#and I cannot listen to it without tearing up

[honeydippedfiction]

Sweet Poison {JB9}

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Synopsis: Y/N can't believe it, she has to be dreaming. I guess this is what happens when you mess with the star quarterback. Can Joe really gain her forgiveness?

Warnings: Strong Language, Alcohol Use, Mature Themes, Mild Public Attention, Angst,Emotional Distress, Media Intrusion / Paparazzi, Gaslighting / Manipulation, Strong Language (Mild), Toxic Relationships, & Sexual Undertones.

Themes: Truth vs. Public Perception, Female Empowerment, Betrayal and Trust, Reputation and Image, Control and Reclamation, Performance as Catharsis, & Miscommunication and Consequences.

WC: 22.5k

A/N: Joe is in biiig trouble

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Y/N stood frozen, phone still on the carpet, mind whirling with everything Michelle had just said. The weight of the words—Joe’s fiancée—felt like a slap to her chest. It wasn’t just the fact that Joe was engaged, it was the fact that he’d let her believe their little arrangement was just that: no strings, no expectations. Now, everything felt twisted, and she was left reeling in the emotional fallout.

Kayla was pacing across the room, still ranting about Joe, but Y/N couldn’t focus on her best friend's fury. Her mind was swirling with so many emotions—anger, betrayal, confusion. He’s engaged—those three words echoed in her head over and over.

This whole arrangement with Joe had started so casually, no promises, no commitments, just two people satisfying their needs without labels. But Joe had made it seem like he was single, like there was no one else in the picture. She had trusted him—let her guard down—and now, it felt like everything she’d known had been a lie.

Kayla, fully aware of the situation, was a whirlwind of frustration and outrage. She had been watching Y/N spiral in disbelief, her best friend sitting there like a ghost, face pale and distant. Kayla’s eyes narrowed in anger, her voice rising as she stood up and began pacing.

“No. No, Y/N. This is not happening,” Kayla snapped, her words sharp and filled with the heat of betrayal. “I cannot believe you let that man—Joe—play you like this. Engaged? Engaged!?”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just sat there, shoulders slumped, her mind a mess of conflicting emotions. She couldn’t seem to process it all, the reality of what had happened crashing down on her like a wave that kept pulling her under. Joe was the one who had seen her in her most vulnerable moments, the one who had made her feel safe, wanted, and important. And now, she was just a fool, believing in something that was never meant to be.

Kayla’s voice cracked through the fog in Y/N’s mind, her frustration only growing as she paced in front of her best friend.

“How dare he? You let him in, Y/N. You let him see you—the real you. And he had the nerve to pull this shit?” Kayla’s hands were thrown up in the air, as if she could physically throw Joe out of the situation.

Y/N finally lifted her gaze to meet Kayla’s eyes. She wanted to say something, to tell her that it wasn’t that simple, but words failed her. Instead, she just stared, the tears threatening to spill but not quite breaking free yet.

Kayla sat down beside her, dropping her shoulders and taking a deep breath, clearly trying to keep her composure. Her gaze softened, but there was still a fire in her eyes. “Listen, I’m pissed. I’m so damn pissed on your behalf, but you need to snap out of this, okay? He doesn’t deserve your tears. He doesn’t deserve your time.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, and she finally let the tears fall. Kayla wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in for a hug as Y/N let the raw emotion spill out. She felt stupid, humiliated, angry. She felt like everything she had shared with Joe was a lie—a manipulation.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I don’t know, Kayla,” she murmured. “I really don’t know.”

She felt a pang of guilt. She wasn’t a home wrecker, she never wanted to be one. She had always refused to cross that line, always swore she wouldn’t be the cause of someone’s relationship falling apart. Yet here she was, in the middle of a mess she never thought she’d be in. What did that make her?

Kayla, sensing the internal battle within her friend, stopped pacing and knelt down in front of Y/N, putting a hand on her knee. “Y/N, I get it. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t know. You thought it was just a casual thing. But Joe—he messed with your head. He lied to you.”

“I didn’t know, Kayla,” Y/N said softly, feeling a wave of tears burn in her eyes. “I had no idea. He made it feel like it was just us. Like we were just having fun. I thought—I thought…he was honest with me. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t at all.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, her thoughts still racing. How could she have been so blind? The fact that Joe was engaged to someone else—and yet still fucked her multiple times over the past few months, made her feel like she was the only one—had shaken her trust. Not just in him, but in herself too.

She had always been so careful with people, so guarded. And Joe had broken through that. Now it felt like all of it was a game to him. He had gotten what he wanted, and now she was the one left to pick up the pieces.

“I don’t know what to do, Kayla,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted this. I just wanted—” She broke off, looking out the window, her gaze distant.

Y/N wiped her face, still trying to control the trembling in her hands. She couldn’t get the thought out of her head. How had she trusted him this much? How had she let him see everything—everything—and still, he had been hiding something so important?

Kayla was quiet for a long moment, then finally spoke, her voice more serious than before. “You need to call him out. Tell him the truth, and if he thinks he can just waltz back into your life after this? He’s got another thing coming.”

Y/N nodded, wiping away the tears that had fallen, and took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to let Joe make her feel like she was the bad one here. No. He had crossed a line, and now it was time for her to set the boundaries, to take control of the situation.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed. She froze. She knew who it was without even looking. Joe.

Kayla watched her, her eyes narrowed, the fire still flickering in them. “You’re not answering that. You don’t need to answer that. He’s got some nerve trying to reach you after everything.”

Y/N stared at the phone for a moment longer before setting it down on the table. “No. I’m not answering. Not right now.”

Her mind was clear for the first time in days. She wasn’t going to let Joe dictate the narrative. She wasn’t going to be just another side piece in someone else’s life.

“I’ll talk to him later,” she said, finally looking Kayla in the eye. “When I’m ready. But right now? I need to focus on myself.”

Kayla gave her a satisfied grin. “That’s what I’m talking about. You own this, Y/N.”

Y/N stood up, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders as she walked to the window and gazed out at the busy street below. For the first time, the anger was beginning to turn into something else—strength, independence. She wasn’t going to let Joe have the final say in this.

She had to take back control of her life.

The sound of her phone buzzing again cut through the silence, but Y/N didn’t look at it this time.

“I’m done being confused,” she said, more to herself than Kayla. “He doesn’t get to make me feel like this anymore. I’ve got bigger things to focus on. Like my career, and getting my head back in the game.”

Kayla gave her a playful nudge. “There it is. That’s the Y/N I know.”

Y/N smiled faintly, feeling the weight of the situation starting to lift. This was just another bump in the road. And she wasn’t going to let Joe—or anyone—derail her again.

“I’m going to crush this,” she said, with a newfound determination. “I’ve got too much going for me to let some dick mess it up.”

As the night wore on, the storm of emotions in Y/N’s chest settled into something more manageable—anger turned to resolve, and heartbreak turned to clarity. She was going to get through this, stronger than before.

And Joe? Well, he’d learn sooner or later that Y/N wasn’t someone to be toyed with. Not anymore.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The night passed in a haze of exhaustion for Y/N. She had finally managed to drift off into an uneasy sleep, still replaying the day’s events in her mind. Thoughts of Joe, his lies, and the mess he had caused ran in a continuous loop. She was pissed, heartbroken, confused, but more than anything—she was done letting herself be anyone’s afterthought. No more.

But sleep didn’t come easily. The tension, the anger—it lingered beneath the surface, barely contained.

Around 2 AM Kayla, feeling the protective surge for her best friend, wasn't having any of this nonsense. Y/N might be asleep, but she wasn’t about to let Joe’s behavior slide. Picking up her phone, she dialed Ja'Marr’s number. Her fingers almost trembled in anger, but there was a cold, steely determination in her voice when he picked up.

"Ja'Marr, you better listen to me,” Kayla snapped as soon as Ja'Marr answered. “I don’t know what the hell is going on between Joe and Y/N, but he better get his shit together."

Ja'Marr, sounding somewhat surprised by Kayla’s fiery tone, chuckled a little. "Whoa, whoa, Kayla. What’s going on? What's all this about?"

“What’s going on? Are you serious right now?” Kayla nearly growled, leaning back on the couch in her hotel room, phone pressed to her ear. “Your boy has been playing games, and Y/N is the one getting caught up in it. He’s engaged, Ja'Marr. Engaged! And he’s been stringing her along like she’s some side chick.”

Ja'Marr froze for a moment, a grunt of disbelief escaping his lips. "Wait, what? Engaged? You sure about that?"

“Hell yeah, I’m sure! You think I’m gonna make this up? Your boy’s been lying to her face this whole time, and you’re telling me you didn’t know?” Kayla continued, her voice rising with every word. “You better check your boy because I swear to God, if he keeps treating Y/N like a damn side piece, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

On the other end, Ja'Marr shifted uncomfortably, his voice lowering. "Alright, alright. I didn’t know all of that. But Joe's a grown man, Kayla. He makes his own decisions."

“Grown man, huh? A grown man who can’t even be honest with the woman he’s been balls deep in, pretending to have feelings for?” Kayla scoffed. “You better tell him to get his act together. And trust me, if Y/N finds out any more about this little engagement secret, he’s gonna lose her for good.”

Before Ja'Marr could respond, the sound of footsteps in the background caught Kayla’s ear. “Hold on, who’s that?”

There was a slight pause before Ja'Marr’s voice came back, quieter. “That’s Joe... he’s here at my place.”

“Oh, so now he’s hearing all of this, huh?” Kayla raised her eyebrows and grinned knowingly. “Well, then, I’m glad you’re hearing it straight from me, Joe. You better fix this before it blows up in your face.”

From Ja'Marr’s end, there was a short silence, and then a gruff voice joined in.

“I heard everything, Kayla,” Joe’s voice came through, low and tight with tension. “And I’m not happy about it.”

"Don’t even start with me, Joe," she snapped, her tone sharp as a knife. "You’ve got some nerve stepping into this conversation like nothing happened. You’ve been playing with Y/N’s heart like it’s some damn game, and I’m done watching you do it."

Joe opened his mouth to say something, but Kayla was on fire now, cutting him off again.

“You think you can just lie to her, treat her like a side piece, and then what? Just waltz back into her life, acting like none of this matters? Nah, not on my watch.” Kayla leaned back against the hotel couch, phone still pressed to her ear, fury burning in her eyes. “You’re engaged, Joe. ENGAGED. And now you're acting all confused about why everyone’s pissed at you?”

She didn’t even wait for him to respond, continuing, “You don’t get to have your cake and eat it too. Y/N deserves way better than you. You want to play house with your fiancée and then come around acting like you're single? Stay away from Y/N, you hear me? She doesn’t need a man who can’t even be honest with her.”

Kayla was done. Every ounce of loyalty, every bit of protectiveness she felt for her best friend was fueling her words now. She gripped the phone tighter, her heart pounding with righteous anger, and she was ready to lay into Joe with everything she had.

Ja'Marr, who’d been silent through the whole thing, coughed awkwardly. “Kayla, I—”

“No, Ja'Marr. Not this time,” she fired back, her protective instinct for her best friend driving her words. “I’m done with this. Y/N trusted you, Joe. You saw her at her most vulnerable, and you decided to play games. If you have any respect left for her—hell, if you have any respect left for yourself—then you better step back and stay the hell away. Go back to your fiancée and keep pretending that everything’s fine while Y/N moves on and finds someone who actually deserves her.”

Ja'Marr’s voice came through, quieter now, as he tried to bring the heat down. “Kayla, look, I get it, but you gotta—”

“Don’t try and make excuses for him, Ja'Marr,” she cut him off, her voice seething with irritation. “He’s a grown man. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And it’s not gonna happen again, not while I’m around. I’m watching out for her, and if he thinks I’m going to let him off the hook for this, he’s wrong.”

Kayla shook her head. “Joe, you better handle your business. Or next time you hear from me, it won’t be just through the phone and I promise you, your wrist and knee won’t be the things that end your career, it’ll be me.”

There was a long, tense silence on the other end. Kayla could hear Joe’s breathing deepen, and it was clear he was starting to realize just how far he’d messed up. He muttered a quiet, “I never meant for this to happen,” but Kayla wasn’t having any of it.

