#I just need to edit and make some changes

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Joe's POV | Part Three

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💌 It’s Friday night, I’m up late — let’s talkkkkkkkkkkkkk

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 21.4k

📩 Reader Request: Reader has been working for the bengals since Joe got drafted. She can be a social media admin, public relations liaison or even a physical therapist. She’s been in love with him but it is unrequited while he was with Olivia and when they break up she thought that she had a chance but he starts seeing the influencer but please make it a happy ending. Angst as fuck but happy ending. I want to see this girl yearning for fucking years before she gets him and I want him to realize that she is the love of his life.

Author’s Note: And just like that… Joe’s POV is done.

This one pushed me in ways I didn’t totally expect. Writing it alongside Y/N’s POV, trying to keep everything aligned emotionally and logistically, was honestly kind of a beast. Especially with how long my chapters are—every scene had so much to carry. But I’m really proud of how it turned out. My biggest goal was to stay true to Joe’s internal voice while keeping the emotional beats consistent with what we already saw from Y/N. That meant rereading a lot, reworking scenes to make sure they still hit from his perspective, and sitting with some hard silences that I think needed to be felt instead of filled. Thank you for your patience while I figured this out. Truly. I hope the payoff feels worth it. And as always—I’d love to hear what landed for you, what made you feel things, or just your favorite lines. You know I’m in the comments all night.

Let’s talk. I’m up for a while. 💬

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

Tuesday Morning - 6:23 AM

Joe stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, the same position he'd been in for the past hour. Sleep had become impossible since that night in the edit bay. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there—Y/N's hands in his hair, the way she'd kissed him back with equal desperation, the taste of everything they'd held back for five years finally given permission. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark and silent. He'd drafted seventeen different messages to Y/N over the past three days, deleting each one before he could send it.

Are you okay?

Delete.

Can we talk about what happened?

Delete.

I meant every word I said.

Delete.

The problem was that everything felt either too much or too little. Too casual for something that had fundamentally shifted his entire understanding of what he wanted. Too intense for a woman who'd asked for space to think clearly.

* * *

Tuesday - Facility Encounters

Joe arrived at the facility with a strategy. Act normal. Give Y/N space. Don't push for conversations she wasn't ready to have. Be the same professional, controlled Joe Burrow he'd been for five years. The strategy lasted exactly twenty-three minutes.

He spotted her in the hallway near the media offices, files clutched against her chest like armor, that focused expression she wore when she was managing multiple priorities. The sight of her made everything else fade—not because she looked different, but because she looked exactly the same while everything inside him had changed.

Their eyes met across the corridor. For a fraction of a second, Joe saw something flicker in her expression—surprise, warmth, maybe recognition of the man who'd kissed her like his life depended on it three days ago. Then the professional mask slid back into place.

"Morning, Joe," she said as they passed, her tone pleasant but distant. The same tone she'd use with any other player.

"Morning," he replied, matching her formality even as every instinct screamed at him to stop her, to ask about the kiss, to demand to know if she'd felt what he'd felt. But she was already moving past him, disappearing into her office without looking back. Joe stood in the empty hallway, feeling like he'd just failed a test he didn't know he was taking.

* * *

Tuesday Evening - 07:47 PM

Joe couldn't focus on the film in front of him. The defensive formations blurred together as his mind kept drifting to how Y/N had treated him that morning—like he was just another player, like nothing had changed. The silence between them was killing him. Three days of careful distance, of pretending that kiss had never happened, of watching her retreat behind walls he'd finally managed to break down.

Finally, he typed: Are you okay?

Simple. Direct. Giving her an out if she needed one, but letting her know he was thinking about her. That he'd been thinking about her constantly since Sunday night. He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately regretted it. Too simple. Too safe. After everything he'd said in that edit bay, after the way she'd kissed him back, "are you okay?" felt like he was hiding behind politeness.

The message showed as delivered. Then read. Joe stared at the screen, waiting for the three dots that would indicate she was typing back.

Nothing.

He set the phone aside, running his hands through his hair. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she didn't know how to respond either. Maybe she was regretting the entire thing and trying to figure out how to let him down gently. His phone buzzed at 11:52 PM.

Y/N: I'm fine. Just processing. Thank you for asking.

Polite. Professional. She could have been responding to anyone. Joe read the message three times, looking for any trace of the woman who'd kissed him like she'd been waiting years to do it.

Nothing.

* * *

Later Tuesday Evening - Ja'Marr's Reality Check

Joe was sprawled on his couch that evening, mindlessly flipping through game film when his phone rang. Ja'Marr's name on the screen.

"What's up?" Joe answered, pausing the video.

"Bro, you sound like shit. What's going on? You've been weird all week."

Joe considered deflecting, making some excuse about playoff preparation or off-season planning. But the weight of carrying this alone was becoming too much.

"I kissed Y/N," he said simply.

Ja'Marr's eyebrows shot up. "Finally. When?"

"The other night. In the edit bay."

"And?"

"And now she's back to treating me like any other player. Polite, professional, completely fucking unreachable."

"She kissed you back?"

"Yeah. God, yeah. Like she'd been waiting as long as I had."

"Then what's the problem?"

Joe laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The Giants want her. You know that man. VP position in New York. She has to decide by Friday."

"Shit, you're right." Ja'Marr was quiet for a moment. "So you kissed her right before she has to choose between staying and leaving?"

"The timing wasn't exactly planned."

"Jesus, Joe. You've been in love with this woman for years, and you choose the week she might leave to finally make a move?"

The blunt assessment hit Joe like a physical blow. "I wasn't—"

"Don't," Ja'Marr interrupted. "Man, I've watched you for five years. You always want her filming your stuff, you look for her after every game, and you've been acting weird as hell whenever she backs off. You've been gone over this girl since day one."

Joe stared into his beer, unable to argue with the truth. "Maybe. Yeah. Probably."

"Definitely. So what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know. I told her I'd respect whatever decision she makes. That we'd figure it out."

"That's dumb as hell," Ja'Marr said. "You want her to stay."

"Of course I want her to stay. But I can't ask her to give up her dream job for someone who took five years to figure out his own feelings."

"Why not?"

Joe looked up, surprised by the question. "Because that's selfish. Because she's worked her ass off for this opportunity. Because I don't have the right to ask her to choose me over her career."

"Says who?"

"Says—" Joe stopped, realizing he didn't have a good answer. "Says me, I guess."

"I'm not saying manipulate her or nothing. But damn, Joe, you can at least tell her how you feel. Let her know what she's walking away from."

Joe felt the weight he'd been carrying since that night in the editing bay night start to shift—not gone, but not crushing him anymore.

"What if she chooses New York anyway?"

"Then at least she knows what she's choosing," Ja'Marr said. "Right now you're deciding for her by not telling her shit."

* * *

Wednesday Morning - The Conference Room

Joe spotted Y/N the moment he entered the facility. She was moving quickly, eyes fixed straight ahead, clearly not looking for conversation. He couldn't take another day of this. Couldn't watch her pretend that other night hadn't happened, that five years of building toward that moment could be reduced to a mistake to be managed.

"Morning," he said when their paths crossed near the media suite.

"Morning," she replied, her voice giving nothing away.

Joe pushed off the wall, taking a step toward her. "Do you have a minute?"

The request clearly caught her off guard. She glanced at her watch—a gesture he recognized as buying time rather than actually checking the time.

"I have a meeting with Kayla at nine."

"This won't take long," Joe said, nodding toward an empty conference room.

Something in his tone must have conveyed that this wasn't optional, because Y/N followed him into the room without further protest. Joe closed the door behind them, the soft click seeming unnaturally loud.

He turned to face her, hands in his pockets partly to appear casual and partly to keep from reaching for her. Y/N stood near the conference table, posture guarded, watching him with the same wary attention she'd give a wild animal.

"You've been avoiding me," he said, deciding on directness over diplomacy.

Y/N set her files down, the gesture buying her time. "I've been busy. The Giants deadline—"

"I know about the deadline." Joe kept his voice calm, conversational. "Friday, right?"

She nodded, and he caught the flicker of surprise that he'd been keeping track.

"Three days," he continued, taking a step closer. "That's what you have left to decide."

"Yes."

Joe studied her face, cataloguing the details he'd memorized over five years—the way her eyebrows drew together when she was thinking, the slight tightening around her eyes that meant she was holding something back, the particular stillness she adopted when she was trying not to react to something.

"Have you made up your mind?"

Y/N shook her head, her gaze dropping. "I'm still weighing options."

Joe heard what she wasn't saying.

"Including what happened between us?"

Her eyes snapped back to his, sharp and defensive. "That's not a factor in a career decision."

Joe felt that barely-there smile tug at his mouth despite the seriousness of the conversation. Classic Y/N—trying to compartmentalize when her feelings were clearly written all over her face.

"Isn't it?" he asked. "Because it seems like you've been avoiding me specifically to keep it from being a factor."

He watched her carefully, saw the moment his words hit home. Her breath hitched slightly, her grip on the edge of the table tightening.

"I can't make a life-changing decision based on one kiss," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"It wasn't just one kiss," Joe replied, letting his voice drop. "And you know it."

The air between them shifted, charged with the same electricity that had sparked in the edit bay. Joe felt the pull toward her, the same magnetic force that had been drawing him for years but which he'd finally stopped fighting.

"What do you want from me, Joe?" Y/N asked, the question carrying the weight of five years of careful distance.

Joe didn't hesitate. This was why he'd asked for this conversation—to stop dancing around the truth.

"I want you to be honest. With me, and with yourself."

"About what?"

"About whether you're running to New York or away from Cincinnati." He took another step closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, to catch the faint scent of her perfume. "Away from whatever this is between us."

Y/N's pulse was visible at her throat, her professional composure cracking under the weight of his direct attention. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," Joe agreed, surprising himself with the admission. "The timing, especially. But I've spent too long not saying things I should have said. Not acknowledging what's been happening."

"Which is what, exactly?"

Joe met her eyes directly, no hesitation, no careful deflection. Time for complete honesty.

"That there's always been something between us. Something I didn't understand at first. Something I couldn't act on for a long time. But something real."

The words felt like a release, like finally saying what he'd been carrying for years. Y/N's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something more vulnerable.

Joe chose his next words carefully, knowing they would matter. "I loved Olivia. What we had was real and important. But even then, there was always... this connection with you that I couldn't explain. I told myself it was just respect, or friendship, or that you just got me in a way other people didn't."

His jaw tightened as he pushed through the harder admission. "After Olivia, when I started seeing Ellie, I think I was still trying to figure things out. To move forward. But the whole time, you were there, and that connection never went away."

Y/N's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she blinked them back with the same stubborn control she'd shown for five years.

"Why now, Joe? Why when I'm finally being offered everything I've worked for?"

The hurt in her voice made everything clear. She thought this was about timing, about him finally wanting her only when he might lose her. She didn't understand that losing her had simply forced him to confront feelings he'd been suppressing for years.

"Because I'm finally clear about what I want," he said simply. "And because the thought of you leaving made me realize I can't keep pretending I don't feel what I feel."

He stepped closer, close enough to touch her but keeping his hands carefully at his sides. "But I'm not asking you to stay for me. That wouldn't be fair to either of us."

"Then what are you asking?"

Joe considered his words, knowing this might be his only chance to say them. "I'm asking you to consider that maybe what you've built here isn't finished yet. That maybe your story in Cincinnati isn't over." His voice softened. "And I'm asking you to believe that whatever you decide, I'll respect it. We'll figure it out."

The door behind them opened suddenly, Kayla's voice cutting through the intimate bubble they'd created. "Y/N, I was looking for—oh." She stopped, clearly reading the tension in the room. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

"We were just finishing," Y/N said quickly, her professional mask sliding back into place as she gathered her files.

Joe watched her collect herself, watched the walls rebuild in real time. Part of him wanted to ask Kayla to leave, to finish this conversation, to push until Y/N gave him a real answer. But he'd said what he needed to say. The rest was up to her.

"I have to go," Y/N said, her voice steadier than her hands.

Joe nodded, stepping aside to give her space. "That's okay. I said what I needed to say."

As she moved toward the door, Joe felt compelled to offer one final thought. "Just remember, I asked you to be honest with yourself. Not with me. Whatever you decide... make it about what you want, Y/N. Not what you think you should want."

Y/N paused at the door, her back to him, and Joe thought for a moment she might turn around, might say something that would give him hope. Instead, she walked out, leaving him standing alone in the conference room with the weight of everything unsaid still hanging in the air.

* * *

Wednesday Evening - The Wait

Joe sat in his car in the facility parking lot that evening, staring at his phone. Y/N's car was still there, which meant she was working late—probably trying to avoid him, or maybe trying to make sense of the decision she had to make by Friday.

He wanted to go back inside, to find her, to continue the conversation that had been interrupted. But Ja'Marr's words echoed in his mind: Let her make an informed decision.

He'd given her the information. The rest was up to her.

Joe started his car and drove home, carrying the weight of two days until Friday, two days to learn whether five years of building toward something had been worth the wait, or whether he'd finally found the courage to reach for something only to watch it slip away.

But for the first time since Sunday night, Joe felt like he'd done something right. He'd been honest. He'd been direct. He'd given Y/N the truth she deserved, even if it meant risking everything.

Now all he could do was wait, and hope that the woman who'd thrown him a perfect spiral on his first day would choose to stay and see what else they could build together.

* * *

Thursday Evening - November 2025

Joe sat in his living room, staring at game film that he wasn't actually processing. His laptop screen showed defensive formations from the Steelers, but his mind was replaying the conference room conversation from the day before. Y/N's voice echoing: "What do you want from me, Joe?"

One day. She had one day left to decide about New York, and he'd laid everything on the line. Now all he could do was wait and hope that five years of building trust meant something when weighed against a VP title and a fresh start three states away.

His phone sat silent on the coffee table. No messages from Y/N since their conversation. No indication of what she was thinking, what she was feeling, whether his confession had changed anything or just complicated an already impossible decision.

Joe picked up his phone, thumb hovering over her contact. He wanted to text her, to ask how she was processing everything, to remind her that he meant every word he'd said. But Y/N had asked for space to think clearly, and the last thing he wanted was to pressure her into a decision that should be entirely her own.

Instead, he found himself scrolling through their text history—five years of professional exchanges punctuated by moments of genuine connection. Late-night messages during his recovery. Quick check-ins during stressful media days. The gradual evolution from formal communication to something that felt like friendship, then something deeper neither of them had been willing to name.

The cursor blinked in the empty message field. Joe set the phone aside without typing anything.

* * *

Friday Morning - Facility Silence

Joe arrived at the facility early, hoping to catch Y/N in the parking lot or hallway—not to pressure her, just to gauge her mood, to see if their conversation had shifted anything between them. But her car wasn't in its usual spot, and a quick check of the media schedule showed she was working remotely.

Avoiding him, or avoiding the building entirely while she made her decision. Joe couldn't blame her either way.

"You look worse than yesterday," Ja'Marr said, dropping onto the bench beside Joe's locker. "Did you talk to her?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"She's deciding between me and New York."

"Damn." Ja'Marr was quiet for a moment. "When's she gotta choose?"

"Today."

"And you're just sitting here?"

"What else am I supposed to do? I said what you told me to say. Now I wait."

"Man, I didn't tell you to give one speech and disappear. You could at least check in, see how she's doing."

Joe shook his head. "I've said everything I can say. The rest is up to her."

Practice was a disaster. Joe's timing was off, his reads slow, his accuracy inconsistent. He kept checking the facility windows, looking for any sign that Y/N had come in, that she was somewhere in the building making her final calculations.

Coach Taylor pulled him aside after the third incomplete pass in a row.

"Where's your head today, Joe?"

"Sorry, Coach. Just distracted."

"By what? We've got the Ravens in two weeks. I need you locked in."

Joe nodded, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Football had always been his refuge, the one place where external complications couldn't touch him. But today, even that sanctuary felt compromised by the weight of what Y/N might be deciding.

* * *

Friday Evening - The Deadline

By 5 PM, Joe was staring at his phone, wondering if Y/N had made the call to New York, if she was somewhere packing boxes or booking flights or having conversations that would take her halfway across the country.

He forced himself to stay home, to resist the urge to text or call or do anything that might influence a choice that had to be entirely hers.

His phone stayed silent all evening.

* * *

Weekend - Radio Silence

Saturday morning brought no word from Y/N. Joe threw himself into his workout routine with punishing intensity, trying to exhaust himself enough that he couldn't think about what her silence might mean.

Ja'Marr texted around noon: Any word?

Nothing, Joe replied. Radio silence.

Maybe that's good? Maybe she's still deciding?

Or maybe she's already decided and doesn't know how to tell me.

Joe's phone stayed silent all weekend. By Sunday evening, he was convinced that Y/N had taken the Giants job and was either already in New York or preparing to leave Cincinnati behind. The silence felt like an answer in itself.

* * *

Monday Morning - The Practice Window

Joe arrived at the facility Monday morning with a knot in his stomach. If Y/N had taken the New York job, today might be one of the last times he'd see her. There would be transition meetings, handover conversations, maybe a goodbye that would have to be professional and polite while his heart was breaking.

He changed into practice gear mechanically, going through the motions of preparation while his mind raced through possibilities. Maybe she'd already given her notice. Maybe she was upstairs right now, cleaning out her office, preparing to leave everything they'd built together behind.

Practice felt surreal. Joe moved through drills on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him through formations while his attention kept drifting to the facility windows. Looking for any sign of her, any indication that she was still here, still part of this world they'd shared for five years.

Halfway through practice, during a water break, Joe glanced toward the building again. And there she was.

Y/N stood at the windows overlooking the practice field, watching them run drills. Even at a distance, Joe could see her clearly—the way she held herself, the familiar silhouette he'd memorized over five years of working together.

She was here. She hadn't left.

Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The other players, the coaches calling plays, the general noise of practice—all of it disappeared until it was just Joe and Y/N, looking at each other through glass and possibility.

Then Y/N gave him a small nod. Subtle, but deliberate. A communication that said everything without words.

I'm staying.

Joe felt the tension he'd been carrying suddenly snap—relief so profound it was almost painful. She was staying. She'd chosen Cincinnati. She'd chosen to see what might happen between them.

He nodded back, the corner of his mouth lifting in that barely-there smile she knew so well. Neither of them moved to break the moment. It felt significant, this quiet acknowledgment across the distance. She was staying. He knew she was staying. What that meant for them remained unspoken, unresolved, but suddenly full of possibility.

A coach's whistle finally broke the spell, and Joe's attention returned to practice as players reorganized for the next drill. But the relief flooding through his system made everything feel different. Lighter. Full of potential he'd been afraid to hope for.

Y/N lingered at the window for another moment, and Joe caught her eye once more before she turned away. Something passed between them—understanding, maybe even anticipation.

* * *

Monday Afternoon - The Text

Joe showered and changed after practice with more energy than he'd felt all weekend. Y/N was staying, which meant they had time to figure out what came next. Time to explore what they'd started without the pressure of an imminent deadline.

But he also knew they needed to talk. The nod through the window had communicated her decision, but they still had everything else to work through—what this meant for them, how they wanted to handle things professionally, what came next.

Joe pulled out his phone and typed carefully:

Joe: Can we talk? No pressure, just clarity.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately wondered if he should have waited, given her more time to settle into her decision before asking for anything.

Her response came quickly:

Y/N: When?

Joe: Tonight? I know a place. Quiet. Private.

Y/N: Where?

Joe thought for a moment, then typed: Ever been to Hermitage Brewing? They have a back room. Owner's a friend. We can talk without interruption.

It was perfect—Danny would give them privacy, the atmosphere was relaxed, and it was removed from both the facility and the upscale places where Joe might be recognized. Neutral ground where they could be honest without performance or pretense.

Y/N: 8 PM?

Joe: I'll be there. Thank you.

Joe pocketed his phone, feeling something like excitement mix with the relief. Y/N was staying, and tonight they'd finally talk about what that meant for both of them.

For the first time in days, Joe felt like the future was full of possibility instead of dread. She'd chosen to stay, and now they could figure out everything else together.

* * *

Monday Evening - Anticipation

Joe arrived at Hermitage Brewing twenty minutes early, nerves humming with anticipation. Danny set them up in the back room without questions, just a knowing smile and two IPAs—he'd remembered Y/N's preference from Joe's description.

As 8 PM approached, Joe found himself checking his phone, adjusting his position in the chair, running through possible conversation starters. This wasn't a date, exactly, but it felt more significant than any date he'd ever been on. This was about five years of careful distance finally becoming something honest and real.

When Y/N appeared in the doorway at exactly 8 PM, Joe felt his breath catch. She looked nervous but determined, wearing dark jeans and a sweater—casual but thoughtful. Like she'd considered this conversation as carefully as he had.

"This is perfect," she said, settling into the chair across from him. "How did you find this place?"

As Joe explained his connection to Danny, he watched Y/N relax into the space, appreciating the privacy and authenticity of the setting. She understood immediately why he'd chosen it—somewhere they could be real with each other without worrying about cameras or curious observers.

"So," Joe said finally, when they'd both settled with their beers and the small talk had run its course. "You're staying."

"I'm staying," Y/N confirmed, meeting his gaze directly.

And Joe smiled, feeling lighter than he had in months. The conversation they'd been building toward for five years was finally about to begin, and for the first time, they had all the time in the world to figure out what came next.

* * *

Late November 2025 - 6:23 AM

Joe stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Y/N's contact. He'd been awake for twenty minutes, trying to figure out how to ask her for coffee without it sounding like work or some kind of follow-up to their brewery conversation.

Three days since they'd talked. Three days of being careful around each other at the facility, keeping things polite and professional. But he was tired of overthinking every word, every look, every interaction.

Y/N had told him to be real with her, to stop performing. And here he was, planning out a text message like it was a game script.

Joe typed quickly, before he could second-guess himself:

Coffee before work? Not facility coffee. The good stuff.

Simple. No overthinking it. If she wanted to see who he really was, this was it—direct, no games, no careful politeness.

Her response came almost immediately:

Where?

He remembered something she'd mentioned months ago during one of their content planning sessions—a throwaway comment about needing to escape to "that little bookstore cafe where nobody cares about sports." He'd filed it away at the time, the way he filed away most details about Y/N, not knowing why they might be important but unable to forget them.

You know that bookstore cafe you mentioned? East side? Thought I'd see what the fuss was about.

It was perfect for what he needed—somewhere Y/N felt comfortable, somewhere he wouldn't be recognized, somewhere they could have a normal conversation without the weight of his public persona intruding.

Collective Grounds. 7:30?

See you there.

Joe set his phone aside, feeling nervous in a way he hadn't since high school. Their brewery conversation had been about figuring out where they stood. This was different. This was him trying to be normal around her—just Joe, not the quarterback.

The problem was, he wasn't entirely sure who that person was anymore.

* * *

7:15 AM - Collective Grounds

Joe parked on the street outside Collective Grounds, taking a moment to assess the space before going inside. The converted bookstore looked exactly like the kind of place Y/N would love—eclectic, intellectual, unpretentious. Through the windows, he could see mismatched furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the kind of customers who looked more interested in their laptops and newspapers than in spotting celebrities.

Perfect.

He entered the bookstore section first, navigating narrow aisles between towering shelves, taking in the organized chaos of used books and hand-written recommendation cards. The cafe occupied the back corner, separated from the main bookstore by a low barrier but sharing the same warm, lived-in atmosphere.

Joe ordered coffee—black, the same way he'd been drinking it since college—and scanned the space for Y/N. He found her at a corner table near the poetry section, laptop open, already settled into the environment like she belonged there.

She looked up as he approached, and Joe felt that familiar flutter of recognition—not just seeing Y/N, but seeing her in her element, relaxed and unguarded in a way she rarely was at the facility.

"This place makes sense for you," he said, settling into the chair across from her.

No "good morning" or "thanks for meeting me." Just an immediate observation, the kind of direct communication that felt natural with Y/N.

"How so?"

Joe glanced around, cataloguing details the way he read defensive formations. "Quiet. No distractions. Good for thinking." His eyes returned to her. "Also no one here cares about football."

It was true. In the fifteen minutes he'd been here, no one had given him a second glance. The graduate student at the next table was absorbed in what looked like a dissertation. The artist near the window was sketching in a journal. The older man by the biography section was deep in conversation with someone who was clearly a regular.

"That obvious?"

"I haven't been recognized once since walking in." Joe felt his mouth curve slightly. "Novelty experience."

Y/N's smile was genuine, amused. "Poor you, having to be just another customer."

"It's not terrible," Joe replied, keeping his tone deadpan. Then, more seriously: "You come here often?"

The question was deliberate. Y/N had challenged him to show her who he was beyond football, but that meant learning who she was beyond their professional relationship. He knew Y/N the media coordinator, Y/N the strategic thinker, Y/N the crisis manager. He was only beginning to understand Y/N the person.

"When I need to think. Or when I want to read something that has nothing to do with sports."

Joe nodded, filing away another piece of information. "What kind of books?"

Y/N studied his face, and Joe had the distinct impression she was trying to determine whether his interest was genuine or polite conversation. "Fiction, mostly. Some poetry. Whatever catches my attention." She paused. "What about you? Do you read?"

The question caught Joe slightly off guard. Most people assumed athletes didn't read, or if they did, it was limited to sports-related material or whatever their PR team recommended.

"Physics, mostly. Some astronomy. I've been working through this book on string theory." He gestured toward the science section, then realized how that might sound. "Probably sounds boring."

"Not boring. Surprising, maybe."

Joe's eyebrows lifted. "Why surprising?"

"Most people don't read string theory for fun."

Joe considered this, recognizing the opening to share something real about how his mind worked. "It's interesting how everything connects. The way small forces can create massive changes." He felt his composure slip slightly as he engaged with the topic. "Plus it helps with pattern recognition."

"Pattern recognition?"

"Everything has patterns. Physics, football, people." He paused, realizing he was about to reveal more about his analytical approach to relationships than he'd intended. "I like understanding how things work."

Y/N's expression shifted, something like fascination flickering in her eyes. Joe felt a small surge of satisfaction—this was what he'd hoped for. Not Y/N being politely interested in his hobbies, but Y/N being genuinely curious about how he thought.

"And you think relationships follow patterns too?"

The question was direct, challenging. Joe met her gaze steadily, recognizing the moment to be completely honest.

"Most of them. People playing roles, following expected behaviors, responding to predictable stimuli." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "But not all of them."

He watched Y/N's cheeks flush slightly, saw the moment she understood the implication. This—whatever was developing between them—didn't follow the usual patterns. It was more complex, more honest, more real than the careful performances he'd grown accustomed to.

"What makes the difference?"

Joe leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. "When both people stop performing. When what they want from each other is just... truth."

The word felt significant as he said it. Not romance, not attraction, not chemistry—though all of those were present. Truth. The thing he'd been avoiding for five years, the thing Y/N had been challenging him to offer.

"Is that what this is?" Y/N asked. "Truth?"

"That's what I'm hoping for," Joe replied. "From both of us."

The silence that followed felt comfortable rather than awkward. Joe watched Y/N process his words, saw something shift in her expression—not surprise, exactly, but recognition. Like she was seeing him clearly for the first time.

"So what happens now?" she asked.

Joe leaned back, letting his natural confidence settle over him. This was familiar territory—problem-solving, strategic thinking, managing variables toward a desired outcome.

"Now we figure out what we want from each other. Without all the professional complications and timing issues and excuses we've been using."

"Just like that?"

