, but you feel his eyes on you until the bar door swings shut behind you.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, save for whatever music Jalen has playing and the distant sounds of nightlife filtering through the car. You lean your head against the cool glass, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon colors and shadows.

When he pulls up to the hotel, he puts the car in park but doesn't immediately say goodbye. "Hey," he says, turning to face you. "I don't know what all that was back there, but… just want to make sure you’re good."

Your throat tightens. "Yeah, I am."

"Just take care of yourself, alright? And if you ever need someone to talk to, or if you feel like letting me buy you a drink next time I’m up there…" He trails off, letting the offer hang in the air.

"Thank you," you mean it more than he probably realizes. "Who knows, might take you up on that offer." You muster up a grin, watching as a smile covers his face at the sight.

"I’ll be waiting.”

You lean over and give him a quick hug, friendly enough to remind yourself that there are still people in the world who make things easier instead of harder.

The hotel lobby is mercifully quiet when you walk in, just the soft ding of the elevator and the muted conversations of a few late-night stragglers by the bar. You'd splurged on your own room for this trip, separate from your parents and Dom, telling yourself you needed the space to decompress after finals. It was the one luxury you'd allowed yourself, and right now you're grateful for the foresight.

Your room is on the fourteenth floor with a view of the city that you barely glance at as you drop your purse on the desk and kick off your shoes. Your feet ache, your head pounds, and an exhaustion settles into your bones that goes deeper than just physical tiredness.

The shower you take is scalding, the kind of hot that turns your skin pink and makes the small bathroom fill with steam. You stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the smell of the bar and the remaining confusion from the entire night.

When you finally finish, you change into your pajamas. The hotel's terry cloth robe goes over your hair as you pad around the bathroom to start your nighttime routine.

You're working cleanser into your skin, the familiar motions almost meditative, when there's a knock at your door. You freeze, foam still covering your cheeks, your heart immediately jumping to your throat. It's after midnight. Your parents wouldn't come by this late, and Dom would text first.

There’s another knock, softer this time but more insistent.

You rinse your face quickly, not bothering to dry it properly before padding to the door. Through the peephole, you can make out two distinct figures.

Frowning, you unlock the door and open it to find your brother swaying slightly in the hallway, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Behind him, looking tired and more than a little tense, stands Joe.

"Dom?" You look between them, confused. "What—how are you this drunk? I just left like an hour ago."

Your brother pushes past you into the room without invitation, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Had to—had to talk to you," he slurs, gesturing vaguely as he stumbles through.

You look back at Joe, who's still standing in the doorway, for some kind of explanation. He runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. "I don't know," he says with a shrug. "He just kept saying he had to talk to you. Wouldn't let it go."

Dom has somehow made it to your desk chair and is now attempting to sit down, missing it slightly before correcting himself. "Close the door," he mumbles, waving his hand. "This is important."

You reluctantly shut the door, crossing your arms over yourself. "Dom, what the hell is going on? You're completely wasted."

He looks up at you with that serious expression drunk people get when they think they're about to say the dumbest thing. "I gotta ask you something," he says, pointing an unsteady finger in your direction. "And I need... I need you to be honest with me."

Your heart drops to your stomach. This is it. Somehow, he knows. Your mouth goes dry as you wait for him to continue.

"Is there..." he pauses, swaying slightly even while sitting, "is there anything going on? Like, anything I should know about?"

The question hangs in the air, deliberately vague but loaded with its implication. You can feel the blood draining from your face as you stare at him, your mind racing. He knows. He has to know.

But then you really look at him, seeing the way his eyelids are drooping, how he's having trouble focusing on your face, at the sloppy way he's moving about.

He's absolutely obliterated. The kind of drunk where he probably won't remember his own name tomorrow, let alone this conversation. If you can just deny everything, play dumb, he'll wake up tomorrow with a massive hangover and no memory of whatever suspicions brought him here tonight.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, your voice coming out higher than normal. "Dom, I'm tired. It's been a long day and I just want to go to sleep."

But Dominic isn't deterred. He's rambling now, words tumbling over each other. "Because like... I see things, you know? And tonight was just... there was all this weird energy and I don't know what's happening but—"

"Dom." You move toward the door, desperate to end this conversation before it goes anywhere you can't come back from. "Seriously. There's nothing going on. You're drunk and you're not making sense."

You pull the door open, gesturing for him to leave. "Come on. Let's get you back to your room."

Dom looks like he wants to protest, at one point saying he’ll be back to talk more, but you're already moving toward him. Your hands are on his shoulders, guiding him up from his chair and toward the doorway. He stumbles a bit as you push him into the hall and that's when Joe steps forward, catching Dom's other arm to steady him.

"Alright, man," Joe says, his voice gentle but firm. "Let's go."

Joe gets Dom about halfway down the hall before your brother decides he needs to sit down right there on the carpet. While Joe's trying to convince him to keep moving, he keeps looking over his shoulder at you.

Joe’s eyes meet yours for the third time, and that's when you've had enough.

"What?" you snap, your voice cutting through the hallway. "Do you need something?"

His head whips back around, drawing back slightly like he wasn't expecting the bite in your tone. He stares at you, your brother momentarily forgotten at his feet, mouth slightly ajar.

You slam the door before he can say anything else, the sound echoing down the hall. Your hands shake as you turn the deadbolt, heart pounding against your chest.

So startled, you can't even finish what you were doing. The towel wrapped around your hair feels too heavy, so you yank it off and let it fall to the bathroom floor in a damp heap. Your skincare products sit abandoned on the counter as you stumble to the bed, crawling under the covers.

Your phone becomes your new best friend, something to focus on that isn't the chaos in your head. You scroll mindlessly through Instagram, TikTok, anything that might quiet the noise. The blue light burns your eyes but you keep going, thumb moving on autopilot.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe fifteen. You're deep in some random cooking video when a loud knock reverberates through the room.

Your stomach drops. Dominic. He probably got away from Joe, sobered up just enough to remember he wasn't finished interrogating you. The anger that's been simmering all night finally boils over.

You throw off the covers and storm to the door, fury making your movements sharp and reckless. "Fuck off, Dominic!" you seethe as you yank the door open. "I already told you—"

But it's not Dom.

Joe stands in the doorway, one arm braced against the frame, and his face is hard in a way that makes you take an involuntary step back. There's something dangerous in his expression that you've never seen before.

"The fuck is your problem?" he asks, his voice low and sharp.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Your brain shorts out completely, every angry word you had ready for Dom evaporating in the face of Joe's presence. You try to close the door, instinct taking over, but his hand shoots out to stop it, palm flat against the wood.

"Don't," he says, and there's warning in his tone.

"Don't what?" you snap, finding your voice again. "Don't close my own door? Get your hand off it."

"Not until you tell me what the hell that was about," Joe says, pushing the door wider instead of letting go. "What was that shit in the hallway?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." You try to push the door closed again but he's stronger, and the door doesn't budge.

"Bullshit." He steps into your room, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small. "You ignore me for how long. Won't even look at me. And then tonight you're all over Jalen fucking Hurts."

Dread fills your body—embarrassment, anger, the sick realization that he doesn’t care he'd been watching you all night, just like you felt. "I wasn't all over—"

"Acting like he hung the fucking moon, jumping at the chance to leave with him, making little plans." Joe's voice is getting louder. "Real cute how you can be yourself with him but you treat me like I've got the plague."

"That's not—"

"What? That's not what happened?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I watched you!"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Don't I?" Joe steps closer, and you can see the hurt beneath the anger now. "Because it looked like you were having a great fucking time with Oklahoma's golden boy. Really moving on, huh?"

"So what if I am?" The words come out defensive, meaner than you intended. "So what if I'm talking to someone who actually treats me like I matter?"

Joe rears back for a second. "Someone who treats you like you matter? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Your chest tightens. You've said too much, revealed too much of the hurt you've been carrying. "It means," you say, your voice shaking with anger, "that he doesn't sleep with other people and then act like I'm the problem."

The silence that follows is deafening. Joe stares at you, his expression shifting from anger to something that looks almost like panic.

"Is that what you think happened?" he asks quietly.

"I don't think it, Joe. I know it." Your voice breaks. "I saw you. Both of you." At the mention of it, the memory floods your mind once again like how it's haunted you for months. Bridget’s smudged makeup, fumbling with her pants. Joe’s unkempt appearance, his eyes locked with your own hopeful ones. Your stomach churns with the same sick feeling you felt that night.

"Jesus Christ." Joe runs both hands down his face. "You think I—you’re thinking about it wrong."

"What else am I supposed to think?" Tears are burning behind your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. "You had your hands all over me one minute, and the next you're fucking Bridget."

"It wasn't—" Joe stops, his jaw working like he's trying to find the right words. "That's not how it happened."

"Then how did it happen, Joe? Because from where I was standing, it looked pretty fucking clear."

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor. "I was angry," he says quietly. "I was hurt and pissed off and I did something stupid."

"Stupid?" You laugh, but it comes out cracked. "Is that what you call it?"

"I call it the biggest fucking mistake," Joe says, his voice raw. "I call it something I've regretted every single day since it happened."

"Oh, well that makes it better," you say, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You regret it. Great. That totally fixes everything."

"It meant nothing," Joe says suddenly. "It was just—I was angry and hurt and I wanted to hurt you back."

His words do nothing but draw up more of the memories you’ve been trying to run from. "Don't."

"I'm serious. It felt wrong the entire time because it wasn't you. Because you're the only one I wanted and I was too fucking scared to admit it."

"Stop talking." Your voice is barely a whisper.

"You want to know the truth?" Joe's voice is getting louder again, more desperate. "The truth is I've been crazy about you since that first night together. The truth is I've spent the last year hating myself for fucking up the one thing I actually wanted to keep."

Your world tilts sideways. Every wall you've built, every reason you've given yourself for staying away from him, starts to crumble. This is what you wanted to hear for so long, but now that he's saying it, you don't know if you can believe it.

"You're lying."

"I'm not." Joe takes a step toward you, and you can see tears in his eyes now. "I'm not lying. I really fucking like you. And I fucked it up because I was scared and stupid and I didn't know how to tell you."

"I wanted to believe it didn't mean anything," you whisper, your voice cracking. "All of it. I wanted to believe you didn't care because it was easier than thinking you chose her over me."

Joe's face crumples. "I never chose her. Not for a single second. I was just—I was so fucking scared of how much I needed you that I did the one thing guaranteed to push you away."

"Why?" The word comes out broken. "Why were you scared?"

He pauses for a second, looking lost. "Because you're you. Dom's smart, gorgeous, sister who was—is too good for me. I knew that if I let myself fall for you completely, there'd be no coming back from it."

"And now?"

"Now I've spent a year trying to come back from it anyway," he admits. "And I can’t. I can't shut it off. You're in my head all the fucking time.”