“Yeah, well, intentions don’t count when you’re playing with someone’s feelings. Y/N has been nothing but loyal to you, and look where that’s gotten her. You don’t deserve her, and I’m not going to stand by and watch you hurt her anymore.”

She let the words sink in before adding, “And just to be crystal clear—if I have anything to do with it, you won’t be stepping foot anywhere near her again. Go back to your perfect little fucking life with your perfect fucking fiancée. If Y/N needs you, she’ll let you know. But for now, stay the hell away. She deserves someone who won’t lie to her face.”

With that, Kayla hung up the phone, tossing it on the couch as if she’d just thrown down a mic. Her eyes narrowed with fire, and she exhaled deeply. “I swear, if Joe doesn’t get his shit together, I will personally make sure he never hurts her again. If that man thinks he’s getting away with this, he’s in for a rude awakening.”.”

Back at Ja'Marr’s place, Joe stood in silence, the tension thick in the air. He could feel the weight of what Kayla had said pressing on him. He’d messed up, and now he had to figure out how to fix it.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N sat in the studio, headphones on, eyes closed as she focused on the track playing through the speakers. The soft hum of the music felt like a release, each note a way to channel the swirling emotions that had taken over her the past few days. The weight of everything—Joe, the drama, the lies, the heartbreak—seemed lighter here, in this controlled environment, with her music and her thoughts all contained in the walls of the studio.

Kayla was lounging on the couch in the corner of the room, her legs stretched out and her phone in hand, swiping through something she wasn’t paying much attention to. She had been Y/N’s rock through all of this—making her laugh when all she wanted to do was cry, talking her down when her emotions threatened to explode, and most importantly, making sure she didn’t get caught up in Joe’s mess.

“You’re killing it, babe,” Kayla said, her voice loud enough to be heard over the sound of the music. “This track’s fire. You’ve been in here for hours.”

Y/N didn’t open her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “I’m close. Just gotta get this last layer of vocals down.”

Kayla snorted, raising an eyebrow. “You sure that’s all it is? I’m telling you, there’s so much heat in this album, your fans are gonna lose their minds. Especially with that single. You can’t not include it. The world loved that football player song.”

Y/N sighed, her fingers still moving over the mixer as she added another layer to the track. She’d been avoiding thinking about that song for days now. The one that had caused so much chaos. The one that had practically broken the internet. The one that had been about him.

“Nope. It stays as a single,” Y/N said firmly, not even glancing over at her best friend. “That’s all Joe gets. I’m not giving him that kind of power on my album. He doesn’t deserve it.”

Kayla tilted her head, clearly intrigued. She stood up, walking over to Y/N’s side and leaning against the desk, arms crossed. “You sure? I get that he hurt you, but this could be the moment to really make a statement. Show the world who you are, show them that you're not letting him off the hook.”

Y/N shook her head, tapping the table as if in emphasis. “I’ve got nothing to prove. That song was cathartic, but I’m done with him. It’s one thing to make a song about an ex or a fling, but it’s another to let it follow me around on every track I put out.”

Kayla seemed to accept that, nodding as she sat down in the chair beside Y/N. “Alright, fair enough. Just don’t let him keep taking up space in your head. You’re making all this magic, and he doesn’t deserve to be part of it anymore.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, taking a deep breath. “I know. It’s just… it’s a lot, you know? One minute I’m thinking we’re just having fun and I’m getting the best dick of my life, and the next minute, I find out he’s engaged. Engaged, Kayla. I feel like I’m the one who’s been played even though we were never anything official.”

Kayla didn’t miss a beat. “You were played, babe. He made you feel like you were special, like you mattered, when all he did was use you to feel better about himself. And you deserve way more than that. Trust me, you’re better off without him.”

Y/N’s smile faltered for a moment, but it was real, and it was grateful. “I keep telling myself that. I just need to focus on me. My music, my acting, everything else. Not him.”

“Exactly,” Kayla said, her eyes softening. “And as for that football player? The world’s gonna keep speculating, but they don’t know the truth. You’ve got this, girl. Just keep doing your thing, and don’t let anyone drag you down.”

Y/N took another deep breath, feeling the weight of everything she’d been carrying slowly start to lift. Kayla was right. She’d been through enough drama with Joe. She didn’t need to let it follow her into her next chapter.

The fans would speculate. The media would gossip. But at the end of the day, Y/N was the one who held the power—through her music, her work, and the life she was building for herself. She wasn’t going to let a man, or the lies he told, define her.

“Alright,” Y/N said with a small nod, her resolve building. “Let’s finish this track. And then? It’s time for the next chapter.”

Kayla shot her a grin, clearly proud of her best friend. “Hell yeah. Let’s get this done.”

And as the first notes of her track filtered through the speakers, Y/N felt a renewed sense of clarity. She was stronger than this. She would rise above it. Joe was a part of her past, but he didn’t get to write her future.

And with that, the music played on—just her, the beat, and the promise of a new beginning.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The studio was buzzing with energy, Y/N’s new album finally taking shape after months of hard work and emotion. Today, though, the mood was a little different. Latto and Megan Thee Stallion were both in the studio, vibing to one of their new collabs with Y/N, and the chemistry between the three was electric. The track they had been working on was fire, pure heat, and they were all eager to see the final version.

As they listened to the playback, Megan and Latto exchanged a knowing look, both picking up on the subtle shift in Y/N’s mood. She’d been distracted lately, especially after everything that went down with Joe. Her focus had been on finishing her album, but there was a palpable tension beneath the surface.

“You good?” Latto asked casually, a raised eyebrow giving away her concern.

Y/N hesitated, letting out a deep breath before she shook her head. “Yeah, just… a lot has been going on, you know?”

Megan, ever the observant one, didn’t miss a beat. She leaned in, folding her arms and giving Y/N a teasing smirk. “You still thinking about that man? You’re still letting Joe take up that much space in your head?” she asked, her voice playful but laced with sincerity.

Y/N’s face tightened, a flicker of frustration crossing her expression. “I’m just trying to move on. It’s not easy when you’ve been played like that, you know? I thought I was just a ‘fun time,’ and then I find out he's engaged. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Megan and Latto exchanged a glance, both of them fully aware of the situation that had unfolded. They’d known about Joe from the moment Y/N started talking about him, and they’d been keeping track of the drama that had exploded all over social media.

Latto leaned back against the console, nodding. “Nah, girl, we get it. But you’ve got to stop letting him control your energy. You’re Y/N—don’t let some weekend dick ruin your vibe. He’s not worth it.”

Megan grinned, her eyes lighting up. “And let me tell you something. If you’re really done with him, tonight’s the night. Payback time. We’re going out, and I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. We’re gonna show that man—and the world—just who you are.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, her heart still heavy with everything that had happened. But then she looked at her two friends, their excitement contagious. She couldn’t stay cooped up in this funk. It was time to reclaim her power, to stop letting Joe’s actions determine her happiness.

“You sure you guys want me to come out with you? I feel like I’ll just be a little out of place with—” Y/N trailed off, the thought of being seen with them still making her uneasy.

Megan shook her head. “Girl, you’ve been cooped up long enough. You need to let loose, have some fun, get a little freaky. Show him you don’t need him, and that you're way too much of a queen to be stressed over a man who can't even be honest.”

Latto nodded, jumping in. “Exactly. You deserve to have fun, Y/N. Let’s hit the town, have a good time, and let Joe and everyone else see that you’re on top. You’re already that girl and been that girl, but tonight, you’re gonna remind everyone why.”

The fire inside Y/N was slowly being reignited. It was time to stop letting Joe’s betrayal hold her back. She deserved to feel empowered, to be around people who lifted her up, not bring her down.

“Alright,” Y/N said with a sly grin, her lips curving into something dangerous. “Let’s do it. Payback time, right?”

Megan and Latto exchanged a victorious look, both knowing that Y/N was already shifting from heartbroken to fierce. They weren’t just going to let her drown in a past mistake—they were going to make sure she owned the night.

Later that night, Y/N, Megan, and Latto were dressed to the nines. The club was alive with music and energy, the perfect place for Y/N to reassert her confidence. She felt free, the weight of everything that had happened fading as she walked into the venue, the trio turning heads the moment they stepped through the door.

Megan leaned over to Y/N, a mischievous grin on her face. “Tonight, baby, you’re going to remind every man in this place exactly who you are.”

Latto added, “And if any of ‘em need a reminder, we’ll be happy to give it to them.”

They made their way to a VIP booth, the music thumping as the drinks flowed. Y/N couldn’t help but feel the excitement buzzing in the air, the shift in energy bringing her back to life. For once, she wasn’t thinking about Joe or the drama—she was simply living in the moment, with her girls by her side, enjoying the night.

As the night wore on, and the laughter and music filled the space, Y/N found herself feeling lighter. She wasn’t thinking about Joe. She wasn’t thinking about his lies. She was thinking about her—about reclaiming her joy and showing the world that she was a force to be reckoned with.

By the end of the night, Y/N’s phone buzzed with notifications. The usual social media noise, the chatter from her fans, and a couple of texts she ignored. But she couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at her lips when she saw a message from Kayla:

"You’re looking fire tonight, girl. And by the way, I’m sure Joe’s seeing those pics. Keep doing you. He's probably regretting everything right now."

Y/N slid her phone back into her purse, her smile growing. Tonight, she wasn’t just getting over Joe. She was owning the moment. And that was all she needed.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N was feeling herself. After everything that had gone down with Joe, she’d finally reclaimed her power, her confidence. Her mind was clear, and she was ready to get back into the grind. She stood in front of the mirror in her dressing room, glancing at her reflection as she fixed her hair. She liked what she saw — strong, confident, unapologetically herself.

It had been a while since she’d felt like this — like she was back in control, doing what she loved. And it felt damn good.

Kayla was there, as always, by her side, being the ultimate hype woman. "You look fire, girl," she said, adjusting her sunglasses with a grin. "You're about to kill this music video."

Y/N smirked. "I’m already killing it." She winked at Kayla as she slid her phone into her pocket. "But we do need some fuel. Let’s grab smoothies."

Kayla immediately perked up. "Hell yes. Smoothie break. Let’s go."

The two of them left the set, stepping into the warm California air. The hustle and bustle of the crew continued behind them as they walked toward the corner smoothie stand. Y/N was in her element, enjoying the rare moments of peace between takes. The day had been long, but her energy was high. She was on top of her game — and no one, not even Joe, was going to take that from her.

Y/N and Kayla were in the midst of their usual banter, walking across the set with their smoothies in hand, when the air shifted—so suddenly that it was almost palpable. Kayla’s playful tone abruptly quieted, her eyes narrowing as she stopped dead in her tracks. Y/N, ever the oblivious one, was still laughing at something Kayla had said, but when she noticed the silence, she followed her best friend's gaze.

And that’s when she saw them.

Joe. Ja'Marr. Tee. Standing just outside the cafe, clearly deep in conversation, but their presence alone sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine. Her stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the smoothie she had just taken a sip of. For a moment, it was like the world slowed down. She felt like a deer caught in headlights, all the previous emotions—anger, betrayal, frustration—rushing back to her.

Joe looked... different. His usual easy confidence was now replaced with a sort of tension she couldn’t quite place. Ja'Marr and Tee, however, were as casual as ever, clearly oblivious to the storm brewing between their two friends.

Kayla, though? Kayla was another story. Y/N had never seen her best friend look so... fierce. Protective, even. The way Kayla’s eyes were practically shooting daggers at Joe was enough to make the air around them crackle.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat when she realized they had made eye contact. Joe’s expression was unreadable for a moment, but then, a flicker of something—was it regret? Was it guilt?—crossed his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but Y/N immediately turned away, her grip tightening on her smoothie.

“Kayla,” Y/N whispered, her voice a little shakier than she wanted to admit. “Please tell me I’m not seeing this right.”

Kayla’s response was a low growl, barely audible. “You don’t have to deal with him, Y/N. Not after what he did. If you want me to, I’ll march right over there and tear him a new one, I swear.”

Y/N could feel her best friend's protective energy radiating off her in waves. She was the type of friend who would go to war for Y/N, and right now, the intensity in her eyes said she was ready to do just that. But Y/N... she wasn’t sure what she was ready for. Part of her wanted to just walk over and confront Joe, demand answers, demand something from him. Another part of her just wanted to pretend like this moment wasn’t happening—pretend she didn’t have to face the man who had hurt her so much.