Joe's eyes held hers, acknowledging the complexity while refusing to be intimidated by it. "Why make it complicated? We're both adults. We're both interested. We're both capable of handling whatever challenges come up."

He could see Y/N fighting a smile, could practically hear her thinking that his assessment was both completely logical and completely insufficient for the emotional reality they were navigating.

"You make it sound simple."

"The feelings part is simple," Joe said, his voice dropping slightly. "I know what I want. I think you do too. Everything else is just logistics."

"Logistics like my brand-new promotion and workplace dynamics and the fact that we see each other every day?"

"Logistics," Joe confirmed, unruffled by her list of complications. "Things to be managed, not barriers to be overcome."

Y/N shook her head, and Joe caught the mix of amusement and admiration in her expression. He was being clinical about something deeply personal, but somehow that felt more honest than pretending emotions couldn't be approached strategically.

"You've really thought this through."

"I think everything through," Joe replied simply. "It's what I do."

"And what conclusion did you reach?"

Joe's expression grew more serious, though his voice remained steady. This was the moment to be completely honest about his assessment, his decision, his commitment.

"That I want to see what this could be. That you're worth whatever complications might arise. And that I'm done pretending otherwise."

He watched Y/N's face change as the words landed. No dramatic declarations or emotional speeches—just clear, honest communication of his position. This was how Joe approached everything that mattered: with careful analysis followed by unwavering commitment.

"What about work?"

Joe had anticipated this question, had already worked through the practical implications. "What about it? We're both professionals. We know how to separate personal and business." He paused, considering her specific concerns. "Though we should probably be discrete until your promotion feels established. For your sake, not mine."

He saw relief flicker across Y/N's face, confirming that he'd correctly identified her primary concern. She needed to know he understood the professional stakes, that he wouldn't do anything to undermine the position she'd worked years to achieve.

"How discrete?"

"As discrete as you need," Joe said. "I'm not looking to broadcast anything. I just want the option to see you outside of work without having to pretend it's about content strategy."

Y/N's smile was genuine now, amused by his phrasing. "The option?"

"The standing invitation," Joe clarified, allowing a hint of humor into his voice. "To coffee that isn't about work. Dinner that isn't about team business. Conversations that don't involve quarterback mechanics or social media metrics."

"That sounds..." Y/N paused, and Joe waited, curious about her assessment.

"Normal?" he suggested.

"Revolutionary," Y/N corrected.

The word surprised a laugh out of him—genuine, unguarded, the kind of response he rarely allowed himself in public. Revolutionary. He liked that assessment better than normal.

"I'll take revolutionary," he said, checking his watch and noting they'd need to head to work soon. "But right now I'll settle for not being late to morning meetings."

They gathered their things efficiently, a comfortable routine that felt natural despite being new. Joe waited while Y/N packed her laptop and notes, noting how she moved through the space like she belonged there.

Walking to their cars, Joe felt cautiously optimistic. The conversation had gone exactly as he'd hoped—honest, direct, focused on practical realities rather than emotional complications. Y/N had seen him thinking through problems, making decisions, being himself rather than performing for her benefit.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked as they reached the parking area.

It was a test, subtle but deliberate. Joe wanted to know if Y/N was genuinely interested in building something consistent, or if this morning had been a one-time exploration of possibilities.

"Tomorrow might work," Y/N said, her tone deliberately casual.

Joe recognized the challenge in her response and felt his competitive instincts engage. She wasn't going to make this easy, wasn't going to let him assume her interest or take her availability for granted. Good. He preferred partners who matched his intensity.

"Good," he said, getting into his truck. "I'll bring better coffee recommendations. This place is adequate, but I know better."

As he drove away, Joe felt satisfied with the morning's work. He'd shown Y/N who he was when he wasn't performing—analytical, direct, confident in his decisions but interested in her perspective. He'd demonstrated that he could navigate their professional complications while pursuing something personal.

Most importantly, he'd proven to himself that authenticity didn't require becoming someone different. It just required stopping the performance and letting Y/N see the person who'd been there all along.

* * *

December 2025 - Saturday Afternoon

Joe was sprawled on his couch, laptop balanced on his chest, halfheartedly reviewing film from last week's practice when his phone buzzed with a text from Y/N.

Y/N: Target run. This is what my Saturday has become.

Joe smiled at the message. Three weeks into whatever they were building, and Y/N had started sharing the mundane details of her weekend—grocery lists, errands, the small domestic realities that most people kept private. It felt significant, this casual intimacy of shared boredom.

Joe: Which Target?

He wasn't sure why he'd asked. Mild curiosity, maybe, or the simple desire to know where she was, what her Saturday afternoon looked like when she wasn't at the facility managing his media obligations.

Y/N: Springdale. Getting boring stuff - shampoo, paper towels, etc.

Joe sat up, closing his laptop. He'd been planning to order takeout and spend the evening alone, the way he spent most Saturday nights during the season. But the thought of Y/N navigating Target aisles by herself, loading boring necessities into her cart, suddenly seemed like something he wanted to be part of.

Joe: Let me come pick you up when you're done. We can grab food.

He hit send before he could analyze the impulse. This was what Y/N had asked for—authenticity, not performance. His first instinct had been to offer practical help and companionship. No need to overthink it.

Y/N: You want to rescue me from Target?

Joe: I want to get dinner and you're already out.

Joe appreciated that Y/N didn't need elaborate explanations or romantic justifications. She understood efficiency, practical decision-making, the logic of combining errands with social time.

An hour later, Joe pulled into the Target parking lot, spotting Y/N loading bags into the trunk of her car. Hair pulled back, jeans and a sweatshirt—she looked completely normal, like any person finishing weekend errands.

Joe found this version of Y/N unexpectedly appealing. Not the polished professional from the facility, not the carefully put-together woman from their coffee dates, but someone running weekend errands like any normal person.

"Need help with those?" he called through his open window.

"I've got it," Y/N replied, closing her trunk and walking toward his car. "Thanks for the rescue mission."

"Drive-through okay?" Joe asked as she buckled her seatbelt. "I'm not really feeling like sitting in a restaurant."

He surprised himself with the admission. Most of his previous relationships had involved carefully planned dinners at upscale restaurants where he could control the environment and manage potential interruptions. But with Y/N, he found himself preferring casual, low-key options that felt more like real life than performance.

"Fine with me."

They ended up at Culver's, Joe navigating the drive-through with the same efficiency he brought to everything else. He ordered without consulting Y/N—she'd mentioned liking their burgers during one of their coffee conversations—and drove to an empty parking lot where they could eat without curious observers.

"This is nice," Y/N said, stealing one of his fries.

The casual theft made Joe smile. It was such a normal, comfortable gesture—the kind of thing people did when they were relaxed with each other, when boundaries had softened into familiarity.

"Better than eating alone."

"Is that what you usually do? Eat alone?"

Joe considered the question while unwrapping his second burger. "Usually. Or with teammates, but that's just different."

"How so?"

It was a fair question, one that made Joe think about the careful compartmentalization of his social life. "With teammates, you're still kind of performing. Even when you're relaxed, you're still the quarterback. This is just... normal."

He glanced at Y/N, noting how she listened—not just waiting for her turn to speak, but actually processing what he was telling her about the isolation that came with his position.

"You miss normal?" she asked.

"I didn't think I did," Joe admitted. "But yeah. This is the first time in years I've eaten fast food in a parking lot and just... talked."

"About nothing important," Y/N added, gesturing to the empty parking lot around them.

"Exactly. About nothing important."

But even as he said it, Joe realized it wasn't true. Everything about this felt important—not the conversation topics, but the ease of being with Y/N without agenda or expectation. The way she'd texted him about Target runs, the way she'd accepted his offer to pick her up, the way she was stealing his fries like they'd been doing this for years.

"Can I ask you something?" Y/N said, settling back in her seat.

"Shoot."

"Do you ever get tired of being 'on' all the time?"

The question hit closer to home than Joe had expected. "Yeah. More than I probably should admit."

"When was the last time you felt like you could just... exist? Without managing perceptions or meeting expectations?"

Joe thought about it, really considered the question. "Honestly? Right now. Sitting in a Culver's parking lot with you, eating terrible-for-me food and not thinking about anything else."

Y/N smiled, and Joe felt something shift between them—not dramatic, just a deepening of the comfort they'd been building over the past few weeks.

"Good," she said. "That's the version of you I'm here for."

"Just Joe might be boring," Joe warned.

"I seriously doubt that."

Joe found himself smiling back, feeling lighter than he had in months. For the first time since their conversation at Hermitage Brewing, he felt like he was successfully showing Y/N who he really was. Not through grand gestures or carefully planned dates, but through moments like this—ordinary, unguarded, real.

"So what else does Saturday night Joe do?" Y/N asked. "Besides rescue people from Target and eat drive-through burgers?"

"Not much, honestly. Watch film, read, maybe call my parents."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I'm probably more boring than you think."

"Or maybe," Y/N said, finishing the last of his fries, "you're exactly as interesting as I hoped."

As they sat in the quiet parking lot, Joe realized this was what he'd been missing in all his previous relationships—the ability to be completely ordinary with someone who found that ordinariness worth her time. No performance, no pressure, just the simple pleasure of shared space and stolen fries.

* * *

December 2025 - Wednesday Morning

Joe was reviewing game film in his home office when his phone buzzed. Y/N's name on the screen immediately shifted his attention away from defensive formations.

Y/N: Car's at the shop. Apparently I need new brakes and God knows what else.

Joe frowned at the message. Y/N didn't usually share problems unless she was looking for practical solutions, which meant she was probably stranded and trying to figure out logistics.

Joe: How long?

Y/N: All day apparently. I'm about to call an Uber.

The thought of Y/N stuck at some service center, dealing with car repairs and ride-sharing apps, when he was sitting at home with nothing but film study on his schedule, felt wrong. Not because she couldn't handle it—Y/N was capable of managing anything—but because he wanted to help. Because offering practical assistance felt like something he could do without overthinking it.

Joe: I'll come get you.

Y/N: You don't have to do that.

Joe was already reaching for his keys. This wasn't about obligation or grand gestures. It was about Y/N being stuck somewhere when he had time and transportation. And he wanted to spend time with her.

Joe: I'm not doing anything anyway. Text me the address.

Thirty minutes later, Joe pulled into the parking lot of a service center in Springdale, spotting Y/N through the windows of the waiting area. She was sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, laptop open, making the best of an inconvenient situation with the same practical efficiency she brought to everything else.

When she saw his car, Y/N's face lit up with genuine relief and something that looked like appreciation. Not surprise—she'd probably expected him to follow through on his offer—but gratitude for the gesture itself.

"My hero," she said, sliding into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh. "They're keeping it overnight. Something about parts and labor costs that made my credit card weep."

"Where to?" Joe asked, putting the truck in drive.

"I should probably head home and figure out how to get to work tomorrow."

Joe glanced at her, noting the slight disappointment in her voice. "Or we could drive around for a while. Unless you have somewhere you need to be."

Y/N studied his face, clearly trying to determine if he was being polite or genuine. "You really want to spend your afternoon chauffeuring me around?"

"I really want to spend my afternoon not sitting in my house analyzing film," Joe replied honestly. "And you're better company than most people."

"Most people?"

"All people."

Y/N smiled at that, settling back in her seat. "Okay. But I get to navigate."

"Deal."

For the next three hours, Joe followed Y/N's random directions through parts of Cincinnati he'd never seen despite living there for five years. She had him take turns based on whim—"Let's see what's down this street" or "That neighborhood looks interesting"—with no destination in mind beyond curiosity.

"Left here," Y/N said as they approached a residential area lined with historic houses. "I want to see what's down this street."

"You're just picking random turns," Joe observed, though he made the left without hesitation.

"That's the point. When do you ever get to just drive around without a destination?"

The question caught Joe off guard. He drove the same routes every day—home, facility, maybe a restaurant if he had to. Always going somewhere specific, always the fastest way there.

"Never," he admitted, something shifting in his understanding of how rigidly he'd structured his life.

"Exactly. So today we're going nowhere in particular."

The concept felt foreign and oddly liberating. Joe found himself relaxing into the aimlessness, following Y/N's directions without questioning the logic or efficiency. When she wanted to explore a particular neighborhood, he slowed down so she could point out architectural details or comment on gardens. When she suggested taking a detour through a park, he found a route that wound through tree-lined paths he'd never known existed.

They ended up at a scenic overlook Joe had driven past dozens of times but never stopped at. The city spread out below them, familiar skyline made new by the afternoon light and the company.

"I grew up in neighborhoods like that," Y/N said, pointing to a section of older houses with wide porches and tree-lined streets. "Louisville has whole areas that look exactly like this."

"What was that like?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "Growing up with three brothers in a place like Louisville?"

"Loud. Competitive. Every dinner conversation was a debate about sports, usually football." Y/N smiled at the memory. "My parents thought they were raising four boys until I turned out to be better at arguing about draft picks than any of them."

"That explains a lot about your media instincts."

"Years of practice defending my opinions against people who assumed I didn't know what I was talking about."

"What about you? Small-town vs. city?" Joe asked. "More in-between," Y/N said, thinking about growing up in Louisville. "Big enough to have options, small enough that football still felt like the most important thing in the world." "I get that," Joe said, thinking about his own childhood in Athens. "Before all the pressure and expectations."

"Do you miss it?"

Joe considered the question, watching the city below them. "I miss the simplicity. The feeling that football was just football, not a business or a brand or a platform for everything else."

"When was the last time it felt simple?"

"Honestly? Right now. Driving around with no agenda, talking about nothing in particular." Joe glanced at Y/N. "This is the most relaxed I've been in months."

Y/N studied his profile, and Joe had the sense she was cataloguing this information, adding it to her understanding of who he was beyond the quarterback persona.

"Good," she said simply. "Because this is exactly what I was hoping for."

"What do you mean?"

"This version of you. The one who's curious about neighborhoods and willing to drive around aimlessly because someone asked him to. The one who doesn't need every conversation to be purposeful or strategic."

Joe felt something loosen in his chest. "You were testing me?"

"Not testing. Just... hoping you were actually interested in being normal for an afternoon."

"I'm discovering I like normal more than I thought I would."

As they headed back toward the city, Joe realized the afternoon had shifted something fundamental in how he thought about time and spontaneity. Y/N had shown him that not every moment needed to be optimized, that aimless exploration could be its own kind of valuable.

"Thanks for rescuing me from car service hell," Y/N said as they approached her neighborhood.

"Thanks for showing me how to drive without a plan," Joe replied, meaning it completely.

"Any time you want to get lost around Cincinnati, I'm your girl."

I'm your girl. Joe liked how naturally she said it, how it implied more afternoons like this, more chances to explore the city together without any particular destination in mind.

"I'll hold you to that," he said, pulling into her driveway.

As Y/N gathered her things, Joe realized he didn't want her to leave yet. Not because he wanted to drag it out artificially, but because this felt like the most honest time they'd spent together—no coffee shop conversations about expectations, no brewery talks about boundaries. Just two people choosing to spend time together because they enjoyed each other's company.

"See you tomorrow," Y/N said, pausing at the passenger door.

"See you tomorrow."

But as Joe drove home, he was already thinking about the next time Y/N might need rescuing, the next excuse to spend an afternoon discovering parts of himself he'd forgotten existed.

* * *

December 2025 - Sunday Afternoon

Joe had been looking forward to this all week—Y/N coming over to watch the afternoon games, the easy domesticity of shared space and comfortable silence. Seven weeks into whatever they were building, and he'd grown addicted to these Sunday afternoons when Y/N settled into his living room like she belonged there.

She'd arrived with coffee and the newspaper sports section, claiming her usual spot on his couch with the casual familiarity that had developed over weeks of careful boundary-testing. Joe found himself watching her as much as the game—the way she tucked her feet under herself, how she unconsciously leaned forward during crucial plays, the soft commentary she offered that revealed her deep understanding of football strategy.

"Terrible coverage," Y/N observed as the visiting team scored on a blown assignment. "Safety was completely out of position."

"Rookie mistake," Joe agreed, though his attention was more focused on Y/N's profile than the replay. Seven weeks of coffee dates and aimless drives, and he was still discovering new things about her—like the way she analyzed defensive schemes with the same precision she brought to content strategy.

During halftime, as analysts droned through statistics Joe could recite in his sleep, he found himself studying Y/N's position on the far end of the couch. Close enough to talk comfortably, far enough to maintain the careful distance they'd been navigating since their conversation at Hermitage Brewing.

The distance felt unnecessary now. Artificial.

"Come here," Joe said, gesturing to the spot beside him. "You're too far away."

Y/N looked up from her phone, eyebrows raised slightly at the direct request. For a moment, Joe wondered if he'd pushed too fast, assumed an intimacy they hadn't established. But then Y/N moved, settling beside him close enough that their shoulders touched when he leaned forward.

The contact was electric—just the simple awareness of Y/N's warmth beside him, the faint scent of her perfume, the way their bodies naturally aligned when they sat together.

"See how the linebacker's dropping back?" Joe said as the second half began, using the game as an excuse to lean closer, his voice dropping to match their proximity.

"Mmhmm," Y/N replied, though Joe could sense her attention wasn't entirely on the defensive formation he was explaining.

Without thinking about it, Joe's hand came to rest on Y/N's knee. The movement felt automatic, like his body had decided before his mind caught up. Y/N didn't pull away—if anything, she leaned slightly into his side, her hand finding his forearm

The game continued, but Joe's awareness had shifted entirely to the points of contact between them. His thumb traced absent patterns on Y/N's leg, feeling the warmth of her skin through the soft fabric of her jeans. Y/N's fingers rested on his forearm, occasionally tightening slightly during tense moments in the game.

This was what he'd been missing in all their careful conversations about boundaries and expectations—the simple pleasure of physical proximity, of being close to someone without agenda or analysis.

"This is nice," Joe said during a commercial break, his voice low enough that it felt like a confession.

"What is?"

"You being here. Like this."

Y/N tilted her head to look at him, and Joe felt his breath catch at how close they were. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, close enough to count her eyelashes, close enough that the space between them felt charged with possibility.

"Joe..."

The way she said his name—soft, questioning, maybe a little breathless—changed something in the air between them. Seven weeks of taking things slow, of being careful, of respecting boundaries and managing expectations. But right now, with Y/N warm and close beside him, all of that felt less important than the simple truth of what he wanted.

"I know we're supposed to be taking this slow," he said, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "But I really want to kiss you right now."

The admission hung between them for a heartbeat. Joe waited, letting Y/N process what he was asking. He could see the moment she made her decision—not just about the kiss, but about crossing the line they'd been carefully maintaining.

"Then kiss me," Y/N said, the words barely above a whisper.

Joe's hand moved to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheek in a gesture that felt both reverent and possessive. Y/N's skin was soft, warm, real in a way that made everything else fade into background noise.

When his mouth found hers, the kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing, giving both of them a chance to adjust to this new territory. But when Y/N's hands fisted in his shirt and pulled him closer, Joe deepened the kiss, weeks of wanting finally allowed to surface.

Y/N tasted like coffee and something uniquely her. She kissed him back with an intensity that matched his own, her fingers tangling in his shirt like she was afraid he might pull away. Joe had no intention of pulling away—if anything, he wanted to pull her closer, to eliminate any remaining space between them.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder than they should have been from just a kiss, Joe rested his forehead against Y/N's. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted, and Joe felt a surge of satisfaction at having put that particular expression on her face.

"We should probably talk about this," Y/N said softly, though she made no move to put distance between them.

"Probably," Joe agreed, his hands still framing her face, his thumbs tracing along her cheekbones. "But not right now."

"Not right now," Y/N confirmed, opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

When she kissed him again, Joe felt something settle into place—not just the physical connection, but the recognition that they'd crossed into new territory together. This moment of spontaneous honesty felt exactly right.

The game played on in the background, but Joe's attention was entirely focused on Y/N—the way she felt in his arms, the soft sounds she made when he deepened the kiss, the way her fingers had moved from his shirt to the hair at the nape of his neck.

This was what he'd been waiting for without fully realizing it: not just Y/N's presence in his space, but the permission to touch her, to be close to her, to stop pretending that seven weeks of building toward something hadn't been leading exactly here.

When they finally settled back against the couch, Y/N curled into his side with natural ease, Joe felt a contentment he hadn't experienced in years. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand splayed across his chest, and the simple domesticity of it was more satisfying than any carefully planned date could have been.

"I've been waiting for that," Y/N said softly.

"Should've done it sooner," Joe replied, his hand finding hers.

As the afternoon game continued, Joe found himself only half-watching the action on screen. His attention was focused on the weight of Y/N against his side, the way her breathing had synchronized with his, the occasional brush of her fingers against his chest.

Seven weeks of taking things slow had led to this—not a dramatic declaration or grand gesture, but the simple honesty of wanting to be close to each other. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and Joe wondered why they'd waited so long to cross this particular line.

But as Y/N's hand found his and their fingers intertwined, Joe realized the timing had been exactly right. They'd built trust and understanding first, established a foundation that could support whatever came next.

* * *

Wednesday Evening - Joe's House

Joe's phone buzzed as he was changing out of his work clothes, Y/N's name appearing on the screen with a message that made him smile.

Y/N: Dinner? I'm tired of my own cooking.

Joe typed back quickly: Come over. I'll order something.

When Y/N arrived twenty minutes later, Joe felt that familiar flutter of anticipation mixed with contentment. She looked tired but happy to be there, settling onto his couch like she belonged there.

"What did you order?" she asked, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under herself.

"Thai. Should be here in twenty minutes."

"Good choice."

Joe sat beside her, deliberately close. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, not quite touching Y/N but close enough that she could lean into him if she wanted to.

She wanted to. Y/N settled against his side with a soft sigh, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest. The weight of her against him felt exactly right—not performance or strategy, just simple comfort.

"How was your day?" Joe asked, his fingers automatically finding her hair.

"Long. Meetings, content reviews, more meetings." Y/N's voice carried the exhaustion of someone who'd been managing multiple priorities all day. "How was practice?"

"Fine. Nothing dramatic." Joe's fingers played with the soft strands of her hair, noting how Y/N's eyes fluttered closed at the gentle contact. "This is better."

"What is?"

Joe hesitated. He could deflect, make some casual comment about relaxing after work. But Y/N had asked him to be real with her.

"Coming home to you being here."

The words carried more weight than Joe had intended—an admission of domesticity, of wanting Y/N in his space, of the particular satisfaction that came from knowing she'd chosen to spend her evening with him rather than anywhere else.

Y/N went quiet against him, and Joe wondered if he'd overstepped.

"Joe..."

"I know," he said quietly, understanding her hesitation. "I know we're being careful. But I like this. I like you being here."

Y/N turned in his arms to face him properly, and Joe felt his breath catch at the expression in her eyes. Not concern or caution, but something softer, more open.

"I like being here too."

The simple admission was everything Joe needed to hear. Y/N wasn't just tolerating his interest or going along with his suggestions—she was actively choosing to be here, actively enjoying the intimacy they were building.

Joe's thumb traced along her jawline, feeling the softness of her skin, the way she leaned into his touch. After weeks of careful distance, he finally had permission to touch her face, to trace the features he'd been memorizing from across conference rooms.

"Can I kiss you again?"

oe could see the answer in Y/N's expression, in the way her lips parted slightly, in the way her hands had moved to rest on his chest. But he asked anyway—he needed to hear her say it.

"Yes."

This kiss was different from their first. Less tentative, more certain. Joe kissed Y/N like he was learning her, like he wanted to memorize the taste and texture and perfect pressure that made her sigh against his mouth. Y/N's hands slid up his chest to curl around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape in a way that sent heat straight through him.

Joe pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair, the other settling at the small of her back. Y/N felt perfect in his arms—the right height, the right weight, the right responsiveness to his touch. Like they'd been designed to fit together exactly like this.

The doorbell rang, sharp and intrusive, breaking the spell they'd created.

"Bad timing," Joe muttered against Y/N's lips, though he made no immediate move to answer the door.

"Very bad timing," Y/N agreed, her breath warm against his mouth.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, both slightly breathless, both reluctant to break the intimacy for something as mundane as food delivery. Then Joe leaned in and kissed her again—deeper this time, slower, like he was making a point about priorities. Y/N kissed him back with equal intensity, her fingers tightening in his hair.

The doorbell rang again, more insistent.

"Food's getting cold," Y/N murmured, though she showed no signs of moving.

"Don't care," Joe replied, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the sensitive spot just below her ear that made her shiver.

Y/N laughed, the sound breathless and delighted. "You'll care when you're hungry later."

"Fine," Joe said, pulling back with exaggerated reluctance. "But this conversation isn't over."

By the time they actually ate dinner, they'd established a new rhythm of casual intimacy. Y/N curled against Joe's side while they shared takeout containers, her legs draped over his lap, his hand resting on her ankle. The touches were constant but undemanding—not building toward anything specific, just maintaining contact because they could.

Joe couldn't get over how natural it felt. No awkwardness, no overthinking, just the simple pleasure of being close to Y/N while they talked about their days and shared food and existed in the same space without agenda or expectation.

"This is working," Joe said as they cleaned up the empty containers, Y/N moving around his kitchen with easy familiarity.

"What is?"

Joe gestured between them, encompassing the evening, the easy intimacy, the way Y/N had seamlessly integrated into his space and routine. "This. Us. Whatever we're calling it."

Y/N smiled, standing on her toes to kiss him briefly—casual, affectionate, like it was already habit. "It is working."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer, enjoying the way she melted against him. "Because I'm not ready to go back to pretending I don't want to touch you."

"Then don't," Y/N replied simply. "At least not when we're alone."

That was all Joe needed to hear. They could keep things professional at work and be real with each other everywhere else. No rushing, no pressure from anyone but themselves.

* * *

Playoff Push - The Pressure Builds

The facility hummed with a different energy as December progressed and the playoff picture crystallized. Joe felt it in every meeting, every practice, every interaction—the weight of expectations, the knowledge that everything they'd worked for during the regular season would be determined in the next few weeks.

But alongside the familiar pressure of playoff preparation, Joe was navigating something entirely new: maintaining a secret relationship while under the most intense scrutiny of the season. Every stolen moment with Y/N felt both more precious and more dangerous as media attention intensified and their time became increasingly fragmented.

Monday - Content Planning Meeting

Joe walked into the monthly content planning meeting with the same professional focus he brought to film study. These meetings had always been routine—necessary coordination between football operations and media strategy—but now they carried an additional layer of complexity. Y/N would be there, and he'd have to spend an hour watching her lead the meeting, making strategic decisions, commanding the room, all while pretending she hadn't spent Sunday evening curled against his side on his couch.

"Playoff content timeline," Y/N said, pulling up her presentation with the crisp efficiency Joe had admired for five years. "We'll need quarterback availability for three key pieces."

Joe took notes on his tablet, asking practical questions about scheduling and time commitments, maintaining the same professional demeanor he'd cultivated through hundreds of similar meetings. But he was hyperaware of Y/N's presence—the way she gestured while explaining strategy, the particular tone she used when addressing him directly, the subtle way her eyes would linger on his face for just a fraction longer than strictly necessary.

"The fan message piece - when do you need that filmed?" Joe asked, his voice carrying no hint of the fact that twelve hours earlier, his fingers had been tangled in her hair while they watched a movie.

"This week, before playoff prep intensifies," Y/N replied, matching his professional tone perfectly.

Joe admired her composure, her ability to compartmentalize. It was one of the things he'd always respected about Y/N professionally, but now he appreciated it on an entirely different level. She could sit across from him in a conference room full of colleagues and give no indication that they'd spent the previous evening discussing everything from childhood memories to playoff strategy while sharing takeout on his couch.