Joe sighs, "I miss it even when I know I shouldn’t." He cuts himself off before he rambles even more, but you can see it in his eyes, the same need that's been eating you alive for months.

"Miss what?"

"You," he breathes. "All of you. Not just—not just the physical stuff. I want to wake up next to you. I want to know how your day was. I want to be the person you call when something good happens, or when something shitty happens, or when nothing happens at all."

Your breath hitches, throat closing. "Joe..."

"I know I fucked it up. I know I don’t deserve you. But if there’s any part of you that still wants to even try—" his voice breaks there, unsteady, "just give me that.”

You stare at him, at the tears on his cheeks, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing keeping his heart beating, and suddenly, you can't remember why you've been fighting this so hard.

"I never stopped," you confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I tried to hate you, tried to move on, but I never stopped wanting you."

The second the words leave your mouth, something in him snaps.

Joe surges forward, hands finding your face with a desperation that makes your breath catch. His mouth is on yours before you can take another breath, tasting of months of regret and every unsaid word. You gasp into him, fingers clutching at the front of his shirt.

His lips move against yours with an urgency that feels almost painful. His hands drop from your face, skimming down your sides, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him like he needs you closer, needs to feel you everywhere at once.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper his name, breathless, before he’s chasing your mouth again, hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingertips drag along your bare skin, drawing a cold shiver from you as you lean into him instinctively, craving more, needing him.

"I missed you," he repeats against your lips, voice shaking as his hands slide higher, up your ribs, thumbs brushing the curve of your breasts. "I fucking missed you."

"Then show me," you whisper back.

Joe groans and the next time he kisses you it's messier, deeper, all teeth and tongue and months of pent-up need exploding between you. He walks you backwards blindly, until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall back with a breathless gasp, pulling him down with you.

His hands never stop moving, like he's terrified this is all some dream he’ll wake up from. His lips trace a hot path down your throat, over your collarbone, his breath shaky against your skin as he murmurs, "need you so bad."

Your fingers thread through his hair to pull him impossibly closer. Everything else fades away—the fights, the hurt, the miscommunication. Your back arches off the bed as his mouth moves lower, and you can feel the desperation in every touch, every kiss.

His mouth finds the soft dip beneath your ribs, warm breath ghosting across your skin as he pauses. His fingers tighten around your waist, composing himself there before sliding up again, dragging your shirt with his hands.

You lift your arms wordlessly, letting him peel it over your head and toss it somewhere behind him, forgotten. The second your skin is bare, his eyes dart around like he doesn’t know where to look first.

“My god,” he exhales, face breaking into a sly grin. His thumb traces over your sternum, then up to the hollow of your throat. “Don’t even know what you do to me.”

You do. You feel it in the tremble of his hands, in the heat of his breath, in the way his pupils have blown wide, swallowing the blue. But you don’t say so, just enjoy the fact that you do.

His lips follow his hands—over your chest, down your stomach, each kiss burning hotter than the last, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. He pauses there, breathing hard, his forehead dipping against your hip like he’s on the edge of breaking again.

“Say it’s okay,” he whispers, voice hoarse, eyes lifting to meet yours.

You can barely get the words out, “’s okay.” His fingers hook beneath the fabric, sliding it down. The cool air hits your skin, making you shudder as the last of the fabric clears your ankles, tossed aside somewhere neither of you care to look.

Joe stays knelt between your legs for a moment, eyes roaming over you. His breath is shaky as his gaze drags up the length of your bare body. You wait for his next move, but instead of leaning back in, he moves suddenly.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping tight, and with one smooth motion, he flips both of you over, shifting his weight until his back settles against the headboard, pulling you up to straddle him.

You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you land in his lap, the rough denim beneath you a delicious contrast to your bare core. The unexpected motion knocks a breathless laugh from your throat, and for a second, the heat between you softens.

Joe’s mouth curves into a crooked grin at the sound of your laughter, his eyes never leaving your face. “There she is,” he murmurs, eyes flickering between your mouth and your swollen lips.

His hands trace up and down your sides, over the curve of your waist, up your bare back, thumbs gliding across your skin like he’s mapping you out. The touch sends goosebumps chasing after his fingertips, your breath catching again as your body settles fully against him.

When your laughter fades and your gaze finds his, you’re both a little dazed. For a long second, neither of you say much of anything as you take each other in.

His hand drifts higher, fingers curling lightly under your jaw, tilting your face toward his as his thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Then his other hand slides into your hair, threading through gently, pulling you closer until his lips hover right over yours.

The tension between you thickens with every slow pass of his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, pulling a soft whimper from your chest as your hands fist into his shirt, clinging to him.

Your kiss deepens, messy and open, heat pooling low in your stomach as you shift in his lap, grinding down instinctively against the hard length of him still trapped beneath thick denim. The friction makes both of you groan, his grip on your hips tightening as his head falls back against the headboard for a second, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You roll your hips again, slower this time, dragging yourself over him tauntingly, loving the reaction you draw from him.

“Good,” you whisper against his mouth, lips brushing his as you speak. “Deserve it.”

Joe huffs out a breath against your mouth—something between a laugh and a groan—but his hands never leave you. His fingers adjust, digging in just a little harder.

Still breathless, you tug at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling under the fabric, desperate to get it off. “Take this off.”

He leans back just enough for you to yank it up, his hands helping as the material drags over his head and lands behind you. Your eyes drop, taking in the stretch of his bare chest, the rise and fall of it as he breathes hard beneath you.

You’re already leaning in again, mouth dragging along the sharp line of his jaw, down his throat, lips parting against the soft skin there before he gets a chance to fully settle. His head tips back instinctively, giving you more space to work.

Joe’s breath catches as your tongue flicks just beneath his ear. “Fuck, baby.” Your hips hover as he shifts beneath you, fumbling at the waistband of his jeans. His fingers work fast as he undoes the button and drags the zipper down. You stay pressed close to him, lips never leaving his skin.

Lifting his hips, he shoves both his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, breath hissing between his teeth as he finally frees himself. You feel the hard weight of him press up against you, hot and heavy, and it knocks a small gasp from your lips as your hips instinctively roll forward again.

The sensation makes his hands fly to your hips first, then lower, gripping handfuls of your ass as he holds you there. You rock your hips again, slower this time, dragging yourself over him to feel the slick heat of him sliding against you.

His breath punches out of him, head tipping back with a dull thud, his throat working as he swallows hard. “Jesus,” he grits, voice strangled. “You feel that?”

You nod, breath hitching and hands spreading wide across his chest, digging into the warm flex of his muscles. You can feel how hard he is, how thick, sliding perfectly against your swollen center every time you move. The friction alone is enough to make your thighs tremble, your core clenching around nothing, desperate for him.

“Joe,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of what’s to come, “can I?”

That does it. His hands slide down, one moving to grip the base of himself, lining up with you, while the other holds you tight, steadying you.

“C’mere, baby.” He guides you, “nice and slow.”

You hover for half a second, mind clouded with lust as you feel the blunt head of him catch at your entrance. Even after everything, the stretch makes your breath stutter when you finally start to sink down onto him.

His mouth drops open, a sharp exhale leaving him as his fingers dig into you, sure to leave bruises for the morning. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it. Just like that.”

The burn is sharp at first, that perfect edge of too much and not enough, and you brace your hands on his shoulders, panting softly as you take him inch by inch. His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every single reaction play out across your face like he can’t look away.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice barely audible. “You’re goddamn perfect.”

When you finally bottom out, fully seated in his lap, you both pause for a moment. You’re panting and overwhelmed, completely full all at once. You swear you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat inside you, throbbing in time with your own.

His hands slide up your back again, one threading into your hair as he pulls your face back down to his, kissing you hard. The first slow roll of your hips pulls a broken groan from both of you, your nails scraping lightly over his chest as you start to move, grinding down into him.

The friction is dangerous now—your bare skin dragging over him, every tiny shift making his breath stutter against your mouth. With each drop of your hips, your clit catches against the base of him, sending sharp little sparks skittering through your stomach, dragging you closer every time you fall into him.

“Missed you so fucking much.”

At his words, you whimper into his mouth, grinding harder, chasing that spark curling low in your belly with every drag of his cock inside you. His head drops again, forehead resting against yours as you ride him, the tension building tight between you.

Every roll of your hips sends another pulse of pleasure through both of you, until neither of you can keep your breathing steady, until you feel his grip start to falter, desperate to fuck up into you.

You feel his control slowly begin to fray, his need urging to take over. His voice breaks, as he stutters your name out. “I—fuck—I need—”

In the next breath, he shifts beneath you, planting his feet flat against the bed, using the leverage to thrust up into you hard, deep, dragging a sharp cry from your throat as your body jolts.

“Oh my god.” your voice shatters on a breathless gasp, your hands scrambling at his shoulders.

“That what you needed?” His voice is mean against your ear. “That what you’ve been thinking about at night? Riding my cock just like this?”

And yes, you had. More than you wanted to admit. Some nights, no matter how hard you tried, the only thing that could pull you close enough to release was the thought of him like this, buried deep, your body moving over his just like now.

He thrusts up again, your body lifting slightly with the force of it before dropping back down onto him, fully seated. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his bare skin, head falling forward.

He kisses you again, swallowing your broken sounds, tongue sliding against yours like he can’t get enough of you—like he’s trying to breathe you in, steal every sound you make and keep it for himself

Your hips start to move with him, finding a perfect rhythm together. You grind down as he drives up into you, his cock dragging deep with every stroke, the friction catching exactly where you need it, making your head spin.

The wet slap of skin fills the air, the sound of your gasps and his low curses blending into something obscene. Your body is trembling now, the coil low in your belly tightening to the point of snapping, every roll of your hips dragging you closer, every thrust sending a sharp jolt of heat through your veins.

“Joe—” you choke out, barely breathing. “I—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he pants, his hands moving around, one threading into your hair again as he pulls your mouth back to his once more. “Let me feel you.”

And when it hits, when you finally snap—you fall apart in his lap, a sob ripping from you as you clamp down around him, the waves of it crashing hard and fast. Your whole body jerks against him, muscles locking up as your orgasm blooms through you.

“Fuck—fuck—” Joe groans, his own hips stuttering as he feels you clench around him, and with a last broken thrust, he follows, spilling into you with a sound that vibrates against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move, bodies locked together, his arms wrapped tight around you. Your breathing slowly evens out, the frantic desperation giving way to something softer. Joe's hand traces lazy circles on your back, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder, your neck, wherever he can reach.

The exhaustion hits you both at once—emotional and physical, everything finally catching up. You clean up quietly, moving around each other with a careful tenderness, like you're both afraid to break whatever fragile thing has reformed between you.