But her decision was made for her when Joe started walking toward them.

"Y/N," he called softly, his voice deep and hesitant, "can we talk?"

Y/N froze again. His approach only made her feel smaller, more vulnerable than ever. She glanced over at Kayla, silently begging her not to do anything crazy. Kayla, however, wasn’t having it. She stepped forward, practically standing in front of Y/N like a bodyguard, her arms crossed firmly across her chest.

“Y/N doesn’t have anything to say to you,” Kayla said, her voice sharp and commanding. “I don’t care what kind of game you think you’re playing, Joe, but you stay the hell away from her.”

Joe’s face fell slightly, and he glanced over at Y/N. She couldn’t read him—was he apologetic, or was this just his usual charm, attempting to slide back into her life?

“You don’t have to do this, Kayla,” Joe said, trying to soften his voice. “I just want to talk to her. Alone.”

Kayla shook her head, her voice growing firmer. “Not happening. Not after what you pulled, Joe. I’m not letting you mess with her head again. Not on my watch.”

Y/N’s eyes locked onto Joe, and her body tensed with all the anger and disappointment she had been holding in for weeks. She wasn’t scared anymore. She wasn’t backing down. No more games. No more pretending.

Kayla shifted slightly, her eyes never leaving Joe, ready to step in if needed, but Y/N had this under control. She wasn’t the vulnerable girl who let Joe play with her heart anymore. She was pissed, and she was going to make sure he knew it.

“Joe,” Y/N started, her voice sharp and unforgiving. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, you know that?”

Joe opened his mouth to say something, but Y/N raised a hand, cutting him off.

“No,” she said, her tone cold. “Don’t even try to explain yourself. I’m not interested in your excuses or your bullshit. I’m not one of those girls who gets swept up in the pretty words, and you’re not gonna make me feel sorry for you, not after everything you’ve done.”

Joe’s face was a mix of regret and guilt, but Y/N didn’t care. This wasn’t about him. This was about her, about how he had disrespected her, used her, and made her feel like she was just a temporary thing.

“You think you can just show up like this, like you didn’t fuck everything up between us? Like it doesn’t matter that you lied to me, that you kept your engagement a secret? You knew exactly what you were doing, Joe. And you know what?” Y/N took a step forward, her eyes blazing with anger. “I’m not your fucking side piece. I’m not some girl you can just fuck around with when it’s convenient for you and then go back to your fiancée like nothing happened.”

Kayla’s eyes shot daggers at Joe, but Y/N was too far gone in her rage to notice. She was on a roll, and Joe had nowhere to hide.

“You knew damn well what you were doing when you kissed me, when you got into my bed, when you made me feel special. And you know what?” Y/N’s voice got quieter, but the venom was still there. “You made me believe you cared. You made me feel safe, vulnerable… like I mattered. And what do I get? Your fiance calling me.”

Joe looked like he was about to speak, but again, Y/N cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t even try. You fucked this up, Joe. You don’t get to come back in here with some sad puppy-dog eyes and expect me to fall for it.”

She took a deep breath, finally giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts, but not backing down for a second.

“You had me thinking we were something real. But now, I see exactly who you are. So here’s what’s gonna happen.” Y/N stepped closer, making sure she was inches from him, her voice low and steady. “You’re gonna go back to your fiancée, play house, and pretend like everything’s fine. And me? I’m gonna move on. You’re not worth another second of my time. I don’t need you, and I sure as hell don’t need your apology.”

Joe opened his mouth to say something, but Y/N wasn’t done.

“Don’t. You don’t get to talk your way out of this. You’re not sorry, Joe. You’re just sorry you got caught.” Y/N threw a final look over her shoulder at him, her tone dripping with disdain. “Stay the hell out of my life.”

With that, Y/N turned on her heel, walking away without looking back. She didn’t need to hear another word from him. Everything she had to say was out in the open, and it felt damn good.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Flashback - The Mistake That Changed Everything:

It was late, the house was eerily quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Joe had just wrapped up a long practice and was too tired to think straight. When Michelle showed up, it was supposed to be a simple matter: grab the rest of her things, and leave. That was the deal. But Michelle never made things simple.

Joe had made a point of being polite. It had been a few months since they’d officially broken up, but Michelle never seemed to get the memo. She’d always thought they’d get back together, always had an air of ownership about him. Joe had learned the hard way that she couldn’t accept the end of their relationship. Tonight, he had no idea how things would escalate.

He’d left his phone on the counter, a careless mistake he would come to regret. He didn’t think anything of it as Michelle rummaged around, tossing a few things into a bag. It wasn’t until he went to the bathroom, a moment of brief silence, that it happened.

Michelle picked up his phone. Her fingers hovered over it for just a second, temptation gleaming in her eyes. Joe's messages were open. One text from Y/N stood out, clear as day: "What time are you coming over tonight?"

Michelle's stomach twisted, but her mind went into overdrive. She wasn’t about to let Joe go off and have fun with someone else while she was still in the picture. She’d never accepted that they were over. As her fingers brushed over the screen, she noticed the heart emoji Y/N had sent. It was innocent enough, but to Michelle’s twisted mind, it was a threat. She saw it as an open declaration that she had lost Joe, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.

I can still make him mine, she thought, her fingers tightening on the phone.

Michelle didn’t just close the app and walk away. No, that would have been too easy. She was angry—vindictive even—and she decided to escalate the situation. In a swift, decisive move, she opened up Joe’s phone and called Y/N.

Michelle watched as Y/N’s face appeared on the screen, and she couldn’t help the wide, almost too-perfect smile that stretched across her lips. It wasn’t a typical, sweet smile—this one was calculated, precise, and carefully rehearsed. She could already feel the satisfaction bubbling up inside her. She knew Y/N would be blindsided, and she was here for it.

When she saw the hesitation in Y/N’s eyes, the confusion flickering across her face, Michelle leaned into the moment. Y/N was probably expecting Joe, as always—maybe even hoping to hear from him after whatever happened between them. But no, it was Michelle now, and this little chat was about to be a wake-up call.

“Hello, Y/N,” Michelle purred, her tone smooth as silk. She had perfected this voice, this air of control. “It’s so nice to finally talk to you.”

She watched closely as Y/N blinked a few times, looking down at the phone as if she were trying to make sense of what was happening. Perfect. Everything was unfolding exactly how she wanted. She could almost taste the tension through the screen, and it was delicious.

“Uhm… Who are you?” Y/N finally stammered, her voice shaky despite the calm she was trying to project.

Michelle’s smile widened, almost to the point of smugness, and she couldn’t help but let the words slip easily off her tongue. “I’m Michelle,” she said, her voice dripping with sweetness and malice in equal measure. “Joe’s fiancée.”

There it was. The bombshell. She watched Y/N’s reaction carefully. The color drained from her face, her breath hitching in her throat. The stunned silence hung thick in the air, and Michelle reveled in it. It was exactly what she’d expected. Y/N was probably trying to figure out if she had heard her right.

“Fiancée?” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible. Michelle could feel the discomfort radiating from the screen. Good.She knew Y/N would be floored. Michelle had been patient, biding her time. Joe had thought he could play this game without consequences, but he hadn’t considered her.

“Yup,” Michelle said, her voice almost saccharine now. “We’ve been together for a while now.” She let the words sink in before adding, “But I’m sure he’s told you we’re very open about... certain things.”

That was the part she enjoyed the most—the subtle, passive-aggressive jab. She didn’t want Y/N to feel like she was some clueless victim. No, this was about reminding her of her place in Joe’s life: a temporary, replaceable “distraction.” And Michelle would be right there waiting when it was over.

“Don’t worry,” she continued, her tone smooth and almost sympathetic. “I’m not here to cause drama. Joe and I have an understanding. He enjoys... his little distractions. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t come back to me at the end of the day.”

She could see the raw anger in Y/N’s eyes, the confusion giving way to the beginnings of rage. Michelle’s grin turned just a touch sharper as she watched the other woman’s face fall, the realization settling in.

She’d been so sure that Y/N didn’t know the full picture. But this? This was her turning the tables. She wasn’t about to let some random girl keep Joe distracted for too long. She had already been through the drama of his past relationships. This time, Michelle wasn’t going to let Y/N walk away without knowing where her place was in the grand scheme of things.

“Joe’s always been a good boy,” Michelle added, her voice oozing with possessiveness. “But you... you’re just one of many. And that’s okay, Y/N. We all know our places.”

She leaned back in her chair, savoring the silence that fell over the call. She was so sure that Joe and Y/N had some sort of thing going on, but what did that matter? Michelle had Joe wrapped around her finger. He was always going to come back to her—no matter how many distractions he had.

And as the call ended, Michelle couldn’t help but smile to herself. She’d planted the seed of doubt in Y/N’s mind, and there was nothing more satisfying than watching someone squirm. It was only a matter of time before Y/N would realize her mistake, but by then, Michelle would have Joe back, and that was the only thing that mattered.

She’d let Y/N play pretend, but in the end, Michelle would always be the one standing next to Joe.

No one takes what's mine.

She felt a wicked satisfaction wash over her as she set Joe’s phone down. It was a lie, a dangerous, calculated lie. Michelle was counting on Y/N not knowing the truth—that Joe wasn’t with her anymore, that he’d been free for a while. She was betting on Y/N getting the message and walking away, letting her and Joe’s so-called relationship play out.

As Michelle waited, she barely noticed Joe walking back into the kitchen. The look in his eyes didn’t register as Michelle slyly placed the phone back down on the counter, pretending nothing had happened.

When Joe saw the outgoing FaceTime in his call log he looked up, his stomach dropped. "What the hell did you do?"

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Back in the Present:

Joe sat on his couch, scrolling through his phone. His eyes kept drifting back to the string of messages he had received from Y/N, each one colder than the last. He had tried to reach out to her—calling, texting, but nothing. And now, after that disastrous interview where he was indirectly caught up in the gossip about her song, it was clear that Y/N wasn’t playing around.

Joe didn’t understand what had gone wrong. He had never been dishonest with her, at least not intentionally. They were just... friends with benefits. That was it. They’d always been upfront about not wanting a relationship, about keeping things casual. He wasn’t expecting her to develop feelings, but maybe, just maybe, he could have handled things better.

It was when Michelle had called him the other night, demanding he “fix this,” that the real bombshell dropped. It was Michelle who had called Y/N, not Joe. It was her manipulative way of making sure Joe’s attention stayed with her.

That night still haunted Joe. He hadn’t known Michelle would go this far—pretending to be with him, controlling him, making him feel guilty for things he hadn’t even done. But it was what had happened next that twisted his gut: Y/N had cut him off. The call from Michelle had been enough to make her walk away from him, to assume he was in the wrong. And the truth? Well, the truth was that he didn’t get a chance to explain it before it all spiraled out of control.

Joe had no idea how to fix this, or even if he could. He needed to make things right with Y/N—he couldn’t just leave it hanging in the air. But the reality was that Michelle’s actions had completely poisoned his connection with Y/N.

When his phone buzzed again with another text from Y/N, Joe’s heart skipped a beat. This time, it was clear she had moved on. And the frustration and anger that had been bubbling inside him for days finally boiled over.

"I don’t want to do this anymore, Joe."

Those words stung, harder than anything he had ever felt before. He knew he had to explain everything, but the question was: Would she even listen?

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Joe sat back in the plush armchair in Ja'Marr’s hotel room, his hands running through his hair in frustration. His mind was spinning, and the weight of the confrontation with Y/N and Kayla was heavy on his shoulders. He hadn’t expected things to spiral out of control like this, but here they were.

Ja'Marr and Tee were both sitting across from him, silent for a while, letting him stew in his frustration. Finally, Tee broke the silence.

Tee, ever the optimist, glanced at Joe, his brows furrowed. "Look, man, there has to be a way for this to get fixed, right?" he asked, his voice full of uncertainty. "You two were good, Y/N’s not the type to just throw something away without a chance at fixing it. Anyone can see youtwo are more than just sneaky links."

Joe glanced up at him, his eyes tired and filled with regret. “I don’t know, Tee. I’ve tried. Y/N isn’t gonna believe anything I say now.”

Ja'Marr suddenly shifted his posture, his eyes wide with realization. "Hold up, man. You’ve got cameras all over your house, right?"