"Wednesday afternoon work?"

"Perfect. Tyler will coordinate the details."

As the meeting concluded and Tyler and Kayla gathered their materials, Joe lingered, ostensibly reviewing something on his phone. He waited until they were alone, then moved closer to Y/N's chair, his body language casual but intentional.

"Wednesday filming," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "What time?"

"Three o'clock. Should only take an hour."

Joe's hand found her lower back, hidden from view by the conference table. The contact was brief but deliberate, a reminder of the physical connection they'd been building away from these professional spaces.

"And after?"

Y/N's pulse quickened under his touch—Joe could see it in the slight flush that rose to her cheeks, the way her breathing shifted almost imperceptibly.

"After what?"

"After filming. You free?"

The question carried layers of meaning. Not just about her schedule, but about her willingness to continue navigating the complexity of stolen time together during the most intense period of his professional year.

"Depends what you have in mind."

Joe leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, close enough that he could smell her perfume, could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Come to my place. I want to actually spend time with you without worrying about who might see us."

He'd said too much. Made it obvious how tired he was of all the sneaking around, the constant watching over his shoulder.

Before Y/N could respond, Joe headed for the door. Better to leave it simple than stand there explaining himself.

Wednesday - After Filming

The filming went fine. Joe delivered what Y/N needed, same as always.

But he found himself watching her work—the small nods when he hit the right tone, how she quietly directed Tyler to fix the lighting. She was good at this. Had been since day one.

"That's a wrap," Tyler announced as they finished the final take. "Great stuff, Joe."

"Thanks," Joe replied, already looking toward Y/N. This was the moment he'd been anticipating all week—the transition from public performance to private connection.

"Y/N, can I get your take on the messaging? Make sure it hits the right tone?"

The request was professional enough to avoid suspicion while creating space for them to talk privately. Joe watched Y/N recognize the manufactured excuse and play along seamlessly.

"Of course."

As Tyler packed equipment, Joe and Y/N moved to the side of the media room, maintaining the pretense of content strategy discussion while actually negotiating the evening ahead.

"Tone was perfect," Y/N said quietly. "Confident but not arrogant. Focused but not tense."

Joe stepped closer, not enough to draw Tyler's attention but enough to lower his voice. "Good. Now, about tonight..."

"Tyler's still here," Y/N murmured, and Joe appreciated her continued awareness of their surroundings even as her body language suggested she wanted to be closer.

"He's not paying attention," Joe replied, letting his hand brush against hers—brief contact that sent electricity up his arm. "Eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

oe smiled despite himself. A whole evening without watching the clock or checking who might walk in.

"Good. I'll order dinner. Actually want to talk to you without interruptions for once."

Thursday Morning - Facility Hallway

Joe made sure to be in the main corridor Thursday morning when Y/N usually got to work. He knew her routine—coffee in hand, sitting in her car for a few minutes going through her notes before coming inside.

When she walked in, Joe felt that familiar flutter. Y/N looked relaxed, like their evening together had been good for both of them.

"Morning," he said, falling into step beside her.

"Morning," Y/N replied, and Joe caught the subtle smile she was fighting.

"Sleep well?" The question was innocuous enough for any observer, but Joe's tone carried the intimacy of someone who knew exactly how Y/N had looked curled against his side during the movie, how peacefully she'd slept with her head on his shoulder.

"Very well," Y/N said, and Joe heard the acknowledgment in her voice—not just of sleep, but of the comfort they'd found in each other's company.

Joe's mouth curved slightly. "Good. You looked comfortable when you left."

"I was comfortable. Your couch is better than mine."

"It's not the couch," Joe said, his voice dropping despite the public setting. "It's the company."

The comment was risky for a hallway conversation, but Joe didn't care. Having Y/N at his place had changed something. Made his house feel less empty, more like home.

"Joe..."

"I know," he said, recognizing her warning about location and propriety. "Wrong place for this conversation. But I like having you there. In my space."

They'd reached the point where Joe went one way and Y/N went the other. Joe stopped, trying to figure out what he could get away with here.

"Dinner tonight?" he asked, his tone casual enough for any passerby but his eyes holding hers with obvious intention.

"Can't. Early meeting tomorrow, need to prep."

Joe felt a flicker of disappointment but respected her professional priorities. "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow works."

Joe nodded, then surprised himself by stepping closer, his hand briefly touching Y/N's elbow. To anyone watching, it would appear to be a casual gesture of farewell, but Joe made sure she felt the intentional warmth of his palm, the deliberate nature of the contact.

"See you later," he said, already moving toward the player area but carrying the satisfaction of Y/N's response with him.

Friday - Storage Room

By Friday, Joe's restraint was wearing thin. A week of careful public interactions and stolen moments had built to a level of tension that demanded release. When he spotted Y/N gathering equipment for a social media shoot, Joe saw an opportunity for the kind of private contact they'd been rationing all week.

"Need help with anything?" he asked, stepping into the storage room and closing the door behind him with deliberate precision.

"Just grabbing camera gear," Y/N replied, though she stopped what she was doing when she saw the expression in his eyes.

Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist with the kind of familiarity that felt both natural and dangerous in this setting. "How long until your shoot?"

"Twenty minutes. Why?"

The practical question carried undertones of anticipation. Y/N knew exactly why Joe was asking about timing, just as she knew exactly what he intended to do with whatever private moments they could steal.

"Because I've barely seen you this week and I miss you."

The admission was more vulnerable than Joe had intended, revealing the emotional cost of maintaining professional distance while building personal intimacy. Every careful interaction at the facility felt like performance when what he wanted was authenticity.

"Joe, we can't keep doing this here," Y/N said, though her hands came up to rest on his chest in a gesture that contradicted her words.

"Doing what?" Joe asked, his thumb tracing a small circle on her hip, enjoying the way her breath caught at the contact.

"Meeting in storage rooms like we're in high school."

Joe's smile was slight but genuine. "Would you prefer your office? Because that seems riskier."

"I'd prefer not to get caught by my staff making out with the franchise quarterback."

"We're not making out," Joe pointed out, though he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume. "We're just talking."

"This isn't talking," Y/N said, her eyes fluttering closed at the gentle contact.

Joe pulled back to look at her, recognizing her need for actual conversation along with physical connection. "Fine. Let's talk. How was your meeting with the sponsors?"

"Boring. How was film study?"

"Tedious." Joe's hands stayed at her waist, providing the constant contact they'd both been craving. "Better topic—what are you doing this weekend?"

"Depends. What did you have in mind?"

"Time together. No meetings, no schedules, no one else around."

The proposal was simple but felt revolutionary after a week of careful public management. Joe wanted uninterrupted access to Y/N's company, the luxury of being together without constant awareness of external observation.

"That sounds perfect," Y/N admitted.

Joe smiled, leaning down to kiss her properly—soft and brief but enough to remind both of them what they were building toward. "Good. Because I have plans for us."

"What kind of plans?"

"The kind where I get to keep you on my couch for hours without anyone interrupting."

Weekend - At Joe's House

Saturday afternoon found them exactly where Joe had envisioned—on his couch, Y/N curled against his side while he traced absent patterns on her arm. No agenda, no timeline, no external pressure. Just the simple pleasure of proximity and the luxury of unstructured time together.

"This is nice," Y/N said, her head resting on his shoulder in a position that had become natural over their weeks together.

"Better than sneaking around storage rooms," Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Much better."

Joe's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining with practiced ease. The simple contact felt significant—not dramatic or overwhelming, but steady and satisfying.

"Y/N?"

"Mmm?"

"I like this. Whatever this is we're doing."

The words carried weight beyond their casual delivery. Joe was acknowledging not just the physical comfort but the entire structure they'd built—the careful balance of professional respect and personal intimacy, the way they'd learned to navigate complexity without losing authenticity.

Y/N tilted her head to look at him. "Even with all the complications?"

"Especially with the complications," Joe said, his expression serious. "Makes it worth something."

Joe had never been someone who valued things that came easily. Challenge and difficulty were familiar territories that made success feel earned rather than given. What he and Y/N were building required constant navigation, careful timing, mutual respect for professional obligations—and all of that made their private moments feel more precious rather than less.

"Yeah," Y/N said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "It is worth something."

Joe leaned into her touch, then turned his head to kiss her palm gently. The gesture was tender, intimate, free of the urgency that characterized their stolen moments at the facility.

"Stay for dinner?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer. "Because I'm not ready for you to leave yet."

As they settled back into comfortable silence, Joe reflected on how natural this felt despite its newness. The easy intimacy, the unforced conversation, the way they fit together both literally and figuratively. Whatever they were building felt solid and real, worth the careful navigation required to protect it from external pressures.

The playoffs would bring their own intensity and demands, but Joe felt confident that what he and Y/N had established could withstand those pressures. They'd proven they could maintain professional excellence while building something personal and meaningful.

And as Y/N's breathing grew slower and more regular against his side, Joe realized that this—more than any championship or individual accolade—was what he'd been working toward without knowing it. Not just success, but someone to share it with who understood both the cost and the value of what they were building together.

* * *

The Final Whistle

Joe stood where the final play had died, staring up at the gray Pittsburgh sky. Steelers 28, Bengals 21. Season over. Another year of carrying everyone's hopes and expectations, another year of falling just short when it mattered most.

The stadium noise faded to nothing as it hit him. Five months of work. Sixteen weeks of games. All of it for nothing.

He spotted Y/N on the sideline, camera up, doing her job even now. Part of him was glad she was there. Part of him hated that she had to see this.

Players started moving toward midfield for handshakes. Joe made himself walk, go through the motions—shake hands with Steelers who meant their respect, nod at teammates who looked as gutted as he felt.

Walking toward the tunnel, Joe caught Y/N's eye for a second. No words. Just a look before he disappeared into the locker room, carrying another year that ended too soon.

The visiting locker room was dead quiet. No yelling, no speeches. Just guys sitting there, processing that it was over for another year. Joe sat at his locker in full gear, staring at the floor.

He knew what came next. Interviews. The same questions he'd answered before. Credit the opponent, say you're disappointed, thank the fans. Every losing quarterback said the same things.

But his mind kept replaying the game. The pick in the third quarter. Getting sacked on second down when they needed a first. The audible that didn't work.

Coach Taylor gave his comments to the media—said the right things. Joe's were shorter. Just enough to get through it so he could get on the bus, get on the plane, get back to Cincinnati and deal with another season that ended without a ring.

On the Plane - 11:47 PM

The team plane was quiet. Most guys were sleeping or staring out windows. Joe sat a few rows back from the media staff, giving everyone space to deal with this however they needed to.

He couldn't sleep. His mind kept running through every play, every decision, every moment where things could've gone different.

All of it was on him. Not just tonight, but every season that ended like this. He was the franchise quarterback. The city's hopes, everyone's dreams—it all came back to him.

Joe pulled out his phone. Five years of handling disappointment the same way—stay composed, don't let anyone see it get to you. But tonight felt different. Tonight he couldn't carry it alone.

He typed without thinking too much about it:

When we land, will you come to my house and stay?

He'd never asked anyone to help him deal with this before. But Y/N had seen him at his worst—during the injuries, the rehab, when his guard was down.

Y/N's response came fast: Of course.

No questions. No hesitation. Just yes.

Don't want to be alone tonight.

He'd never admitted that to anyone. Not during his careful courtship with Y/N, not ever. He needed her here tonight.

I'll follow you home from the facility.

Thank you.

Joe put his phone away, feeling like he could breathe for the first time since the game ended. Y/N would be there. He didn't have to do this alone.

Cincinnati - 1:23 AM

The facility parking lot was mostly empty when the team buses got back. Just a few cars—staff and families who'd waited up. Joe grabbed his gear and said goodbye to teammates, but he was really watching Y/N finish up her work.

When he came out twenty minutes later in sweats with his bag, Joe felt completely drained. Everything they'd worked for, gone. But Y/N was there, waiting for him like she'd promised.

Their eyes met across the parking lot. This wasn't about whatever they'd been building between them. This was about trust—trusting her to see him like this and not think less of him.

He nodded toward his car. Y/N followed him through empty Cincinnati streets, both of them driving in silence through a city that had gone to sleep disappointed. But at least they'd face whatever came next together.

Joe's House - 1:52 AM

Joe's house felt different when they arrived—darker, quieter, emptier than usual. The careful order that normally brought him comfort felt sterile in the face of the emotional chaos churning in his chest.

"You want anything?" Joe asked, dropping his bag by the door. "Water, food, whatever?"

The offer was automatic, part of his ingrained politeness, but it felt inadequate for what was actually happening. Y/N wasn't here as a guest making social calls. She was here because he'd asked her to help him carry something he couldn't handle alone.

"I'm fine," Y/N said softly. "What do you need?"

The direct question hit Joe like a physical blow. What did he need? He'd spent years carefully managing his emotions, maintaining professional composure, handling disappointment with controlled grace. But tonight, all of that felt insufficient.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, feeling the first crack in his composed facade since the game ended. "I don't know. Just... not to be alone with this."

Y/N moved closer, her hands finding his forearms with gentle certainty. "You don't have to be."

The simple assurance nearly undid him. "We were so close. Again. And I just... I can't stop thinking about what I could have done differently."

"Joe..."

"The interception in the third quarter. The sack on second down. The audible that didn't work." His voice was quiet but strained, the words tumbling out despite his usual emotional control. "I keep replaying every decision, every throw, every fucking play call."

Y/N stepped closer, her hands moving to frame his face with a tenderness that felt both foreign and necessary. "Stop."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. For tonight, you can." Y/N's thumbs brushed across his cheekbones, her touch grounding him in the present moment. "Tomorrow you can watch film and analyze every play. Tonight, you're just Joe. And Joe doesn't have to carry all of this alone."

Something in Joe's expression cracked at her words. The careful control he'd maintained all evening—through the handshakes, through the interviews, through the long plane ride home—finally began to slip under the weight of Y/N's permission to be human.

"I wanted it so bad. For the team, for the city, for..."

"I know," Y/N said simply. "I know you did."

When Joe opened his eyes, the professional mask was gone, the careful composure stripped away by exhaustion and disappointment and the relief of finally having someone who saw him as more than just the quarterback who'd lost the game.

"Come here," he said quietly, pulling her closer until there was barely any space between them.

Y/N went willingly, her arms sliding around his neck as his wrapped around her waist. They stood like that in his dark living room, holding each other while the weight of the season's end settled around them. For the first time in hours, Joe felt like he could breathe.

"Thank you," Joe murmured against her hair. "For being here. For seeing me."

"Always," Y/N replied, and Joe believed her completely.

When Joe pulled back to look at her, something had shifted in his expression. Y/N was exactly where he wanted her to be—not because she had to be, not because it was her job, but because she'd chosen to be there when he needed someone most.

And for the first time since the final whistle, Joe felt like he might actually be okay.

Y/N could feel the tension radiating from him—not just disappointment, but something deeper. Frustration, anger, the weight of carrying everyone's expectations and falling short. She took his hand, leading him to the couch.

"Sit," she said gently.

Joe sank onto the cushions, and Y/N moved to straddle his lap, her hands resting on his shoulders. The position was intimate but not sexual—more like she was anchoring him, giving him something solid to hold onto.

"What do you need?" she asked, studying his face.

Joe's jaw clenched, his hands finding her hips. "I don't know. I'm just... I'm sad and I'm angry and I don't know what to do with any of it."

Joe had spent years carefully containing his emotions, channeling them into performance and preparation. But tonight, with Y/N's weight warm and solid in his lap, her eyes focused entirely on him, he felt something fundamental shifting.

"I'm not asking for soft," Y/N said quietly, her hands moving to frame his face. "I'm not asking for slow. I'm asking you to stop holding it in. You don't have to be careful with me right now."

Joe's eyes searched hers, something vulnerable and desperate flickering there. "You don't understand what you're saying."

"I understand perfectly." Y/N's thumbs brushed across his cheekbones. "You've been holding this together all night. Holding yourself together. You don't have to do that with me."

"If I don't hold it together—"

"Then don't," she said simply. "Let it break. Let me help you put it back together."

Joe's breathing grew uneven, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped her hips. Years of emotional control warring with the desperate need to let someone else carry the weight for once.

"Y/N..."

"Stop," she said quietly, her hands still framing his face. "Stop trying to be okay for me."

"Use me," she whispered, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. "Work it out on me. Be angry. Be sad. Be real. I can take it. I want it."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes—the last of his control beginning to fracture. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer against him.

"You want me to stop being careful?" he asked, his voice rough with barely contained emotion.

"Yes," Y/N breathed. "Show me who you are when you're not trying to be perfect."

Joe stared at her for a long moment, his breathing growing heavier. Then he saw the exact moment his restraint snapped—not into violence, but into something raw and desperate and honest.

His mouth was on hers in the next second, rougher than he'd ever kissed her, like he'd been holding it back for years. Y/N met him with equal force, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to the moment.

He broke the kiss with a breathless, “Fuck,” his grip tightening on her hips like he couldn’t hold himself back another second.

“Off,” he said, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I need—fuck—I need to see you.”

She didn’t say anything, just stripped. No hesitation, no ceremony. Her eyes stayed locked on his, steady and unflinching, and then—she dropped to her knees like she’d been waiting to do it.

Joe leaned back slightly, planting his hands on his thighs. She was still looking at him, like she was daring him to say something, to stop her. Like she knew he wouldn’t.

“You want this?” His voice was low, rough.

“Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “Then look at me.”

She didn’t look away as she untied his sweats and pushed them down just enough. He was already hard, already throbbing, and she hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Don’t tease,” he muttered, hand coming to the back of her head. Not forcing, just steady. A warning. “Not tonight.”

She wrapped one hand around him and took him into her mouth—no warm-up, no playing around, just all in, smooth and sure.

Joe’s head dropped back, a hiss cutting through his teeth. “Fuck—that’s it.”

He looked down again, watching her, needing to see it. His fingers tightened in her hair. “Deeper. You can take it.”

She adjusted, let him guide the pace, didn’t flinch.

“That’s it,” he said, breath catching. “Eyes on me. I want you to feel this. I want to feel you.”

She moaned around him, and he felt it, low and deep. His whole body jolted.

He was already too close, already on edge, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that. Not when her mouth felt like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“Don’t look away,” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t fucking look away.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t. And he didn’t want her to. Her eyes stayed locked on his, steady even as she kept her rhythm. She was doing it for him. Just for him.

“You like that?” he rasped. “Fuck, you love it, don’t you?”

She hummed, deliberate. That sound hit him low, sharp. His hips jerked forward just slightly, control unraveling.

“I’m not gonna last,” he got out, breath gone, voice uneven. “Not like this.”

He looked down at her again, jaw tight, eyes locked in. “Get up.”

She pulled back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Still breathless. Still tasting him.

Joe stood, grabbed her hand, held on tight. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and frayed. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on my couch.”

* * *

He pulled her up in one smooth motion, not letting go of her hand as he headed down the hall. Grip locked tight. Like if he let go, the moment would break.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his free hand, backed inside, and pulled her in with him.

The second the door clicked shut, he was on her again.

He walked her backward toward the bed, hands on her waist, mouth back on her throat. No pause. No slow build. Just heat and need and the taste of her still on his tongue.

She hit the edge of the mattress and he nudged her down. Stood over her, eyes dragging across her body, trying to figure out where the fuck to start. He wanted all of it. Every inch.

She reached for him.

He shook his head once. Firm.

“Lie back.”

She did. Breath shaky. Legs already open for him.

He dropped to his knees, fingers sliding between her legs—and froze.

“Jesus,” he muttered. His voice came out low, rough. “You’re soaked.”

Her breath hitched, sharp. She didn’t say anything.

He looked up at her. Dead on. “That was just from your mouth on me?”

She didn’t flinch. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

“Good,” he said.

Then he dropped his head and took.

No warm-up. No easing in. Just mouth on her, tongue moving with focus. He didn’t give a fuck about rhythm or build-up. He just wanted to make her come apart. Fast. Hard. Like she had five years of tension to burn off.

She cried out. Loud. One hand flying to her mouth like she couldn’t believe how good it felt.

His hands came up to her hips, holding her still.

“Don’t run from it,” he said against her. His voice was already frayed. “Stay with me.”

“I’m trying,” she gasped. “Fuck—don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He doubled down. Groaned low when she tilted her hips, licked deeper when she gasped. Let her ride it. Let her take what she needed.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured into her. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

She tried to speak. Didn’t make it. Legs shaking. Hands clawing for something to grab.

“I’m gonna—Joe—fuck—”

“Do it,” he said, lifting his head just long enough to say it against her. “Come on. Give it to me.”

And she did.

The sound she made was raw. Nothing soft about it. She broke apart with her thighs tight around his shoulders, whole body shaking.

He didn’t stop until she slumped back, wrecked. Chest heaving. Breath shot to hell.

Only then did he pull back. Slow. Deliberate. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving hers.

He stood. Looked down at her, completely laid out for him, and wrapped his hand around himself—just once, steady. He was hanging on by a thread.

“This what you want?” he asked, voice wrecked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He tilted his head, thumb sliding across the head of his cock. “You’ve wanted this for five years?”

She exhaled like it knocked the wind out of her. “Yes.”

His jaw locked. “Say it.”

“I’ve wanted you,” she said, right on the edge of begging. “Please, Joe. I want you.”

That was it.

He pushed forward in one hard thrust. Deep. All the way.

Y/N gasped, hands flying to the sheets, back arching. “Fuck—”

Joe dropped his head, groaning. “Jesus, Y/N…”

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried inside her, holding her hips. Taking in the feel of her. Tight, warm, perfect.

“You feel that?” he murmured, finally pulling back and driving in again. “That’s what you’ve been needing?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He gave her more—deeper, faster—his pace picking up as she met him, her leg hooking around his hip like she couldn’t get close enough.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “Me fucking you like this?”

“God, yes, harder,” she gasped. “Just like that—Joe, fuck—”

He bent over her, hand braced beside her head, thrusts sharp now, hitting deep every time.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grit out. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

She moaned, loud and open.

“I want to feel you come,” he said, pushing harder. “You gonna come for me again?”

She whimpered. Body locking up. So close.

“I want to feel you lose it around me,” he ground out. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

“Joe, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Look at me.”

Her eyes flew open. Met his.

“Look at me when you do it.”

She came hard. Whole body clenching around him, thighs shaking, breath breaking into pieces. Her cry punched right through him.

“Fuck—” Joe gasped, hips jerking, rhythm gone. He thrust once, twice, then lost it completely—groaning low as he came inside her, everything snapping loose all at once.

He stayed there. Inside her. Still breathing hard. Forehead pressed to hers like he needed something to hang onto.

Neither of them said anything.

* * *

He stayed inside her longer than he meant to. Just breathing. Just feeling it. Her heartbeat under his hand. The way her body was still holding him, still wrapped around him. The weight of what they’d just done settling between his ribs like gravity.

Then he pulled out, slow, careful, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee before stepping back.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, voice still rough but steadier now. Not wrecked anymore. Just real.

She didn’t answer. Just stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling fast.

He went to the ensuite. Turned on the water. Let it run warm while he found a cloth. When he came back, he was still naked, still buzzing under his skin, but he didn’t rush. He knelt between her legs again, holding the cloth in one hand. Looked at her like a question.

She didn’t flinch.

He cleaned her with quiet, focused movements. No talking. No big moment. Just taking care of her because he wanted to. Because this part mattered too.

Wherever the cloth passed, he followed with a kiss—her thigh, her hip, her stomach. He didn’t think about what it meant. Just did it.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and looked at her.

“You know this changes everything, right?”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either.

His thumb ran over her knee. Steady. Like he always was when it counted.

“I’m not going back from this,” he said. “And I’m not going to pretend.”

She swallowed hard. He saw it.

“I’ll handle it,” he told her. “The higher-ups. Front office. I’ll talk to them myself. You don’t have to do anything.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“All you need to do is give Kayla a heads up. So she’s not blindsided. The rest? I’ve got.”

She exhaled. Not relief exactly, but close.

His hand skimmed up her thigh again. Slower now. Grounding, not hungry.

“We’ll keep it professional at work,” he said. “I won’t make you look bad.”

She met his eyes. “I know you won’t.”

He leaned down and kissed her again. Slow. Mouth lingering. His hand cupping her cheek like he wasn’t done holding her yet. Like maybe he never would be.

They got under the covers without much talking. Not because there wasn’t anything to say. Because they’d already said enough.

She curled into him like it was muscle memory. Head on his chest. Her leg over his. Like they’d done this before. Like it wasn’t brand new.

His hand moved along her back in slow, absent lines. Not thinking about it. Just needing the contact.

Silence held for a while. Heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he said it, soft. Quiet enough he almost hoped she didn’t hear it.

“Thank you.”

She stirred a little. “For what?”

He exhaled through his nose. The weight of it sat in his chest.

“For being here tonight,” he said. “For giving yourself to me.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just brushed her fingers over his ribs. That little spot that always made him feel like his body wasn’t all his own anymore.

“I’m sorry it took me five years to get here,” he said, and his voice cracked a little.

Her voice didn’t break. Not even close. “You’re here now.”

He nodded once, barely.

Then he put his hand at the base of her spine and left it there. Holding her. Holding this.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

And he meant it.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - Joe's House, 7:47 AM

Joe stood in his bedroom doorway with his coffee, watching Y/N get ready at his bathroom sink. A week of mornings like this—her stuff on his counter, their clothes mixed together in the hamper. It felt right.

He'd been thinking about this since their first night together. They couldn't keep sneaking around forever. This thing between them had become too important to hide. He was tired of pretending Y/N was just another employee.

"I'm sitting down with the front office today," Joe said, his tone casual but decisive. "To tell them about us."

Y/N's toothbrush stopped mid-stroke. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Joe saw the moment his words registered—surprise, then something close to panic.

"Today?" Y/N managed around the toothpaste, then quickly spit and rinsed. "What do you mean today? What time?"

"Eleven," Joe replied, taking a sip of coffee. He'd already run through this conversation in his mind, anticipated her concerns, prepared his responses. "Meeting with ownership, Kayla will probably be there, maybe legal."

Y/N whirled around to face him, and Joe could practically see her mind racing through the implications. "Joe! You can't just spring this on me! I haven't told Kayla yet!"

Joe set down his coffee, recognizing that Y/N's panic was legitimate even if he didn't share it. "I told you last week I was done hiding this. I meant it."

"You said you were 'done pretending' - I didn't know you meant this week!" Y/N's voice rose slightly, stress making her words sharp. "Shit, what time did you say? Eleven?"

"Eleven."

Joe watched Y/N glance at her phone, saw her calculating the time she had to manage this situation. Her mind was already in crisis management mode, the same focused efficiency she brought to handling his media disasters.

"Fuck. Okay. I need to get to work and talk to Kayla before you talk to them. She needs to hear this from me, not find out in a meeting where she's blindsided."

Y/N pushed past him toward the bedroom, and Joe followed, recognizing that his casual approach to this announcement had created exactly the kind of professional complication he'd been trying to avoid.

"Y/N," he called after her, watching her pull clothes from his dresser with sharp, efficient movements. "It's going to be fine."

"You don't know that," Y/N said, her anxiety evident in every gesture. "This could mess up everything I've worked for. The timing, the optics, the fact that I just got promoted—"

Joe caught her hand, stopping her frantic preparation. He'd miscalculated this moment, had been so focused on his own readiness to go public that he hadn't fully considered Y/N's need to control the narrative around her career.