When you finally crawl under the hotel sheets together, you fit against him like you never left. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and for the first time in a year, the knot in your stomach finally loosens.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing evening out behind you, his face buried in your hair, his body solid against yours. Your mind drifts with questions you can't answer—whether this changes anything or if morning will bring back the same careful distance, whether he'll pretend this never happened, or how you even begin to navigate whatever this is when you're not hidden away anymore.

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elethial · 1 month ago

Text

══ ꒰ New Year, New Nothin' ꒱ ══ POST WINTER BREAK FINAL PART

-ˋˏ this post may contain NSFW content - enjoy at your own risk - don’t like it, don’t fuckin read it ˎˊ-

-ˋˏ Note/Warnings: The following part contains insight of a toxic and manipulative relationship. While all actions were consensual within the context of the story, the emotional dynamics may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Please prioritize your well-being — it’s okay to skip this part if it feels overwhelming. Take care of yourself ── Support resources and hotlines are listed below:

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org.

Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741.

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). ˎˊ-

-ˋˏ Previous parts ── [ Part 1 ] , [ Part 2 ] , [ Part 3 ] , [ Part 4 ] , [ Part 5 ] ˎˊ-

-ˋˏ Word count: 13,685 ˎˊ-

˗ˏˋ I recommend playing the song when I cue it later in the fic, but it's totally optional. It just enhances the mood and adds context. Feel free to listen before, during, or after! ˎˊ˗

Joe hissed through his teeth as he dabbed at the split in his lip, flinching at the sting. Blood bloomed into the tissue, already soaked and torn. His knuckles were busted—raw and swollen, a few specks of dried blood caked between the creases of his fingers. He looked rough. Felt worse.

The frat house, once thundering with music and laughter, now sat in eerie silence. Cups were overturned, furniture out of place, echoes of chaos clinging to the walls. Everyone had cleared out hours ago. But Joe hadn't moved.

Not really.

He stared at himself in the mirror, the weight of his own thoughts dragging heavy behind his eyes. His face looked fucked up, but it wasn’t his lip or hands that hurt the most—it was whatever was unraveling in his chest.

He was angry. So fucking angry.

A quiet knock on the door pulled him from the spiral. He crumpled the bloodied tissue and tossed it into the trash, the lid clanking as it closed. Then he swung the bathroom door open, jaw tight.

Ja'Marr stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, “You alright, man?” he asked, voice low and cautious.

Joe scoffed under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching as he touched his lip again.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just fine.”

Ja'Marr stepped inside, eyes flicking from Joe’s face to his hands and gave him a look. The kind of look that said you can lie, but I’m not buying it. He leaned back against the sink next to him, arms folded.

“That had to be about more than a stupid video, right?” Ja’Marr asked, voice low and steady. “Wasn’t just the guy runnin’ his mouth.”

Joe didn’t answer.

Ja’Marr stepped further into the bathroom, into Joe’s line of sight, making sure there was nowhere to look but him or the mirror. “Joe,” he pressed, “am I right?”

Joe’s jaw clenched, his tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek as his gaze darted away—then reluctantly found its way back to the mirror.

He stared at himself. The busted lip. The bruised knuckles. And underneath it all, the guilt bleeding through his expression.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Joe muttered, voice rough, quiet.

Not the push. Not the stares. Not the laughs. Not the bullshit that followed. And sure as hell not all the burdens Joe carried with himself.

Ja’Marr didn’t say anything right away. He just gave a small nod, like that truth was a step in the right direction—even if it was too late.

They sat in thick silence, the kind that buzzed with everything unspoken.

Joe’s hands rested on the edge of the sink, knuckles still raw, red soaking into the white porcelain like a warning. He didn’t look at Ja’Marr when he finally spoke again.

“You know where she is?”

Ja’Marr nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Joe’s eyes stayed on the sink. “She alright?”

Ja’Marr exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. “Physically? Sure. But… come on, man. You know the answer.”

Joe scoffed under his breath and leaned against the wall, running his tongue over the split in his lip. “Fuck.”

Joe’s jaw clenched. “I can’t explain it. Not to her. She wouldn’t understand.”

Ja’Marr shook his head, voice steady but firm. “You need to stop acting like your situation’s some kind of unexplainable mess. Doll, out of everyone, would probably get it the most. But you keep shutting her out, not even giving her the chance to understand.”

Joe shoved off the wall, pacing now. “She thinks I did it on purpose. That I just—what? Decided to shove her in front of everybody to prove some fucked up point?”

“She thinks you’re an asshole,” Ja’Marr said plainly. “And right now? You’re not exactly proving her wrong.”

Joe stopped. Turned. “You don’t think I know that? You don’t think that’s been on a loop in my head all fuckin’ night?”

Ja'Marr exhaled, taking a step closer. “Then talk to her, Joe. Show her that side of you, man. Be real for once.”

Joe's expression hardened, his fists clenching at his sides. "And what the hell am I supposed to say, huh? ‘Sorry I shoved you in the pool and made you look like a fuckin’ joke in front of everyone. It’s just that my ex cheated on me over and over, and I was too much of a pussy 'in love' to do something about it. She used every ounce of love I gave her against me, and now I can’t even hug a girl without feeling like I’m gonna lose my shit’? Is that what you want me to say?"

Ja’Marr blinked, taken slightly off guard.

Joe laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah. Sounds real fucking sane.”

“She doesn’t need your life story, Joe,” Ja’Marr said after a moment. “She just needs to know it wasn’t about her. That you do, in fact, care. Even if you can’t say the words, you’ve gotta try.”

Joe leaned forward, bracing his arms on the sink, staring himself down in the mirror yet again.

“She looked at me like we had never met. Like I was a fuckin' stranger,” he said quietly.

"Because you treat her like one," Ja'Marr said bluntly. "You want people to understand you? You need to come to terms with the fact that not everyone will. People are going to judge you. That’s when you decide who you’re gonna open up to. Your past hookups? They didn’t deserve to know what you had for dinner.”

Ja'Marr huffed, his eyes filled with understanding and something deeper—validation. “But Doll? She’s shown you time and time again that she’s not just another one of Joe Burrows hookups. And I see it, man. Deep down, you know that too."

Joe’s gaze dropped to the floor, a painful silence stretching between them. Ja’Marr was right. He knew it. But admitting it? Admitting that he was terrified of letting anyone in again—it felt like a weight too heavy to carry.

➽──❥

Ja’Marr had expected Joe to show up the next morning.

Hell, maybe not morning—they hadn’t crashed until nearly five a.m., and Joe looked like he'd been hit by a truck emotionally and physically—but Ja’Marr figured once the sun was up, Joe would be too. He thought the words had landed. Thought maybe, just maybe, Joe had finally let his guard drop enough to do something about it.

But morning came and went. Then the next day. And the next.

Three damn days.

Three days of Joe disappearing into himself, retreating behind that same stone-cold silence he always used to protect himself. Ja’Marr didn’t say anything—he’d learned not to push too hard—but every time he saw Joe walk past his phone without reaching for it, or smoke another blunt in silence for hours on the deck, he felt his patience fray.

By the third night, he’d had enough.

Joe was slumped on the couch, hoodie on, hood up, chewing absentmindedly on the drawstring while some random game played on the TV. He looked half-present, like he was watching the world from a few inches outside his own body.

Ja’Marr dropped onto the couch beside him with a heavy sigh.

“You know, I really thought you’d go see her by now.”

Joe didn’t respond. Just shifted his jaw and stared straight ahead.

Ja’Marr kept going. “It’s been three days, man. And you’ve just been here, sulking and doing what? Coming up with excuses?”

Joe’s voice was low, defensive. “You don’t get it.”

“I do get it, man,” Ja’Marr snapped, turning to face him fully. “You’re scared. You don’t wanna fuck it up more than you already have, so instead, you’re doing the one thing that guarantees you lose her. Nothing.”

Joe’s jaw tightened, nostrils flaring. “Appreciate it, bro. Really making me feel awesome about the whole situation. Shits’ not easy, alright? Give me some time.”

“No,” Ja’Marr agreed, “It’s not easy. But it’s not complicated either. You said you didn’t mean to humiliate her. You said she didn’t deserve that. You know you panicked, and you know she doesn’t understand why.”

Joe finally paused the game, controller dropping to his lap as he looked over, eyes shadowed and voice low. “What if I show up and she’s already over it?” he muttered. “What if she realized I’m not worth all the chances she’s given me.”

Ja’Marr scoffed. "Then at least she hears the truth from you. And If she’s really done, then she deserves the chance to say it to your face. You owe her that much, man. Don’t leave her with any more questions."

Ja'Marr's words hung in the air, a weight Joe couldn’t shake off. That one hit. Joe closed his eyes, swallowing hard. He felt a knot tighten in his chest. He hadn’t felt this feeling in a long time—the feeling of guilt gnawing at him. It twisted inside, clawing at his insides like a constant reminder of how far he’d fucked up.

Joe had built up his walls for so long—so high, he let out a breath as he rubbed his hand over his face, shaking his head like he could shake the feeling loose. He can’t.

“She waited for you,” Ja’Marr said, quieter now, the edge in his voice softening. “After that night—she didn’t blow up your phone, didn’t pull some big dramatic scene like any other chick would. Shit, Nylah straight-up offered to help her key your car, and Doll still said no.”

He gave Joe a pointed look. “She gave you space, man. That means she was hoping you'd come back on your own. She was waiting on you to do the right thing. And now? It’s been three days. Three days too fuckin' long.”

The weight of it was suffocating, the pads of his calloused fingers rubbing at his forehead like he could scrub the guilt clean off. But then—his hand dropped, and his eyes snapped to Ja'Marr.

“Wait—” he blinked. “Nylah wanted to key my car?!”

Ja'Marr raised his hands, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Man, she had the keys out and everything. Said she’d carve ‘fuckboy’ right into the hood. I was ready to block her like it was fourth-and-goal.”

His grin faded as he shook his head, the weight of the moment settling in. He fixed Joe with a pointed stare. “Doll had every reason to let that happen, but she still told Ny to chill out.”

For a moment, the silence hung heavy, before Ja'Marr's voice broke through, softer this time. "I don’t know what I’m gonna say."

Ja’Marr shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then start with that.”

➽──❥

「Now playing : Celebrate by James Arthur」

Flashback:

“Just look at all these scars of mine–”

Joe's blood boiled as he paced around the cramped apartment, hands clenched into fists. The pounding in his head only grew louder, the frustration building like a storm in his chest. He could barely even look at her—Esmae, standing in the middle of the room, her tear-streaked face twisted in a mix of hurt and something darker, something manipulative.

"You don't get to keep doing this shit to me, Esmae." Joe's voice cracked with anger, the words falling from his lips like venom. His fists slammed onto the nearest kitchen counter as he turned to face her, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.

“You should probably check my vitals–”

Esmae didn't flinch. Instead, she wiped the tears from her face, but the look on her face was dangerous. A smirk was playing at the corners of her mouth, a sickly smile that didn’t match the tears.