Joe froze. Joe’s mind clicked into gear. He had completely forgotten about the cameras. His thoughts shifted immediately to the security cameras Michelle insisted on installing after they moved in together. The idea of them recording all the private moments he’d shared with Y/N, the awkward conversations, the heated encounters—that was a ticking time bomb he had never fully realized until now.

Tee's eyes widened as he pieced it all together. "You mean... those cameras?"

Joe’s eyes widened slightly as Ja'Marr’s words hit him. His mind flashed back to the security cameras he’d installed in his house, ones that had caught every conversation and every moment, including the one with Michelle when he’d ended things.

“Damn,” Joe muttered under his breath. “The cameras.”

Ja'Marr continued, his voice calmer now, but still sharp. “Yeah. The footage from that day—when Michelle packed her stuff, when you two had that breakup conversation—it’s all on there. If she has those clips, she can prove what really happened. It’ll show that you weren’t hiding anything from Y/N, at least not like Michelle made it look.”

Joe’s stomach churned. “But it’s not just that. Michelle, she—she used that whole fiancée thing to manipulate everything. She was trying to make it seem like I was some kind of player, that I was two-timing Y/N when we were just… casual. And I never told her the full truth about Michelle.”

Tee shook his head. “Man, this is a mess. But the footage? That’s the key to clearing things up. If you can get your hands on it, show Y/N that Michelle’s been playing games, then maybe you can fix it. But you gotta be real with her. No more hiding.”

Joe let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his face. “I should’ve told her sooner. I never thought Michelle would go this far. We were done, and then she… she just showed up, started playing these games with my head, and I fell for it. I didn’t even realize she was pulling strings until it was too late.”

Ja'Marr raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got to handle Michelle, man. She’s been lying about everything, including your relationship. She wasn’t your fiancée. You know that, right?”

Joe nodded. “I know. She just said that to make Y/N mad, to get back at me for ending things. But Y/N didn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve any of this drama.”

Tee leaned forward, his voice firm. “Then get your ass up, go to your place, and get that footage. Once you’ve got it, you can go to Y/N, tell her everything, show her the truth. But you’ve got to move fast. The longer you wait, the worse it’s going to look.”

Joe’s hands balled into fists, his frustration bubbling over. “Yeah, I know. I can’t let Michelle control this. I need to fix this before I lose her for good.”

Ja'Marr sat back, his eyes piercing. “It’s not gonna be easy, bro. But you’ve got to make it clear to Y/N that Michelle was lying about everything. She needs to see that you weren’t playing her. If you want a chance, this is it.”

Joe took a deep breath, the weight of what he had to do settling on him. He had made a mistake by not being honest from the beginning. But now, he had to own up to it and make things right. He stood up, determination flooding his veins.

“I’m going to do it,” Joe said, his voice steady. “I’ll go get the footage. I’ll make this right. No more lies.”

Ja'Marr nodded, a faint smile crossing his face. “Good. But don’t forget—you’ve got to be honest with Y/N. Don’t just show her the footage. Tell her everything. She’s not gonna trust you if you leave anything out.”

Joe met his gaze, the weight of Ja'Marr’s words sinking in. “Yeah, I won’t. I’ll do whatever it takes to show her I’m serious.”

With a final look at his friends, Joe turned and walked toward the door, his mind already racing through the steps he needed to take. Michelle was going to be dealt with, and Y/N was going to hear the truth. He couldn’t fix everything overnight, but he wasn’t giving up on her without giving it his all.

Later that night back in Cincinnati, Joe was sitting in front of his laptop, staring at the footage from his security cameras. His hands shook as he clicked through the different clips, watching Michelle pack her things, seeing the exact moment when they’d both agreed to break things off for good.

It was all there—the truth was right in front of him. He had to show Y/N.

Joe took a deep breath and opened up a new message. He typed quickly, not bothering to overthink his words.

Y/N, we need to talk. I’m sorry for everything. Michelle isn’t my fiancée. She’s my ex. I know I’ve hurt you, and I never wanted this. If you’ll let me, I want to explain everything. I’ll be honest, I swear. Please, just let me explain.

He hit send, his heart racing. This was it.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N was lounging on the couch in the Airbnb, the soft hum of the city outside filtering through the windows. Kayla was sprawled on the opposite side of the room, scrolling through her own phone with that hyper-aware look she always had when something was on her mind. Y/N had been trying to relax, but there was a lingering tension in the air ever since that FaceTime call with Michelle. The whole thing felt like a punch in the gut, and no matter how much she tried to push it aside, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been played.

The ping of a text message broke through her thoughts, and instinctively, she reached for her phone. But before she could even glance at it, Kayla had snatched it out of her hands with a quickness that made Y/N blink in surprise.

Kayla raised an eyebrow, a scowl already forming as she swiped through the message. “Oh, hell no,” she muttered, a scoff escaping her lips.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. “What? What’s it say?”

Kayla shot her a look, her eyes narrowing as she handed the phone back to Y/N. “It’s from him,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Joe, trying to play Mr. Perfect again.”

Y/N frowned as she took the phone back, her fingers brushing over the screen. She read the message quickly:

Y/N, we need to talk. I’m sorry for everything. Michelle isn’t my fiancée. She’s my ex. I know I’ve hurt you, and I never wanted this. If you’ll let me, I want to explain everything. I’ll be honest, I swear. Please, just let me explain.

Her breath caught in her throat. The words were like a cold slap to the face, but a rush of anger quickly followed the sting. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she read it again, her mind racing with all the things she wanted to say, none of which seemed adequate to explain how messed up everything had become.

Kayla was watching her, arms crossed, lips set in a tight line. “You’re really gonna fall for this again?” she asked, her tone laced with disbelief. “This is textbook Joe, trying to fix things with some sob story.”

Y/N stared at the phone in her hand, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. She’d been hurt, played with, and caught up in something that she had never even wanted. But as much as she wanted to ignore Joe, to just move on, something in her—something she couldn’t quite name—still cared.

She shook her head, letting out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know, Kayla. Part of me wants to just block him and move on, but another part of me… part of me still wants to know what the hell happened.”

Kayla huffed, pushing herself off the couch to stand in front of Y/N, her hands firmly planted on her hips. “You’re not stupid, Y/N. Don’t let him back in so easily. He messed with your feelings, and now he’s trying to worm his way back in with some excuse about his ex? Hell no. You deserve better than that.”

Y/N looked at her best friend, the fierce protectiveness in her eyes, and for a moment, she was torn. Kayla was right—Joe had hurt her, lied to her, and made her feel like she wasn’t worth being honest with. He didn’t deserve her attention, let alone her time.

But… there was still a small voice in the back of her mind that couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, there was more to the story. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as he seemed.

“I don’t know, Kayla,” Y/N said quietly, her voice betraying a trace of vulnerability. “I’m pissed, but part of me wants the truth. I’ve been through enough guessing games. I just—” She trailed off, unsure of how to put the mix of emotions swirling inside her.

Kayla scoffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Y/N, listen to me. The only truth you need is that he’s not worth your time. He’s got his finacee, his drama, and he’s been playing games with you the whole time. You need to cut him off for good.”

Y/N bit her lip, her mind a jumble of conflicting emotions. She knew Kayla had a point. Hell, she’d even said it herself countless times—no man, especially not someone like Joe, was worth losing herself over. But the truth was, she wasn’t sure she was ready to let go of the version of him she’d been holding onto.

“I don’t know if I can just let him go, Kayla,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re right. I can’t just keep playing this game.”

Kayla softened, stepping closer and giving Y/N a hug. “I’ve got your back, no matter what. You deserve to be treated like a queen, not some side piece. Don’t forget that.”

Y/N nodded against Kayla’s shoulder, feeling the weight of everything start to settle in. Maybe she wasn’t ready to shut the door on Joe just yet, but the next step—whatever it was—had to be hers to decide. And she wasn’t going to let anyone, not even him, make that choice for her.

She pulled away, wiping her eyes quickly. “I’ll reply. But I’m doing it on my terms.”

Kayla raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the decision to be made. “Okay. But make sure you’re doing it because you want to, not because he’s throwing a pity party. He’s had his shot.”

Y/N stared down at the message one more time. This wasn’t just about Joe anymore. It was about her. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt like she was ready to take control of what happened next.

With a steady hand, she began typing her response.

Joe, I don’t know what you’re trying to fix, but I’m done with all the games. I don’t need your apology. I need honesty, and you should’ve given that to me from the start. I’m moving on, and you should too. Take care.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

Kayla gave her a knowing look, one that was part proud, part relieved. “There you go. Now, let’s go grab dinner, and leave him in the past where he belongs.”

Y/N smiled faintly, the first real smile she’d had in days. “Yeah. I’m done with the drama.”

And with that, they headed out the door, ready to put the past behind them, one step at a time.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

The restaurant was tucked away on a cozy side street, just a few blocks from the Airbnb. Soft string lights hung above, their warm glow casting a golden hue over the patio. The quiet hum of conversation and the clink of silverware felt like a welcome reprieve from the chaos that had followed Y/N all day. The weight of the past few weeks seemed to ease, just slightly, with each breath she took. For the first time in what felt like forever, she could exhale.

Y/N and Kayla sat across from each other, their wine glasses half-full and steaming plates of pasta between them. It wasn’t the most glamorous meal, but right now, it didn’t matter. The moment felt simple—comforting even—and Y/N needed that more than anything.

Kayla leaned back in her chair, propping her chin up on one hand as she studied Y/N. There was a flicker of something in her expression—pride, maybe, mixed with a touch of concern.

“You know,” Kayla began, her voice softer than usual, “I’m proud of you. You said what needed to be said. No drama. Just truth.”

Y/N looked up, offering a small smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was something. “It didn’t feel good… but it felt right,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to her glass of wine. The decision to confront the situation had been difficult, but it was the only choice she had left. The weight of it was still heavy on her chest, but at least she didn’t feel like she was hiding anymore.

Before Kayla could respond, Y/N froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. A movement across the street caught her attention—two figures crouched behind a parked SUV. At first, she tried to brush it off. Maybe it was just some tourists doing something weird. But then, the glint of a camera lens caught the soft light, and her stomach dropped.

Kayla followed her gaze, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her tone sharp, aware of the sudden shift in Y/N’s posture.

“They’re taking pictures,” Y/N said under her breath, her voice low but filled with tension. Her pulse started to spike. “Paparazzi. Across the street.”

Kayla’s eyes snapped to the figures now. Her lips parted, disbelief flashing across her face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she hissed, scanning the scene as if she could will the photographers away with sheer force of will. “Are you serious right now?”

Y/N nodded grimly, already feeling the familiar sting of being watched. The creeping sensation of exposure crept up her spine. Every second felt like it was being measured, analyzed, and ready to be twisted into a headline. Her mind raced. She looked down at herself—casual jeans, an oversized sweater, no makeup—nothing scandalous. But none of that ever mattered to them, did it?

She straightened slowly, trying to ignore the growing discomfort gnawing at her stomach. She forced herself to focus on Kayla, attempting to pretend this was nothing, that she could just push it away. But then came the click—loud enough to cut through the music spilling from the restaurant speakers. A flash followed, and then another.

A voice from a nearby table broke through the noise. “Is that—?”

A couple of heads turned.

And just like that, Y/N’s patience snapped.

“Grab your stuff,” she muttered, voice tight as she pushed back her chair. Her hands trembled just slightly, the weight of it all becoming too much. “We’re leaving. I’m not doing this.”

Kayla didn’t hesitate. She stood quickly, tossing a few bills onto the table before grabbing her purse. Y/N followed suit, throwing down her napkin with sharp precision, the flicker of anger in her eyes now clear.

The moment they stepped off the patio, the photographers—who had been quietly observing from across the street—moved closer. Their cameras clicked faster, the flashes blinding. Y/N’s heart began to race, a familiar sense of dread curling in her stomach.

“Y/N! What’s going on between you and Joe Burrow?” one of them yelled, his voice cutting through the night air like a blade.

“Y/N! Is it true you and Joe Burrow were seen fighting earlier today?” another shouted, as they closed in.

“Are you two together?” one asked, like they had every right to invade her privacy.

“Did you know he’s engaged?”