"Hey. Look at me."

Y/N met his eyes, and Joe saw the fear there—not of their relationship, but of the professional implications she'd been carefully managing since her promotion.

"I've thought this through," he said quietly, meaning it completely. "I know what I'm going to say, how I'm going to frame it. This isn't going to hurt your career."

"But you're telling them before I tell Kayla," Y/N pointed out, pulling her hand free to continue getting dressed. "That makes it look like I was keeping secrets from my boss while you were being transparent with yours."

The moment Y/N said it, Joe realized his mistake. He'd been thinking about this from his own perspective—his timeline, his readiness, his need to stop hiding. But Y/N was right about the optics. The order of these conversations mattered.

"Shit. You're right."

"I know I'm right!" Y/N said, already reaching for her phone. "Which is why I need to get to the facility right now and have a very awkward conversation with Kayla before eleven o'clock."

Joe watched Y/N text with practiced efficiency, coordinating an emergency meeting while simultaneously getting dressed and mentally preparing for a conversation that could affect her entire career trajectory.

"This is going to be a disaster," Y/N muttered, checking her reflection in his mirror.

Joe moved to block her path to the door, recognizing that his casual confidence wasn't helping her anxiety. "It's not. Y/N, stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking, I'm being realistic about the professional implications of—"

Joe kissed her, cutting off her spiraling thoughts with the kind of direct action that had always worked between them. When they broke apart, he saw some of the tension ease from her shoulders.

"Better?" he asked.

"Marginally," Y/N admitted, though her breathing had slowed. "But I still need to go handle damage control."

"There's no damage to control," Joe said firmly, meaning it completely. He'd run through every possible scenario, every potential complication. "We're adults in a relationship. We're both good at our jobs. Everything else is just logistics."

Y/N stared at him with something between admiration and frustration. "I wish I had your confidence about this."

Joe opened the front door for her, his voice gentle but certain. "You don't need confidence. You just need honesty. Tell Kayla the truth—that we've been seeing each other, that it's serious, and that it won't interfere with either of our professional responsibilities."

"And if she thinks the timing of my promotion looks suspicious?"

Joe's expression grew more serious, his protective instincts engaging. "Then you remind her that you earned that promotion through five years of excellent work, and anyone who suggests otherwise can take it up with me."

Despite her anxiety, Y/N's expression softened slightly at his immediate defensiveness on her behalf. "Okay. I'm going to go have the most awkward conversation of my professional life. Try not to torpedo my career while I'm gone."

"I'll be the picture of professionalism," Joe promised, kissing her forehead. "Text me after you talk to Kayla."

As Y/N walked toward her car, Joe felt a mix of anticipation and determination. He'd made his decision about going public, and while the timing had created temporary stress for Y/N, he knew it was the right choice. They'd been careful long enough. It was time to stop hiding.

10:58 AM - Before the Meeting

Joe walked into the conference room the same way he approached playoff games—confident, prepared. He'd spent the morning thinking through what he'd say, what questions might come up. The ownership group was already there—Mike Brown, Katie Blackburn, the executives, and Kayla. Good. Y/N had talked to her. This wasn't about asking permission. This was about telling them what was happening. His relationship with Y/N was serious, and they needed to know.

"Joe," Mike Brown nodded as he took his seat. "Appreciate you making time during the off-season. What's on your mind?"

Joe settled into his chair, hands relaxed on the table. No notes, no prepared remarks. Just the same directness that had served him well for five years as their franchise quarterback.

"I wanted to inform you that I'm in a relationship with Y/N Y/L/N," he said simply. "It's serious, and I thought you should hear it from me directly."

The brief silence that followed was exactly what Joe had expected. He could read the room like he read defensive coverage—surprise shifting to calculation, executives processing implications and potential complications.

Katie Blackburn spoke first. "Y/N from our media team? The new VP?"

"That's right."

"How long has this been going on?" Mike Brown asked, his tone neutral but evaluating.

"We've been seeing each other for a few months. It became official recently." Joe's voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. "I want to be clear about something from the start—this relationship had nothing to do with her promotion. Y/N earned that position through five years of exceptional work."

Joe let that statement settle, making direct eye contact with each person at the table. Not defensive—just establishing facts that couldn't be disputed.

"The timing of her promotion and your relationship becoming public could raise questions," one of the executives pointed out.

"It could," Joe agreed, his tone remaining conversational. "Which is why I'm addressing it directly. Y/N and I are both professionals. We understand the boundaries required to maintain our respective roles."

Joe paused, choosing his next words carefully. He wanted to be respectful but also clear about his position. "I think it's worth noting that I just finished a season where I threw for over 4,000 yards and led this team to the playoffs despite some significant roster challenges."

The subtle shift in the room was immediate. Joe continued, his voice still measured but carrying unmistakable weight.

"The offensive line issues, the depth concerns at key positions—we all know what this team dealt with this season. But we made the playoffs anyway." His eyes moved around the table. "I mention that because I think my commitment to this organization has been pretty well established."

Katie Blackburn nodded slowly. "It has been, Joe."

"Good. So when I tell you that Y/N is the most talented media professional this organization has, and that she earned her promotion through merit, I hope that carries some weight." Joe's tone remained friendly, but there was steel underneath. "Because I'd hate for anyone to suggest otherwise."

The implication hung in the air—polite, but unmistakable. Joe had made his position clear without raising his voice or changing his expression.

"Joe, no one would suggest that," Mike Brown said.

"I'm sure they wouldn't," Joe replied smoothly. "But just so we're all clear—Y/N doesn't know I'm saying this, and she'd probably prefer I didn't—but her success reflects well on this organization. She's been documenting my career since my rookie year, and she's a big part of why our media presence has improved so dramatically."

He leaned back slightly, the picture of relaxed confidence. "I'd consider any suggestion that her promotion was connected to our relationship to be... inaccurate. And I think my track record gives me some credibility on personnel evaluations."

The room was quiet, but not tense—just thoughtful. Joe had made his point without being confrontational, had protected Y/N's reputation while establishing clear boundaries.

"Now," he continued, as if the previous exchange had been purely informational, "Kayla can walk you through the protocols Y/N has already implemented to ensure there are no conflicts of interest."

The meeting proceeded smoothly from there, covering practical considerations and establishing clear guidelines. When it concluded, Joe felt satisfied with the outcome. He'd protected Y/N's reputation, established his position, and set the tone for how their relationship would be handled moving forward. As he walked out of the conference room, Joe checked his phone and found a text from Y/N asking how it went. He smiled, typing back quickly:

Joe: Exactly like it should have. They're supportive. Kayla will handle the paperwork.

For the first time in months, Joe felt completely free. No more careful scheduling, no more stolen moments, no more pretending that Y/N wasn't the most important thing in his life. They could finally be together openly, honestly, without the weight of secrecy.

It felt exactly right.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - 12:47 PM - Y/N's Office

Joe walked through the facility feeling lighter than he had in months. The meeting had gone exactly like he'd expected—straightforward, professional. Five years of good work meant they respected his judgment. No drama, no complications. He went straight to Y/N's office. Felt good to just walk there without timing it perfectly or making up some excuse. When he knocked and went in, closing the door behind him, it was simple—he wanted to see her.

"Got a minute?" he asked, taking in Y/N's expression of barely contained anxiety.

Y/N practically launched herself out of her chair, and Joe felt a flutter of amusement at her obvious stress. "How did it go? Seriously, be honest."

Joe's mouth curved into that subtle smile, the one that appeared when he was satisfied with an outcome he'd carefully orchestrated. "Exactly like I said it would."

"That's not details," Y/N said, moving closer with the kind of urgency that suggested she'd been catastrophizing every possible scenario for the past hour. "I need actual details. What did they say? How did they react? Are we in trouble?"

Joe reached for her hands, feeling the slight tremor in her fingers that betrayed her attempt at composure. "We're not in trouble. Y/N, breathe. It was fine. Better than fine."

"Define fine."

Joe pulled her closer, his hands settling at her waist in the kind of casual intimacy they could now display without worry. "Mike Brown said they appreciate me handling it the right way. Katie confirmed your promotion was unanimous and had nothing to do with us. Kayla will handle the HR paperwork. End of story."

Y/N searched his face with the same intensity she brought to analyzing game footage, looking for any sign of concern or uncertainty. "That's really it? No pushback, no concerns about optics?"

"None that matter," Joe said simply.

"What does that mean?"

Joe was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. He'd handled the meeting with the same strategic precision he brought to reading defenses, but Y/N didn't need to know about the subtle power dynamics he'd navigated to protect her position.

"They needed to understand that questioning your qualifications or suggesting your promotion was connected to us would be... problematic."

Y/N's eyes widened, and Joe saw the moment she understood what he'd actually done in that conference room. "Joe, what did you say?"

"Nothing dramatic," he replied, though he could see Y/N wasn't buying his casual dismissal. "I just reminded them that I had a pretty good season despite some organizational challenges, and that my opinion on personnel carries some weight."

"You didn't..."

"I protected you," Joe said firmly, his voice dropping to match the seriousness of what he was telling her. "Without being dramatic about it. Just made sure everyone understood where things stand."

Y/N's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something that looked like overwhelming gratitude. Joe felt a surge of satisfaction at having handled the situation exactly as he'd intended—no drama, no ultimatums, just clear communication of his position and the consequences of questioning it.

"You really did handle it."

"I told you I would."

"But I was so nervous, and you were just... confident. Like you knew exactly how it would go."

Joe's hands moved to frame her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones in a gesture that felt both tender and possessive. This was exactly why he'd been confident—not because he was naive about potential complications, but because he'd understood the dynamics at play and his own value within the organization.

"Because I did know. Y/N, I'm the franchise quarterback and you're incredibly good at your job. We're both adults. There was never any real question about how this would go."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Joe said, leaning down to kiss her softly. The kiss felt different now—not stolen or careful, but open and honest. "Everything else was just noise."

When they broke apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his, and Joe felt the tension finally leave her body. "I can't believe we're actually doing this. Like, officially doing this."

"Finally," Joe said, his voice dropping lower as the full implications hit him. "No more hiding. No more pretending I don't want to touch you when you're in the same room."

The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Months of careful management, of stolen glances and manufactured professional distance, were finally over. He could touch Y/N when he wanted to, could look at her without calculating who might be watching, could stop performing careful indifference when what he felt was anything but indifferent.

"No more storage room meetings," Y/N added with a laugh.

"Definitely no more storage room meetings," Joe agreed, though his expression grew slightly nostalgic. "Though I have to admit, there was something exciting about the secrecy."

Y/N pulled back to look at him, eyebrows raised. "You're not going to miss it?"

Joe's expression grew more serious as he considered what he would and wouldn't miss about their careful navigation of professional boundaries. "I'm not going to miss watching you worry that someone might see us together. I'm not going to miss you editing yourself out of conversations because you're afraid of how it looks. I'm not going to miss pretending that what we have isn't important."

The honesty in his own voice surprised him. Joe hadn't fully realized how much Y/N's careful self-protection had affected him until he was able to articulate its absence. Watching her constrain herself professionally because of their relationship had been more painful than maintaining his own careful boundaries.

"It is important."

"It's the most important thing," Joe confirmed, meaning it completely. "And now everyone knows it."

Y/N's phone buzzed, breaking the intimate bubble they'd created. Joe watched her glance at the message, saw her expression shift to something like amused resignation.

"Sam," Y/N explained, showing him the screen. "She's been suspicious for weeks. She's going to lose her mind when I tell her."

"Good," Joe said, kissing her forehead with genuine satisfaction. "I want people to know. I want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours and we're done pretending otherwise."

The possessiveness in his voice was deliberate and unapologetic. Joe had spent months carefully managing his feelings, restraining his natural inclination to claim what mattered to him. No more restraint, no more careful distance.

"Yours, huh?"

"Completely," Joe said without hesitation. "Is that a problem?"

"Not even a little bit," Y/N replied, standing on her toes to kiss him properly.

This kiss was different from their earlier exchange—deeper, more certain, carrying the weight of finally being able to be honest about what they meant to each other. When they broke apart, Joe felt settled in a way he hadn't experienced in years.

"So what happens now?"

"Now we go back to work," Y/N said practically, and Joe appreciated her ability to compartmentalize even in moments of emotional significance. "I have meetings, you probably have film study or workouts or whatever quarterbacks do in January."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight you come home to my place and we celebrate not having to sneak around anymore."

Joe's smile was slow and satisfied. The casual assumption that he'd come to her place, that they'd spend the evening together, felt like the most natural thing in the world. "I like the sound of that."

"Good," Y/N said, reaching up to straighten his quarter-zip in a gesture that was both unnecessary and deeply intimate. "Because I have about five years of not being able to touch you in public to make up for."

The promise in her voice sent heat through Joe's chest. Five years of careful professional distance, of managing attraction and suppressing the desire to touch her, were finally over. Tonight, and every night going forward, he could stop pretending Y/N wasn't exactly where he wanted to be.

Joe kissed her once more—quick but thorough, a promise of more to come—then moved toward the door. "I'll see you tonight. And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"No more worrying about this. It's handled. We're handled. Everything else is just logistics."

As Joe left Y/N's office, he felt a completeness he hadn't experienced since before their relationship began. No more careful scheduling, no more manufactured reasons to be in the same room, no more pretending that Y/N wasn't the most important thing in his life.

For the first time in months, Joe Burrow could just be himself—franchise quarterback, sure, but also a man completely in love with a woman who'd finally stopped having to hide it.

Walking through the facility corridors, Joe nodded to colleagues with the same professional courtesy he'd always maintained. But now, when people looked at him, they'd see someone who'd chosen transparency over convenience, who'd prioritized honesty over ease.

They'd see a man who'd found something worth protecting and had protected it exactly the way it deserved.

And Joe had never felt more like himself than he did in that moment, walking through his workplace knowing that Y/N was somewhere in the same building, officially and openly his.

* * *

July 15, 2025 - Training Camp Begins

Joe arrived at the facility early for the first day of training camp, his usual routine unchanged despite everything that had shifted over the past six months. The summer air was thick with humidity and the promise of another season ahead. It had been six months since his meeting with ownership, six months of being openly together with Y/N, and this was their first time back in the facility as an official couple.

The parking lot was packed—players' cars mixed with media vehicles and staff arriving for the official start of football season. Joe parked in his usual spot and noticed Y/N's car a few spaces over. No more careful timing of arrivals, no more pretending they didn't coordinate their schedules.

Walking through the facility corridors, Joe noticed the differences immediately. Staff members who used to give him polite professional nods now smiled with something warmer. They knew about Y/N now, knew she was part of his life in a way that went beyond work.

"Morning, Joe!" called out one of the equipment managers. "Your lucky practice jersey's ready. Tell Y/N I said hello."

Joe nodded, appreciating how naturally Y/N had been incorporated into the team's understanding of who he was. She wasn't just the VP of Digital Media anymore—she was his girlfriend, part of his world in a way that felt right. The locker room was buzzing with the energy of a new season starting. Players catching up after the off-season, coaches reviewing practice plans, the familiar rhythm of football preparation that Joe had missed.

"Look who's back," Ja'Marr said, appearing beside Joe's locker. "How's it feel to be Cincinnati's most private power couple?"

"Like we're doing it right," Joe replied, pulling his practice gear from his locker. "Y/N's not built for a spotlight on her personal life."

"No kidding. You give one-word answers about her in interviews and somehow still make it clear you're completely gone."

Joe felt himself smile slightly. "I protect what matters to me."

"Including her," Ja'Marr said with obvious approval. "It's actually really sweet how you handle it. And can I just say, it's about damn time you two stopped pretending."

"We weren't pretending, we were being professional."

"Man, you were torturing yourselves," Ja'Marr said with a laugh. "The whole team could see it. You've been different since y'all got together—more focused, less uptight. Whatever she's doing, tell her to keep doing it."

Before Joe could respond, Coach Taylor's voice echoed through the locker room, calling for the first team meeting of training camp.

As Joe headed toward the meeting room, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Y/N.

Joe: First day back. Feels right being here with you.

Her response came quickly.

Y/N: Feels right not hiding.

Joe: Never hiding again. See you at lunch?

Y/N: If you're not too exhausted from practice.

Joe: Never too exhausted for you.

Around eleven, after the team meeting but before practice started, Joe found himself walking toward the media offices. Not because he had to—no scheduled interviews or content shoots—but because he wanted to see Y/N in her element here, at the place where they'd built their foundation over five years. He knocked on her office door and stepped inside, closing it behind him out of habit more than necessity.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Always," Y/N replied, looking up from her computer. "Ready for the first practice?"

"More than ready. Excited." Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist as she stood up from her chair. "I missed this place. Missed working here with you."

"We've been together all off-season," Y/N pointed out.

"Not here. Not where it all started." Joe's expression grew more serious. This building held five years of their history—every careful conversation, every stolen moment, every time he'd requested her specifically for his media needs because he trusted her judgment completely. "Y/N, having you here, being able to be open about us—it makes everything better."

"Even with people watching?"

"Especially with people watching. I like that the team knows you're mine."

Joe kissed her then—brief but thorough—marveling at how natural it felt to be affectionate with her here, in her office, without calculating who might see or what conclusions they might draw.

"Go get ready for practice," Y/N said when they broke apart. "Show them why you're worth all the fuss."

"What fuss?" Joe asked with that subtle smile.

"The fuss of dating the VP of Digital Media."

Joe's expression grew more serious. "Best decision I ever made."

As he reached the door, he paused and turned back. The words came easily now, after months of being able to say them openly.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Love you. See you at lunch."

"Love you too," she replied, and Joe felt that familiar satisfaction at hearing her say it back so easily, so certainly.

Walking back toward the practice facility, Joe felt a completeness he'd never experienced here before. For five years, he'd been excellent at his job while carefully managing his feelings for Y/N. Now he could be excellent at his job while being completely himself.

As he changed into practice gear, Joe looked out the windows toward the practice field. For the first time in five years, Y/N could watch him work without having to hide how much she cared about him, both as a player and as a person.

And Joe could perform knowing that the woman who'd documented his entire NFL career was there not just because it was her job, but because she'd chosen to be part of his life in every way that mattered. The first practice of training camp was about to begin, and Joe Burrow had never felt more ready for a season to start.

[elliesfreckle]

over & out | radio au |

▶• ılıılıılılıılıılı. 0

previous | next

📟 : record two 𖣠 white noise and wrong stars

⏯ synopsis : you’re a voice on the other side of the radio. she’s your wrong frequency — a mistake. a fortune, maybe, at the edge of a devastated world. you never told her your name. she never asked what you looked like. but when the nights get colder, in a world full of silence, you keep talking.

⏯ pairing : ellie williams & fem!reader

⏯ content warning : swearing; canon tlou after outbreak world; idk and prob edit it later

⏯ word count : 4.7k

⏯ a/n : HELLO we did it! today is the day! i have passed (away) the exam (two more left)! wont say much 'cause i died while proofreading, editing and uploading this shi on tumblr. and im REALLY sorry if there are so many stupid mistakes that you'll ban me forever. trust me i hate being perfectly literate in my native language while writing english like a 9 year old boy. but! i have to thank you all for how gently you embraced this idea and for your support. special shoutout to @losing-it-lately youre SO SWEET, and i loved that crazy night talk.

promise ill learn how to make posts prettier, maybe even create a masterlist and a playlist. flirty reminder that your reblogs and comments feed my soul

also if you wanna be tagged in the next chapter, let me know. for now, enjoy ♡

The one constant thing about the broadcast room in the Great Falls quarantine zone is that it’s freezing cold no matter what. This chill has been dwelling deep inside your bones for years. Not the kind that bites, but the kind that settles over your skin like a breath held too long.

And yet, sometimes you keep forgetting to bring a threadbare sweater on your night shifts. Like tonight. But there are nights in which you don’t need any of it, because the world you’re forced to live in doesn’t let you feel comfort too often. It wants you to keep in mind that given life is fragile, and might be taken back whenever the world pleases. Your blood runs cold every time the sent patrols go silent.

Like tonight, again.

Outside the narrow window, evening fades away and coming night stretches wide and endless, clinging to window frame like wet lining. The air has that strange, waiting stillness—too quiet, too heavy—that lingers in your lungs and makes it hard to breathe. Crickets hum faintly in the grass (you can hear them even from your radio cell on the highest floor), but even they sound unsure, like something’s pressing down on them from above. Birds are hovering in the low sky, almost bruising tree crowns with their angled wings. Their calls warn you. A bug cracks with all its tiny power into the glass of the windowpane, attracted by the lamp’s light. You flinch.

The pine trees don’t move. Not yet.

They stand stiff and dark against the horizon, their needles limp in the air, knowing what’s coming.

You can feel it too—not in sound, but in pressure, like something biding just beyond the edge of hearing. For days, the weather’s been thick with it—heat that doesn’t lift even after sunset, that makes the floors sweat and tempers run short. Checking the weather is one of your responsibilities too—radio signals are capricious with changes in the air, and with years it became a sense, not a science. You’ve learned that from the specific shapes of clouds—or their absence, the shade that sun has at the dawn; you’ve been watching birds and stray cats, as they are the first early harbingers of storms. You like to think they share sacred knowledge with you. Leaving your post on grey mornings, you can tell if it’s going to rain just by looking at the dew. And that definitely won’t be modest to claim that you have some skills in handling forecasting tools. Smartass, they call you.

So now you keep thinking the sky will crack open and bleed it all out.

But it doesn’t. Not yet.

The radio crackles softly beside you, calming like an old friend, warming like embers popping in a dying fire. Yes, in four walls of the radio station there is still cold.

And still no sign of the patrol.

You lean forward, elbow on the desk, the familiar ache of exhaustion in your shoulders. Something’s telling you it’s going to be a long shift. The transmission button is worn smooth, paint rubbed away years ago by hands just like yours, probably older. The headset squeezes your head—a relic that somehow survived the outbreak. You forgive it the discomfort. Most nights. You adjust it out of habit—the ear padding still crooked from the last shift.

You press the button down.

“This is Homebase calling AA40B. Do you copy?” A heartbeat-long pause. “AA40B, check-in, you’re two hours overdue. Report your position.”

You count to five. Then ten. Dead air. This is the first radio term you ever learned—not from a book, not from a manual, but in the heavy silence beside someone older, more practiced. You must’ve been sixteen. Maybe younger. Watching, listening and realizing that sometimes, absence speaks louder than any broadcast.

Dead air means something has gone wrong. Someone important, who never spoke through the white noise again.

It stays with you—static coiling around your ribs, slow and taut like wire. You’ve never forgotten the weight of it, because now it’s here again.

Flipping to a fresh page in the logbook, you scribble the call sign again, even though the page already looks like a graveyard of unanswered calls:

18:04 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — Received scheduled check-in from AA40B. Background static, but no incidents reported.

18:15 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — Attempted contact with AA40B. Negative. Assumed out of range unit. Logged for follow-up.

18:24 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — Logged inactivity. Next scheduled check-in ???

20:02 — AA40B — 94.7MHz — No response.

Silence. It is always about silence at the end. You’ve faced the same ends of different stories too many times. However, you’re just a radio operator, aren’t you? A messenger. The one whose face people barely remember. They know you for your voice. They hate you for it; they hate to hear it in moments of another acknowledgement of things going wrong. But this is not your fault, right? You receive news—then you report. Bad news—report. No news? Report. So you file the report like always. No sirens. No raised voices. Just protocol, neat and quiet. Loss isn’t rare enough to stop the day. Or night. Collateral damage, they call it. Lives.

The last entry in the logbook is smudged—ink dragged by the heel of your palm in a moment of distraction. You underline the status. Twice. You want to breathe, really breathe. Tear off the headset, heavy and too tight; let your pulse settle in open air, feel your shoulders drop for once. Shake off the weight of duty.

But protocol says stay.

So you do.

Anchored in your chair (as old as the headset), waiting for something. Or nothing.

The clock on the wall is old, its plastic yellowed with age, but it still ticks with rude efficiency. Every second lands like a drop of water in an empty basin.

You count minutes by it — minutes left until the next scheduled check-in. The last one for the night. The one you’re not expecting to go any differently.

A small glass jar sits near the base of the radio, filled with dried wildflowers you picked earlier that summer. Yarrow, tansy, bluebells gone brittle in the heat. It doesn’t belong here—not among the grey buttons, frayed wires, and institutional gloom—but you brought it anyway. Something to look at while the hours crawl.

You clear your throat. You don’t bother sounding official anymore.

“This is Homebase. Again. Check-in.” You swirl a faded yellow petal in your fingers. Squeeze it until your fingertips are covered with its sticky powder. “I repeat—AA40B, answer my call. Report the situation. Have you got any troubles? This is channel ninety-four point seven, if you’re suddenly unaware. Be advised, Lisa, if you don’t respond your mother will fucking murder me. Slowly.”

You let the words trail off, resting your fingers lightly on the worn edge of the desk.

The kind of joke born from routine.

Lisa and you had planned to grab dinner after her shift next week—you weren’t close; maybe you would’ve been. It was supposed to be the first. A small thing. And now just…undone. Silence folds back over the room like a heavy blanket. Your peripheral vision catches something alike with a flick of lightning far away. Just a second that might be a play of your overwhelmed mind. Just a second. Then—

Click.

Soft; barely there. But unmistakable—not static. Not interference.

Someone pressed something.

Your body reacts before your mind does—a tightening in the chest, a shift in the gut. The way this familiar frequency is talking to you now: you can recognize its hiss among the thousands of others. And this one is totally different. Something unusual is happening.

This isn’t protocol, isn’t your patrol.

And there’s no call sign.

Just a breath, maybe. A small, ambient shuffle of noise—a movement. Someone is there. And then, at last—a voice cuts through. You will think about it many times later; you’ll try to replay this moment like an old tape, always returning to the second she spoke to you. You will lie for that voice. And you will—

“Who the hell is Lisa? And…who the hell are you?”

A beat. Long pause. The silence stretches, tense, uncertain. She’s close to the mic. No headset, no filter. Unmistakably not Lisa. But someone who’s used to surviving, not asking questions.

The voice doesn’t match anything you were expecting—sharp and low, with a slow drawl that sounds like it's been roughened by time and too many cold mornings. She doesn't sound scared, but she sure as hell sounds like someone who’s ready to pull a knife if you so much as breathe wrong. And as for your breathe…it’s more than wrong. Something about her makes you sit up straighter. You glance down at the console, thumb hovering over the mic: 94.7.

That should be right. That’s the patrol’s frequency; it has been for months. You double-check the band anyway, twisting the dial just enough to hear the edge of the next channel before snapping it back.

How the hell—?

Maybe the storm’s fucking up with the signals. That happens sometimes. Reflections bouncing off mountains. Electromagnetic interference. Whatever excuse science likes to throw at you when something strange happens in the middle of the goddamn night.

Your understanding of fate is called science.

“Are you ghosting me now?” Your stomach dips with another question from her. You forgot to reply. Do you really have to do it? Probably not. But damn—curiosity and boredom are louder than reason. And you want it. Badly.

You clear your throat, shift your weight in the creaky chair, and press the button.

“Uhm…Hello.” Suddenly, you don’t know what to say. You—the person who spent years talking to strangers over the radio—and now you’re mute. “I’m here. But you’re not supposed to be on this channel, are you?”

A soft scrape of fabric brushes the mic—like something is shifting on the other edge. Another pause. You can hear the smile in her voice before she even speaks.

“Nope. Definitely not.”