"To you?!" She shouted back, her voice raw and throaty, matching his volume with ease. "Fuck you, Joe! You don’t get to keep doing it to ME!"

“Anxiety can be deceiving, lets the demons relax. Relax–”

Joe could barely keep his composure as she marched up to him, fire in her eyes, fists balled at her sides. "You—You fucking make me crazy!" she spat, her breath coming in sharp bursts. "You put me in these situations where I just want to feel... feel love, Joe! You don’t give me love! And that’s all I wanted from you!"

Her words hit him like a slap to the face. Joe’s stomach twisted, but he couldn’t back down. Not this time.

“Just ride the feeling when you feel it b-b-beating to fast–”

"Love you?" he barked, shaking his head in disbelief, his voice low, deadly. "You make me fucking sick, Esmae. Fucking sick. I don't put you in situations to fuck a new guy every damn week, that’s your batshit crazy ass, not because you want me to love you. You keep chasing something I can’t give you. I don’t owe you anything," Joe said, his voice deep and low, as he turned and walked toward the living room.

Esmae’s face twisted with rage, her eyes flashing. She was quiet for a second, taking a deep breath before she hit him with the one thing she knew would dig at him.

"You cheated on me last week after we made up!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "Joe, you fucking said you loved me and cheated the next day!"

“Its a throwback to the old days–I I slip back to my old ways–”

His stomach lurched at her words, his body stiffening, the weight of her accusation sinking deep into him. The heat in his chest grew, a wave of confusing guilt crashing over him. He couldn’t figure out why he felt so bad doing the same things to her that she’d done to him. All he’d wanted was for her to feel how he’d felt, to understand the pain she’d put him through—but it always backfired, gnawing at him until it ate him alive.

In this moment, though, that guilt was drowned out by a surge of anger. He spun around fast, the sudden movement catching her off guard. She stumbled back, following too close behind him that her chest slammed hard into his as he turned to face her head-on.

“Tryna catch your breath in a hurricane–”

“I said I loved fucking you, Esmae. That’s the truth. You want me to love you? To give a shit? You know I don’t, and you know damn well that’s why you keep playing your game. You cheat, we make up, and you cheat again. God forbid I play your game!” His chest was heaving with the intensity of his words, the anger bubbling over.

Esmae’s face twisted, but she didn’t back down. No, she was too good at this. She let the tears flow freely now, sobbing in a way that almost made Joe hesitate. Almost.

But then it was like a switch flipped. Joe could feel his whole body tensing, the knot of anger and betrayal tying him tighter. She didn’t get it. She’d never get it.

"Cut the shit, Es. You’re so fucking good at playing the victim, every single time. Stop pretending like you give a shit when you only care about one thing—making me fall for your shit so you can tear it all apart again. You don’t care about me. You care about controlling me. And I’m sick of it.”

“While everybody celebrates–”

Esmae’s tears kept coming, but her words were sharper than ever. "You want to pretend like you don’t care? You wanna act like I’m controlling you? Look at you, Joe. You’re just as fucking messed up as I am. You keep coming back, just like a dog to its owner, because you fucking like it. You like the chaos. You like the way I make you feel. And that’s why you can’t leave.”

By the end of her sentence, Joe could see the sick look in her eyes. It was almost her natural gaze anymore, cold and calculating, as if she took pleasure in his discomfort.

“They don’t know i’m trapped–”

“You think I like this?!” His gaze locked on her, unwavering, even as his heart pounded in his ears. “You make me feel like I’m fucking crazy for wanting more!”

“Show me how to numb the pain–”

Esmae stood there, the tears still flowing, her lips trembling, her expression a twisted mix of innocence and rage. It was the same damn look she always wore when she knew she had him right where she wanted him—vulnerable and angry. She wore it like a weapon, using it to twist the knife deeper into the wound she’d created.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord–”

But as she stood there, her eyes wide with that familiar act, Joe felt the last threads of his patience snap. His blood boiled, his heart pounding harder in his chest as he took a step forward, closing the gap between them. The control he’d managed to hold onto shattered, and all he could think about was how much he hated her for making him feel this way.

"You don’t get to pull that shit with me anymore, Esmae," he spat, his voice low, dripping with venom as the words burned through the air like acid on his tongue. "I’m done." He meant it—God, he meant it. But it wasn’t that simple. It never was with her. Because he’d meant it two weeks ago, when she’d done the same thing. And the week before that. And the week before that. This was their endless loop.

“I’ve come a long way from nowhere–”

And right on cue, just like every time before, Joe didn’t even make it two steps.

His keys barely jingled in his hand before she was on him — fingers clawing at his shirt, grabbing hold of him with a desperate strength that didn’t match the frailty in her voice.

"Baby," she gasped out, the word slicing the heavy silence between them, small and broken, but sharp enough to land right where she aimed.

“A phone call coulda saved my life–”

He stiffened, the muscles in his back locking up like he’d been hit. He should’ve kept walking. Should’ve left her standing there, alone with her lies.

But when she said his name like that — when she said "Baby" like it cost her something — it sank into him too deep, threading through his ribs, anchoring him there.

"Baby, J... look at me," Esmae whispered again, her voice breaking as her trembling hands slid up to his face, palms framing his cheeks.

Her thumbs brushed the heat blooming across his skin, and she tilted her head, soft and coaxing — like she was something fragile, something worth saving.

“Fake love, I don't fall for that–”

And there it was. That look.

Wide, glassy eyes, lashes spiked with tears, mouth trembling like she was seconds away from shattering.

“So, when they call me, I don’t call back no more–”

It would’ve fooled anyone else — hell, it used to fool him too. But not anymore.

Joe knew what lived behind that look. He knew that the tears were just another weapon, another hook to drag him under again. But still — still — he didn’t rip away. Because when Esmae touched him like this — like he meant something in her life — it worked every fucking time.

"I fucking love you," she sobbed, her voice crumbling as she pressed her forehead against his. "You... you can’t leave me. Not like this. Please, J. Please."

Joe clenched his jaw so hard he felt it pop. He knew this script by heart; The desperate tears, the trembling hands, he pretty little lies. Even if the love was fake, it didn't matter, it worked.

“I don't wanna hurt myself no more, no more, no more–”

Her hand slipped down, fingers wrapping around his wrist, tugging it with a gentleness that was so painfully rehearsed it made his chest ache.

She guided his hand to her waist like he was a puppet and she knew the strings to pull — and like a goddamn fool, he curled his fingers into her shirt, dragging her closer.

The corner of her mouth quivered, twitching into a half-smile — sad, sweet, and so fucking cruel — because she knew she had him. She knew.

"I can’t breathe without you," she whispered, breathless, her voice cracking against his thick air, "Don’t you see that?"

“It’s a throwback to the old days–”

Joe’s chest burned as he tried to swallow around the lump rising in his throat, tried to breathe around the suffocating weight pressing down on him. Her nails dug into his jawline, biting into his skin, holding him there like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go. But it wasn’t fear.

"I love you, baby. I fucking love you," Esmae whispered again, the words trembling against the charged air between them. Her thumbs moved in slow, tender circles over his flushed, clammy cheeks, the gentleness at odds with the storm raging inside them.

“I slip back to my old ways–”

Joe’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as his eyes dropped — just for a second — to her reddened lips. Then his gaze dragged back up to hers, locking onto those glassy, tear-heavy eyes that had broken him a hundred times over and still somehow held him together.

And there it was. The reminder as to why he was addicted to this—to her.

“It’s the wrong time to break–”

The reminder hit him harder than he could brace for. Joe was scared — not just of losing her, but of what it would mean if he did. Because deep down, in the parts of himself he tried to ignore, he didn’t believe he deserved better than this.

What if this was it? What if this chaos — the screaming matches, the gut-wrenching apologies, the vicious cycles that left him hollow — was all he was ever meant for?

Somewhere deep down, buried beneath the noise she filled his head with, he knew it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. That love shouldn’t feel like a battlefield— The “what ifs” were louder.

“Its the right time to breathe–”

What if no one else could ever love him? Maybe she didn’t love him the way he needed...But at least she said she did.

At least she looked at him like he was something worth fighting for, even if it was only to win.

What if he walked away... and there was no one waiting on the other side? Maybe this fucked up relationship between them was all he was ever going to get.

“They don’t know i'm trapped–”

If he left, he wasn’t just losing her. He was risking the possibility that he might never be loved again. If he left her, he risked proving himself right—risked proving that he was as unlovable, as disposable, as worthless as he feared.

Esmae caught the faraway, hollow look in his eyes — the one that scared her more than his anger ever did — and before he could slip away from her completely, she yanked his face down to hers, her nails digging into his jaw.

“J?” she whispered, urgent, snapping him back to her.

Joe blinked, like he was shaking off a fog, his breath shallow and uneven. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, swollen and chewed raw.

A twisted smirk ghosted across his mouth, the kind that never quite reached his eyes anymore, and his hands shot out, grabbing her waist roughly, dragging her flush against him until there wasn’t a sliver of space left.

“Show me how to numb the pain–”

“Y’love me?” he breathed, low and broken, his forehead resting against hers, almost taunting.

“Oh Lord–”

Esmae nodded quickly, almost frantically, her wide, tear-glossed eyes locked onto his. “And you love me, huh?” she muttered, voice dark, dangerous.

“Oh Lord–”

She gave a shaky smile, tilting her chin up, her lips brushing his, feather-light, teasing.

Joe’s chest heaved once—twice—before he snapped.

His mouth crashed against hers, all fury and desperation, pinning her back hard against the edge of the kitchen counter. The sharp press of it dug into her lower back, but she barely noticed — too consumed by the way his hands roamed everywhere at once: gripping her hips, fisting her shirt, tangling in her hair.

Their kisses were messy, wild, breathless — lips sliding, teeth clashing, gasps and her broken moans filling the small kitchen like a thunderstorm tearing through.

“‘Cause I don't know how to celebrate–”

Joe’s hands slid up her sides roughly, pushing under her shirt, his calloused fingers burning against her skin. Esmae whimpered into his mouth, clawing at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, like she could fuse them together if she just held tight enough.

He groaned low in his throat, grabbing both her wrists in one big hand and pinning them above her head against the cabinet, forcing her completely under him, under his control. Their chests heaved against each other, the air between them heavy, electric, toxic.

Esmae pulled her head back slightly, their noses brushing, her breath shaky against his mouth. “Say it,” she panted, her voice trembling, wrecked.

“Can anybody hear me?--”

Joe blinked at her, dazed—lost.

“Say—” he started, voice low, feigning confusion—but he didn’t get the chance to finish.

“Tell me you love me,” she breathed—soft and sharp all at once, like the words weren’t a question but a command she’d repeated a hundred times before. Like she already knew the answer.