The last question hung in the air, and Y/N felt her skin burn with the weight of it. It was too much. Too many questions, too many assumptions—too many people who thought they had a right to dissect her life, her choices.

Kayla whipped around, her fists clenched and ready to throw down, but Y/N held up a hand, stopping her in her tracks.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto one of the photographers, her gaze icy but unwavering. “Take another photo,” she said, her voice low and controlled, though every word was laced with authority. “And I swear I’ll make sure your agency gets a cease and desist so fast your camera will melt.”

There was a hesitation, just for a split second, but it was enough. The photographer faltered. He could see she meant it. Slowly, he lowered his camera.

Y/N turned to Kayla, her expression still dark, her jaw clenched. “Let’s go.”

They walked quickly, the sound of their heels on the pavement echoing through the empty street. Neither of them spoke a word until they rounded the corner and slipped into an alley that led toward the Airbnb.

Once they were out of sight, Y/N finally slowed her pace, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her hands still shook from the adrenaline, but the anger that had been bubbling inside her was now starting to cool into something more resolute.

Kayla looked over at her, her tone a strange mix of concern and pride. “I’m so sick of your life being a headline. Are you okay?”

Y/N nodded, though the tension still lingered in her shoulders. “I just…” She shook her head, her voice thick with frustration. “I don’t want to be a story anymore. I’m done being his aftermath.”

Kayla’s expression softened, and she immediately looped her arm through Y/N’s, pulling her close. “Then let’s rewrite your story. Yours. No more paparazzi, no more exes, no more drama. Just you.”

Y/N didn’t reply right away. She was still too wound up, too angry to form words that felt right. But something shifted inside her. As they walked through the quiet streets, the weight of the day slowly started to lift. She wasn’t sure exactly how, but she felt a flicker of resolve deep within her chest.

This wasn’t over, she knew that much. The paparazzi, the headlines, the never-ending circus—none of it would stop. But this time, she wouldn’t be caught in the middle of it. She would take control, rewrite her story, and leave the chaos behind her.

For the first time in a long time, she felt the quiet stirrings of hope.

She might not have all the answers yet. But at least this time, she’d be the one holding the pen.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Mid-Air – Flight to Houston, Late Afternoon

The hum of the jet engines was steady, almost soothing, but Y/N couldn’t bring herself to relax. The plush first-class seat felt more like a cage, its soft leather a sharp contrast to the storm brewing inside her. She stared out the window, watching the world below shrink into a blur of clouds and distant cities, her fingers gripping the phone pressed to her ear.

Across from her, Kayla sat with her earbuds in, her eyes closed, pretending to nap. But Y/N knew better. Kayla was always alert, always watching, always ready to jump in if things went sideways.

“I don’t care what you have to do, Harper, but I need answers,” Y/N’s voice was tight, barely above a whisper. She glanced at Kayla, who shifted slightly, her brow furrowed as she half-opened an eye, sensing the tension.

On the other end of the line, Harper’s voice came through, sharp and exasperated. “I’m on it, Y/N. Trust me. I’m just as blindsided as you are. That restaurant wasn’t even on the radar. I triple-checked the reservation system. Someone tipped them off. That’s the only explanation.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. Her knuckles whitened around the phone as she stared at the clouds below. “So, what, you think it was a fan? A staff member? Joe?”

Harper hesitated, the silence thick on the other end before she spoke again, carefully. “I’m not pointing fingers, but let’s be real—someone in Joe’s camp benefits from this. Especially with all the Michelle rumors still floating around. Now they’ve got you in the mix, and the tabloids are already spinning it into some ‘love triangle’ drama. I’m trying to control it, but TMZ’s already on it, and they’re not being subtle. They’re already running with the story.”

Y/N’s eyes closed, the tension in her body rising. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.

“TMZ’s going live with a piece in an hour,” Harper continued. “They’ve got you listed as a ‘mystery woman.’ But trust me, it won’t stay ‘mystery’ for long. Three outlets have already reached out, asking for confirmation on your whereabouts last night. They’re hunting for answers.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. Her fingers dug into the leather armrest. “I knew I should’ve stayed inside,” she said, her voice tinged with regret.

“Listen to me,” Harper said, firm and quick. “You did nothing wrong. You had a conversation. He’s the one with all the baggage, the history. You don’t owe them anything. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Y/N let out a bitter laugh, her eyes flicking to Kayla, who was now fully awake, watching her with concerned eyes. “That’s not how it works, though, is it? They see a picture, spin it into a story, and suddenly I’m the problem.”

Harper’s voice softened, like she was trying to offer a lifeline. “We can still control the narrative. Do you want me to prep a statement?”

Y/N shook her head, biting her lip, her gaze never leaving the horizon. “No. Not yet. If we say anything now, they’ll just twist it into more fuel for the fire.”

Kayla cracked an eye open, her voice sharp and pragmatic. “She’s right. The more you say, the more they’ll twist it. Keep quiet. Let them chase their own tails.”

“I agree,” Y/N said, her voice low but steady. She felt the weight of her words as she spoke them into the phone. “Let them speculate. But you keep digging. I want to know who sold us out. I’m not letting this slide.”

Harper sighed, but there was a resigned note in her voice. “I’ll get to the bottom of it. And Y/N, just—be careful in Houston. There’s already chatter about your appearance tomorrow night. Press will be circling like vultures.”

Y/N’s grip on the phone tightened even more, her heart beating in a slow, measured rhythm. “I’ll handle it,” she said, her tone hardening. “This concert is mine. They’re not taking that from me.”

She hung up the phone, the click of the call ending resonating like a final judgment. Kayla immediately pulled her earbuds out, her face a mixture of concern and readiness. She leaned forward slightly, the quiet hum of the plane filling the silence between them.

“You really think it was someone from Joe’s team?” Kayla asked, her voice low.

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She stared straight ahead, her mind racing. She could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her—Joe’s shadow, the tabloids, the questions she couldn’t answer, the mess that seemed to follow her everywhere. Her fingers tightened around her phone as she turned it over in her hand, the plastic feeling suddenly cold and foreign.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice distant, her words slow. “But if he did set me up to clean up his image…”

Her words trailed off, but the implication hung in the air between them, thick and heavy.

Kayla leaned forward, gently squeezing Y/N’s hand. “Houston’s a fresh start,” she said, her voice full of determination. “Don’t let them drag the past into it.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her eyes following the horizon as the lights of Houston began to shimmer in the distance, signaling the final approach. Below them, the city stretched out in a mosaic of bright lights and shadowed streets, a place that held both promise and peril in equal measure.

The plane began its descent, and for a moment, the noise of the engines roared louder, the sound of the outside world closing in. Y/N’s pulse quickened, her mind focused on the night ahead—the concert that she’d worked so hard for. But there was more than just the performance looming ahead of her. There was the press, the scrutiny, and the gnawing question of who had betrayed her.

“I’ve got a concert to prepare for,” Y/N said, her voice steady and cold, a quiet resolve settling over her. “And a reckoning, maybe, not far behind.”

Kayla nodded, her gaze unwavering. “We’ll handle it. Together.”

As the jet touched down, the plane’s wheels kissing the runway with a soft thud, Y/N allowed herself a deep, steadying breath. For the first time all day, she felt something shift inside her—a sense of purpose, of control.

This wasn’t over. But this time, she’d be the one setting the terms.

She was ready.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Houston – Backstage, The Arena – 7:30pm

The black SUV pulled up behind the venue, its tires humming quietly against the smooth asphalt as it slowed to a stop just past dusk. Houston’s air was thick and warm, the kind of heat that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, heavy with anticipation. Even from the loading dock, Y/N could hear the distant roar of fans gathering outside. The crowd was already pressing against the barricades, phones held high, eager to capture every moment of the night. Their voices—excited, loud, full of energy—carried through the building, filling the air with an electricity that made her pulse quicken.

Y/N stepped out of the SUV, hoodie pulled up and sunglasses on, despite the dimming light. Her security detail formed a tight shield around her, blocking the few lingering photographers and curious onlookers. The team moved with practiced efficiency, ushering her inside, away from the chaos, but not fast enough to make it feel like she was hiding.

Backstage was a whirlwind of activity—a mix of stagehands hustling to finalize the set, stylists rushing to touch up costumes, dancers warming up with synchronized moves. The noise of it all—the beeping of equipment, the chatter of crew members, the soft hum of the music rehearsing in the background—felt oddly comforting. In this world, amidst the frenzied motion, Y/N could almost forget about everything outside these walls. For a few hours, she could be lost in the show.

“You good?” Kayla’s voice broke through the noise, low and steady, as she fell into step beside her.

Y/N turned to her, offering a tight nod. “As good as I can be.”

But even as she said it, she knew something was off. Her gut was tight, her thoughts scattered. She was halfway through inhaling a breath when her phone buzzed again—a sharp, insistent buzz that made her stomach twist.

Kayla glanced at the screen before muttering, “That can’t be good.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. She answered the call before the third ring. “What now?”

Harper’s voice came through immediately, clipped, without any preamble. “TMZ just dropped it.”

Y/N froze mid-step. The blood drained from her face as she instinctively looked for an exit, but the narrow hallways backstage left her no room to escape. Kayla’s hand on her arm grounded her, but the weight of Harper’s words hit her like a freight train.

“What?” Y/N breathed, panic quickly climbing her throat. “How the hell—”

“I don’t know,” Harper snapped, her voice edged with frustration. “But they didn’t just post the confrontation photos. They got hold of a photo from last month—on set. You and Joe. Together. Outside your trailer.”

Y/N’s pulse spiked, her body going rigid. “What?” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she pulled the phone away, staring at it as though it might offer some kind of explanation. She couldn’t breathe for a moment, her chest tightening.

Harper continued, her voice clipped and fast. “I’m sending it over. They’re pushing a timeline now, saying your thing with Joe started during filming. Before the Michelle rumors. Before anyone even knew you two were talking.”

Y/N’s hand trembled as she opened the message. The photo appeared before her, and her eyes flicked over it frantically, searching for any shred of doubt. But the more she stared, the more the cold truth of it settled in.

Headline:Caught on Set: Y/N and Joe's Secret Romance? Exclusive Photo Raises New Questions

Photo:Y/N, exiting her trailer in a soft robe and slippers, clearly mid-scene. Just behind her, Joe—his hair tousled, a lazy grin on his face, shirt hanging open—stepping out too, caught in the same moment, the intimacy of it unmistakable. They weren’t touching, but the angle, the soft light, the way they were framed—it made the whole thing look… too close. Too personal.

Article Excerpt:“Sources tell TMZ that Y/N and Joe grew ‘very close’ on the set of her upcoming streaming drama last month. While reps for both remain tight-lipped, this photo—captured by an anonymous source—shows Joe exiting Y/N’s private trailer after hours. The two were spotted in L.A. in what looked like a very heated exchange, sparking renewed interest in Joe’s relationship history, especially with longtime fiancée, Michelle, who was believed to still be in the picture at the time this was taken. Fans are already divided, with some defending Y/N, while others question whether she played a part in Joe and Michelle’s rumored breakup. As of now, Y/N has not issued a comment.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped. She read the article twice, thrice, her eyes scanning the words, looking for any clue, any hint that might disprove the narrative being spun. But there was nothing. Just the photo, the article, and a growing sense of dread.

“I was working,” she muttered under her breath, her voice hollow. Her head throbbed as she tried to make sense of it. How could this have happened? How could this be out there now?

Kayla’s jaw clenched as she read over her shoulder, her expression darkening. “They’re painting you like you’re the homewrecker.”

Y/N’s voice was low, almost dangerous. “That photo wasn’t from paparazzi. That was someone on set.”

The weight of the accusation hit her like a slap. She didn’t need to say it aloud, but the realization crushed her anyway. Someone had been watching her, waiting for a moment like this to exploit. And that someone—Joe’s team?—had played the game, too.

“I’m calling legal,” Harper’s voice came through again, sharp. “This is slander adjacent. If you want to fight this, we can hit hard.”

Y/N closed her eyes, her head still spinning with all the possibilities. Her thoughts raced, bouncing from one frantic idea to the next, but one thought stood above them all: Joe knew. He had to have known that photo existed. He had to have known it could leak. And yet, he had said nothing. Not a word. Not a warning.