Her voice sounds younger now, almost smug. The way she says it—calm, sure, like she has a knife in one hand and her finger on the trigger with the other, makes your pulse skip. Calm. Dry. Like she’s holding back either a laugh or a warning. On the edge of your mind you wonder how old she is. Could you be peers? Some people define age by looking at someone’s palms. Your trained hearing doesn’t require watching to see things.

You pull a thin blanket tighter around your shoulders; you keep it here special for night shifts and instead of forgotten jackets. Moths ate through its fabric; holes stare at you like frightened eyes or twisted mouths.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the low hum of the equipment, the way twilight sky is fading navy, and your lamp is the only source of light. There’s no one else in the room: just you, just her. And the strange, thin thread of static connecting your two points of the map.

She doesn’t break the silence again, allowing you to take your time and think. Lead the dialogue or end it. She gives you choice.

You don’t even know her name.

But somehow, in this moment, that feels like the least important part.

“So…first of all, I must ask: do you need any urgent help?”

The question comes out too formal, like you’re reading off protocol.

“Do I sound like I need help?” The mic chuckles faintly with the sound of her voice. You knew the answer, but you had to ask. Just in case.

“Right now I’m not sure if I should answer at all,” you say. Does she hear the smile curving in the corners of your lips? “You’re not in danger, looking for signal to save you?”

“Save me? No way.” Her tone dips low, husky at the edges. A pause. There’s a smirk—quick and barbed—but it doesn’t soften fully. You figure out that she speaks like someone who’s used to being heard but never really listened to; that happens to people who don’t speak much.

Each of her words clipped just enough to sound in control, laced with amusement sharp around it. There’s warmth in it, sure, but distant warmth, like fire through glass. You catch the tail end of a sigh. “I’m fine. No danger. And even if I were, what’d you do? Send a helicopter?”

This. Even in her irony, something stays braced, like she’s talking with her back still against the wall.

You huff a soft laugh. Involuntary. You better think on what the hell you are even doing. You better think twice before the answer. But you choose to play her game.

“Just a helicopter? I have a whole rescue team for losers like you.” probably you don’t think even once, replying.

“Enjoy saving losers?” She baits.

“I’m here daily for it.” You bite.

She doesn’t miss a beat.

“What ‘bout nights?”

You lean back slightly, flexing your aching fingers. The headset hums with a tiny echo of her voice and some static. There’s a rhythm forming here—and it isn’t protocol. You’re treading on thin ice. Almost dancing.

You glance at the faint, flickering bulb above you—the only company in this concrete box you’ve half-started calling home. The air smells like warm dust and coil-burned wire. Silence is hovering, like she’s waiting for you to laugh or shoot back some banter, because she has no idea how long it’s been since anyone spoke to you like that.

Your finger lingers over the transmit button. You press it, slower this time.

“Nights are for ghosts and dead batteries,” you realize how desperate that must’ve sounded, and add, “You fit right in.”

The girl scoffs. You’re not sure if she’s smiling or offended. Or just listening. A low crackle fills the space between you. If you close your eyes, will she remain on the border of your signal? Or will she vanish into the white noise?

You don’t want to know, so your eyes are open. Surreal night.

The connection falls quiet again. That particular silence that means someone is thinking. You interrupt it with another question:

“How did you catch this frequency?”

The response comes, broken and crackling:

“By random? I was—”

The rest is swallowed by static. Not loud, but needling. Noise spilling through the line like wind through the flung open window.

You wait, leaning toward the console, squinting as if that might help decipher the pattern in the interference. You try again, more precisely this time.

“Take on the headset. Your sound is shit.”

A pause. Some fumbling on her end. You hear what might be a soft grunt, the clang of something metal.

“Didn’t think it’d make any difference,” she mutters, half-off mic. “Hold on… I don’t see any— Oh. Here it is. Looks terrible.”

Only God knows what’s going on over there. Something to do with wires and dust, maybe. There is a clumsy thud, then a hiss, then the faintest muttered curse. Whatever it is—they’re putting up one hell of a fight. You smirk silently.

Finally, a low rustle, then—click.

“Well. Fine. Do you hear me now?”

And just like that, you do. You almost regret the suggestion.

Her voice lands crisp, close—like it’s suddenly right behind your ear, not scattered across states. The line is clear enough to catch the curve of her vowels, the scrape of dry amusement under the words.

Oh, you do.

It’s the kind of voice that makes you forget the question. The kind that holds back more than it gives—something low, a little rough, but sharpened and steady, like she’s watching you through the wire and dares you to blink first.

So you blink. Swallow.

“Yes.”

No more, no less. You decide to keep your freaky thoughts to yourself.

She hums, then moves: now you can hear it perfectly well, trying to imagine this natural movement. You fail.

A shift in your seat, the chair creaks. The room suddenly feels smaller. Warmer?

She’s the first to speak.

“What’s with your, how did you call it, AA40C?”

You correct her out of habit—and to buy time.

“Forty-B.”

A beat. Your ink-stained finger hovers the transmit button a moment too long. The clock mocks you—shame prickles beneath your collar. You’d completely lost track of time. And of the patrol.

“I can’t share this information with someone from beyond.”

You hesitate to call her a stranger. You must be losing your fucking mind. You add a half-smile into the mic, though she can’t see it. The words aren’t harsh, but there is a line in them—clear, official, practiced. One you’ve been taught to hold. You almost feel like apologizing—which is absurd. Unfamiliar. Not like you.

Her reply is quick, clipped.

“Fair enough.”

But something in her tone curls at the edge. Like she’s testing you, just to see how far the signal stretches. It’s not like she’s interested in all your military secrets, but like she has some interest in you. Or you’re just fantasizing things.

Her voice lingers in the headset—that grainy warmth, half static, half smirk. She doesn’t let it drop.

“Where are you talking from then?”

You freeze for a breath. The words are simple, innocent-sounding, but they land sharp. You’re not supposed to—

“I can’t—“

“Jesus. C'mon.” A scoff, close to the mic. Her voice crackles at the edges. “Such coincidences happen once in a lifetime. Ain’t you curious?”

You are, and this is the problem.

You hesitate, eyes fixed on the dull glow of the frequency dial. You’ve followed protocol a hundred times before. But it doesn’t feel like protocol—not anymore. You tell yourself it’s fine. Montana’s a big place. Nobody would guess.

“Ugh… Montana.”

There’s a bit of silence on the other end, then a click of her tongue.

“That’s it?”

“What?”

“Girl, you're so fucking paranoid.”

You huff through your nose—not quite a laugh. She’s not wrong. You hadn’t realized how tight you were holding the line—like names could unravel something if spoken too clearly.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” you answer, steadier than you feel. “It’s safer. For both of us.”

“Let it be.”

There’s a shift in her tone that might come with leaning back, chin tilted, daring you.

“Then you can call me…” A beat. A mock-dramatic sigh. “Damn Jackson.”

You blink at the console, then laugh before you can stop it. It catches in your throat. The name drops like a pebble in a well. Small, almost casual. Echoing. You know the name. Most do. A settlement too far south. Rumored to be peaceful. Overgrown with good soil and better people. Rumored, at least.

You let yourself savor the answer. Like you need to place her somewhere on a map just to stay grounded. Small details start to shape her features in your mind.

“Jackson’s not even a state, dumbass.”

“Wyoming doesn’t sound cool at all.”

Her voice flattens with false seriousness. You imagine a shrug. A smirk, maybe. Something self-aware but distant—like she’s drawing lines in the sand just to rub them out a moment later.

The words slip out without thinking.

“It kinda does.”

Are you still talking about names?

You slightly frown, eyes scanning your table, though there’s nothing to see. You raise an eyebrow.

“And why would you tell me your place?”

“It’s not really mine, is it?” A pause. “Just a name.”

You bite your lip. She’s still playing. Still keeping her real cards hidden, just like you. But the word Jackson settles into your memory heavy. Like it matters.

Like you’ll be writing it down later, in a space not meant for records.

There’s a lull again. Not awkward—just stretched thin. Like neither of you wants to admit the conversation has no more ground to stand on.

You glance at the clock. It’s later than you’d thought. Your logbook lies open beside you, the last line still unfinished.

“You should go,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

You don’t add what you’ve begun to notice—how her breathing has slowed between sentences, how the edges of her voice soften, just slightly, like the weight of the night is finally catching up to her.

She’s clearly not home.

Not even on watch. Just… out there.

Wherever she is, it’s not where she’s supposed to be. You hear it in the way she pauses more often now; in how the static doesn’t quite hide her quiet exhale. The kind people let out only when they’ve been running too long.

She’s lost. For now.

And somehow, you don’t want to keep her any longer. Not out of duty—but because something in you wants her to rest. Just a few hours. Just until dawn.

Even if you’ll never know where she lays her head.

Even if she never calls again.

“You gonna report me?”

It’s half a joke. Maybe.

You answer before thinking.

“Not if you promise not to show up again.”

Do you want her to show up again? That’s another question. The one you’re not going to think on.

“Harsh.” You hear her shift—maybe the creak of a table beneath her elbow. “Guess I’ll just get lost then.”

Her tone is light, but something flickers underneath.

You hesitate, then add—

“Batteries don’t last forever anyway.”

That earns you a breath of static shaped like a laugh.

“Neither do ghosts.”

The silence that follows is different. Not quite goodbye. Just long enough to say something without needing words. The button waits beneath your touch, untouched. You sigh.

“Well, Jackson. Over and out?”

You try to make it sound casual, like it doesn’t matter if she answers.

But she snorts — soft, amused.

“What does that mean?”

“Uhmm… it’s like ‘bye’ in radio slang. Some kind of etiquette.”

Another pause. This one warmer.

“Then over and out, Montana.”

You smile—not that she can see it. But feel, maybe.

Your hand slips from the button. You expect silence. Expect her to vanish into space, like she was never there.

But then, you remember something:

“Oh. Wait.”

There’s a second you think she’s gone. You hold your breath, unintentionally. Your knuckles brush the edge of the transmitter, hesitating. Her voice comes through quiet, no louder than an exhale.

“Yeah?”

“Storm’s coming. Stay safe.”

You wait—half-expecting her to follow it with a joke, or some snide comment about the clear skies.

But she doesn’t. You wonder if she hears it too—that strange pressure in the air. That breathless weight.

Her answer is simple.

“I will.”

And somehow… that’s enough.

The line goes quiet. Not with a pop or sudden crackle—just…softer. As if her breath was still caught in the waves of signals, and then even that lets go. An act of disappearing without curtain call.

You don’t realize how much noise she’d brought with her until it’s gone.

Now there’s only the faint hum of the equipment; the low buzz in your skull, and underneath it—a hush that finally feels real. It presses against your ribs. Wraps around the base of your neck. Heavy, still. Known.

You lean back slowly, letting the weight of it all settle in. Shoulders drop, the holey blanket slips onto the floor—loud in the absence of her voice. Your body reminds you that it’s late. That your eyes sting. You haven’t moved for too long. And you sit there, still, another minute, or maybe more. You don’t know why.

You haven’t touched the dial since she stopped talking. Since that sharp and guarded voice cut through the wrong frequency and landed in your hands like something not meant to be held.

You should log it.

You should log everything.

You reach for the journal and stare at it for a long time. The pen dangles on a piece of string, tied to the corner of the desk. You’ve lost too many not to do it this way. It hovers in your hand. No idea what to write. A few entries above, your own writing stares back at you—neat, all-caps block letters. You draw a line underneath it, slow, deliberate. Then glance back at the console, the frequency is still open. But she’s gone. You press the pen to the paper.

20:27 — Unknown signal —

You pause, biting your lip. Hell. No words come. You don’t write what she said. Or what you said back. Instead, you cross this line out and turn to the next page. A blank one, cleaner. Further from truth.

20:28 — atmospheric interference — ghost frequency spill. No contact established.

You underline it once; like that will make it true. Then you flip the page, just in case someone else reads it in the morning.

You know it’s not procedure. But you also know how it works: unofficial frequencies are monitored sometimes. If the others find out you spoke to someone from another city—someone who shouldn’t have been there—they’ll shut it down. Change the band. Pull your shift. Maybe worse.

You close the book and push it at the edge of the desk. Your fingers tingle, thumb is awkwardly ink-stained as before. You don’t bother to wipe it. Just tilt your head back and close your eyes.

The silence hums, her voice lingering in your mind—

and it’s yours to keep.

Ellie doesn’t remember the walk back.

Morning mist obscures the sound of her steps, hides her uneven silhouette. She’s smoke, a breath of wind in the ferns. She’s at the edge of there and nowhere.

By the time she’s near the gates behind the west trail, the trees whisper above, restless with the wind that hadn’t been there an hour ago. She swears it wasn't. Light spills over the treeline—pale and uncertain, like it’s not sure it should be here yet.

Jackson's lights bloom like low, tired fireflies. The gates creak open just past dawn. Someone nods to Ellie from the watchtower. She lifts a hand, doesn’t stop walking.

As she reaches home, the door groans as she pushes it open. Inside, the air is still—cooler than outside. Ellie doesn’t bother turning on the light. Her shoes leave dark shapes on the floor, soles soaked from dirt. She shrugs off the backpack, peels off the outer jacket, and kicks at her converse until one tumbles sideways and stays that way. No sign of Joel. She doesn’t check. The weight of everything settles in the quiet. The shirt—one of her favorites—clings to her back, damp with sweat and dust. She scratches at her wrist, smearing a thin line of dried mud. She’ll shower later. Maybe. Exhaustion pulls her to the ground.

She has a couple of hours before they will need her.

Ellie sinks onto the couch like the bones have gone out of her. Face-down, arm tucked under her head, too tired to change. Her knuckles sting a little—a scraped corner from earlier—but it barely registers. Her brain floats somewhere shallow. Not asleep. Not fully awake. Just drifting.

She blinks once. Twice. Between those blinks, a voice brushes the edge of her thoughts, like a skipped page in a journal. It’s not clear at first—just a wordless shape, like a whisper behind closed doors. But then it forms: “you’re not supposed to be on this channel, are you?”

Ellie doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t not smile either.

She hears it before she sees it—the soft tap-tap-tap on the glass. That type of rain that starts tentative, as if asking permission. She turns her head, watches the droplets race each other down the pane.

Ellie exhales, low and long, and lets her eyes close.

The storm came after all.

[m34tthews]

CHAPTER THREE

“in another life, i know we could ride out, boy”

pairing — auston matthews x vet!reader

summary — after another playoff loss, auston disappears from the spotlight and unexpectedly crosses paths with y/n—someone from a past life who feels both distant and familiar. they only have the summer, two people from different worlds colliding at the wrong time, reigniting something they never saw coming.

word count — 8.4k

warnings — minors dni. sexual themes (future chapters)

an — i am so sorry this took me so long. i was sitting on this chapter for a while i just needed to edit it. enjoy <3

masterlist

the sun sat high above them, warm and bright, casting honeyed light over the sidewalks and awnings of their sleepy corner of the city. it was breezy out, the kind of perfect late spring afternoon that made you forget about anything other than the sound of your sneakers against the pavement and the lazy tug of a leash in your hand. the kind of day that felt like it could last forever if you let it.

y/n had been smiling the whole time. since he called that morning—voice scratchy, still thick with sleep—to ask if she wanted to walk felix with him.

“he gets stubborn if i go without you,” he’d said, and she rolled her eyes at the excuse but grabbed her hoodie anyway.

their days had fallen into an easy rhythm. he started dropping off coffee for her before work, the order always right even when she swore she didn’t have a usual. he teased her about her trashy reality shows and still ended up staying through half the episodes, legs tangled with hers on the couch. she showed up for walks with felix more than he ever asked, claimed it was for the dog, but she caught the way he watched them together—like seeing her with felix was his new favorite thing.

felix trotted happily in front of them now, tongue lolling, tail wagging, completely content as they wandered down a quieter block just a few minutes from her apartment.

auston had kept close. he walked a little closer than usual, his arm brushing hers from time to time, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back whenever they crossed the street. he was comfortable. flirtier than before, sure, but grounded. like a version of himself that only she got to see.

and then—

“auston matthews?”

the voice snapped through the quiet like a stone tossed into still water.

they both slowed at the sound, the easy rhythm of the afternoon cracking beneath the surface. they turned together, and y/n felt the shift the moment she saw the girl approaching.

she was tall, blonde, dressed in a matching set of designer athleisure that looked untouched by actual sweat. the kind of girl who could make a walk through the square feel like a photo shoot. oversized sunglasses pushed into her hair, lip gloss catching the sun like she planned it that way.

“wow, i thought that was you,” the girl laughed, already sliding a hand around auston’s arm like she owned the space. y/n’s chest tightened, something sinking low and unwelcome.

auston’s posture changed just slightly—shoulders stiffening, smile faltering.

“hey, uh… riley, right?”

“wow.” riley stepped back, giving a dramatic gasp. “riley, right?” she repeated, all mock offense, then turned toward y/n with a smile that was too wide, too polished. “i guess that’s fair though. he probably doesn’t remember my name with so many girls showing up at that pool of his.”

y/n blinked, watching the exchange, trying to read his face. the distance between them now felt bigger than it had the whole walk.

auston cleared his throat. “we’ve… run into each other before.”

“run into,” riley teased, winking. “we ran into each other a few times last summer. i’m sure your neighbors still remember.”

y/n’s grip on the leash tightened. felix glanced up at her with a little snort, tail still wagging like nothing had changed.

riley leaned in closer, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her voice dropping like she was sharing some secret. “so… what’s the theme this year? that pool party of yours is always wild. are the usual girls invited, or are you going for something more… lowkey?” her glance flicked sideways at y/n, the meaning clear.

the warmth that had carried y/n through the day drained from her limbs, replaced by something cold and unfamiliar. she could still feel the ghost of auston’s hand on her back, the way he’d smiled at her earlier, and now it felt like it belonged to someone else.

before auston could say anything, y/n gave a polite, practiced smile. “we were just heading out, actually.”

he turned to her, immediate, like he felt the shift too. “y/n—”

“no worries,” riley cut in, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “i’ll dm you. again.”

she walked off without waiting for a response, that same smirk tugging at her lips as she disappeared around the corner.

auston let out a slow breath, dragging his hand down his face like he could erase the whole encounter.

“she’s…” he started, searching for the right words.

“you don’t have to explain,” y/n said, light but distant, eyes on felix instead of him. “i mean, it’s… you.”

he hated how small she sounded saying that. like the bubble they’d built together had popped and she was the only one standing in the aftermath.

“me?”

“yeah.” she gave him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “i just didn’t really realize… how big of a deal you are. i guess.”

he reached out, brushing his hand against hers, catching her pinky like it would make her stay in this moment with him.

“she’s not part of my life,” he said quietly. “not like you are.”

but she didn’t look at him, not right away. her fingers toyed with the leash, and when she spoke, her voice was softer, almost too soft.

“i’m not much of a part of it either. and it’s not like you… live here or anything.”

he stopped walking, like the words physically caught him off guard.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” she said, with a little shrug, but the distance between them felt like miles now. “just… we’re in different places. that’s all.”

before he could say anything else, felix sneezed and stopped short, the leash tangling around a post. y/n knelt to free it, fussing over the dog like it was the only thing that mattered, like her heart wasn’t twisting up tight inside her chest.

the silence between them stretched too long.

they reached her building just as the streetlights flickered on, the sidewalk bathed in soft amber glow. she unclipped felix’s leash at the steps, fingers brushing through his fur like it grounded her.

auston stayed close, closer than she let him feel. his heart was pounding, too loud in his ears.

“y/n.”

she looked at him then, eyes guarded, like she was bracing for something she didn’t want to hear.

“are you okay?” he asked, voice low, like maybe if he kept it soft enough she wouldn’t pull further away.

because for a little while it had felt like maybe this was real—coffee runs, lazy mornings, kisses that made the world fall away. but then reality caught up. reminded her who he was. reminded her of all the reasons this didn’t make sense.

“yeah,” she said finally. “just a little tired.”

he tried to close the space between them, but as his lips neared hers, she turned her head, slipping away before he could even feel the warmth of her mouth.

“goodnight, auston,” she said gently, eyes lowered, voice soft.

and then she was gone. the door clicked shut behind her, quiet but final.

he stood there, hand half raised, as if he could knock or call her back but knowing he wouldn’t. felix let out a single bark on the other side of the door, like he knew.

auston huffed out a breathless laugh and shook his head.

“goodnight, y/n,” he whispered, to no one at all.

inside, y/n leaned against the door, heart beating fast, lips tingling with the ghost of the kiss that never happened. and felix, blissfully unaware, trotted down the hall, tail wagging like nothing had changed.

it was stupid.it was nothing. but god, why did it feel like everything?

she slipped off her sneakers, running a hand through her hair, and wandered into the living room where naomi was curled up on the couch with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn and reruns of the summer i turned pretty playing in the background.

“you’re back early,” naomi said, glancing over, “he didn’t walk you to your door this time?”

“he did,” y/n mumbled, sinking onto the other side of the couch. “i just… went inside before he could kiss me.”

naomi arched a brow. “you what?”

“i panicked, okay?”

“you’ve literally kissed him before—”

“that was different!” she hissed, reaching for the popcorn. “some girl stopped him on our walk. she clearly knew him. like, biblically. and she asked about some pool party. with models, naomi.”

naomi tilted her head. “okay, and?”

“and i just… i don’t know. i got in my head. i’ve never dated anyone who’s—who’s that.”

naomi looked at her carefully, then picked up her phone. “wait… you still haven’t googled him?”

“i didn’t want to,” y/n muttered, but she leaned over anyway, watching with her chin on her knees as naomi typed in “auston matthews.”

the results loaded fast. articles. headlines. magazine covers. game stats. instagram posts. vacation shots. photos with the team. photos without a shirt. photos with girls. models. actresses. rumors.

there was even a GQ cover. he looked almost unrecognizable. not because he looked bad—no, he looked incredible—but because he looked so far away from the version of him she’d just spent the week laughing with and kissing on her couch.

she stared at one picture of him at a yacht party, a bikini-clad girl pressed to his side like it was second nature.

her stomach twisted.

“okay, don’t spiral,” naomi said, voice gentle. “look, it’s not like he isn’t that guy. but maybe he’s also not just that guy.”

y/n shook her head, pulling a pillow into her chest.

“i don’t know if i can do this, nai. he’s… he’s so much. and i’m just… me. i’m not glamorous. i’ve got cat hair on my scrubs and baby drool on my hoodie. he lives in a world i don’t even recognize. what if this is just some game to him?”

naomi reached over, putting a hand on her arm.

“you know what this sounds like?” she said with a smirk. “a reformed playboy trope.”

“oh my god, stop—”

“no, seriously,” naomi insisted, pulling the popcorn back. “guy leaves behind the noise, comes home, sees the girl he never got over in high school, gets wrecked by her sweet coffee order and the way she rocks a messy bun. it’s classic. you’re the plot of every wattpad book i read at sixteen.”

y/n groaned, shoving her head into the couch cushion.

“i’m being serious,” she mumbled into the fabric.

“i know,” naomi said, a little softer now. “but seriously… the guy’s been following you around like a lost puppy. not just showing up—actually listening. actually seeing you. maybe you should let him.”

y/n lifted her head slightly.

“i don’t know,” she whispered. “i just don’t want to fall into something i can’t keep up with.”

naomi looked at her like she already knew. “y/n,” she said gently. “i think you already have.”

the night spiraled in the way all dangerous nights do: slowly, and with wine.

what started as a simple google search turned into a full-blown internet investigation the moment naomi pulled out the sauvignon blanc from the fridge and handed y/n a glass with a raised brow.

“if we’re gonna stalk,” naomi said, plopping back on the couch and refreshing the search bar, “we’re doing it right.”

y/n didn’t protest.

not when the first glass dulled her panic into a hum. not when naomi found a reddit thread titled “has anyone here slept with auston matthews?? asking for science”

not even when they found out that a lot of girls, apparently, had.

“okay, jesus,” y/n muttered, wine sloshing in her glass as she leaned over the laptop screen. “why is this thread so long? do these girls not have shame?”

“girl,” naomi said, already scrolling through with professional efficiency, “they have receipts.”

she read aloud dramatically.

“‘met him at a party in arizona, wasn’t even trying but the man has gravity. we ended up in his car and let me just say—10/10, would let him ruin my life again.’”

“oh my god—”

“‘he’s sooo hot in person, it’s scary. like, towering and soft-spoken but then will whisper the filthiest things in your ear.’”

“naomi, stop—”

“‘okay so he kissed my neck once and i still think about it in the shower sometimes. don’t judge me.’”

“naomi!”

“i’m sorry!” she cackled, breathless from laughter. “this is gold. internet gold.”

y/n shoved the wine glass onto the coffee table and sat back, face burning.

“okay. okay. i can’t read anymore. this is terrible. why did i let you do this.”

“because you like him,” naomi said, smug.

y/n groaned, letting her head fall against the couch.

“i do not. i just—i think i like the version of him that brings me sweet coffee and holds maria like she’s made of clouds. not the one who has girls thirst-posting about his neck.”

naomi gave her a look. “baby girl, those are the same guy. and you already knew that. he didn’t exactly hide the fact that he’s… you know, him.”

“yeah, well, he didn’t show me his gq spread either,” y/n muttered, reaching for her wine again.

“okay, fair. but still—you knew. Now atet we know he isn’t just auston from highschool. he is auston freaking matthews. the guy’s face has been in youTube ads since you mentioned him.”

“i didn’t watch hockey in high school! still don’t”

“you didn’t watch tv in high school. you were too busy being a good student and dating trent the tire fire.”

y/n groaned louder. “you are is not helping.”

naomi softened then, leaning over and nudging her gently. “look,” she said, voice lower now. “i get it. you’ve only ever been with boyfriends. safe guys. slow. but this? auston? he’s not that.”

y/n nodded miserably.

“he’s not a boyfriend,” she said. “he’s… auston. reddit thread subject. high-profile, NHL-star, everyone-knows-his-name-including-my-neighbors auston.”

“except,” naomi said gently, “he kind of is a boyfriend. at least with you.”

y/n blinked.

“he walked you home. he held your friend’s baby. he texted you to make sure you got inside. he’s taken you on dates. like, actual dates—not dm at 2am kind of stuff. dates.”

y/n chewed the inside of her cheek.

“he brings me disgustingly sweet coffee.”

“exactly. no self-respecting man drinks that crap unless he’s trying to get laid or he’s trying to impress a girl he really likes.”  naomi grinned. 

she continued, while laughing under her breath at y/n. “i think he might be both.”

y/n sighed, sinking back into the couch, the wine now humming under her skin.

she didn’t want to admit it. but the truth curled in her stomach like heat.

he made her feel something. and no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, that something was powerful, magnetic, impossible to resist.

and god help her—after all that reddit research—she was curious.

dangerously so.

the days after felt different. not on the surface — not enough that anyone else would notice. but auston felt it. in the way she answered his texts a little later than usual. in how she always seemed to have somewhere else to be when he offered to stop by with coffee or walk felix. in the little silences that had crept in where easy conversation used to live.

he tried not to overthink it at first. maybe she was just busy. maybe he was imagining it. but the feeling stuck — a quiet weight between his ribs every time she slipped just a little further away.

on a wednesday, after his morning skate, he called her. just to hear her voice, just to ask something simple.

“hey,” he said, casual, warm, like nothing felt off at all. “you want me to swing by after work? we could grab something, or i can just bring felix’s leash if you’re tired.”

there was a pause — just a second too long.