“Can anybody hear me?--”

And those three words? They slipped from his mouth in reflex, not meaning or in promise. A reflex he’d mastered to avoid the uncertainty of what would follow if he didn’t say them.

Saying “I love you” became his lifeline—a desperate need to feel wanted, to anchor himself in something, even if it was false.

And when he told her he loved her, she smiled because she had yet again, won—like love was a game and he was just a player proving he’d do anything—he would say anything, to stay on the board.

“‘Cause I don't know how to celebrate–”

And an hour later, their bedroom felt like a stifling, suffocating box, dark and thick with humidity, the air heavy with the remnants of sweat, lingering heat and the scent of sex.

The silence between them was almost as tangible as the tense atmosphere, thick and unyielding. His body trembled, the tension coiled so tightly within him that every muscle screamed for relief. Both groaned as he pulled out slowly. He wanted nothing more than to collapse, to let the frustration and anger settle over him like a blanket. He had allowed himself to fall into this same fucking loop again.

“Its a throwback to the old days (old days)--”

Instead, he slipped his boxers on, the motion automatic, but his eyes remained fixed on her. She lay there, a blissed-out smile plastered across her face, her skin glistening with sweat, the sheen catching the dim light from the night sky seeping through the windows in a way that made her seem almost untouchable.

His lips curled into a gentle grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He couldn’t let himself linger on the way she looked right now—so innocent, so unaware. He turned and walked to the bathroom, running the faucet until the water was warm. His hands moved with precision, soaked a washcloth, wrung out the excess water, and grabbed a pack of her makeup wipes, the muscle movement kicking into gear.

“I slip back to my old ways (old ways)--”

He stepped back into the room, where moonlight spilled across the floor in cold silver streaks, casting shadows on the four walls that had witnessed it all—this twisted routine, this aching repetition. A space they shared that felt more like a prison than a haven.

A sigh slipped from him as he stood over her, watching the way she lay there, trying to push away the storm brewing in his chest. She shifted, her eyes flicking open with a soft whine, but she didn’t say anything, just gave him that look.

“Its the wrong time to break–”

“I know. Gotta get you cleaned up though,” he murmured, voice softer than he meant it to be. He pressed the warm washcloth to her sticky core, the friction of it causing her to hiss, her body still sensitive. Her reaction was instinctive, but then she hummed softly, a sound that crawled under his skin and made his chest tighten. Her hands found their way to his face, her fingers trembling slightly as they cradled his flushed cheeks, her thumb brushing gently over his skin.

“I love my man,” she said, her voice soft, sincere.

“Its the right time to–”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, a wave of nausea washing over him so fast that his body went cold, his pulse stuttering in his veins. But what could he do? Dare he show it? No, instead, he hummed low in his throat, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

She lay there, so fucking innocent, as he wiped away the remnants of her tears with a makeup wipe. Erasing the smudged mascara streaking down her face from crying. It was all too familiar. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d see her face like this again.

“(Breathe, hurricane)--”

He tossed the wipes aside, the sound of them hitting the floor sharp in the silence, before he climbed back into bed beside her. She immediately curled into him, the motion instinctual, her body molding against his, but it wasn’t quite right. It felt forced, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a chaotic mess. Why had he allowed this? Why had he convinced himself that this was it for him? The question lingered, unanswered, in the quiet darkness. He just had. There wasn’t much more explanation than that.

He traced abstract patterns on her bare back, his fingers grazing over the soft skin, trying to distract himself from the ache in his chest. Slowly, he noticed her breathing soften, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest telling him she was drifting off. He glanced down at her, making sure she was asleep, her face now relaxed in a way that made him want to protect her. Like it was an instinct, but it was a pattern.

“Tryna catch your breath in a hurricane–”

But as his chest tightened, a deep ache in his throat grew too much to ignore. He swallowed hard, the lump lodged there refusing to go away. His head hit the pillow with a soft thud, and he let out a shallow breath, his chest hitching before it fell into a slow, uneven rhythm.

Then, for the first time in a long time, his body allowed a single tear to slide from the corner of his sorry blue eyes. The teardrop slipped down his temple and soaked into the pillow.

A silent confession of all the things he couldn’t say, all the things he never would.

“While everybody celebrates–”

End of flashback—

The memory bled into the present like a slow poison, thick and suffocating. Joe could still feel her hands on him if he let himself — still hear the way Esmae had breathed those words into his mouth, pulling things out of him without mercy. It didn't matter how many times he'd promised himself it would be different. He'd always ended up right where she wanted him — drunk off her lies, drowning in the idea that maybe this was the only kind of love he’d ever get.

He dug his fingers into his jeans, staring at the peeling paint of the apartment door in front of him, willing himself to move — to think. Still debating whether to knock — to risk it — His chest tightened like a vice, breath shallow and ragged. His feet felt locked in concrete, his mind caught in a tug-of-war between get the fuck out of here and don’t you dare.

Every excuse in the goddamn book raced through his head, excuses he had perfected with Esmae — It would’ve been so easy to turn around, to slip away before anyone ever knew he was there.

Joe squeezed his eyes shut, jaw locking so tight it ached. That look — the hurt he had put there — clung to him more viciously than any memory of Esmae ever had.

He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

This wasn’t the same. Doll wasn’t Esmae.

But he looks for her in everyone.

Joe had convinced himself he wasn’t built for anything good. Wreckage — that was all he knew how to leave behind. But—he had to do this.

Even if he couldn’t find the right words, even if he made it worse just by being here, he needed to see her.

He needed to make sure she was okay—even if she hated him for it. Even if she never wanted to look at him again.

Joe swallowed hard, feeling the weight of it settle deep in his chest.

Because fuck — he didn’t need to fix anything. He just needed to know she was breathing—that somehow, he hadn’t completely broken her.

Joe was still working up the nerve to knock when the door swung open.

There she was — Doll — standing in the soft warm light of the apartment, bunny slippers on and wrapped in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame—Joes. Joes hoodie.

A pair of lazy shorts peeked out from underneath, the frayed edges brushing her thighs. Her hair was a little messy, thrown up like she hadn't cared much, and her skin was bare of makeup, fresh and natural.

But she didn't look like she’d been crying. She didn't look broken—she looked... okay.

Almost like she was about to head out — her apartment keys dangled from one finger, and a wrinkled ten-dollar bill was balled up in her other hand.

The second her eyes landed on him, she froze. Her body stiffened, her mouth parting slightly like she wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or let her emotions do the talking.

They stared at each other, the tension pulling tighter and tighter like a noose around their necks. Doll blinked once, slow, almost like she needed a second to believe it — that Joe was really standing there after three full days of radio silence. After leaving her alone with nothing but silence and the weight of everything unsaid.

Joe shifted on his feet, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his fingers curling into tight, frustrated fists. He was willing himself not to say something stupid. Not to ruin this any more than he already had.

"I was about to head out," Doll said finally, her voice so soft he almost missed it.

“You—” she started again, but her throat caught, and she had to clear it before she could continue, this time even softer, more unsure.

"Do you need something?" It wasn’t cruel, it wasn’t cold — it was honest. She was just trying to make sense of why he was standing outside her door like he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

The way she said it — half-cautious, half-guarded — hit him in the chest like a punch.

Joe swallowed hard, his eyes grazing her face — the curve of her cheek, the soft swell of her lips — close enough now to see the faint tremble she was trying so hard to hide.

His voice, when it finally scraped out, was hoarse and broken.

"You," he said.

Doll’s breath caught.

"What?" she asked, blinking up at him like she wasn’t sure she heard right. Joe never said shit like that. Not to her. Not to anyone.

And he realized it too late — what had just slipped out — and panic ripped through him like fire.

"I mean—fuck, like—" he stammered, dragging a shaky hand through his hair, already flushing from the embarrassment clawing up his neck. "I just—I like—uhm—" He kept fumbling, every half-formed thought crashing and burning before it reached his mouth.

Doll’s brow arched, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes — subtle, but unmistakable. She tilted her head slightly, watching him like he was some strange, fascinating thing under glass. Was that…was Joe panicking?

Joe Burrow? Cocky, untouchable Joe? She almost laughed. Almost.

"Where uh—where y’headed?" he blurted finally, desperate to change the subject, his words tumbling out so fast they barely made sense.

But it was too late. He already showed her too much. Her head tilted, slow and curious, almost like she was trying to figure out if he was about to lie again.

"Joe..." she said softly, her voice tugging at something in his chest he didn’t want to name. Her hand tightened a little on the door, grounding herself. "Why are you here?"

The words hung between them, heavy and impossible to dodge. Joe swallowed hard, his mouth opening and closing like he might come up with some excuse.

"Just wanted—" Joe started, but the words tangled in his throat. He let out a rough sigh, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "Just needed to make sure you were alright," he muttered, his voice gruff, almost embarrassed by how small he sounded.

He shifted on his feet, glancing at her in a quick, nervous flicker. He shifted awkwardly, shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets.

"Which—" his mouth twisted into something almost bitter, "—you look like you are. So."

The attempt at casualness fell flat, the words limp and useless between them. And Joe hated how stupid he felt standing there, like he was the only one who hadn’t moved on. Doll stayed quiet, her arms crossed loosely, watching him. She hadn’t said a word, and it only seemed to make him more frantic.

The words came out faster now, each one feeling like a punch he wasn’t sure how to land. He didn’t look at her, instead focusing on the floor, his shoulders tight with unspent energy. Joe’s frustration built up in him, quick and hot, and before he knew it, the words were tumbling out.

"You just—" He scoffed, voice cracking under the weight of it all. "You just make it seem like nothing happened. Like you’ve —fucking, moved on or somethin’, and I’m just—" He laughed bitterly, the words almost too much for him to say. "Just say it. I’m the fucking mess, right?"

The words felt heavy, like they held something from the past, and they echoed in his mind like some old curse he couldn’t shake. "Fucking mess." He could hear Esmae’s voice in his head, the venom they’d spit at each other when everything was falling apart. That phrase—he hated it, but it clung to him now, and he hated it even more because he felt it was true.

Doll’s eyes didn’t waver, though. She just stared at him, her gaze unwavering, and for a moment, he thought she might say something sharp, something to slice through the tension like a blade. But she didn’t. Instead, her voice was quiet, but firm, steady as she finally spoke.

"I never said that," Doll said, each word measured, carefully chosen. "I would never say that."

Joe let out a low, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Just—why aren’t you yelling at me? Why didn’t you blow up my phone with threats? Or key my car? Fucking punch me or something, Doll." His hands fisted at his sides, the frustration finally bubbling over, raw and ugly. "Why haven’t you gone batshit on me? What the hell is wrong with you?"

He went zero to a hundred as the anger seeped into his words quickly, but there was something underneath it—something so much more vulnerable that it almost cracked him open.