She felt the coldness creep into her veins, sharp and cutting. “No statements yet,” Y/N said, her voice icy, betraying nothing. “Let them run with it. Let them eat it up.”

“Are you sure?” Harper asked, her tone carefully cautious.

“Oh, I’m very sure,” Y/N replied, her voice hardening. “But when I respond… it won’t be in some press release.”

She ended the call, the finality of it ringing in her ears. The space between her and Kayla felt vast for a moment, but when she turned to look at her, something had changed in her eyes—something fierce, something calculated.

“I’m not letting them twist this,” Y/N said, the fire in her voice unmistakable. “And I’m sure as hell not letting him get away with it.”

Kayla, who had been watching her with careful eyes, couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her lips. “So what’s the move?”

Y/N lifted her chin, her gaze shifting toward the stage entrance. The roar of the crowd, the hum of excitement just beyond the walls, was growing louder by the second.

“First,” she said, her voice cool and determined, “I give them the best damn show of their lives.”

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Houston – The Arena – 10pm

The stadium lights dimmed to near nothingness, and in that quiet, pregnant moment, the anticipation swelled. A collective scream—raw, primal—tore through the crowd like thunder, as if the very air itself had split wide open. The sound was deafening, a wall of energy pressing in on all sides.

Then, a heartbeat pulsed through the speakers. Deep, slow, commanding. A beat that resonated deep in the chest, settling into the bones. Smoke spilled across the stage in curling waves, a thick fog that bathed the set in mystery and allure. The LED screens flickered to life, igniting with crimson flashes of light. And then, silhouettes began to emerge from the shadows, dancers falling into perfect synchronization, their movements as fluid as they were fierce.

And just as quickly, everything stopped.

The strobe lights hit. A pulse of electric energy, bright and blinding, and then Y/N rose from the platform at center stage, a silhouette among the flames. Her head was held high, every inch of her a study in confidence, in power. The microphone was already in her hand, steady and commanding.

She didn’t smile.

She smirked.

The moment she stepped into the spotlight, she owned it. The first beat dropped like a sledgehammer, a rush of sound that hit the crowd in waves, reverberating through every inch of the arena. Y/N’s movements were fluid, calculated—each step, each flick of her wrist, each breath, perfectly timed. She didn’t just sing about desire. She embodied it. The way her body moved—sharp, sensual, confident—told a story without words, a declaration that she was in control. Every step she took, every calculated pause between lyrics, every eye-flick toward the camera was a message: I know exactly what I’m doing. And I’m not asking permission.

The opening track, “Bad Habit,” pulsed through the speakers, sultry and rhythmic, shaking the very foundation of the stadium. The bass reverberated through the floor like an electric current, and the crowd was whipped into a frenzy. Y/N’s dancers orbited around her like satellites, moving with an energy that matched the intensity of the song. But Y/N? She was the sun. Every movement was designed to pull the spotlight back to her, to center the chaos of the show around her presence.

She wasn’t running from the headlines. No. She was dancing in the spotlight they’d given her.

About thirty minutes into the set, the crowd was already delirious, caught up in the tidal wave of energy she’d built. The lights flickered, then dimmed to a deep, intoxicating violet. A single spotlight fell on her, its harsh beam cutting through the shadow like a knife. The crowd quieted almost instantly, the air growing thick with anticipation.

Y/N paused, breathing heavy, but every inch of her glowing with the aftershocks of the performance. She raised her mic slowly, almost teasingly, as if she were savoring the moment before speaking.

“H-town,” she purred, her voice smooth as velvet, “Y’all have been wild tonight.” Her lips curled into a teasing grin. “So I think it’s only right that I give you something special…”

The crowd lost it. Gasps, screams, the kind of reaction only a few artists could command. Phones lit up like a thousand stars as they captured the moment.

“This next track,” Y/N said, pacing the stage like a lioness stalking her prey, “has never been released. Never performed. Hell, no one outside my team has even heard it.”

A collective intake of breath went through the crowd, the noise swelling into an almost electric hum.

“It’s raw,” Y/N continued, her eyes now locked on the front row. “It’s messy. It’s mine. And it’s the only time I’m explaining a damn thing.”

The bass dropped out completely. Silence.

And then—she leaned into the mic, lips brushing the cold metal as she lowered her voice. “Y’all ever get tired of people trying to tell your story for you?”

The crowd exploded. Cheers, whistles, a lone voice screaming, “Preach!” followed by a chorus of laughter and agreement.

Y/N let the noise swell, feeling the collective power of the crowd amplify her own. A grin spread across her face—sharp, deliberate, full of fire and knowing.

“Good,” she drawled, her voice cutting through the noise, “’Cause I don’t get tired of proving them wrong.”

Then, as if the very words had sparked it, the opening chords of Sweet Poison hit the air like a match to gasoline. The melody was slinky, hypnotic, pulsing with a dangerous, seductive energy. The crowd went absolutely wild, the entire stadium trembling with excitement.

“You taste good but you burn slow /Can’t lie, I knew it from hello /Thought you were mine, but you were everybody’s — /So I turned you into a melody.”

The song was dark, sexy, tinged with bitterness—a warning and a confession wrapped in one. Every lyric that came from Y/N was a shot fired at the headlines, at the whispers and rumors that had followed her for weeks. You taste good, but you burn slow. Can’t lie, I knew it from hello.

As the song progressed, a camera feed captured her up close, splashing her face across the massive screens behind her. Her lips were glossed and parted, eyes lined with thick, smoldering eyeliner, like warpaint. Beneath it all, that smirk—a reminder that she was in charge. She wasn’t a victim of the story they were trying to tell. No, she was the one doing the telling now.

Each verse was a release, a purge of the poison they’d tried to force into her narrative. Every chorus? A challenge. She leaned into it, holding the mic as if it were a weapon, letting the crowd scream the words back at her like a collective middle finger to anyone who’d ever tried to rewrite her story.

The choreography was darker now, more intense, matching the emotional core of the song. The visuals behind her flickered between blooming black roses and blurred headlines—paparazzi flashes, blurry images of her and Joe. The subtle nod to the chaos that had erupted only days before, a reminder that she was still standing.

By the time the final chorus hit, Y/N stood center stage, drenched in sweat and bathed in a blinding spotlight. Her eyes were glittering, not with tears or exhaustion, but with something sharper—vindication. A challenge.

It was the most alive she’d felt in weeks.

This wasn’t damage control.

This was reclamation.

Even Kayla, who had been dancing her heart out with Y/N’s backup crew, stopped for a moment, wide-eyed as she watched her best friend perform. A smile tugged at her lips as she shook her head in awe. “She’s not just performing,” Kayla murmured to herself, her voice laced with admiration. “She’s burning the whole damn narrative down.”

As the final number approached, the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath. Lasers shot across the stage, fire bursts lit up the air, and Y/N emerged in a shimmering black bodysuit that clung to her like armor, reflecting the flames that danced around her. She hit the final note, a powerful crescendo that shook the stadium to its core.

And then, the lights cut out.

The crowd went insane. Screaming. Stomping. Demanding more, but Y/N was done giving tonight.

She stood center stage, bathed in one final spotlight. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, the adrenaline still pulsing through her veins, every inch of her lit with the energy of the performance. Her lips curled into a defiant grin.

“Thank you, Houston,” she said, her voice low and breathy, but filled with fire. “Next time, bring the rumors to the show. I’ll give you a better version.”

With that, she dropped the mic.

Blackout.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Cincinnati – Bengals Meeting Room

Joe sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid as his eyes scanned the group assembled before him—his publicist, a couple of PR specialists, and the team of legal advisors from the Bengals. The tension in the room was thick, and it mirrored the knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He hadn’t been this angry in a long time. The TMZ article had dropped like a bomb, and now the fallout was raining down.

His phone buzzed on the table in front of him, but he ignored it, his gaze cutting through the room as everyone waited for him to speak.

“So, we’re doing this?” he asked, his voice colder than he intended. “We’re all sitting here talking about this shit? We knew this was coming, but this fast?”

The PR director, a sharp-eyed woman named Casey, cleared her throat. “We anticipated the media scrutiny, Joe. But they’re spinning it into a mess. They’ve got you, Y/N, and Michelle all tangled up in a ‘love triangle’—and the public is eating it up.”

Joe’s jaw tightened, and he leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “I never lied about anything. She—” He cut himself off, irritation building. He wasn't going to get sidetracked. “Listen, this whole thing is a disaster. I already told you I broke up with Michelle after Christmas. Why the hell is that not getting through?”

Casey nodded, looking through her notes. “The problem is that no one really knows when that breakup happened. Michelle’s been making it sound like you two are still together. And the article seems to confirm that, especially since Y/N and Michelle’s names got tied up in this fight.”

Joe's eyes darkened as he exhaled, a deep, slow breath. “Michelle’s the one causing this mess. She called Y/N, claiming we were still together—she started all of this. Y/N didn’t even believe me when I tried to explain.”

He slammed his hand down on the table, making everyone jump slightly. “This is the part that pisses me off. I never wanted any of this. Y/N is not a side chick. She’s not a homewrecker. And I damn sure didn’t drag her into this bullshit.”

The legal team exchanged glances. One of the lawyers, a guy named Derek, spoke up cautiously. “We can’t do much without solid proof. You know that. Right now, we’re dealing with speculation. No one can verify that Michelle’s call was made, and without something more concrete, this could drag on for weeks.”

Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration building. “So, we just let them spin their story? We let them keep calling Y/N a homewrecker, a problem that wasn’t even hers to begin with? And I’m supposed to stay quiet, keep my head down?”

“Joe, we know it’s frustrating,” Casey said gently. “But right now, no one knows the truth except you, Y/N, and Michelle. If you come out with a statement now, it could escalate things, and we don’t want that.”

Joe was about to retort when Derek added, “We need to be careful about what we say publicly. We can’t risk making any statements that could hurt you legally, especially since Michelle has yet to go public with anything regarding your breakup. The media will hold on to whatever narrative they want.”

Joe ran his fingers through his hair. It was getting harder to keep his temper in check. Every minute that passed felt like a dozen more accusations piling on top of him. He never wanted his relationship with Michelle to get this messy.

And then there was Y/N. His mind flickered to her, the last conversation they’d had. She wouldn’t even pick up his calls now. He could hear her words in his head—the way she’d accused him of playing her, of using her as a cover for his life with Michelle. He hated that she believed Michelle. Hated that he couldn’t convince her otherwise.

“Let’s not forget the deal we had,” Joe muttered, his voice low, almost a growl. “Y/N and I had an agreement. Nothing serious. Just... friends with benefits. And now, suddenly, everything’s a scandal. We didn’t want any of this.”

Casey exchanged a quick glance with the rest of the team. “We get it, Joe. But that arrangement... it’s not something the public is going to understand easily. The fact that you and Y/N were involved—and with Michelle still in the picture—complicates everything. If we don't handle this carefully, it could be a PR nightmare.”

Joe rubbed his face again, feeling the weight of the entire situation pressing down on him. He hated this. He hated that Michelle had put him in this position. That his private life was now fodder for the tabloids. And the worst part? He couldn’t fix any of it without making things worse.

Ja'Marr’s words from earlier in the day echoed in Joe’s mind—“You’ve got cameras all over your house, right?” Joe hadn’t realized it at the time, but now, sitting in this meeting, he felt like it was the only thing that could help clear things up.

"I’ve got evidence," Joe said suddenly, interrupting the flow of conversation. The room quieted as all eyes turned to him. “I’ve got security footage. Michelle insisted on installing cameras after we moved in together. And, yeah, I’m going to use that to clear this up.”

Casey raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, security footage?”

Joe leaned forward, his hands clenched in his lap. “I have footage of when I ended things with Michelle. She packed up her stuff, we had the conversation, and I have it all on tape. It’s proof that I wasn’t hiding anything from Y/N. It shows exactly what happened.”

There was a moment of silence as the team processed what Joe had just said. Derek leaned forward. “This footage could be exactly what you need to clear your name. If you show Y/N this, it’ll prove that Michelle was lying about everything.”

Joe’s stomach churned at the thought of showing Y/N the footage. It was intimate, personal—moments he’d never intended for anyone else to see. But if it meant she’d finally believe him, he was willing to do whatever it took.