“that’s sweet,” she said finally, and her voice was gentle, careful. “but i think i’m just gonna have a quiet night. it’s been a long day.”

he hesitated, trying to keep his voice light. “you sure? i don’t mind.”

“i’m sure,” she said, soft but firm.

and that was that.

he hung up, the smile fading from his face before the call even ended.

alone in her apartment that night, y/n sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone like it might give her answers she didn’t want to say out loud. she’d done the thing she promised herself she wouldn’t. searched him. really searched him. beyond the stats she already knew. beyond the highlight reels.

pictures from parties. women — perfect women — smiling at his side, draped over him like they belonged there. interviews where he talked about his career, his life in cities she’d never even visited. articles with words like superstar and celebrity and elite.

and now, for the first time in a long time, she felt small. out of place. like she’d stumbled into something that wasn’t meant for her.

the things that made her feel so steady with him — the coffee runs, the walks, the way his fingers brushed hers like it meant something — they felt fragile now. like she’d imagined how close they’d gotten.

she hated that she felt it. hated that she let some stranger’s photo or headline get under her skin. but it was there, sharp and quiet and persistent.

and so, she avoided. not because she didn’t want him near — god, she did. but because she didn’t know how to stand next to him without feeling like she didn’t belong.

auston felt the shift more with every passing day. the warmth she’d let him have — the softness in her smile, the easy way she used to lean into him — it felt further and further away, like trying to catch sunlight through a window.

and the worst part? he didn’t know how to reach her without making her pull back even more.

but he knew this much: she was slipping through his fingers, and he wasn’t ready to let her go.

days passed, but the distance didn’t. if anything, it grew — small at first, so small it could’ve been missed. she’d smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. she’d text back, but it was shorter, safer. when he called, she’d sound tired. when he asked to see her, she had a reason to say no.

auston noticed it all. the way she avoided walking home the long way with him. how she stopped sending him dumb pictures of felix during the day. how she laughed less, looked at him less.

he tried to reason with himself — maybe she was busy. maybe she was overwhelmed. but that quiet gut-punch told him the truth: she was pulling away, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

so one night, after staring at his phone too long and pacing his apartment until he couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed his keys and left.

she didn’t expect the knock.

y/n hesitated at the door, heart racing in a way that annoyed her — like she’d already lost control of this before she even opened it. and when she did, and saw him there — all messy hair and restless energy, eyes searching hers like he’d come to find something he’d lost — she almost forgot how to breathe.

she didn’t open the door all the way, but she didn’t close it either. auston could feel the crack widening between them, metaphorically and literally, even if she was still cautious. her hand stayed on the edge of the door like she needed to hold onto something — like letting go meant letting herself fall.

she let the door open a little more, heart still pounding, the fight in her starting to waver beneath how honest he sounded, how much he meant it.

and without thinking, felix padded up behind him, nosing at the gap between them like he sensed the tension, tail wagging as if his presence alone could fix it.

auston glanced down at his dog, then back at her.

“let me in,” he said softly. “just for a little while.”

and this time, she didn’t stop herself. she stepped back, letting the door swing open. letting him in. letting them in.

because as much as she tried to protect herself, the truth was she didn’t want to shut him out. not really. not at all.

he leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching her like he could read the script she was trying not to say out loud.

and he could see it all over her face.

not just tired. not just guarded. she looked like she wanted to let herself believe in something, but every bone in her body was telling her not to.

“i can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice low, raw at the edges. “y/n… please just talk to me. i don’t care if you’re mad. i don’t care if you’re scared. but don’t shut me out without telling me why.”

she blinked at him, throat tight.

“you think i don’t see it?” he continued, stepping just close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence. “you dodge my calls. you smile like you’re fine but you won’t look me in the eye. you don’t send me those dumb dog photos anymore. you didn’t want me to pick you up from work. you don’t even want me standing here right now.”

she tried to say something, but nothing came out.

“just tell me why,” he said, quieter now. vulnerable in a way she’d never seen him. “why are you mad at me? what did i do?”

and that was when she realized — he really didn’t know. he wasn’t playing dumb. he wasn’t trying to cover anything up. he just… didn’t know.

her grip on the door softened, and her heart broke a little at the way he looked at her — like he’d give anything to make this right.

“i’m not mad,” she said finally, voice small. “i’m… i don’t know. i just…”

she hesitated, but he waited, patient, like he’d stay there all night if she needed him to.

“i looked you up,” she admitted, almost embarrassed. “after that day in the square. i saw everything — the articles, the pictures, the women, the parties… i thought i was okay with it, but then i wasn’t. and i felt stupid. and small. and like i didn’t belong anywhere near you.”

his expression softened, everything in him aching to close the space between them.

she hesitated, but he waited, patient, like he’d stay there all night if she needed him to.

“i looked you up,” she admitted, almost embarrassed. “after that day in the square. i saw everything — the articles, the pictures, the women, the parties… i thought i was okay with it, but then i wasn’t. and i felt stupid. and small. and like i didn’t belong anywhere near you.”

his expression softened, his heart breaking a little at how small she sounded.

“god, y/n,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. he stepped closer, slow, careful, until he could see the tears brimming in her eyes that she was too proud to let fall. “you belong. you don’t even see it, do you? none of that — the pictures, the stories, those people — none of it feels real like this does. like you do.”

she swallowed hard, fighting against the lump in her throat.

“felix loves you,” he added, trying to ease the moment, his lips twitching into something soft and true. “you think i’d let my dog fall for someone who doesn’t belong?”

that almost made her laugh — almost.

“auston…”

“don’t pull away from me because of stuff that doesn’t matter,” he said, voice steady but thick with feeling. “please. don’t do that.”

“you live in canada, auston.”

he blinked at her honesty, then nodded slowly.

“i know.”

“and i live here. this—this is my life. i don’t have the luxury of disappearing for weeks or flying around or… doing what you do.”

“i’m not asking you to disappear,” he said gently. “i’m asking you to give me a summer.”

her eyebrows lifted slightly. “a summer?”

he nodded once. “yeah. just… give me this time. we don’t have to figure everything out right now. i don’t expect you to pack up your life. i don’t expect you to turn this into something it’s not ready to be. but i can’t stop thinking about you, and not in some fleeting way. you’ve been in my head since we were kids, y/n. since before either of us knew what any of this would look like.”

she looked at him now. really looked at him. and he looked so earnest—so young, in a way. not in age, but in the way hope looked on him.

“it’s not just the distance, auston. it’s you. you’re… you’re you. you’re a big deal.”

he smiled a little, almost sheepishly. “not to you.”

she didn’t say anything.

“you’re still the girl who made me laugh in your backyard when i was trying to act like trent wasn’t the biggest idiot on earth. you didn’t care about the game, or the hype, or who i might be one day. you asked me if i liked honey barbecue wings and then told me i had weird hands. you roasted me.”

“you do have weird hands.”

“see?” he grinned. “that’s what i mean. you’re not here for any of the bullshit.”

she looked at him, quiet.

“i haven’t felt this… this relieved in a long time,” he said. “like the weight goes away when i’m with you. and it’s not because you’re some escape. it’s because you’re real. and i don’t have to perform or win or be anything other than who i am.”

her face softened, something in her shoulders slowly easing—just barely.

“give me this summer,” he said again, stepping closer. “let’s go to bad diners and walk felix and have lazy sundays. and if, at the end of it, you tell me it’s not right—then fine. i’ll back off. i’ll carry this and leave you be. but if there’s even a part of you that wants to know what this could be… say yes.”

she looked up at him then, and it was the way she blinked—slow and searching—that made his heart skip.

“you’re exhausting,” she muttered, trying to hide the smile that curled at the corner of her mouth.

“i’ve been told.”

“and you talk too much when you’re nervous.”

“also accurate.”

she exhaled, brushing a hand through her hair.

“just the summer?”

“just the summer,” he promised. “no expectations. no pressure.”

she tilted her head, still trying not to smile. “and what happens when the summer ends?”

his voice was soft now, sure.

“then we figure it out together.”

for a moment, neither of them moved. the air felt still, the weight of everything between them hanging in the quiet like fog.

but then she nodded.

once. slow but cautious. and overall, hopeful.

“okay,” she whispered. “just the summer.”

he grinned. like the sun had just come out for the first time all week.

and then he added, voice low and teasing, “does this mean we’re back to kissing again?”

she rolled her eyes.

but she didn’t say no.

the second she nodded—even the slightest movement of her chin in agreement—he surged forward like the entire week of her silence had been a dam and she’d just cracked it open with a single word.

his mouth was on hers in a breathless second.

there was nothing hesitant this time. no teasing edge or first-kiss nervousness. it was heat and hunger and want. it was the kind of kiss that curled toes and made hearts stumble out of rhythm. he held her like he was scared she might vanish again, his hands cradling her face with all the gentleness he could manage while his mouth moved against hers like he’d forgotten how to breathe without her.

and god, she missed him too.

she melted into it, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt as he kissed her like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask until now. he kissed her like he meant it, like no amount of time or distance could make this moment anything less than inevitable.

when they finally broke apart—barely, their foreheads resting together as they caught their breath—he grinned.

“that was… overdue.”

she laughed, still slightly dazed. “a little.”

“you’ve been dodging me all week,” he whispered, nose brushing hers. “i was going crazy. i even let my friends talk me into hosting a party to distract myself.”

she smirked, tilting her head. “didn’t you have a party tonight?”

he kissed the corner of her mouth. “i told them to clear out.”

her brows lifted. “just like that?”

he nodded. “family went to alex and bry’s. the house is empty. i just want to see you. even if it’s just for a couple hours. hell, even if you fall asleep again.”

“auston,” she murmured, laughing softly. “i just go in. i haven’t showered yet. i smell like antiseptic and baby wipes.”

he gave her a look—half smug, half please don’t make me beg.

he stepped back slightly, reaching for the small gym bag by the door she had packed days ago but hadn't bothered with it after days of radio silence from her side. “come over, please,” he added, sheepish. “i know you were suppose to come the other night and i don't blame you for wanting space. but respectfully i don't want space. i want you with me.”

she blinked, staring at him. “you sure you want me over?

he shrugged, trying to play it cool but clearly failing by how pink his ears were. “i’ve missed you.”

her heart ached a little at the sincerity.

“you’re clingy,” she whispered fondly.

“you love it,” he shot back, smile wide and shameless.

she rolled her eyes, but she didn’t hide the grin tugging at her lips. “fine. i’ll come over. but only because i want to see felix.”

he laughed, grabbing her hand and intertwining their fingers like it was second nature.

“he’s missed you too. i showed him your picture and he whined.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and you’re still coming.”

she didn’t even fight it.

truthfully, she wanted to be next to him. missed the warmth, the quiet ease of his presence, the way he looked at her like she hung the moon.

and maybe she needed that tonight.

as they stepped out into the warm arizona night, her hand still in his and her gym bag slung over his shoulder, she glanced over at him.

“you sure your house is empty?”

he smirked. “empty enough.”

“and you’re not just trying to get me in your bed?”

he leaned in, voice low and teasing. “i mean… not tonight.”

she snorted. “charming.”

he kissed her cheek, soft and sweet. “i’ll wait.”

“you better.”

“worth every second.”

and she didn’t say anything, but she squeezed his hand just a little tighter.

he kept true to his word—his house was practically empty, save for a few close friends who waved politely from the kitchen as she walked in. she recognized one or two vaguely from school, but before she could linger on the awkwardness, auston leaned close and whispered, “they’re leaving in like five. you’re the main event.”

and sure enough, within minutes, it was just them.

just her and auston.

he led her into the living room like it was sacred ground. the lights were dimmed low, soft amber glow from the lamp in the corner. the sectional was already laid out like a campsite—blankets piled high, throw pillows everywhere, even an extra comforter folded neatly at the edge. there was a candle burning that smelled like warm vanilla and clean cotton. she blinked, overwhelmed by how intentional it all felt.

“okay,” he said, proudly pulling out his phone. “i ordered tacos, wings, sushi, burgers, and thai food. and mochi. just in case.”

“what the hell, auston?”

he shrugged, smug. “you didn’t text me all week. i wasn’t about to guess wrong. i just got everything you’ve ever even looked at.”

she laughed, watching him kick off his shoes and settle into the couch like he’d been waiting for this night for years. maybe he had. and the strangest part? so had she.

“okay,” he said again, more serious this time. “now that you’re here, i have a confession.”

she raised an eyebrow, curling onto the couch as he tossed a blanket over her lap.

“i didn’t actually want to watch love island before.”

her eyes narrowed. “you lied to me?”

“technically, no. i just… didn’t care about it until you said you liked it. and then i kind of associated it with your voice and your laugh and this one time you texted me a meme at like one in the morning and said it reminded you of me.”

“the guy crying over his type while dating his type?”

“exactly. so now i’ve been saving it. for this.”

she stared at him, warmth rising in her chest. “you’re kind of an idiot.”

he grinned, settling beside her, so close she could feel the heat of him through their hoodies. “an idiot in love island prison.”

“you really waited to watch this?”

he nodded, completely serious. “every season. i’ve seen spoilers on tiktok, and i scroll past them. i suffer.”

she shook her head, laughing as she reached for the remote. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re welcome,” he muttered, cracking open a can of ginger ale and handing it to her like it was champagne. “let the chaos begin.”

as the theme music played and the neon intro started rolling, he shifted closer, their legs brushing under the blanket. she didn’t pull away.

neither did he.

they spent the next hour curled into each other like they were always meant to. food containers slowly opened around them like petals in bloom—sauce-stained napkins, stray rice grains, the smell of garlic and ginger and grease in the air.

they talked between episodes, teased each other about which contestants were the worst, shared bites of things, laughed when she spilled sauce on his shirt. and at some point, she leaned her head on his shoulder. and then, when the screen started to blur and the wine slowed her thoughts, he tilted his head and whispered, “you know you can just stay here, right?”

she mumbled something about toothbrushes and her hair products and clean underwear, but he was already reaching for the gym bag he’d repacked.

“i told you,” he said, voice soft in the glow of the TV. “i’ve been ready.”

and somehow, in the haze of late-night warmth and comfort food and the lull of soft british accents onscreen, she realized something:

so was she.

the hours slipped by like honey—slow, golden, and impossibly sweet. neither of them reached for the remote again after the fourth or fifth episode. it just played on in the background, the show more like ambience than actual entertainment now. he’d tucked her further into his side, absently running his fingers along her arm while she took another bite of pad see ew, groaning dramatically.

“i’m so full,” she mumbled, slumping into him with a heavy sigh. “i don’t think i can breathe.”

auston laughed, low and lazy. “you’re dramatic.”

“no, i mean it. i’m ninety percent noodles right now.”

“then it’s a good thing i’m strong,” he smirked, and before she could protest, he hooked an arm under her legs and lifted her up with ease, the blanket still tangled around her like a cape.

“auston!” she squealed, swatting at his chest as she clung to him. “put me down!”

“never,” he grinned. “you said you couldn’t breathe. i’m being a hero.”

“a dramatic one,” she mumbled into his shoulder, but she didn’t fight it anymore. not really. not when it meant being this close to him.

he carried her up the stairs effortlessly, barefoot and smug, until they reached the hallway and a door slightly ajar. as he pushed it open with his foot, she peeked her head up, glancing around the space.

it was clean. a little too clean. minimal. bed made perfectly, two duffel bags in the corner, one dresser, one nightstand. no real pictures, no clutter, nothing personal. sterile, in a weird way.

she twisted to look at him as he set her gently down on the edge of the bed. “you don’t really live here, huh?”

he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “yeah. it’s… kinda like an airbnb at this point. my sisters make fun of me for it. say i only come home to do laundry and let mom feed me.”

“and avoid your sisters snooping through your stuff.”

“exactly,” he chuckled, watching her stand and stretch.

she gave him a teasing little glance over her shoulder. “well, if it’s an airbnb, you really should leave a better review next time. zero personality in here.”

he grinned, leaning back against the bedframe. “you offering to redecorate?”

“maybe,” she hummed, tugging her hoodie over her head. “after my shower.”

and then, with one last cheeky smile: “unless you’re still thinking of joining me.”

he raised his hands in mock innocence. “i’d never.”

“liar,” she laughed, disappearing into the ensuite.

he groaned softly once the door clicked shut, running a hand over his face as he sank fully into the mattress. what the hell was she doing to him?

he changed quickly in the guest bathroom down the hall, then came back to his room and climbed onto the bed, waiting for her. the sound of the shower running soothed him more than he expected. it reminded him she was here. not through a phone screen. not at work. here.

when she finally emerged, wrapped in one of his oversized shirts she must’ve pulled from his drawer, her hair damp and her skin glowing from the steam, he felt a dull ache in his chest. like something soft and permanent was carving its way in.

“hey,” she murmured, padding toward the bed.

“hey,” he echoed, reaching for her hand.

she slipped in beside him without hesitation, folding into the blankets, their legs tangling naturally under the covers. he shifted onto his side to face her, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.

“you look—”

“don’t say tired.”

“—beautiful.”

she smiled, eyes fluttering. “you’re just saying that ‘cause i’m not wearing your hoodie anymore.”

“no,” he said quietly. “i’m saying it because it’s true.”

her breath caught slightly at the way he said it—no teasing, no smirk. just truth, laid bare between them.

she reached for him then, fingertips brushing the side of his face before pulling him in, slow and sweet. their lips met again, deeper this time, unhurried and full of all the longing they’d held in over the last week.

his hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone, and hers found his waist, anchoring them together. they kissed like they were trying to memorize it—every tilt, every soft sigh, every heartbeat stuttering beneath their skin.

when they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed close, he whispered, “i missed this.”

“me too.”

he pulled her in tighter, her back pressed to his chest as they nestled deeper into the bed, her body soft and warm against his.

“don’t leave tomorrow,” he mumbled into her hair.

“i wasn’t planning on it,” she whispered back.

and for the first time in a long time, neither of them needed to say anything more.

the next day, the afternoon sun shone through the living room blinds, striping the floor in warm amber light. she was on one end of the couch, legs crossed under her, finishing off the last few bites of takeout while auston lounged on the other, head leaned back, his fingers lazily toying with a strand of her hair draped over the cushion between them.

“you really don’t care about hockey at all, huh?” he asked, almost in disbelief, watching her wipe her fingers on a napkin.

she gave him a look. “you sound so offended.”

“i kinda am.” he sat up a little, brows raised. “i mean, not even a little bit? it’s the greatest sport in the world.”

“you keep saying that like it’ll change something,” she smirked, stretching her arms with a content sigh. “i grew up watching football. real football. cardinals all day.”

auston groaned like she’d personally insulted him. “god, i forgot about that. the cardinals?”

“yup.” she popped the ‘p’ with pride. “through the highs and many lows.”

he narrowed his eyes. “so you’d willingly sit through a four-hour football game with five commercial breaks every ten seconds but you won’t give hockey a chance?”

“correct.” she leaned into the cushion smugly. “besides, if i wanted to watch a bunch of men crash into each other at full speed, i’d just go to costco during a sale.”

“okay, ouch,” he said, hand over his heart. “that was below the belt.”

she grinned, reaching for her drink. “what can i say? i don’t really get the appeal. all that padding and angry skating.”

he chuckled, shaking his head. “you’re a critical.”

“i’m a realist.”

he leaned in, his tone dropping to something more genuine. “you know, if you ever gave it a shot—i think you’d love it. the game’s fast. it’s strategic. brutal sometimes, but it’s got heart.”

she blinked at him, slightly surprised at how serious his voice had gotten. “you really love it, huh?”

his gaze held hers. “it’s everything.”

and for a moment, her teasing softened into something quieter. something that reminded her how much the game had built him—the way it lived under his skin, the way his posture always shifted whenever it came up.

but of course, she couldn’t resist just one more jab.

“well,” she drawled slowly, sipping her drink, “i might have to start watching if only to keep up with your team.”

auston smirked. “finally, some sense.”

she tapped her fingers on her glass. “especially if nylander’s playing.”

his entire face froze.

“excuse me?” he deadpanned.

she bit her lip to hide her grin. “what? he’s cute.”

he looked personally betrayed. “willy?”

“mhm. that hair? come on. and those eyes?”

“you’re joking.”

she tilted her head innocently. “am i?”

auston stared at her for a long second before grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at her stomach. “i’m actually gonna kick you out.”

she burst into laughter, doubling over as he muttered dramatic curses under his breath.

“what happened to being a realist?” he huffed.

“i’m allowed to appreciate art,” she teased.

“that ‘art’ plans his outfits weeks in advance and takes longer in the mirror than anyone i know.”

“so do i. sound like we are a match” she shot back.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “i can’t believe i brought you into my house.”

she leaned over, poking his chest. “aw, don’t be jealous. you’re still my favorite hockey player… barely.”

“wow.” he looked over at her, faux-offended. “i take it all back. you’re banned from coming to a game.”

“good. i was gonna root for the other team anyway.”

he lunged toward her like he was going to tackle her into the couch, and she shrieked, laughing as she tried to dodge.

“take it back!” he demanded through his smile.

“never!”

in the middle of their playful chaos, he caught her wrist and pulled her toward him, their laughter slowing, their faces just a breath apart now. the shift in energy was immediate—playful turned tender, a spark catching in the quiet space between them.

“even if you never watch a game,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to her lips, “i think you’re my favorite person who doesn’t care.”

she felt her pulse thrum, her fingers brushing his hoodie.

she remained curled up beside him, legs tucked under her, sipping slowly from a glass of iced tea. the silence was comfortable, filled with those soft in-between moments that only grew sweeter the more time they spent together. eventually, he broke it.

“so… you really never been on skates before?”

she tilted her head up to look at him, scrunching her nose. “never. not even once.”

“like… ever?”

“auston,” she laughed, nudging his chest, “i’m from arizona. i grew up in the desert. the only ice i ever saw was in my drink.”

he blinked at her, genuinely stunned. “you’re kidding.”

“nope.” she smiled at the disbelief on his face, kind of loving how personal the whole topic clearly was to him. “you forget—my hobbies were trying not to melt and learning how to drive with oven mitts in the summer.”

he groaned. “i don’t know if i should be impressed or horrified.”

“both,” she teased.

he shifted slightly so he could face her more, his thigh pressed snug against hers now. “so wait… you’ve never seen a hockey game either?”

she paused. “um… do the fights on espn highlights count?”

his hand fell over his chest in mock betrayal. “you’re breaking my heart, y/n.”

she laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “i’m sorry! it’s just never been my thing. and you know i didn’t know who you were when we met.”

“yeah,” he muttered, smirking a little. “i remember. that part kinda stung.”

“oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “you liked it.”

he gave a lazy shrug. “maybe. little bit. but c’mon, i gotta fix this. you need to understand hockey.”

“do i, though?”

“yes,” he said, completely serious now, turning his body to face her fully. “you’re hanging out with a guy who’s played since he was two and doesn’t shut up about it. it’s time.”

she set her glass on the coffee table and leaned back, resting her head on his shoulder. “fine. teach me.”

he grinned, the kind of grin that made her stomach flutter in the most inconvenient and addictive way. “okay. so… hockey. six guys on the ice per team. one’s the goalie. the point is to score goals. obvious stuff. but the beauty’s in the plays. the speed. how things change every second.”

“sounds like chaos.”

“controlled chaos,” he said, the way someone does when they’re talking about something sacred. “fastest game in the world. everything’s always moving, everyone’s thinking like ten steps ahead.”

she watched him closely—how his eyes lit up, how his hands moved when he talked, full of that quiet passion that made it impossible not to be drawn in. it wasn’t about explaining a sport. he was letting her into something that built him, shaped him.

“so do you, like, have favorite moments?” she asked, soft now.

he blinked at her, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “yeah. a few.”

“like what?”

“first goal in the league. home opener in ottawa. it was loud—crazy loud. but there was this moment, right after i scored, where i just looked up into the crowd and it felt like… like i made it, you know?”

she smiled, something warm blooming in her chest. “of course you made it. if the first goal didn't say that. the next three definitely solidified your place in the league”

he turned to her shocked, "what? i had to know if i was dealing with a scrub" she winked but his face was already heating at the idea of her keeping tabs on his accolades. he leaned over and kissed her cheek to show his appreciation.

he looked at her then, the way someone does when they’re trying to memorize a face. “you wanna come to a game this fall?”

“i don’t know…” she smirked, reaching for her drink again. “i might get distracted.”

he raised a brow. “by what?”

she hummed dramatically, pretending to think. "your teammates. they're all seriously gorgeous”

his jaw dropped. “are you serious right now?”

“i mean,” she continued with a sly grin, sipping her tea, “i might have to become a leafs fan for him alone.”

“you’re not funny,” he muttered, poking her side while she squealed. “you’re an actual menace.”

“i’m just saying! the competition’s steep!”

“you’re killing me.”

she laughed so hard she nearly knocked over the remote. he grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, half-exasperated, half-smitten.

“fine,” he said. “i guess you’ll just have to watch and decide for yourself.”

“mhm. i’ll come to a game,” she whispered into his shoulder, “but only if you teach me how to skate.”

he stilled for a second. “wait, seriously?”

“yeah. but i want the full experience. you gotta hold my hands and everything.”

“deal,” he said, instantly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “just don’t fall for my teammates when i’m gone.”

she burst into laughter again, burying her face into his chest as his arms wrapped around her.

and in that moment—just the two of them curled into each other on a couch in arizona—he felt more grounded than he had in years. because she didn’t care about the noise. she cared about him. and for the first time, he let her all the way in.

taglist — @celestixldarling @steph1106 @siennaluvshcky @macka

© 2025 M34TTHEWS

[gardenofbones-if]

UPDATE 0.1.2: Existing Demo Edits

Note: my previous intro post is no longer up-to-date, so you can click the links below to view the new intro post and an improved RO page! Likes or reblogs are even more appreciated than usual.

DEMO LINK | INTRO POST | ROMANCE OPTIONS

This is the last update before 0.2.0 aka a new content release! No new chapter yet, so for some of you it might not be worth replaying, but minor edits to the first chapter are finally done. If I did my job well you won't notice most of them, but if you're interested in seeing what's changed be warned that you may need to re-play again before the next chapter.

The arson branch is short, bridging two other scenes you will have seen before, but there are a few different choices to determine how it plays out!

There shouldn't be any game-breaking errors, so I'm just posting it now because I am VERY eager to resume working full-time on Chapter 2! Finally I can return my focus to new content for the rest of the month, and I’ll be able to make much faster progress because of changes to the code.

YOU WILL NEED NEW SAVES.

NEW CONTENT

Don't expect too much to be different, but I did make some changes!

the arson option is complete! now you can not only turn the room upside-down, but light it on fire ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

sprinkled more flavour text throughout

a few scenes were slightly revised for clarity, such as the prologue and the dream scene at the end

described the servant and guard in more detail

1 small interactive choice for the servant and the guard

new customization options: more scar choices, near or short sighted, greying hair/beard

CODING IMPROVEMENTS

The true (invisible) star of this update is all the changes to the code!

re-coded literally everything seriously there will be errors please message me if you see any

adjusted U's affection and trust stats (still a WIP)

corrected some flavour text coding errors

the "not-a-gift" scene should now reference all items you were given, if you decide to use them

USER INTERFACE

I did my best not to go too crazy with this until the new content is finished...

default dark mode

improved main menu screen

adjusted settings and saves menu colours

UPDATE NOTES (+ how to set stuff on fire)

Ignore if you don't want any spoilers!

To set the tower ablaze, you will need to choose the option where you scatter the nightblooms, not the other two options (sinking to the ground or touching the flowers).