He didn’t know what he wanted from her, just that he needed her to do something. To feel something, anything, that wasn’t so damn quiet and calm. He thought maybe he needed to see her break, just like he was— like how it was with esmae. But…no, that wasn't it. He didn't want to see that.

"You want me to yell?" she asked, her voice low, almost curious, but there was something fragile behind it. "You want me to tear into you? To make this even worse than it already is?"

Joe froze at the words. The question hit harder than anything else had. His chest tightened, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. He didn’t know if he wanted her to tear into him or if he was just scared of how quiet she was.

Doll took a slow, steadying breath, her shoulders rising and falling as if preparing herself for something she couldn’t escape. "I’m not going to do that, Joe," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I want to, but I won’t."

She let the words sit between them, unwavering. "Because you already know. You know what you did. You know what's done is done. I don’t need to yell at you to make myself feel better. I’ll still be angry. I’ll still feel humiliated. And I'll still go to sleep tonight crying over it. None of that disappears if I just— yell at you."

Her words weren’t sharp, but they hit harder than any scream could have. And in that silence, Joe realized it wasn’t the anger or the yelling he had been afraid of—it was the weight of the truth in her calm.

He exhaled shakily, hands balling into fists at his sides.

"I’m sorry, okay?" he said, voice raw, almost broken. "I know that’s not enough, but... I am. I’m sorry."

He rocked on his heels, restless, eyes darting anywhere but her. A dry, bitter laugh slipped out as he dropped his gaze to the ground.

"I’m a fuckin' coward," he muttered under his breath, almost like he was admitting it to the pavement instead of her. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the ground.

Joe’s words tumbled out, rough and frantic, like he couldn’t get them out fast enough. He let out a bitter, broken laugh, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. "You’re not her. You’re not," he said, voice cracking at the edges.

"But I’ve convinced myself that I keep thinking you could be. And that’s not fair—to you. N’ It’s not you. I know it’s not you." He stepped back, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs, like just standing there was getting too heavy to bear.

"I’m sorry, Doll," he muttered, voice low and rough. "I—I don’t know how to fix this—any of it. N’ I keep needing it to just stop. but it won’t. It won’t."

He finally forced himself to look at her, "You’re not her," he said, almost a whisper.

Doll wasn’t sure who Joe was talking to anymore—whether he was trying to explain himself to her, or just grappling with whatever storm was inside his own head. His chest rose and fell faster, his breaths shallow and uneven. His face was flushed, the color spreading across his cheeks.

For a long moment, Doll didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. She just watched him — really looked at him—Her chest tightened, and before she could talk herself out of it, she shifted back a step, reaching behind her to push the door open wider.

"Come in," she assured softly, the words catching in her throat. "You look like you could use a minute to breathe."

Joe blinked at her, thrown for a second, like he didn’t quite believe she meant it. His hands flexed at his sides again, like he was fighting himself — but finally, he gave a small, broken nod.

➽──❥

Doll had never seen Joe like this.

Usually, he just barged in — kicking his shoes toward the corner, tossing his wallet and keys onto her nightstand without a second thought. But tonight, he lingered behind her, hovering awkwardly by the door like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.

The hesitation sent a chill down her spine. She kicked off her slippers, hung her keys on the little hook by the door, and glanced back at him — still standing there, silent, watching her with that heavy, unreadable stare. Like a shadow clinging to her every move.

She didn't say anything, just wandered toward the living room, the space softly glowing with the warm light from the lamp in the corner. She sighed, sinking into the worn couch with a little bounce, patting the cushion beside her absentmindedly.

Joe didn’t move right away. Eventually, he dropped onto the opposite end, keeping a full cushion’s distance between them. Facing her.

She studied him for a second — the way he shifted like he couldn’t get comfortable, the way his eyes darted around the room before finally settling on her. “Your face,” she said casually, nodding toward the bruises and the faint cut on his lip. “That from the fight?”

At the mention of it, Joe’s body went stiff. His tongue darted out, running carefully over the healing split, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. Just nodded once, sharp and small.

“Didn’t know y’ even knew about that,” he muttered, squinting at her like she was an unexpected puzzle piece. For all he knew, she was still crying in the bathroom to Nylah when everything went down.

Doll shrugged, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Nylah was taking me home when we heard the yelling.” She traced the seam of her sock with her fingertip, voice light. “She pulled me away once we realized it was you... Figured you were just pissed over something stupid. Someone bump into you? Take the last beer?” she teased, giving him a small, crooked smile to soften the subject.

Joe huffed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth before he shook his head. “No. The dude fuckin' deserved it—"

“Mm. Doubt that.” Doll tilted her head, smirking a little wider. “But, you know I hate violence so… It probably wasn’t even necessary.”

Joe snapped his gaze to hers, jaw tight. “Yeah n’ I don’t really give a fuck what you like or don't when it comes to someone runnin' their mouth about y’.” His voice was sharp, cutting. “Playin’ that video over and over again, laughin', talkin' filthy...”

The words dripped from his mouth, bitter and heated. Doll’s smirk faltered, falling into a small frown as the air between them thickened.

Joe's breath caught in his throat when he saw it — the way her eyes went a little glossy, the realization hitting her harder than he meant for it to. He sat up straighter, panic flashing across his face.

“Shit—no. I’m sorry—” he rushed out, hands half-reaching toward her before falling uselessly into his lap.

Doll shook her head, blinking fast. “No, it's fine—it's fine,” she murmured, voice a little hoarse. “I accepted there was probably a video. I just... what were they saying?”

Joe hesitated — just for a second — caught between what he wanted to say and what he probably should. Because if he told her the truth... if he told her what those assholes were really saying… It would show too much.

Make it obvious he cared — way more than a fuck buddy ever should.

But the thing was, he’d always protected her name— ever since the hookups started turning into hangouts, and the hangouts turned into her staying the night. This time, though... it was different.

Doll scoffed, drawing his attention back to her. She was staring down at her lap, picking at her nails. “What?” she said bitterly. “Were they talking about how stupid I looked? How embarrassed I should be?”

Joe shook his head immediately, jaw tightening. He swallowed hard, forcing the hesitation out of his voice.

“Doll...” he muttered, rolling his eyes — not at her, but at the idiots he wanted to knock out all over again. “They didn’t give a shit about what happened. They couldn't have cared less.”

She looked up at him sharply, searching his face for the lie. Joe dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “All they cared about was the free fuckin' show they got. Talkin' about how good you looked... in the lace... set...”

His voice trailed off, shame flooding him when he saw her face fall. The memory hit her hard — her dress going see-through, her purple lace showing to a room full of strangers.

“Right,” Doll snorted sourly, leaning back against the couch. “Even better. Not embarrassing — just slutty.”

Joe's head snapped up, his voice cutting through the air. “Stop it.”

Doll blinked, thrown by the sharpness. She frowned, her arms folding defensively across her chest.

“You’re not a slut 'cause you wore lingerie,” he said, low and fierce. “I can fuckin' guarantee there were at least ten girls there who didn’t even have underwear on — planning to get railed on whatever surface they could find that night."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, like he was trying to get her to hear him. “This isn’t on you, Doll. None of it.”

The words hung between them, heavy and raw. Doll stared at him — really stared — at the way his jaw tensed, at the way his knuckles whitened where he gripped his knees. Like he was holding something back. Like he was terrified of letting something slip.

"Why'd you push me, Joe?" Doll asked, her voice thick with the confusion she couldn’t shake. She’d swallowed the question too many times, buried it beneath silence and stolen moments, but now—it refused to stay down.

Her eyes searched his face, desperate for something honest. Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited for something—anything—that would explain the feeling in her gut.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking nervously around the room as he avoided her gaze. He was clearly stalling, and Doll could feel it. She didn’t rush him, though. She knew how he worked—how he liked to dance around the truth, to put it off, to make excuses. But this time, she wasn’t going to let him.

“Joe,” she started, her voice soft but steady.

Joe shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at her. His eyes darted to the floor, his chest rising and falling with a few shaky breaths. “I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice low. “I was just... pissed about the whole thing. It wasn’t thinking straight n’ then you mentioned Esmae n’ just… I don't know.”

Doll tilted her head slightly, her brows furrowing as she studied him, not buying his answer for a second. “Pissed?” she repeated, her tone still calm, but there was a slight edge to it now. “I was pissed that night too, but I didn't think to push you into the pool joe.”

Joe didn’t respond right away, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. He was trying to find something that would make sense, something that wouldn’t make him sound like he was in over his head. But he could feel her watching him, and it made his throat tighten.

“I–,” he said finally, his words strained. “I was just frustrated Doll, shit happens y’know.”

Doll shook her head gently, her voice still gentle, but the concern in it was growing. “That doesn’t explain it, Joe,” she said softly.

Joe looked up at her for a split second, and then his gaze dropped again. He ran his hands through his hair again, frustration starting to bubble to the surface, but he didn’t want to lash out. Not at her. But he couldn’t seem to find the right words.

He opened his mouth to say something, growing angry towards her and himself, but knowing he shouldn't be towards her.

But Doll’s eyes softened, and she gave a little sigh, her voice warm but still insistent. “I hate when you think im stupid.”

His lips pressed together tightly, and he finally looked her dead in the eye. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, his pulse racing. This was harder than he thought. Talking to her like this was different than anything they’d ever done before. And he hated it. Hated how vulnerable it made him feel.

“You’re not stupid… I… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, the words raw and uneven, like they scraped their way up his throat. His gaze dropped to the floor, shame blooming in the silence between them. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t think straight. I was confused, Doll. Everything felt like too much, and I panicked.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling like the weight of it all might crush him. “I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. And… fuck, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this shit.”

“You haven’t told me anything Joe, you’re avoiding the question,” Doll said, fed up.

The silence between them stretched long and heavy. Five minutes passed, maybe more. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the building and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Doll’s fingers picked absently at a loose string on the hem of her shorts, her thoughts racing.

Eventually, she let out a small, quiet sigh and stood, brushing her palms on her thighs.

“Maybe we can talk about this when you’re actually ready,” she said softly, almost kindly—but the space between them yawned wide with her detachment. A quiet kind of resignation. Her words held no venom, just… she didnt want to hear any more lies or excuses. “Until then… you can go. I have—”

Joe lurched up from the couch like something had snapped inside him, the words ripping out before he could swallow them down.

“I wanted it, Doll,” he blurted, his voice rough, almost desperate.

She froze. Doll froze mid-step as her shoulders rose slightly, stiff with surprise, eyes widening and unsure. “What?” She breathed out heavily.

He drew in a shaky breath, fingers dragging across the back of his neck like he needed something to ground him. He couldn’t believe he was saying this—No, he couldn’t believe he was allowing these feelings.

These weren’t just words tumbling out of him, they were things he’d spent time forever trying to bury. Feelings he had trained himself to forget.

Actually, Joe wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. Not really. It was too tangled—too much. But one thing he knew, with a quiet, bitter certainty, was that somewhere in the middle of it all, he was feeling…heartbreak.