"But it's not just about the footage," Joe continued, his voice growing colder. "Michelle has been manipulating everything, using the whole 'fiancée' thing to make me look like I was juggling two women. I wasn’t. Y/N and I were never anything more than... casual. We agreed on that, and we were good with it. But now, Michelle's trying to make it sound like I was cheating. She wants to control the narrative."

“Exactly,” Casey said, picking up on his frustration. “This footage could turn the whole situation around. You’ve got proof that you didn’t hide anything. But the real question is—how are you going to present this? You can’t just release it to the public. That will look even worse.”

Joe clenched his teeth, running a hand over his face. "I’m not releasing it to the public. I’m going to show it to Y/N. She deserves the truth, even if it’s hard to hear. I’ll explain everything. No more lies. No more games.”

Ja'Marr’s words echoed again: Don’t just show her the footage. Tell her everything.

Joe closed his eyes, letting the weight of that advice sink in. He knew what he had to do now. "I should’ve been honest with her from the beginning. I didn’t think Michelle would go this far. But I can’t keep running from it. I need to fix this."

Tee, ever the pragmatic voice, nodded. “Alright, so you’re gonna show Y/N the footage and tell her everything. That’s your best shot at making this right.”

Joe stood, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. "I’ll do it. I’ll show her everything. No more hiding, no more half-truths. It’s time to stop letting Michelle control the narrative."

The team around him nodded, knowing this was the best course of action. But Joe wasn’t looking for the approval of anyone in the room. He wasn’t looking for a quick fix. He was looking for a way to clear his name and hopefully, just maybe, get back the one thing that mattered most to him: Y/N.

“I’m going to do it,” he said again, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll show her the footage. I’ll make her see the truth.”

As he walked out of the room, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his heart sinking when he saw Y/N’s name on the screen. She hadn’t called in days, and every time he’d tried to reach her, she’d ignored him.

His fingers hovered over the screen, but he didn’t respond. Not yet. He knew what he had to do first.

He had to make it right. And he would—whatever it took.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Green Room - Houston - 12:45am

The green room had finally quieted, the kind of hush that settles only after the final encore fades and the crowd’s roar becomes a memory vibrating faintly in the bones.

Y/N stood near the mirror, her reflection blurred by soft lights and smudged eyeliner. She peeled off the last pieces of her stage outfit, her muscles aching in that satisfying way that followed a show done right. Her skin still buzzed from adrenaline, but she could already feel the crash creeping up—subtle, inevitable.

Behind her, Kayla moved through the small space like a quiet storm, sweeping up discarded water bottles and snack wrappers. She tossed an energy bar into a trash bag and turned to toss Y/N an oversized hoodie.

“You were a machine out there,” she said, her voice low but grinning. “Honestly, you could’ve walked on stage, said ‘goodnight,’ and the crowd still would’ve begged for more.”

Y/N chuckled, catching the hoodie and pulling it over her head. “Tempting. Might try that next time.”

She collapsed onto the couch with a sigh, rubbing at her temples. The couch cushions exhaled beneath her as if they, too, were exhausted.

Then the silence fractured.

A sudden buzz erupted from the vanity behind her, the vibration of her phone against the hard counter making both women freeze for a moment. Kayla turned first.

“Unknown number,” she read aloud, raising an eyebrow. “You think it’s him?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t move, either. She just stared at the screen like it might explode.

Kayla didn’t wait for permission. She crossed the room in two quick strides and picked up the phone, answering it without a hint of hesitation.

“Hello?” she snapped, her voice instantly sharp, like steel unsheathed. “If this is a sympathy call for Joe, you can forget it. We’re not interested in whatever story he’s spinning now.”

There was a pause—a longer one than Y/N expected—before a calm, familiar voice replied.

“Relax, Kayla. It’s Sam. And I’m not calling for Joe.”

Kayla blinked, caught off guard, and slowly lowered the phone from her ear. Her eyes flicked to Y/N, who straightened on the couch, frowning.

Kayla tapped the speaker button and held the phone out between them.

“You’re Joe’s best friend,” Y/N said evenly, arms folding across her chest. “So forgive me if I don’t buy the whole ‘independent concern’ angle.”

“I get it,” Sam replied, his voice steady but without defensiveness. “And yeah, he’s here. Sitting right next to me, actually. But this wasn’t his idea. I called because I wanted to.”

Y/N’s brows knit together. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, trying to read between every word.

“So what is this, then? A new PR strategy? You take turns trying to get through?”

Sam sighed quietly on the other end. “No strategy. No script. Look, I’ve known Joe for a long time. Long enough to know when he’s faking it—and when he’s wrecked.”

That hit Y/N like a slow, unseen wave. She didn’t respond immediately.

“I’ve seen him mess up,” Sam continued. “I’ve seen him walk away from things that didn’t matter to him. But this? He’s not walking away from this like it’s nothing. That’s how I know this isn’t just about him. This hit you, too. And I guess... I just wanted to check on you.”

Y/N was silent. Her fingers gripped the edge of the hoodie sleeves, pulling them over her hands as she stared at the floor.

“You’re not calling to defend him?” she asked quietly, more to confirm than accuse.

“No,” Sam said, his voice low. “I mean, yeah, he’s my best friend, and I’ve got his back. But I’m not blind. You didn’t deserve to be in the middle of any of this. I’m not here to justify it or explain it away. I just thought someone should check in without asking for something in return.”

Y/N slowly leaned back, absorbing his words like static in the air.

From the corner, Kayla watched her carefully, still wary, but something in her expression softened.

Y/N’s voice, when it came again, was quieter. “It’s been a lot.”

“I figured,” Sam replied. “You don’t have to say anything more. You don’t owe anyone an explanation, Y/N. I just wanted you to know someone was thinking about you—not the headlines, not the drama. Just you.”

That—of all things—cut the deepest.

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her throat was too tight. Her eyes shimmered, though she quickly blinked the sting away.

“Thanks,” she said after a long beat. The word came out softer than she intended, almost fragile.

There was a pause on the other end. “If you ever need to talk… about anything. Doesn’t have to be about him. I’m around.”

Y/N nodded before remembering he couldn’t see it. “Appreciate it, Sam.”

She ended the call gently, then just… sat there, the phone still resting in her hands like a strange weight.

The room was quiet again, but now it felt different—thicker somehow, charged with unspoken things.

Kayla sat down beside her, folding her legs up on the couch.

“That was... surprisingly human of him,” she said.

“Yeah,” Y/N murmured, staring at a spot on the wall. “It was.”

She didn’t ask if Joe had heard everything. Didn’t want to know. Not yet.

But something inside her—something bitter and bruised and stubborn—shifted, just slightly. Not forgiveness. Not even understanding. Just... movement.

She exhaled long and hard, letting her head fall back against the couch.

“He didn’t try to explain anything,” she said eventually. “Didn’t ask me to give him a chance. Just asked if I was okay.”

Kayla nodded, eyes still on her. “Because you’re not. You’re doing a damn good job pretending, but you’re not okay.”

Y/N closed her eyes. “I don’t trust him. I don’t even know if I trust myself right now.”

“No one said you have to,” Kayla replied gently. “But Sam… he wasn’t pushing. That’s probably why it got to you.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. Just pulled the hoodie tighter around her and curled deeper into the couch.

“I hate that it did,” she whispered.

Joe’s name never passed her lips, but he lingered there anyway—in the air, in the silence, in the ache that hadn’t quite dulled.

She didn’t know what would come next.

But for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like the end.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Cincinnati — Sam’s Apartment

The living room was dim except for the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. The muted hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm in Joe’s head. He sat perched on the edge of the couch, hunched forward, one leg bouncing in a relentless rhythm that betrayed the tension coiled tight in his gut.

Sam ended the call, the faint click of the button sounding louder than it should have in the stillness. He stood motionless for a moment, his thumb lingering against the screen before sliding the phone into the pocket of his jeans. His arms crossed, his back leaned against the cool marble of the kitchen counter as he took in the anxious figure across the room.

“She pick up?” Joe asked finally, without lifting his head. His voice was taut, brittle around the edges.

“She picked up,” Sam confirmed, his tone neutral, but not unkind.

Joe raised his eyes, his breath catching slightly. “And?”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He let the weight of it settle between them, because sugarcoating wouldn’t help—not now. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then walked slowly toward the armchair across from Joe and lowered himself into it.

“I didn’t say anything about the footage,” he said. “Didn’t mention you. I just asked if she was okay.”

Joe nodded, swallowing hard. He braced his forearms on his knees, his fingers threading together like he needed something to hold on to. “And?”

“She listened,” Sam said quietly. “Didn’t hang up. Didn’t yell. She was calm… but tired. Real tired. Like everything had finally caught up to her.”

Joe’s jaw worked as he stared down at his hands, hands that had once been steady—on the field, in the pocket, with her. They hadn’t been steady in weeks.

“She thinks I used her,” he murmured. “She thinks I stood there and let my ex drag her through the dirt and didn’t say a goddamn word.”

Sam didn’t flinch at the bitterness in Joe’s tone. He just leaned back and folded his arms again. “She’s hurt, yeah. You didn’t stop it soon enough. You didn’t say enough when it mattered. But she didn’t hang up. She heard me out. That means she’s still listening, Joe. Even if it’s just a little.”

Joe exhaled sharply, a sound that was part frustration, part grief. His mind flashed with memories—her laughter in his kitchen, the way she danced when she thought no one was watching, the way her hand fit into his like it was meant to. All of it had felt real. All of it had been real, until silence had replaced answers and avoidance had replaced truth.

“She deserved more than a call from you,” Joe said bitterly. “She deserved to hear it from me. In person.”

Sam’s brow arched. “Then stop hiding behind texts you won’t send and voicemails you delete. You know where she is. Get on a plane.”

Joe didn’t answer. His mind twisted with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. What if she didn’t want to see him? What if the moment she opened that door, all she felt was the sting of betrayal? He rubbed his hands down his face, then sat back, eyes unfocused.

“What if she slams the door in my face?” he asked finally, voice low.

“Then she slams it,” Sam said simply. “But at least she’ll know you showed up. That you didn’t run away. You owe her that.”

The silence after that was heavy, but it wasn’t aimless. Joe was thinking—really thinking. The first time he’d met Y/N, she hadn’t been impressed by who he was or what he did. She’d made him work for her time, her trust. And when she gave it to him, it had felt like something rare, something honest.

And he’d let it slip through his fingers without fighting for it.

He stared at the floor for another moment, then looked up slowly, something clearing behind his eyes. Not confidence. But resolve.

“She deserves the truth,” he said. “All of it. Even the parts that make me look like a coward.”

Sam nodded. “Then go give it to her.”

Joe stood up, pushing his hands into his pockets as he walked toward the window. The skyline outside was a quiet shadow against the night. He stared at it like he was looking for answers in the lights.

“She’s not going to trust me again overnight,” he said. “Hell, she might not ever trust me again.”

“Then you show her she can,” Sam replied. “One day at a time. You don’t show up with a speech. You show up ready to listen.”

Joe gave a faint, humorless chuckle. “I used to be good with words.”

“Words don’t mean much right now,” Sam said, rising to his feet. “Actions do.”

The truth of it landed deep.

Joe turned from the window and reached for his jacket, pulling it off the hook by the door.

“You really think she’ll let me in?”

Sam shrugged, offering a small, hopeful smile. “Maybe not. But she didn’t shut me out tonight. That’s something.”

Joe stared at the door for a long beat.

Then he grabbed his phone and pulled up her contact—the one still saved under the nickname he hadn’t had the guts to change: Songbird.

He didn’t hit call.

Not yet.

But he booked the flight.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Atlanta – Recording Studio, Late Afternoon

The bass thudded low through the studio walls, steady and hypnotic like a distant heartbeat. It should’ve been grounding—familiar even—but Y/N wasn’t really listening. Not to the track, not to the lyrics, not to the faint conversation happening beyond the glass of the vocal booth.

She sat alone, hunched slightly over her notebook, pen still in hand but unmoving. The page in front of her was mostly blank, save for a single lyric scratched out and rewritten three times. The ink had smudged in places where her fingers had lingered too long. A half-empty water bottle sweated quietly beside her, untouched, ignored.