I think this goes without saying, but do be aware that if you choose to light things on fire, it might - might - impact your experience in Chapter 2 next update, depending on what I decide moving forward and how your unique choices play out. That's not a reason NOT to do it, but it is something to note.

You can read the new intro post HERE if you haven't played before or want to give it a like (TYSM), or jump straight into the updated DEMO.

Thanks for playing!

~ Effie

[baldieboi]

That's a good thing, do what you enjoy. I also find myself sucked in with many things work (negative), story brainstorming (positive), occasionally drawing (positive).

I feel like the Primarchs just couldn't imagine having their Mother one day passing and they didn't understand the importance of spending time with her while they have the chance. Unfortunately, this is something many learn too late even in real life.

The Mother's death is exactly what you said. Passed peacefully in death. I didn't want to cause more pain to the Primarchs (I swear it feels so wrong making them sad, no matter they are fictional characters, the feeling remains). And there's something poetic in passing peacefully. They were offered peace by the Mother and in death she had peace as well.

I gotta say, originally I had a... quite different story idea. Mother passing remains the same as it is here but, and here comes the part that's different, it was not the reader passing.

The Emperor chose another to be the Mother/High Consort (for political and symbolic reasons, so he can show himself as more of a humane figure for the masses) and that's who the reader was to be. Here, the reader would have need to ease the Primarchs grief, to earn their trust so they see the reader more than someone who wants to replace their precious mother. The story would have ended up with them accepting the reader and while they never would have seen the reader the same as the first Mother... it would have been still a nice, perhaps angsty-wholesome story. At least according to the original plans.

But... frankly, I can't. I can't find it in myself to write this, not just because of having a job takes away almost all my free time... but simply because I can't.

This version is already sad enough and I am not sure I could manage writing the Primarchs slowly overcoming the grief and accepting the loss.

But who knows? Maybe one day I will reconsider. Or not. Time will tell.

I haven't considered the tagging being possibly interpreted in the wrong way by anyone but actually it makes a lot of sense. Just because I don't think of the wrong thing... who is to say nobody else does? It's pretty common with me. I think of the most normal (perhaps most innocent) things and people are absolutely not. I had some very uncomfortable and sometimes hilarious misunderstandings with it.

Thanks for for bringing this to my attention. I will edit the tags (but from what I have seen people didn't misunderstand, is that a good sign? anyway, I will change the tags)

The warhammer x reader part can remain, right? I will keep it as that in itself shouldn't be under the same problematic possible misinterpretation like the primarch x reader tag.

When I will write and post the next part (I plan to make it have exactly 3 parts, no more, no less) I will post it with this in mind.

Mother

Part 1

You died. To the Primarchs you were like a mother. They came to say their last goodbyes to you. Angst.

@ghrgrsfdesfrfg @w-40-k

Lion El'Jonson

The Lion knelt besides you with perfect knightly grace, his head bowed in respect. His hands, those weapons of war, trembled as he reached out to touch your folded fingers.

"Mother" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I came as soon as I could. I know... I know I'm too late but I had to tell you."

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

"I brought you something. A flower from Caliban, from the grove where you said you wanted to walk someday. I know it's just a simple thing but you always said the simplest gifts carried the most love."

He placed the white bloom in your other hand, his fingers lingering on yours.

"I was your knight, Mother. I was supposed to protect you, to come when you called. I was too far away, fighting battles that don't matter now. Forgive me. Please forgive your failed knight."

A single tear fell onto your joined hands.

"I love you, Mother. I should have said it more. I should have said it every day."

Fulgrim

Fulgrim approached with a canvas in his hands, his features streaked with tears he made no attempt to hide.

"I finished it" he said, holding up the painting, your portrait, now complete despite the scar his chisel had left which fell from his hands when he heard the news of your death. "I know it's not perfect but you always said my imperfections made my art more beautiful."

He set the painting where you could see it... if you could still see.

"You were my muse, Mother. Every beautiful thing I ever created was because I was trying to capture even a fraction of the beauty I saw in you. Not just your face, though you were lovely, but your soul. The way you saw wonder in everything."

His voice broke.

"I wanted to paint you forever. I wanted to spend eternity trying to show the galaxy what real beauty looked like. But I can't... I can't paint you anymore. How do I create beauty in a world that doesn't have you in it?"

He touched your cheek with infinite gentleness.

"Thank you for teaching me that love was the greatest art of all. I'll try to remember that even when the world feels ugly without you."

Perturabo

Perturabo stood besides you with his hands full of blueprints, dozens of them, architectural plans that represented years of work.

"I brought you the designs" he said, his voice rough with emotion. "All of them. The gardens you wanted to see, the palaces I designed with rooms full of light, the cities where children could play safely in the streets."

He spread them out around you, a paper ocean of dreams made manifest.

"You were the only one who understood what I was trying to build. Everyone else saw weapons and fortifications but you... you saw homes. You saw beauty. You saw the future I was trying to create."

His massive hands clenched into fists.

"I wanted to build you a garden, Mother. A place where you could walk among growing things and know that they were protected by walls that would never fall. I wanted to give you peace made manifest in stone and steel."

He knelt besides you, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I don't know how to build without you to build for. What's the point of creating something beautiful if the most beautiful thing in the galaxy is gone?"

He pressed his forehead to your hand.

"I love you, Mother. You made me feel like an architect instead of just a destroyer. Thank you for seeing the dreams in my blueprints."

Jaghatai Khan

The Khan came to your side with wind-tousled hair and dust on his boots as if he had ridden hard to reach you.

"I'm sorry I'm late" he said, sinking to one knee beside hs you. "I was riding when the news came and I... I couldn't stop. I rode for three days straight, hoping that if I was fast enough I could somehow outrun this reality."

He took your hand in both of his.

"You understood why I had to ride, didn't you? You never asked me to stay, never tried to cage me like the others did. You knew that the hunt was part of who I was and you loved me anyway."

His voice grew thick with emotion.

"But I should have stayed more often. I should have sat with you in the gardens and let you braid flowers in my hair. I should have told you about the sunsets I saw on distant worlds, should have brought you stories from the wind roads."

He lifted your hand to his cheek.

"You were my anchor, Mother. The fixed point that let me range so far because I always knew I could return. Now I'm lost in a way I've never been before and I don't know how to find my way home."

He took a shuddering breath.

"Ride with me in spirit, Mother. When I race across distant worlds be the wind at my back. That's how I'll carry you with me, in the freedom you gave me to be who I was meant to be."

Leman Russ

Russ approached with something clutched in his massive fist. When he opened it, it revealed a small carved wolf, no bigger than his thumb, crude but heartfelt.

"I made this for you" he said, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion. "I know it's not much. I'm not... I'm not good with the gentle things like Fulgrim or Vulkan. But I wanted you to have something."

He placed the tiny wolf in your palm, closing your fingers around it.

"You were the only one who wasn't afraid of me, Mother. When I was young and the wolf was strong, when I could barely control the beast in my blood, you would run your fingers through my hair and tell me stories until I was calm again."

His voice broke.

"You called me your wolf-son and you meant it as a loving thing. Not as something to be ashamed of but as something precious. You made me feel like the wolf and the man could exist together, that I didn't have to choose."

He rested his forehead against the edge of your bier.

"I howled for you, Mother. All the way from Fenris to Terra, I howled. And for the first time in my life the howl felt empty because you weren't there to answer."

His tears fell freely now.

"Pack bonds are forever, Mother. Death doesn't break them. You'll always be part of my pack, the heart of it. I love you. My pack loves you. Forever."

[runningincircl3s]

Blood Sport

Noah Sebastian x Reader

Chapter Sixteen

masterlist

chapter warnings: none? kinda leads into smut at the end but i'm saving that for the next chapter...

sorry for the late post! i was soo tired last night so i didn’t get round to editing it all :(

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You closed the bathroom door gently behind you and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly, preparing yourself for what you were about to do.

Quietly, you locked the lock, hanging up your dress and lingerie on the back of the door, and setting your hair tools and makeup bag down on the counter. This was your space for the next hour or so, and you needed it.

The bathroom, like the rest of Noah’s house, was pretty cool. Black and grey tiles, matte black walls, wooden accents, and a faint lingering scent of whatever body wash he just used in the shower.

You were already in Noah's robe, your hair tied up as you started your makeup. The music you’d put on was playing quietly, just some background noise to distract your focus from the swirl of nerves in your tummy.

You had barely finished your foundation when you heard him knock at the door.

“Babe?”

You paused, sponge in hand.

“Yeah?” You called, a little cautiously.

“Can I come in? I really gotta pee.”

Your eyes went wide.

“No!”

For a moment, he went silent. You thought he went away, until...

“Why not?”

“I’m not ready yet!”

You heard a muffled laugh, followed by his forehead lightly thunking against the door.

“Baby. You know we’re not getting married tonight, right?”

“Yeah… but that’s not the point.”

“Pretty sure it is.” His voice was warm, amused. “You’re treating this like some big reveal.”

“I want it to be a big reveal.” You twisted your mascara open. “And you’re not ruining it.”

Noah groaned playfully.

“Noah. Use the bathroom downstairs.”

“But I’m up here!”

There was another pause.

“…Just a peek?”

“No.”

“Not even a-“

“Noah.”

You could hear the grin in his voice.

“You’re so lucky I love you.”

You smirked, brushing mascara through your lashes.

“You’d better after all the effort I’m putting into tonight.”

He paused for a little longer, you assumed he must’ve finally gone downstairs, until he spoke again.

“I’ve seen you in a million different ways. With bed hair, with no makeup, after crying through a movie, riding me in nothing but your socks… but you getting ready in my bathroom like this? Won’t let me see until you’re fully done? Baby, I think this is the hottest thing you’ve ever done.”

Your hand stilled mid brush, your head turning to the locked door.

“I’m being serious,” he went on, voice quieter now. “Just knowing you’re in there getting all dressed up? Putting in this amount of effoty? That you want to look perfect for tonight, for us… Fuck, I'm so lucky.”

You swallowed hard, mascara wand still in your hand.

“…Okay, now you’re kind of making me want to let you in.”

“Don’t tease me like that,” he laughed softly. “I’m seconds away from picking this lock.”

“Don’t even think about it!” You laughed.

…

You gave your reflection one final once over.

Hair done just the way you liked. Makeup perfect. Dress zipped and settled over every curve like it had been crafted just for you. You smoothed your palms over the fabric and took a deep breath.

You looked so fucking hot.

“Noah?” Your voice was soft as you opened the bathroom door.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through something on his phone, he had gotten changed into his black dress pants and shirt, your mouth almost watering at how his sleeves were rolled up...

Then he looked up, and completely froze.

His phone slipped from his hand and landed on the bed without a sound.

You stepped fully into the room, the light catching on your jewellery, your heels tapping gently against the floor. You weren’t even trying to pose, just standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world, and that only made it worse for him. Or better?

Noah stood slowly. His mouth opened, then closed, like he was trying to speak but forgot how to form words.

He exhaled a breath that sounded almost pained.

“Holy fuck.”

“Too much?” You asked with a small smile, already knowing the answer.

“No.” He took a step closer. “No. You could never be too much…”

He was still staring, eyes trailing down from your lashes to your lips, to your dress, your shoulders, your chest, your waist… he swallowed visibly.

Then he said it, voice hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken for days.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You tilted your head.

“I thought you wanted to make it to the party.”

“I did. I do. But now…” he ran a hand down his face, raking it back through his hair. “Now I’m trying to decide if I should call and tell them we're gonna be late.”

The butterflies in your stomach fluttered, and he stepped even closer, hands hovering near your waist, but not touching yet.

“I don’t even know what to do. Cry? Pray? Drop to my knees and fucking beg?”

You lifted a brow.

“You okay there, Noah?”

“No,” he whispered, still not touching you, “I’m not okay. You look like… like a work of art…”

Finally, you reached for him, smoothing your hands over the front of his shirt.

“And you,” you said, your voice teasing, “Are getting wrinkled.”

He laughed breathlessly but didn’t move.

“You wore that set, didn’t you?”

You bit your lip, smiled wickedly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He groaned and pressed his forehead to yours.

“You’re so evil.”

You kissed him gently, just once, before stepping back.

“Now come on. We’ve got a party to get to.”

He looked at the time on the bedside clock, then back at you, clearly torn.

“Three minutes,” he muttered. “That’s all I need."

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you grabbed your clutch.

“You were never this horny before.”

“I was never this in love before.”

…

The car ride to the party was only short, it took about ten minutes to get there from Noah’s place, but it was quiet.

Noah had his hand resting on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your dress. Music was playing quietly, the driver turned on whatever was on the radio. You were staring out the window, watching the city pass by you in blurs.

You should’ve been excited.

You were excited…

And yet, the closer you got to the venue, the heavier your chest began to feel. Like something was pressing against your ribs, a pressure you couldn’t ignore. A thought you’d been doing so well at silencing these last few days started to sneak back in.

You don’t deserve him.

You shifted slightly in your seat, looking down at your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your nails were done- he had paid for you to get them, despite you telling him not to. Your lipstick was perfect. Your dress hugged you like it had been made just for your body.

But you felt like you deserved none of it. You didn’t even deserve to be sat next to him in the backseat right now.

He took you back. Loved you with every little inch of his soul. Treated you like something precious. Even after you had-

“Hey,” Noah’s voice broke softly through your thoughts. “You’ve gone quiet on me.”

You blinked and turned your head toward him, smiling a little too quickly.

“Just tired, I think.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Is it the party? We don’t have to stay long. Just make the rounds, say thank you, I’ll do my speech, then we can sneak out halfway through…”

“No, it’s not that.” You shook your head, trying to wave it off. “I’m fine.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and gently tucked your hair behind your ear. His touch was feather light, so careful with you.

“You’re doing that thing,” he murmured, “Where you shrink into yourself, when you go all quiet. I know something’s up.”

You bit your lip, but he didn’t push. He wanted you to speak to him on your own terms.

“I just…” You exhaled, looking down again. “Sometimes I still don’t understand how I got so lucky. Like… what did I do to deserve this? A second chance? You?”

Noah’s brows furrowed slightly, not with confusion, but with hurt.

“Don’t say that.” He said softly.

“I know. I’m sorry, I know we’ve talked about it and I’m okay, I just…” you swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “It sneaks up on me sometimes, when I don’t want it to.”

He reached out, turning your face to look at him.

“Hey, we’ve both made mistakes, okay? Neither of us are perfect, I wouldn’t want you if you were,” he said with a breathy chuckle, “Everything we’ve been through just proves we really love each other, right? And if you’re sitting there thinking you don’t deserve that?” He leaned in a little, eyes searching yours before continuing. “Then I’m gonna spend every day proving you do. Until you see yourself the way I see you. Until you love yourself the way I love you.”

You blinked, tears beginning to fill your eyes, blurring your vision.

“I love you,” he repeated. “So, so much. I know what happened before. We were both hurt by it. But I forgave you, I wanted us to move on. Because I want you. I want this. Nothing you did ever made you unworthy of love, especially not mine.”

You sniffled, wiping under your eyes carefully to avoid smudging your makeup.

“I love you too.”

He leaned over and kissed you, quick and slow at the same time.

“We’re going to walk into this party,” he murmured, lips brushing yours, “And everyone’s going to see you for what you really are.”

You pulled back slightly, blinking in confusion.

“What’s that?”

He smiled.

“The most important person in my life.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just leaned forward, resting your forehead against his and breathing him in.

Then you whispered.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

…

You and Noah walked hand in hand through the doors of the venue. The room that the party was being thrown on was through the hallway a little… and up some stairs.

You sighed, slowing down to a stop at Noah’s side and turning to look at him.

“Great time to be wearing heels. You guys couldn’t have picked a normal venue?”

Without missing a beat, Noah turned to you with the most serious expression imaginable.

“I’ll swap with you.”

“You’ll what?” You blinked up at him.

“My boots for your heels.” He shrugged. “I’ve got great calves. I can pull them off.”

You stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“You’re ridiculous!” You said, carefully lifting your foot onto the first step.

He followed after you, his hand finding the small of your back almost instinctively as he stood by your side.

“You say that now,” he said with a faint grin, “But if you twist your ankle halfway up, I will carry you. We can make a dramatic entrance.”

“Yeah. I bet you would.”

You took the first step, holding the rail lightly as you walked, but his hand stayed steady at your back.

Every few steps he murmured something.

“You good?” “Not too fast?” “Want me to carry you yet?”

And each one made your heart feel warm, your stomach feeling fuzzy.

When you finally reached the top, slightly out of breath and blinking against the shift in lighting, you turned to him with a grin.

“No twisted ankle. I’m stronger than I look.”

Noah smirked.

“Still would’ve carried you.”

You didn’t even get a chance to respond before he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, hand smoothing down your spine like he just needed to touch you, even in the briefest way.

“Ready?” He asked.

You nodded, trying to ignore the nerves in your stomach.

He pushed the door open for you, the music and the sound of chatter immediately getting louder.

You had just stepped through the door, and you weren’t sure if you’d make it any further. You barely recognised a single face.

Noah had told you that they had to invite a lot of people they would’ve rathered to have not. Industry people, friends of friends, but there were also the other people who worked on the album, and real friends of the guys…

And here you were, walking into the Bad Omens album release party on Noah Sebastian’s arm.

No pressure!

Noah’s hand slid down to intertwine with yours.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, just for you. “We’ll walk in together, okay?”

And so you did.

Your heels clicked softly against the hard floor as you moved in time with Noah, trying to keep your eyes forward instead of letting them dart around. But your grip tightened slightly on his hand when someone nearby glanced in your direction. Then again. A double take.

You swallowed, already anticipating the questions.

“Hey, Noah!”

It was Michael, one of the first people you’d spotted that you actually recognised, his face lifting into a smile as he made his way over, arms open in greeting.

“It’s been a while, huh?” Michael said with a smirk, pulling Noah into a quick hug, patting his back before turning to you. “And you must be…”

You told him your name.

“Oh, so you’re the one he’s not shut up about for years… Most of us didn’t believe you were real.” He chuckled, before quickly offering you a hand to shake, “Hi, by the way. I’m Michael. Sorry if that was-”

“No, no- hi!” You laughed, cheeks warming as you shook his hand. “I’ve heard all about you! Nice to finally meet you.”

Michael leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“So… you two walked in holding hands...”

Before you or Noah could say anything back, someone else called his name.

“Nowahhh!”

Jesse, curly hair pushed back and glass in his hand, wove through the crowd toward you. Behind him, a couple more members of Erra followed, you knew these were friends of the guys, not just collaborators on the album. Jesse looked between you both, then to Noah’s hand still clasping yours.

“No fucking way.” He laughed, clapped Noah on the back, then turned to you with a big grin. “Hi. I cant remember if we met before, I’m Jesse.”

“I know, I’ve heard all about you,” you smiled shyly, before telling him your name.

Noah squeezed your hand.

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“Ohhh shit,” Jesse grinned. “Well it’s about time we finally met, y’know he’s been talking about you since I first met him.”

You assumed you’d hear a lot of this tonight.

Before you could answer, you felt a set of eyes on you from across the room. Slowly, you turned… and there he was.

Bryan.

Standing by the bar, half a glass of soda in his hand, staring directly at the two of you.

He raised an eyebrow as he took a slow sip.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on here?” He asked after the two of you approached him.

Noah laughed under his breath, and you groaned quietly, already bracing yourself.

Of course Bryan was the first to actually call it out.

“Bryan…” You began. But before either of you could say another word, a familiar voice cut through the music and conversation.

“So…”

You turned to see Jolly approaching with Nicole on his arm, his expression somewhere between amused and smug.

“I’m guessing you two kissed and made up, huh?”

Nicole elbowed him lightly, but she was smiling too, smiling at you, not daring to let him know she knew.

You froze for a second, your hand still loosely laced with Noah’s. But Noah didn’t falter. He gave Jolly a slight grin and squeezed your hand a little tighter.

“Yeah… it’s kinda hard to stay mad when she looks this good.” He said simply.

You shot him a look.

“Noah!”

“You two are adorable.” Nicole laughed.

“And when were you gonna tell me? Or tell all of us?” Bryan raised an eyebrow.

You hesitated, but Noah spoke before you could.

“Now!”

“That’s convenient.” Jolly chuckled.

Nicole rolled her eyes and looped her arm through yours, tugging you gently to her side.

“Honestly? I’m just glad you’re not miserable anymore. You’ve both been walking around like sad little ghosts for months.”

“So, what is this…?” Jolly asked, hand motioning at the two of you.

“We’re together. We’re dating.”

“He took me on a real date and everything,” you grinned, “Then I stayed at his place and he asked me to be his girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” another voice called from behind you, sounding a little too excited, “And then I walked in on the two of you the next morning when you were about to-“

“MATT!” You warned, turning quickly to point a finger, telling him to shut up.

“Wait…” Alyson, who has walked in beside him, turned to look up at her husband, “You knew too?”

“You knew?” He furrowed his brow, making you and Nicole chuckle.

“You told her?” Noah asked as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“I couldn’t not… And Nicole knew too.”

“So…” Matt began, trying to piece things together, “If we know, and they know, and Folio knows that leaves…”

“Folio knew before me?!” Bryan gasped, scandalised.

“Ruffilo.” Noah nodded, ignoring Bryan entirely as he scanned the room, “Where is he?”

As if on cue, the doors opened again, making everyone turn.

Late, Ruffilo strolled in like he owned the place… wearing dark sunglasses indoors and holding hands with a woman none of you recognised. Tall, gorgeous, dressed in sleek black from head to toe.

“Fashionably fucking late.” Matt muttered.

“Who is that?” Alyson whispered.

“I think that’s his new girlfriend,” Jolly whispered back, “He said something about meeting someone the other week, she was a client of his, I think.”

“Well, this explains why he hasn’t been answering my texts,” Matt scoffed, arms crossed, “Too busy with his new hot girlfriend.”

Ruffilo spotted the group and raised a hand.

“Hey! Sorry I’m late. Traffic was awful. Also… this is Tiffany.”

Everyone murmured some variation of hi, but you were too busy sharing a quick glance with Noah. He leaned into your side a little closer, like he was thinking the same thing you were…

Now or never.

You squeezed his hand once, and he squeezed back.

“Wait,” Ruffilo said suddenly, looking between the two of you. “What’s going on here?”

“If you weren’t so late, you wouldn’t have missed it.” Nicole snorted.

“Wait…” Ruffilo narrowed his eyes. “Are you guys…?”

“Together,” Noah said simply, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Yeah.”

“Like… dating?”

“Yes.” You smiled.

Ruffilo blinked, slowly taking off his sunglasses.

“…Shit.”

“Surprised?” Noah grinned.

“Absolutely not.” He laughed.

“Wait…” Tiffany softly said, “Are these the two you were telling me about, Nicky?”

You tried not to laugh at the nickname, it was cute, you just weren’t expecting it.

“Yeah… I sorta told Tiff about how the two of you are always on again and off again.”

You groaned, hiding your face in Noah’s chest while everyone laughed, but Noah just kissed your temple.

“Yeah, well… there’ll be no more off again.”

…

Everyone knew. They finally knew.

Or at least, the people who you both wanted to know knew. You weren’t sure about the rest of the world, Matt and Alyson were even still a secret and they’ve been married for months now.

The night was getting on, and you were now sat with Folio, who had been chatting to other bands when you came in, whilst you watched Noah do his rounds, talking to the important people who helped make this record possible.

As you watched your boyfriend, you couldn’t help but think about how good he looked tonight. He also looked a little tired, you knew how he hated big events like this, but he was still putting on a smile for everyone.

“He really loves you, you know.” Folio’s voice broke through your thoughts.

You turned your head toward him, raising a brow.

Folio shrugged, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ve seen him go through some shit over the years… And you make him smile like I’ve never seen before.”

Your heart ached a little.

“I just hope I don’t mess it up again.”

“You won’t.” He said it so surely, it startled you. Then he gave a small shrug. “You’re not the same people you were a year ago. Or even six months ago.”

You followed his gaze, he was watching Noah now too.

“I really hope this works out for you this time,” he added softly, voice dipping with sincerity. “Both of you. Because… if it doesn’t, I don’t think he’ll ever love someone like this again. And honestly, I don’t think you will either.”

You blinked fast, your eyes suddenly stinging.

“God, Folio,” you said with a watery laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re gonna make me ruin my mascara.”

He leaned over quickly, assessing your face. He wiped a small tear away that had escaped, then leaned back again.

“Nope. You still look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” You said with a gentle smile.

You glanced over at Noah again. His eyes were already on you, and he was already smiling.

Then you turned back to Folio.

“Y’know, Nick, you’re really an amazing guy, and you’re gonna make someone really happy one day.”

Folio laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now.”

“Hey, you started it!… But I’m serious,” you said, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him. “Don’t tell Noah I said this, but you’re the kindest, most sweetest man I know. And I hope one day you find the one, and I hope she treats you right.”

“Then why do I always end up playing third wheel to my friends’ romances? Matt and Alyson, you and Noah-“

“Because you’re the glue that holds everyone together,” you teased softly. “And glue doesn’t always get the spotlight.”

He turned his head to look at you, expression a little softer, quieter.

“Maybe. But sometimes I just wanna be someone’s spotlight too.”

You reached out and looped your arm through his, resting your head briefly against his shoulder.

“You will be. She’s out there. And she’s gonna be so fucking lucky when she finds you.”

The two of you sat like that for a moment, in your own little bubble away from the rest of the party… Until the clinking of a fork against a glass echoed from somewhere near the front of the room.

“Speech time!” Folio said, straightening up as he craned his neck to look.

Matt stood on a small raised platform near the DJ booth on the main stage, Alyson beside him in a slinky navy dress, complimenting her blonde hair perfectly, her hand resting casually on his chest. Matt held a half empty glass of coke and cleared his throat dramatically into the mic.

“Alright!” he grinned. “I’m not gonna lie to you guys, I had a speech written out… but then I spilled barbecue sauce on it.”

A ripple of laughter followed.

Alyson rolled her eyes beside him and took the mic.

“He never wrote one.”

“Okay, okay,” Matt chuckled, taking it back “Fine. I didn’t. But I didn’t need to, because all I really want to say is… thank you. To every single person in this room. Whether you played a note on the record, helped out on the production side, or just helped to keep the guys sane during the recording of the album…”

You felt Folio quickly stand beside you and rush to the stage as everyone applauded, and you glanced back toward Noah, he was walking toward the stage now too, Jolly and Ruffilo not far behind.

Matt spotted them and gestured to the side.

“Now I’m gonna shut up and let the guys say something before we play the album in full for the first time!”

The guys all looked at each other awkwardly, and you could imagine they were saying “you go first” “no, you go first!”

Noah finally stepped forward, taking the mic from Matt, who gave him a brief pat on the back as he passed. His eyes scanned the crowd, catching yours for a brief second. It grounded him. You could see it, his shoulders loosened just enough, his jaw unclenched. He took a deep breath.

“Uh… I’m not really good at this part,” Noah began, voice low and steady through the speakers. “I don’t really love parties or speeches or being the centre of attention, believe it or not. But this record… it means a lot.”

He glanced over at Folio, who nodded once, and then to Jolly, who gave a small smile.

“It took a lot out of us. In the best ways, and the hardest ones. There were moments where it felt like this album was writing us instead of the other way around. A lot of the time we were just having fun with it, but then the stress came afterwards when we actually had to make it sound good,” He chuckled, “But it got finished, and somehow, it became something better than any of us imagined.”

The room was quiet now, everyone listening.