To him, it wasn’t just complicated.

It was heartbreaking.

“I wanted it and–and that freaked me the fuck out and I just fucking… panicked.” His voice cracked on the last word. He looked at her now—really looked—and his chest rose and fell fast and uneven, “I didn’t do this shit because I didn’t want to kiss you. I did. And that's what scares me, Doll.”

The words hit the air with weight, like they cost him something to say. Doll sat still, eyes wide, lips parted like she might respond—but she didn’t. Because, was there a right thing to say?

And the silence?

It swallowed him whole.

It wasn’t peaceful or forgiving—it was sharp, biting, the kind of silence that echoed louder than any scream. It wrapped around his ribs and squeezed, fed on the fear he tried so hard to bury.

The longer she said nothing, the more it twisted inside him.

It picked at every nerve, clawed at his brain, gnawed at the parts of him that had never learned vulnerability.

Because the longer she said nothing, the longer he had to sit with his fear of uncertainty.

Joe’s brows drew together, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he looked away. A sharp breath hissed through his nose before he stood and stepped back, suddenly pacing like the quiet was something he had to outrun.

His defenses were slipping before he could reel them in. He hated the silence—especially with Doll. Because somewhere in his mind, silence didn’t mean peace; it meant hatred.

And hate? Joe could handle that from anyone else. He was used to it. Didn't bother him. But not from Doll. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t want that from her.

Still, instead of saying that—of asking her to speak or admitting the silence scared him—his bitterness flared, sharp and defensive.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath. “Knew you wouldn’t get it.”

Doll blinked, confused by the sudden turn. “Joe—”

“No one fucking gets it,” he snapped—not loud, but sharp, like his voice had been whittled down to something brittle. It cracked, thin and unsteady. “I try to explain it and I sound like an idiot. I feel something and it comes out wrong. Or it’s not enough. That’s why I don’t even fucking bother, you know?”

She started to rise from the couch, like she could fix it just by being closer—but he shook his head, fast and tight, still not looking at her.

“I sound like a fucking headache every time I try,” he muttered, too quickly. Like he hated how much it sounded like a confession.

“Joe—”

“I’m not like you,” he snapped, cutting her off with a bitter edge. “You’re good at this shit. At being soft. Talking things out. That’s not me. It’s never been me. Do you get that?”

The silence that followed was different now. Charged. Tense. Like the air between them had narrowed into something sharp.

Doll’s brows pulled together, her throat working around a word she hadn’t chosen yet.

He dragged a hand down his face, like he could scrub away the frustration, the shame. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were raw, cornered.

“I pushed you because I felt something I didn’t know how to fucking feel,” he said, voice low and jagged. “It hit me, and I panicked. I didn’t know—I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

He laughed once—sharp, empty. “So I pushed you. And we were just too fucking close to the pool, okay? I didn’t mean to humiliate you. Or make you cry. Or make you hate me.”

His jaw clenched, throat working like it physically hurt to keep going. “But when you sit there like—like this! Fuckin’ quiet… It feels like confirmation. Like, yeah, of course I’m too much. Of course I ruin shit the second it starts to feel real. And out—out of my control.”

The next words came out hoarse, like they scraped against his ribs on the way up. “I don’t need you to fix me, you know.” He paused, as if even those words couldn’t quite leave his mouth without something hinting at the anger from the past inside him. “I don’t want anyone to fix me. That’s not what i'm asking for. But—”

“Joe,” Doll said softly, stepping toward him.

But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Like something in him had cracked open and now everything dark, everything he’d buried, was pouring out faster than he could catch it.

“I knew I’d fuck this up,” he muttered, pacing like he couldn’t outrun his own thoughts. “Of course I did. Everyone sees me for what I am, through all my shit…the damage—a fucking mess—”

“Joe,” Doll said again, her voice firmer this time, but he either didn’t hear her or didn’t want to.

He scoffed to himself, sharp and self-directed, dragging a hand through his hair. “What the hell are you even saying?” he muttered to himself under his breath, like he was arguing with the voices in his own head.

He dropped onto the edge of her couch, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands pressed hard into his face like he could shut everything out. Doll reached out on instinct, her chest aching, but the second her fingers grazed his arm, his head snapped up—eyes distant, fixed on the floor like it held all the answers.

His expression twisted, bitter and hollow. “Fuck up what, huh?” he said, voice low and cutting. “There’s nothing here to fuck up. We’re not anything. I made sure of that.”

His laugh was sharp and empty. “We hook up. We have a situationship at most. And I’m sitting here—begging you to understand my mind? What the hell is that about?” He shook his head, furious with himself. “I don’t beg. I don’t explain myself. Not to anyone. What the fuck— What the fuck am I doing?”

His breath hitched again, and he let out a strangled laugh, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he could shut the whole world out. But when he pulled them away, the room didn’t feel right. It felt too sharp. Too quiet. Too distant.

His chest rose once, then again—faster this time. Shallow. Erratic.

He blinked, like he was trying to shake something loose, but the edges of the room blurred instead of clearing. His hands trembled where they hovered near his face, fingers twitching like they couldn’t find something to hold onto.

“Shit,” he muttered, barely audible.

Doll’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs and her heart at the sight of Joe—coming undone, raw and defenseless in a way she’d never seen before.

How he blinked like he couldn’t focus, like the room around him had shifted and he wasn’t sure where he was anymore. His hands twitched in midair, then dropped suddenly to his legs, digging into his thighs as though he needed to feel something solid to remind himself he was real.

“Joe.” Her voice broke on his name, fragile and full. “Joe.”

She stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching something wild and hurting. Her hand lifted, hovering for a beat before settling over his chest—right where his heart was trying to claw its way out of him. She could feel it hammering against her palm, frantic and uneven.

Then she lowered herself to her knees in front of him, not demanding his attention—just offering it. Her presence was soft, steady. Grounding.

“Hey,” she whispered, her thumb brushing just slightly over his shirt. “You’re okay.”

His head shook slowly, like he could shake the whole moment off. His mouth parted, dragging in shallow, broken air.

“I’ve never—” His voice cracked, sharp and unsteady, like it physically hurt to force the words out. He looked away, jaw tight, shame flickering beneath the frustration in his eyes. “This doesn’t happen to me… not—in front of—.”

“I know,” she murmured, her eyes locked on his. A soft, aching smile touched her lips—something that said I see you, not I pity you. “But it is now. And I’m still here.”

Joe’s gaze met hers, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something more than his hardened gaze—something softer. And in that moment, he didn’t look like the cocky, confident guy he always chalked up to be. He looked heard.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Joe," Doll's voice was soft but insistent, like she needed him to speak, to let it all out.

Joe’s gaze flickered, his eyes darting away from hers before he met them again. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. For a moment, it was just him, trapped in the noise inside his head, trying to figure out what the hell to do with all the feelings he couldn’t make sense of.

He shifted, the tension radiating off him, his jaw clenched like he was at war with himself. His breath hitched, and then—finally—he let out a breath he’d been holding for what felt like forever.

"I think..." he hesitated, the words coming out in a rush. "I think I want to kiss you."

Doll’s heart skipped, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his.

“You— you can,” she said softly, almost as if she were giving him permission, but there was something more to it. It wasn’t about permission—it was about letting him know it was okay, that she was okay with it.

But Joe shook his head, his lips raw and red, “I can’t,” he whispered, his words carrying the weight of something deeper, something that went beyond just a kiss. “I can't.”

Doll’s heart tightened at the raw vulnerability in Joe’s voice. He was close—so close—and yet the distance between them felt as wide as the world. He was fighting something, something more than just his need for control, something deep and buried under years of walls he had built around himself.

It wasn’t just fear of kissing her. It was fear of something else. Fear of what would happen if he let himself go, even just a little. The exact fear that got them into this mess.

His chest trembled beneath her hand, a shallow, uneven rhythm that betrayed everything he was trying so hard to hide. Doll could feel it—every suppressed emotion thrumming beneath his skin, every jagged breath like it hurt to breathe at all. He was unraveling in front of her, but not with noise or anger.

He looked past her, not really seeing the room, like the past had come back to suffocate him. His jaw clenched, not in defiance, but in restraint. A quiet, desperate attempt to hold back the flood. But it was already rising.

Doll didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She stayed kneeling before him, her hand still pressed lightly over his chest—steady, grounding. She didn’t need the full story to recognize the look in his eyes. She’d seen it before—in herself, in moments when grief and memory twisted together and made it hard to breathe.

Joe’s hands had balled into fists at his knees. Tension rippled through his arms, his shoulders, his throat. Every part of him was bracing for something, some blow that hadn’t come but felt inevitable. And still, he wouldn’t look at her.

She could almost see the echoes of the boy he used to be—the one who had trusted too easily once, who had been hurt deeply for it. The one who had learned to mask softness with sharp edges.

And now, here he was, sitting in her living room, shoulders curled forward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like if he just folded in enough, the past might pass him by unnoticed.

Her touch didn’t try to fix him. It didn’t reach with expectation. It simply stayed.

Joe hadn’t spoken in a while—not much other than mumbles. His eyes weren’t focused on her, or anything at that. They were somewhere far off, hazy and distant.

“I’ve never—” he started, then cut himself off, swallowing hard. “I used to think fighting meant love,” Joe said suddenly, his voice low, almost lazy, like it came from somewhere outside himself. “Like… if it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t real.”

Doll barely breathed. She looked up toward him with the slow, aching dread of someone witnessing a man unravel in real time. But Joe didn’t look at her. Didn’t seem to remember she was still there.

“She’d scream at me,” he murmured, so quietly it was like the words weren’t meant for anyone but himself. “Tell me I was distant. Empty. That she didn’t feel safe with me.”

He stared at the floor like it held the wreckage he still carried, his jaw tense, his voice slipping in and out like something cracked. “I’d just sit there, still. Tryin’ to figure out what I did this time. What part of me made her cry like that. I hated seeing her cry— because of me.”

Dolls hand slowly dropped from his chest to his knee, not moving otherwise. “And then she’d fall apart. Beg me not to leave. Say I was the only one who ever really saw her. That we were meant to be. That she’d die without me. Would mention the future.”

He let out a bitter breath that trembled at the edges, his eyes glassy, unfocused.

“She picked me apart to put me back together and taught me that it was love. It was our love.”

There was a silence so thick it buzzed in Doll’s ears.

Joe finally looked—just barely, like he was afraid to. His eyes landed on her, full of something haunted. Shame, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or both. They didn’t hold the fire she’d grown used to. Just the slow, suffocating grief of someone who had been taught that love meant bleeding for someone else while staying quiet about the wounds.

He looked away again, swallowing hard. Shoulders tense. Breathing uneven.