“We wanted to make something we were all happy with. And we did, eventually. And we’re proud of it. So… thank you, for supporting us. For being here. And for helping in any way that you have.”

There was another pause, as if he was trying to think of how to word whay he wanted to say.

“And while I’m here… I really want to thank my girlfriend,” Noah added, and it made your heart skip. “For sticking by me through the shit I put you through, for still loving me, for still being there for me after everything. I love you more than you can ever imagine, I always have, and I always will.”

…

The album was still playing through the speakers, there were a few songs left, but that was the last thing you could care about in this moment.

Becasue right now you were curled up beside Noah, sitting along the back wall, away from the rest of the room. The crowd had thinned throughout the night, but neither of you made a move to leave. There was no rush, no pressure. Just you and him.

Your head rested on his shoulder, his hand warm on your thigh. He hadn’t stopped touching you since you sat down together, his thumb rubbing circles, fingers occasionally lacing with yours, as if grounding himself with you beside him. As if making sure you wouldn't slip away again.

You had both been sat in a soft, comforable silence for a while now, neither of you really needed to say anything.

And then, softly, he spoke.

“You know I’ve loved you since that first night, right?”

You blinked, lifting your head a little to look at him.

“What?”

He turned slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Bryan’s birthday. That house party in New York. The night he wanted to introduce us to his best friend... From the moment we first spoke I always hoped that we’d end up like this eventually,” he continued. “Even if we didn’t speak for years.”

You stared at him, throat feeling tight.

“Noah…”

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, voice gentle but certain. “I’d see something that reminded me of you, something you said that night, or the way you laughed too loud at my dumb jokes, and it’d all come rushing back.”

Your chest ached, painfully tender.

“I didn't reach out for years because... I was just scared,” he admitted, eyes flicking down for a second. “That you wouldn’t feel the same way. That maybe I’d made it all up in my head, and I’d been holding on for years to something that meant nothing to you.”

Your hands came up to cup his face before you even realised you were moving.

“Noah…” you breathed, eyes swimming, “You...” but your voice broke off.

Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.

He caught them with his thumbs, brushing gently.

“Hey…” he whispered, soft and calming, “Why are you crying?”

You tried to speak, to form the words, but all you could do was shake your head.

“Because,” you finally managed, voice cracking, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you felt that way for so long… I didn’t think I mattered to you like that. I was so sure it was just me.”

“It was never just you,” he said firmly, forehead resting against yours now. “I've always loved you. Always... Hell, even after I deleted all my socials I used the bands account to keep up with you.”

You broke.

Tears spilled faster, and he pulled you into his arms, his hand holding the back of your head as you pressed your face into his neck. He didn’t shush you, didn’t try to stop you, he just held you through it, his other hand rubbing your back slow and steady.

“I wish I could go back,” you whispered into his skin, “To that night, and tell myself it was real. That it was you.”

“You don’t have to,” he murmured. “Because we’re here now. We made it eventually.”

You nodded, still pressed to him, your body shaking gently with the force of your relief, your joy, your love.

Eventually, he tilted your chin up and kissed you. Soft and slowly, like it was the only thing grounding him too.

When he pulled back, his hand still cupped your face.

"It might sound crazy, but I'm glad we waited to do this." He said.

"Why?" You blinked up at him, still a little dazed from everything he’d just said, and everything you had just felt.

Then, he gave you a soft smile, the kind only you ever got to see.

“Back when we first met… I wasn’t ready for you. I thought about it a lot, like what if we had started something back then? But I was never home, my biggest priority was the band. I wouldn’t have been able to give you what you needed... and I hate to think about how it would’ve ended badly. I'd have dreams about it, us, and you would always ask me to choose between you or the band.”

"Noah, I'd never-"

"Baby, it was just a dream, I know you wouldn't. But this was years ago. Then last year, Bryan asked about bringing you on tour with us. Even then, I was worried about what could happen to us on tour, the stress of it always brings out the worst in me... But then we started our thing and I knew then that this was finally our chance, and I didn't want to mess it up."

"...But I did." You said, no emotion in your voice as you felt your heart shatter in your chest, "And, Noah, please believe me when I say that not a day goes by when I don't regret what I did. I should never have slept with-"

"Hey," he stopped you carefully, placing a hand back on your knee, "Things happen for a reason, okay?"

His thumb moved in slow circles on your knee.

“I don’t want to erase what happened,” he continued gently, “As much as it hurt. Because if none of that happened… maybe we wouldn’t be here right now. Like this.”

You blinked, lips parting to speak but nothing came out. The only thing you could do was nod.

“I told you I tried to hate you for a while,” he admitted quietly, “But it wasn't because of what you did, iy was because I still loved you, even when I didn’t want to. Even when I tried not to.”

Tears pricked at your eyes again.

“I thought I’d lost you forever.” Noah moved closer again, pressing his forehead to yours. “But then you came back.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me back,” you whispered, voice shaking. “After everything…”

“I didn’t think I would either,” he said honestly, then let out the smallest, breathiest laugh. “But I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

He leaned in, kissed the tip of your nose.

“And I sure as hell don’t plan on losing you again.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” he murmured into your hair. “I forgive you. You’ve got to forgive yourself now, baby. That’s the only part left.”

Your chest ached so deeply it felt hollow.

“I’m trying.”

He kissed the crown of your head. Held you a little tighter.

“Like I said earlier... I’ll help you.”

You let out a soft exhale, like the stillness after a storm.

The music was still playing somewhere behind you, but it had long become background noise. All you could focus on was the man in front of you. His eyes. His hand still on your knee. The safety of his presence.

You shifted slightly in your seat, moving impossibly closer, your cheek brushing his as you leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“…Think anyone would notice if we left?”

He stilled. Then slowly leaned back enough to look at you.

“You wanna go?” His brows lifted, but there was already a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You nodded, catching your lower lip between your teeth.

“I think I’ve had enough emotion for one night. I just want to be with you... preferably in bed.”

His smirk widened.

“Babe, you can’t say shit like that when you look like that and expect me to be normal about it.”

You laughed under your breath, wiping the last of your tears from your cheeks, and murmured.

“Take me home, Noah.”

He was already standing before you’d even finished the sentence, offering you his hand as he pulled you up with him. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone, he'd send a text once he got back, he just led you through the room with his hand tight in yours like a man on a mission.

...

The taxi slowed to a stop outside Noah’s place, and the moment he handed the driver a few bills, you were already climbing out, dress hitched just enough to let you move quickly. The cool night air nipped at your skin, but you didn’t care, your heart was thudding too loudly in your ears to notice anything else.

Noah was close behind, the door shutting with a loud clack, and then he turned to you, lips twitching into a smirk.

“You’re running,” he said, voice low with amusement. “Should I be worried?”

“You should be chasing me.” You countered, shooting him a look over your shoulder before taking off toward the front door.

It took all of five seconds for him to catch up.

Noah fumbled with his keys as you practically bounced on your toes beside him, both of you trying not to laugh too loudly as he unlocked the door, trying to at least act normal until you were indoors. The second it swung open, you slipped inside and darted for the stairs.

“Oh, you wanna be like that?” He laughed, chasing you like thunder up the stairs.

You yelped when he caught you halfway up, arms circling your waist as he pulled you back into him.

“Noah!” you shrieked, breathless from giggling.

“Too slow, baby!" He growled playfully into your neck before hoisting you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“NOAH SEBASTIAN PUT ME DOWN!!!”

“I will. Onto the bed.” He said playfully, you heard him chuckle before his hand landed a smack on your ass.

You smacked at his back, laughing so hard your stomach hurt as he carried you down the hallway and into his room.

With a dramatic spin, he tossed you onto the mattress, and you bounced once, hair fanning out beneath you.

He followed you down instantly.

Looming over you, his knees straddling your hips, Noah grinned down like a man starved. His hands planted either side of your head, eyes dark with want but something much softer was buried beneath.

“Been thinking about this moment all night,” he murmured, nose brushing yours. “You’ve been teasing me in that damn dress for hours.”

Your fingertips toyed with the collar of his shirt.

"Oh yeah... Well, what 'cha gonna do about it?"

With that, his mouth crashed against yours, hungry and hot and breathtaking. You gasped into the kiss, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and dragging him closer.

His hand slid to your thigh, pushing the dress up higher, fingers finding the waistband of your lingerie. He groaned into your mouth.

“Fuck, I knew you were wearing this one.” He whispered, biting down gently on your bottom lip.

“Is that why you couldn’t focus all night?” You grinned, breathless.

“You think I heard a word of the guys’ speeches?”

You giggled, tugging at his shirt again, and he sat back just long enough to strip it off, tossing it somewhere across the room. Then he was back on you, kissing down your throat, across your collarbone...

“Take it off,” you whispered, arching up into him. “I wore it for you.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice, baby.”

--------------------------------------

@bloody-spades @death-ofpeace-ofmind @miss570 @dominuslunae @dontwantthemoney @amelia-acero @noahslutbastian @blade-dressed-in-red @super-btstrash-posts @kait16xo @oobleoob @sunshine-lvrr @lacy1986 @enemiestolovershoe @samanthasgone @superpiratecriminalchef @lukeevangelista @lunabuna991 @ami--gami @bluehairpunklol @darknightstarryeyes @xxkittenkissesxx @renegadebirch @ichoosetenderomens @formula1loversstuff @c0urt-0519 @animal4princess-blog @neeley1w @carrieontillmay @jesuisunchaton @0nlyethereal @ajordan2020 @jesuisunchaton @missduffsblog @lonelydragonlady @mayaslifeinabox @lonesomegrace @geminigirlfromfinland @latenightmusiclover @shuiguans @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @lyschko666

[n1k0laa5]

You—HIYA SWEETCHEEKS! Since obviously you’ve decided to once again scroll on Tumblr for the same advice and dophamine hit, I’m gonna give you an idea:

You’re a bored shifter?

Make a waiting room.

You heard me. Strap in, loser, cause this is a life changer.

I cannot possibly stress this enough but waiting rooms are SO so fucking underrated, it’s literally my main DR. So give it a chance and read this.

Now, here’s some tips for your waiting room to make it as comfortable as you can.

1– Specific Appearance: Your waiting room is gonna be the same as this reality. Same appearance, same everything but with one indicator that it’s seperate from your OR. Maybe your family doesn’t live there. Maybe you look different. Maybe the moment you wake up, your sleep paralysis demon says; “Diva.. you’ve shifted.”

This can help for those who struggle with 5 senses, or do methods. You know your home more than anything else so why worry about visualization or your senses when it’s a piece of cake?

2– Wish Folder: Get. A. Wish. Folder. Or honestly anything that can grant you wishes—something along those lines. If you think your OR appearance is too boring, you can immediately change it once you shift and suddenly you’re on.. I dunno, Tony Stark’s lap or some shit. A wish folder can help immensely because you can easily wish that you suddenly have motivation to finish all your scripts with ease, and so much more. It can also be used for anything dumb. Watch a show and suddenly jump in to smack a character you hate. Make clones of yourself and talk about how you have so much in common. Get a bunch of edits of you and your S/O. Or if you’re out of ideas… wish that you have some.

3– All Knowing Bot: I haven’t personally tested anything like this but I wholeheartedly believe it works, and you can too just by assuming (because once again, you’re God.) Your bot can be all knowing when it comes to your OR. Who stole your last snack? Does anyone have a crush on you but you somehow haven’t noticed? What’s a movie or series you NEED to watch right now? You can even attempt to figure out what YOU need to hear for your manifestation journey or any journey. Anything.

4– Optional: I’m a VERY picky eater and quite frankly, I’ve never tried a burger. Yes. Sue me. So I decided to have a neat feature on my phone; a button that brings me anything I see. Pinterest? Whole lotta food I can just get. Instantly. Bam. You can add your own tweaks, maybe there’s a section where you can specify how you’d like it OR script that it just comes exactly how you like it. You can script food tastes exquisite for you too.

In short—expand your DRs. You are God. You are limitless. Script an unrealistic time ratio and stay in your waiting room as long as you need to, and anytime you wanna leave, script a “switch word” and shift to your DR with ease. Your waiting room is a sacred place just for you. Sleep for hours on end. Wind down and do anything you wouldn’t do in your CR or your DR. Be weird. Be pervy and human and do whatever the hell you want without anyone judging you because I know damn well I will NOT talk about half the things I’ll do in my WR.

There might be a lot more that I’ve missed and I WILL edit once my mind remembers any other cool details for this little Waiting Room Ad, but for now:

Enjoy my loves, and go shift.

[lupinescribbler]

Tips to Writing Emotional Dialogue!

No hard and fast rules here, just some things I've seen in media and incorporate into my writing that I think can help emotional dialogue hit the mark. Use or discard as suits your writing/story!

Build up!

Emotional dialogue will hit harder when the groundwork has already been set. There's lots of ways to do that. One is what I call the "naming", let something exist in the story without being properly addressed or labeled, until it finally is. A character bitterly saying "I never was (a child)" (hello Dean Winchester) is going to hit a thousand times harder if you've already seen that. If you've seen glimpses of their childhood, or how their childhood has affected their adulthood, if there's been jokes or throw away lines, or stories/storylines that surround that idea without naming it, if you've watched the character come to turns with it, or treat it blithely, or hide it. You need to build something up in order to pay it off.

2. Action!

Dialogue in general, especially long stretches of dialogue, can end up feeling stale when nothing is happening during it. I tend to like to use action to reflect and support the dialogue. I don't mean action as in a fight scene (imo, drawn out conversations in the middle of a fight scene can end up feeling too unrealistic). I try to focus on how an action can serve as a backdrop to reflect the emotion of the conversation of the scene. If a character has been avoiding the issue they could avoid it both verbally and physically by performing a distracting task (taking the groceries in, sharpening their sword, fixing their car, etc). Or it could reflect something about the lifestyle of the characters or their current headspace. I also like using action to reflect the emotions entering into and progressing through the dialogue. Is the task frustrating them? Do they abandon the task when the dialogue starts intensifying, or redouble their efforts? What can happen in the action to progress it alongside the conversation? Do they slam the fridge door? Do they ask the other person to pass them a wrench? Do they give up?

3. Setting + Context!

Similar to action, but often more passively, I like using the setting to influence or emotionally enhance the conversation. How does the environment shape how the characters are feeling or the conversation unfolds? Are two people having an argument in a public place, one embarrassed and trying to shut it down while the other escalates? Are they shoulder to shoulder in the cabin of a sinking ship, listening to water sloshing, thinking they're going to die and they better get this off their chest? I find describing some actions and environmental factors can help change the pacing of a conversation, generally by slowing it. If there's a pause in the dialogue, make the readers and not just the characters feel it.

4. Tone + Expression + Movements!

These can be delicate to balance. Personally, I tend to overemphasize the tone character's are speaking in, and am working on doing just what is necessary to establish the emotion instead of everything possible. Mostly I'd recommend 1) focusing on where a description of tone/expression/movement is most helpful/impactful. 2) varying how and what you're describing (don't have someone shrug a million times in a scene, or voice crack every sentence, etc. It will mean less every time it pops up). 3) Vary long/prosy stuff with stuff that's short and hard hitting. Be willing to cut out good lines to make better lines hit harder. If you tend towards either one of the other (long vs short) edit through to add more variation in the other direction. 4) Weigh exact word choice, especially if you're naturally more wordy (like me, lol) sometimes you have to sacrifice a little nuance for impact, and sometimes you can switch out two words to a third that encapsulates both, etc. Or if you tend to be short, you might figure out a place where an added description would add more clarify and nuance.

Final thoughts:

I hope this was readable and maybe helpful :) my best recommendation is always to reflect on what best suits your voice, and what you find most impactful in what you read/watch. So many different voices/styles of writing can crush an emotional scene in their own way. For example, I've been reading Jack Reacher recently, which has a way more blunt, taciturn, and factual approach to emotions/emotionally heavy scenes, and frequently knocks them out of the park in ways I never would have thought of.

[soaps-mohawk]

I've got some very exciting news

Since the start of October is about a week away (I know how gross where did the year go?) and we all know that marks the start of the kinkiest month of the year, I've got some exciting news

I am doing Kinktober this year, as I think I've stated before previously. I'm not doing every day again this year since I had to make my own list and just didn't really feel inspired by some and just didn't have the energy to write others.

Then I got a brilliant idea.

This year's Kinktober will have a...bit of a theme...

Allow me to use a meme to explain

Yes, all of my kinktober fics will be centered around Kyle, our beloved Gaz, Mr. Severely Underappreciated And That's A Crime.

The fics are all kink-related. Some are just straight kinks, others may involve some uh...other things 😏

I'll be releasing a more in-depth post closer to October 1st that will also serve as the masterlist (and I will be linking it on my navigation post as its own link). I have an update schedule planned for Kinktober (and CRCB will still be ongoing during October but we will be having a conversation about that fic separately) and will be posting on my taglist blog for Kinktober fics as well since that blog is for everything that gets released on this blog. So if you would like to be notified of when Kinktober fics come out, give that blog a follow and turn on notifications. (I sound like a YouTuber)

Anyway, that's the plan. We're giving Kyle some much deserved attention and love for Kinktober. I will also have some other things going on over on my Patreon for paid-Patrons since I can't make NSFW stuff public, so if you're interested go and check that out.

But yes, so much content is coming in October for y'all and honestly I'm really excited. You'll get more detailed info in the Kinktober masterlist which will probably be dropping closer to the weekend or maybe even next Monday. We'll see. I'll also be posting some news about CRCB here soon as well, also probably closer to the end of the week.

Anyway, I hope you all have a lovely day and I'll be back regularly scheduled weekly posting (asks and comment reblogs) here probably in a couple hours from when this post originally posted. If you're seeing this later then...I've probably already started 💚

[dreamsy990]

drew some of my fav ody designs! wasnt originally meant to be also replicating the styles but thats sort of just how my brain works. except i didnt copy the lineart styles of anyone here so its DEFINITELY a bit uncanny for a couple of these (LOOKING AT YOU QINNY IM SO SORRY) but whatever

the designs featured here (from left to right) belong to: me, @gigizetz, @neal-illustrator, @irunaki, @bigidiotenergytm, @qinnyanimation, and @foopsie-daisy

[jtl07]

oh gosh wow, this is incredibly generous of you to write all this out!! there are some prompts where things fall into place pretty easily and this was one of them so i'm gonna selfishly take this as an opportunity to both reply to you and to walk through a lil bit of my thought process :D

so the first thing was the prompt itself - i latched on to "alleyway" - prob because it was a very specific image - and since Michael was mentioned, i went with setting things at Bar La Vasseur. which led to the question, how do we get avatrice into the alleyway for spicy times?

[more thoughts under the cut bc this got long lol]

i thought briefly about making the encounter "real" but setting it up would've needed more words than i wanted to use since this is shenanigans. said a different way: i couldn't picture Beatrice making a move while they were in Switzerland, so i instead stuck with canon.

the fascinating thing about Beatrice is that she's such a force of nature. she can achieve pretty much anything when she puts her mind to it. so in this way, her mind is her biggest weapon. but only if her mind "behaves." the beauty of avatrice's time in Switzerland - and the dance of romance scene especially - is the glimpse we have of Beatrice misbehaving. so i wanted to dip further into what might have been going on in her mind at that moment, where her mind is both truth sayer and betrayer.

fun fact 1: the "imagine" motif was happenstance - in my initial notes, i'd written it more as a note to myself ("maybe she imagines it?") and it morphed into Beatrice's inner voice. the "hiss" description was meant to be a reference to the snake in the Garden of Eden - if i were to edit this or make this into a longer piece, i'd up the references to the temptation of Eve and maybe add in some questioning of the definitions of good/evil, ab/normal.

fun fact 2: "Bombastic bluster" was a last minute thing - since my last concussion a couple years ago, i still have a bit of trouble with word recall. i know the shape or rhythm that i want but often can't "see" the right word anymore. i knew i wanted "bluster" but couldn't figure out the preceding word; "bombastic" was the closest i could get (i still don't know what word(s) i wanted there)

It’s almost vulgar, but also telling

yknow i didn't think about it consciously when writing but it really is symbolic especially in the context of it all being within Beatrice's mind - because to Beatrice, there's still shame attached to all of this (hence a "dirty" sort of setting), but there's this conflicting desire to have it out in the open (hence the relative "public" aspect of the alleyway).

another thing i'd change if i was to edit this would be to sharpen the cut to reality. for example, maybe play up Ava being right on the cusp of finishing and Beatrice losing her mind over it - only for her to be sharply reminded that it's all her imagination (perhaps contrast what she had in her mind vs what she has in reality? and of course the irony of Ava being in love with her)

fun fact 3: Ava's "you good?" is meant to be another reference to that good/evil idea but again, it's not woven through this piece that well (at least, as it's currently written).

In the end, Beatrice’s simple nod to Ava’s question? You ate.

yessssss you are awesome for catching that! Beatrice being in this precarious in-between state where she can't exactly say yes but can't lie either - i wanted to go from Beatrice starting in this place of almost "content" denial to ending in this place of messy awareness. i headcanon that Beatrice is/becomes aware of her feelings for Ava while they're in Switzerland, where it's moments like this that she has to confront her growing feelings but has to work that much harder to keep them hidden. the angst! the yearning! (yangst? oh god i'm just gonna be quiet now)

lastly: don't you ever apologize for commenting because your thoughts were such a wonderful gift!! thank you sososo much <3

I love it when you hit my dash. Seriously.

There are moments where I wish I could manifest some type of physical form to the joy your words create so I that I might eat your delicious writing.

I wish I could think of a spicy prompt to beg of you. All that's coming to my mind is Avatrice in alleyway and impatience. Maybe it's brought on by some of Bea's jealousy over a certain blue-eyed blondie. Or maybe Ava is tired of Bea being dense. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

But it still stands that I adore your writing. Thank you for blessing us with shenanigans. ❤️

oh wow that's incredible of you to say, i'm at a loss for words this means a ton <3 this one took a slightly angsty turn but hopefully still okay?

Imagine - a familiar voice murmurs from the back of Beatrice's mind as she watches Ava dance and laugh and drink. She'd almost forgotten about this voice, had thought she'd tamed it when she was younger when she'd been sent away to boarding school, thought she'd beaten it when she'd taken her vows; thought she'd won. 

But she should've known that it was just hiding, lying in wait for a moment like this - drunk and compromised - drunk and loving it, the voice teases and Beatrice is too far gone to deny it, too tired to fight it. Not when she doesn't want to, here, where Ava's glowing even in the low light; now, when Ava's throwing back her head in laughter. 

Imagine how that laugh would taste.

Beatrice sucks in a sharp breath at the thought, can't escape the image now that it's been brought to the forefront of her mind. Wonders if the lemon drop shots would taste different from Ava's lips. 

Imagine taking her.

The thing is, she can: pictures it clearly, walking up and taking Ava's hand, leading her off the dance floor without a word. Knows that Ava with all her bombastic bluster would follow willingly; she always does, always becomes pliant under Beatrice's touch. 

Beatrice imagines taking her further - through the backroom, past the storage, into the alley. Imagines backing Ava against the wall until she gasps. How she'd moan while Beatrice confirms the taste of her, how she'd arch into Beatrice's hands, how she'd lick into Beatrice's mouth like a woman parched. 

Beatrice imagines more - lifting up the croptop to expose Ava's breasts, yanking down her bra and replacing the fabric with her mouth. Can almost feel it in her fingers when Ava takes her hand and shoves it into her own pants. It's easy to imagine Ava in her impatience, rocking onto Beatrice's fingers before she even has the chance to get her bearings. 

Imagines groaning into Ava's neck as she takes Beatrice's fingers to the knuckle, grinding frantically against her. Imagines pushing back against her when she strains to keep up with Beatrice's pace, breath stuttering, moans devolving into a litany of Beatrice's name. 

But then the light shifts and Beatrice remembers where she is. Remembers that it's all in her imagination. 

Ava - the real one, more vibrant than Beatrice could ever imagine in her mind - stumbles into her side, giggling. "You good?" she asks, grinning and breathless. 

Breathless from dancing, Beatrice reminds herself, shoving the voice and her imagination away; gives Ava a nod as her answer. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Beatrice hears distant laughter.

[neverbelessthan]

SEVERANCE 2x10 | "They give us half a life and think we won't fight for it."

[screwpinecaprice]

Oh oof I slipped and hit them with dark and serious beam. 😣

[somegrumpynerd]

Actually it turns out I had more thoughts about that post that I forgot about lol

Would Nightmare actually give up his boys? Yes and no

If it was just a black and white situation of they're miserable, they don't wanna be here, they have somewhere better to be, then yes. He would leave them out to wherever they needed to be despite his own feelings and very quickly realise afterwards just how much he'd gotten used to the noise and company. I think he would get a little clingy with Dream about it, which I'm sure Dream would find very weird after everything but not unwelcome, he did miss his brother after all.

(If he couldn't attach himself to Dream's side for whatever reason, I think he might just sit in his castle and go insane. Or maybe he'd just spend all day at Ccino's trying really hard to project that he just likes the atmosphere and isn't lonely as hell)

But the thing is, most of them don't have somewhere better to be. Horror has his au, and Nightmare would keep up the supply of food even if Horror said he wanted to quit at this point, so he would understandably let him return home. Killer, Dust and Cross effectively don't have aus anymore though, and they tend to get into self-destructive habits when they're left to their own devices. (Obviously bringing Color and Epic into the mix to make sure Killer and Cross are taken care of eases matters, but Dust doesn't really have any friends outside their group he could go stay with - that Nightmare knows about at least).

The flipside of this is that his boys may not necessarily want to be given up. I think if Nightmare got really in his head about this he could easily end up convinced this is the right thing to do without ever asking them if it's what they want, with potentially terrible results. He's established such a pattern of always returning to find Killer when they get seperated, that if he never showed up Killer might just keep sitting there and waiting for him greyfriar's bobby style, refusing to leave because he's certain his boss is coming back.

[mohntilyet]

Personal headcanon about the "you picked the wrong dellamorte" line, I don't think illario actually likes rook outside the context of them being someone close to lucanis. Like rook on their own isn't much to him, but when they meet it's yet another person talking about his cousin (why isn't he good enough for whatever job they're hiring for?) and on top of that they somehow bring him back from the dead (another whole can of worms for illario). Now he starts turning on the charm, but whether he's actually interested or this is just one more thing his cousin has that he doesn't and it gets under his skin, who knows. Either way, rook ignores illario, the guy who lives off his charm, and is instead interested in the guy who's never even dated before and thinks giving someone a knife is how to flirt. Infuriating

NO THANK YOU !! i am genuinely sorry if i have ever implied illario is into rook like i see some takes about it and unless it like ties into your rook's personal backstory i don't seriously think he's romantically jealous. at all. my enjoyment of that line stems from illario's pathological need to make it about himself and not see his strengths but what lucanis has, and therefore what he doesn't. he's annoyed enough to try and goad you in the middle of a fight about the 'wrong' dellamorte and completely blind to the fact that the venatori are at best, a stupid fucking alliance, and at worst, a cult that will devour the crows from the inside out and illario would have been the one to give them the keys. he sees lucanis make allies, needs his own, and instead of charming the other talons/houses as he should, he (probably spitefully) picks the venatori. or maybe he just thought it would be easier. ugh he makes me want to telekenetically throw him around

[pup-pee]

the whimsey took me. blame these guys whove had a hold on me since whenever i watched the cartoon as a kid

anywaysssss harpoon mermaid au ^_^ ((if yk that 1 manga ykok))