Joe leaned back, the couch creaking under his weight as he exhaled a shaky breath. His hand pressed into his temple, rubbing at it like the pressure there was too much, like his thoughts were tangled beyond untangling. "I felt trapped," he muttered, his voice low and rough.

"But I think," Joe’s voice faltered for a moment, the words heavy in the air, "I was just addicted to the way she loved me. The way she needed me.”

He seemed to be bracing for Doll to kick him out, not wanting to hear his sap story. Doll shifted a little closer, letting her arm gently brush against his. The contact was light, but grounding. Joe barely reacted—his breathing had slowed, his words coming out soft and fractured, like he was more memory than man in that moment.

“She used to call me a ghost,” he murmured, almost as if the words were slipping out before he could stop them. “Said I’d leave eventually. That I always did. And, I guess... she wasn’t wrong.”

He ran a hand through his hair, voice thick with the weight of it all. “I tried to end it. A thousand times. So did she. But it never really ended. God, this... this went on forever. It still is. Everytime im back home” He finally admitted, the truth settling like a stone in his chest.

He let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping as he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressing down on him. "That was it, I guess," he said quietly, almost to himself. "The kind of love I was meant to know. Nothing more... nothing less." His voice cracked slightly on the last words, as if admitting it out loud made it feel even more like a weight he couldn’t shake off.

Doll had shifted, still kneeling beside him but now closer, just next to his head, her presence hovering like a quiet reassurance as he deliberately avoided meeting her eyes.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Joe let out a breath, barely a whisper. “I don’t know why I’m saying any of this,” he muttered, his voice thin, fragile.

Doll’s gaze softened, the sharp edge of her confusion melting away into something more tender. She leaned forward slightly, her words quiet but unshakable. “Because you’re safe,” she whispered, the words gentle, yet firm in their softness.

His eyes flickered to hers, a brief glance before his head tilted slightly to the side.

Did he feel pathetic for falling apart like this, for melting into this vulnerable, raw space—practically begging her to listen, to understand, to somehow excuse him for everything? Yes, he did. He felt every ounce of that.

But in that moment, with her calm, unwavering gaze on him, he didn’t feel quite as foolish. She made it easier, somehow, chipping at the walls he’d spent years building.

Doll could feel the tension in his body, the weight of everything he hadn’t said yet still hanging in the air. She could tell he was fading into that quiet, distant space where the past consumed him.

It made her ache in a way she couldn’t explain—knowing that this was probably one of the few times he got to deal with these feelings with support.

But as she hovered there beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, a quiet realization shifted in her chest. The world Joe had just shared was complex, jagged, and full of scars. And the truth was, her own story didn’t look much cleaner.

Slowly, she pulled back a little, just enough to look at him properly. His face was still turned away from her, and the dim light from the lamp cast shadows across his features, making him look even more worn than before. But his vulnerability, that strange softness that had crept into his eyes, was still there.

She spoke gently, her voice steady despite the rawness she could feel rising in her chest. “I get it,” she said, her gaze soft but searching. “Love’s not pretty for me, either. It wasn’t something I ever learned how to do right, or—maybe it wasn’t something I wanted to do right. And even when I tried… when I thought I had it, it always ended up hurting the more I tried.”

Joe’s head shifted slightly, his eyes flicking toward her, though they seemed still distant. Doll could feel the quiet weight of the unspoken question, the curiosity about what kind of love could have hurt her that much. She didn’t push him to ask it. Instead, she just let the silence hang a moment longer before she continued.

“He said he loved me,” she whispered, her voice low. “But he didn’t know how to show it. Instead, he made me feel like I was never enough. Like I was constantly in the wrong for wanting something real. I spent so much time trying to be what he needed, trying to make him stay, that I lost myself in it. And in the end… he left anyway.”

Joe’s lips parted, like he was about to speak, but Doll wasn’t finished. Not yet.

“Love is… fucked,” she murmured, the words falling heavy in the quiet room. “But you’ve got to give yourself some slack. This is our first time at life. And it’s hard.”

Her voice wavered slightly, then steadied, softened by something deeper—a quiet acceptance, a truth she had stopped outrunning.

For a beat, Joe said nothing. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile trying to form through the wreckage of the night.

“You said ‘fuck,’” he whispered, a trace of surprise in his voice, like the word felt strange coming from her mouth.

Doll blinked, then let out a small huff of a laugh, almost embarrassed. “Yeah, well,” she mumbled. “Felt like the only word that fit.”

Joe nodded faintly, the joke softening the weight between them for just a second. But his eyes didn’t fully let go of what still sat inside him. That tightness. That ache.

Silence stretched again, this time gentler. Less suffocating.

Doll shifted slightly, her knees aching beneath her but she didn’t move away. She stayed close. She stayed still. And Joe let her.

“I don’t think I want love right now. Not from anyone.” She let the words breathe, unafraid of the silence that followed. “And I don’t think you do either.”

Joe’s body stiffened, almost imperceptibly. But when his eyes finally lifted to meet hers, there was no anger, no defensiveness. Just exhaustion. A kind of worn-out ache that ran deep.

“I don’t,” he said, voice gravel-rough and hoarse with everything he wasn’t saying. “Not from anyone.”

His words didn’t land like a punch—they just hung in the air like a quiet surrender. Not a rejection of love entirely, but of the chaos it had brought them both.

So they sat. Not talking. Not arguing. Just breathing in the kind of silence that didn’t demand anything from either of them. Joe still laid back, spine against the couch, his jaw slowly unclenching. Doll stayed close, knees on the floor, hands resting on her thighs, not needing to fill the space with more.

Eventually, after what could’ve been minutes or hours, Joe exhaled, turning his head just enough to glance at her. His voice cracked through the hush like a worn-out thread.

“So… what do we do now?”

He asked it like she had the answers. And maybe, to him, she did.

Doll gave a faint, tired smile, more feeling than expression. “I think… we’re just here. That’s all we need to be right now.”

Joe didn’t respond immediately, but something in him shifted—just a little. His eyes didn’t harden. His hands didn’t close into fists. Instead, he nodded once, slowly. Like staying in this moment, however uncertain, was enough.

Just two people, bruised and breathless from the past, choosing—for tonight—to sit in the wreckage, side by side.

And for now, that was enough. The silence between them stretched, thick and heady.

Doll could hear the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the muted sound of wind brushing against the windows. But mostly, she heard her heart thudding against her ribs—steady, but wary.

“Actually, can I—” Joe’s voice broke the silence as he sat up, gruff and unsure. He cleared his throat. “I wanna try somethin’”

Doll sat next to him on the soft couch, just inches from him. Her eyes flicked over to him, her expression soft. “Okay– yeah, sure.”

The room held its breath with them. She turned toward him fully, preparing to ask what he wanted to try, but the words caught on her lips as she noticed his gaze—how it dropped from her eyes to her mouth and lingered, then slowly drifted back up.

And then he kissed her.

No warning. No flourish. Just the quiet, aching press of lips meeting lips. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. It was soft—so soft. A whisper of a kiss, more feeling than movement. Like it wasn’t built to last, but they still wanted to slow every second of it.

Joe’s hands found her waist without thinking, his fingers curving instinctively around the familiar shape of her hips—automatic, hesitant, haunted. Just like he used to with Esmae. The gesture betrayed him, dragged out of some distant place in his body that hadn’t learned the difference yet. This wasn’t Esmae. This was Doll. And somehow, that made it worse.

It was the kind of touch that spoke louder than anything he could say—an echo of all his sleepless nights. His thumbs brushed softly over the hem of her shirt, anchoring him to the now.

To her. To something terrifyingly real. Something he couldn’t hold onto too tightly, afraid of what it might do to him… or worse, what he might do to it.

Doll’s hands rose slowly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch him, until her fingers curled against the rough stubble on his jaw. Her thumbs brushed the sharp line of it with feather-light strokes, tracing the place where tension lived just beneath his skin. Her touch steadied him, anchored him—not to the moment, but to her.

They pulled apart just slightly, lips grazing in hesitation, foreheads nearly touching. His breath hitched as their eyes opened. Her lashes fluttered, and for the briefest second, they just looked at each other—really looked.

And then, like magnets dragged back together, they closed the distance again.

But this time, It didn’t last long.

Doll felt it—the shift. The way his shoulders stiffened beneath her touch, like his body had suddenly remembered something it didn’t want to feel. When they pulled apart, it wasn’t with drama or regret, just a quiet reluctance.

Joe didn’t look at her. His gaze slid to the far corner of the room, fixing on nothing, everything. His face had gone still—too still. And Doll knew; if he looked at her again, his eyes might betray him.

He looked like he was on the edge—like one more second, one more word, might undo him completely. He’d already let her see too much. More than he ever let anyone see. More than he meant to.

And the kiss?

And now… he couldn’t even look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, on the wall—anywhere but her. As if he could pretend it hadn’t happened, if he just kept looking away.

“Joe,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

His jaw tightened, the muscles twitching as his eyes stayed stubbornly turned away. “Jus’ wanted to see if it’d make me feel somethin’,” he said quickly.

Her heart stuttered. Fluttered in her chest and then tightened all at once. “Did it?” she asked, voice cautious. Careful.

He paused. Too long.

Then, quietly—almost too quiet to catch—“No.”

He stood up, the shift in energy so immediate it made her feel dizzy. The couch dipped and sprang back, and the warmth of his presence evaporated with the motion.

Doll stayed frozen, her hands still in her lap. She looked up at him. He was back in that shell, that too-familiar armor. The same stone-cold expression she’d seen a hundred times before.

“But, y’ didn’t either though, right?” he asked. He said it too fast. Too casual. Like he needed her to confirm they felt the same so he could forget it ever happened. So he could chalk it up as some stupid, weak moment and bury it deep with the rest of the memories he’d rather never face. His face had already hardened. That familiar, unreadable mask slipping back into place like armor.

Doll swallowed.

There was a part of her that wanted to tell the truth—that yes, she did feel something. Maybe not butterflies. Maybe not fireworks. But something.

But she knew he couldn’t hear that—not right now. And besides, after everything they just said about not wanting anything serious, not with anyone, especially not with each other, what right did she have to say otherwise?

So she nodded, swallowing the sharp sting like it was glass cutting down her throat.

“No,” she said, voice tight but edged with a bitter laugh. “Of course not.”

Joe held her gaze a moment longer, and for just a flicker of a second, something shifted behind his eyes—was it sadness? Relief? Fear? Uncertainty? She couldn’t tell. Before she could fully grasp it, he cleared his throat and looked away.

“Good,” he murmured. “Yeah. Good.”

He turned away, heading towards the apartment's front door, his shoulders broad and tense, fists clenched at his sides.

Because what do you do when the signs say one thing, but the silence screams another?

When someone’s history has taught them to hide so well.

It’s impossible to know what’s real and what’s a mask.

#wouldn’t wish their situationship upon my worst enemy omg????????

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