The room around her was quiet except for the low hum of studio equipment. Her producer, Drea, and her engineer, Miles, were somewhere behind the tinted glass, murmuring between themselves. They weren’t in a rush. They’d seen her like this before. They knew when to wait, when to let her sit in the mess of whatever she was feeling until it wrung itself into a song.

But this time felt different.

This time, the words wouldn’t come. Not because they weren’t there—because they were. They were lodged in her throat, pressed up against her ribs, clawing at her chest.

It was Joe.

Again.

She shut her eyes, but it didn’t help. His face was there behind her lids like an afterimage—blue eyes too damn bright to forget, jaw clenched in that way that made him look perpetually annoyed with the world. But not with her. Never with her.

God, she wanted to hate him.

Some days, she did. She hated that he still lived in her head. Hated that she’d catch herself wondering what he’d think of a new verse, or if he’d smirk at the little ad-lib she’d thrown into the bridge. Hated that when she sat in silence too long, she remembered what it felt like to wake up beside him, tangled in sheets and shadows, his voice scratchy with sleep and his hand resting on the curve of her hip like it belonged there.

And she hated that even after everything—the footage, the silence, the damage control—she still missed him.

Not just the physical parts, though those were seared into her memory like heat.

The way his hands felt on her waist. The gravel in his voice when he murmured her name against her skin. The way he’d tug at the hem of her hoodie, eyes dark and hungry, like she was something he was starving for.

But that wasn’t what haunted her most.

She missed how he made her feel.

Seen. Wanted. Alive.

Not the polished, camera-ready version of her that the world knew. Not the curated artist with a fanbase and a brand. But her. The girl who got anxious in crowds. Who hated flying but did it anyway. The one who sometimes second-guessed herself so hard she’d spiral before the first chorus even hit tape.

Joe had seen all of that—and he hadn’t flinched.

He’d challenged her, pushed her buttons just enough to make her snap back with that sharp tongue he secretly loved. He used to smirk when she got mouthy, like he was inviting it. Sometimes he’d say things just to pull it out of her. Just to watch her spark.

He was infuriating.

But also... grounding.

Even when he was grumpy, even when he wore his walls like armor, there were moments—private, fleeting ones—where he let her in. And when he did, he was lighter. Funnier than people would ever expect. He’d tease her mercilessly in the kitchen, steal her fries when she wasn’t looking, sing off-key on purpose just to hear her laugh. He made her forget to take herself so seriously.

And she’d needed that more than she realized.

Maybe she hadn’t meant to fall for him. Maybe she hadn’t even realized it had happened at all.

But that last night—when she’d slipped into his bed thinking it was just one more moment, one more breath before the inevitable unraveling—she hadn’t known she was slipping into something deeper.

And now?

Now, the absence of him felt like a dull ache that wouldn’t quit.

A knock on the glass jolted her out of it.

She looked up to see Drea gesturing gently toward the intercom. Her voice crackled a second later through the speakers.

“Hey, babe. You good to run that verse again, or you want to step out for a bit?”

Y/N blinked hard, forcing herself back into the present. She reached forward and clicked the intercom.

“Give me one sec.”

“Take your time,” Drea said, and the speaker clicked off.

Y/N looked down at the page again. The pen was still hovering. Still hesitant.

She’d written about heartbreak before. She’d written about anger, lust, loss. But this?

This was harder to name. It wasn’t love. Not quite.

It was something messier. Something quieter but deeper. The kind of feeling that crept in through cracks you didn’t know were open. The kind that didn’t announce itself with fireworks—but stayed with you like smoke in your lungs.

And maybe that’s why it scared her.

Because she didn’t think she had feelings for Joe Burrow.

Not until she realized how much it hurt not to have him.

Not until she realized how much of her music was starting to sound like memories of him.

And maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t done writing about him yet.

Her hand moved finally, pen scratching across the page with slow, deliberate lines. A verse began to form. Raw. Honest.

A confession.

Not for him.

For herself.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Y/N’s pen moved across the page slowly at first, the tip barely grazing the surface of the paper as her mind tried to capture the swirl of conflicting emotions that had settled into her chest. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, drawing on the feelings Joe had left behind—those stolen moments, those raw exchanges.

The words came, one by one, but with them, a rush of clarity began to seep through the fog in her mind. This wasn’t a song for anyone but herself. She wasn’t writing for the public, or the press, or for the people who expected something polished. This was something real. Something stripped bare.

She wrote quickly now, the lines flowing with more certainty:

I didn’t know it’d be you,Didn’t see it coming, didn’t have a clue.All those words we never said,Now they’re stuck inside my head.

We were supposed to be a game,A fire that burned, no one to blame.But somewhere along the way I lost track,Thought I could leave, but I keep coming back.

And I can’t shake the way you made me feel—Seen, wanted, like something real.Not just the girl the world gets to see,But the one who lives inside of me.

I didn’t think I’d care this much,Didn’t know how to feel your touch.But now I’m left with nothing but this song,A love I thought was never meant to belong.

I didn’t see it coming, didn’t know I’d fall,Thought I was just playing, thought I’d have it all.But you got under my skin, deeper than I planned,Now I’m stuck with your touch, like I’m holding your hand.

We were just supposed to be a game,But now I’m tangled up in your name.Can’t shake the way you got me twisted—Like a drug, and I can’t resist it.

You made me feel like I was on fire,Like a spark that could light the entire sky.I never wanted to care this much,But here I am, craving your touch.

I can’t help the way you made me feel,Like I was something real.Not just a name, not just a face,But someone you couldn’t erase.

I said I’d leave, but here I am,Chasing a feeling I don’t understand.I don’t know if this is love, or just the thrill,But damn, I can’t say I’m over it still.

Her fingers froze for a beat as the last lines settled on the page, a lump rising in her throat. She’d been trying to write it out all day, but now that it was there, it felt... too much. Too real.

I never thought I'd care this much...

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She closed the notebook, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room, as though closing off a chapter she wasn’t quite ready to end.

“Y/N?” Drea’s voice came through the intercom again, softer this time. “You good to run the verse? We’re waiting on you.”

Y/N’s hand lingered on the notebook, her thumb tracing the edges of the paper. She didn’t respond immediately. The room around her felt heavy, like she was suddenly drowning in the weight of everything she hadn’t said—everything she couldn’t say.

She’d written the truth, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to sing it out loud.

The song was raw, unfiltered—everything she had kept buried in the past few weeks. The longing, the pain, the pieces of herself she hadn’t been ready to face. It wasn’t just about Joe. It was about the parts of herself she hadn’t acknowledged. The parts that had been awakened by him. The parts she had to let go of to move forward.

But maybe the hardest part? The hardest part was realizing that even though she hadn’t wanted to have feelings for Joe, she had. And those feelings had shaped everything—her music, her heart, her identity in the moment they’d shared.

Y/N clicked the intercom, her voice softer than it had been before. “Yeah. Let’s run it.”

She wasn’t sure if the words would make it to the recording or if she’d be able to keep her composure in the booth. But she was ready. She had to be. Even if the truth was still tangled in her chest.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Cincinnati – Joe’s House, Two Hours After the Game (2 weeks later)

The living room was cloaked in an uneasy silence, thick enough to cut through. Joe sat, motionless, in the dim glow of the muted replay on the TV. The game had ended hours ago, but it felt like it was still playing in his mind. A lost opportunity, a missed chance, a moment where everything slipped through his fingers—and it wasn’t just about the game.

His jaw was tight, his body rigid, like he was trying to hold everything inside. The loss had stung, yes, but there was something deeper gnawing at him. He hadn’t wanted to speak to the media, couldn’t stomach the thought of standing there, offering up the usual robotic answers. The loss wasn’t just a reflection of a bad game—it was a reflection of something more personal, something that had been hanging over him long before the final whistle blew.

Ja’Marr and Tee were seated across from him, their gazes heavy with unspoken understanding. They knew Joe. They had seen him angry after a loss, but this wasn’t that. This wasn’t the usual post-game frustration. This was something else, something simmering just beneath the surface.

Ja'Marr was the first to break the silence, his voice low and careful, like he was testing the waters. “You gonna talk about it?”

Joe didn’t flinch. His eyes never left the TV. “Not in the mood.”

Tee, sitting beside Ja’Marr, chimed in, his tone casual but firm. “You ghosted the press. You always face the press, even when things are worse than this.”

Joe’s eyes flicked toward him, but there was no warmth there—just sharp, cold detachment. “They didn’t need to hear what I wanted to say.”

Ja'Marr exchanged a knowing look with Tee. They had both seen Joe pissed off before—hell, they'd seen him furious, after games that cost them the season or when things weren’t clicking. But this wasn’t just anger. This was something darker, something more complicated.

“You’ve been off, man,” Ja’Marr said carefully, trying to probe without pushing too hard.

Joe scoffed, pushing himself off the couch and pacing toward the kitchen. His movements were sharp, frustrated. “We all have. Everyone’s been off. O-line’s shaky, receivers are dropping passes, hell, even special teams can’t get it together.”

Tee wasn’t having it. He leaned forward, his voice hard but not unkind. “Don’t do that.”

Joe stopped, turning slowly to face him. “Do what?”

“Start pointing fingers like it’s everyone else’s fault,” Tee shot back. “You’ve been walking around like a damn ghost since she left.”

Joe froze for a second, his jaw tightening. “This has nothing to do with Y/N.”

Tee didn’t back down. He stood now, crossing the room and closing the space between them. “Bullshit.”

The words hit Joe like a punch in the gut. He had known this moment was coming. His teammates weren’t blind. They could see what was happening, even if Joe hadn’t fully admitted it to himself yet.

“You think we haven’t noticed?” Tee continued, his voice rising, frustration mixing with concern. “The way you’ve been distant, the way you’ve been on edge every time someone even mentions her name?”

Ja'Marr, always the quiet observer, remained silent, his arms folded across his chest as he watched the scene unfold. His gaze flickered between Joe and Tee, sensing the tension, but letting Tee lead the charge.

Joe’s chest tightened, his hands clenching into fists. “I don’t need you guys to psychoanalyze me. This is about the game, not Y/N.”

Tee’s eyes darkened, and he stepped even closer now, his tone more intense. “Nah, Joe. This is about you losing Y/N and not being able to admit it. You’re not mad about the game, man. You’re mad because you let her go, and now you can’t figure out how to fix it.”

Joe’s breath hitched, his throat tight as he tried to control the emotions bubbling up inside him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tee didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. He pressed on, each word deliberate. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. I saw how she looked at you. And how you looked at her. This wasn’t a casual thing, Joe. You can try to lie to yourself all you want, but you’re pissed because you let something real slip away thinking it didn’t matter.”

Joe opened his mouth to respond, but the words got stuck. His chest felt heavy, the weight of Tee’s accusation pressing down on him. He didn’t want to admit it. Hell, he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit it. But Tee’s words rang too true, and for the first time, Joe was forced to reckon with the reality he had been avoiding for weeks.

“It didn’t matter,” Joe said, his voice low, almost a whisper. But even as he said it, it felt like a lie. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Joe could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat louder than the last. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, flashes of Y/N—laughing at something stupid he said, curling up in his arms after they’d spent the night together, the way she would challenge him just to see him crack a smile. He had tried so hard to convince himself it didn’t mean anything, that he wasn’t falling for her, but now it was all too clear.

Ja'Marr shook his head slowly, his voice soft but firm. “That’s your problem, bro. You thought if you didn’t name it, if you didn’t admit it to yourself, it wouldn’t be real. But it was real. And you didn’t say it until it was too late.”

Joe turned away, bracing himself against the counter like he was holding onto something—anything—to keep him from falling apart. His breath was ragged, his mind racing.

Tee’s voice softened, but the weight of his words hung in the air. “You miss her, Joe. That’s what this is. Not the game. Not the media. Her.”

Joe’s shoulders dropped slightly, a flicker of something breaking through the wall he had built around himself. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew Tee was right, and that terrified him more than any blitz or fourth-quarter pressure ever had.

The weight of the truth pressed down on him. He had never meant for it to go this far. Never thought he would care this much. But now, with his friends staring at him, holding up the mirror to his own denial, Joe had no choice but to face the fact that Y/N had gotten under his skin in a way no one else had.

And the hardest part? The hardest part was knowing he had let her slip away—too proud, too scared, too damn stubborn to admit that maybe, just maybe, he had been falling for her all along.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Atlanta – Y/N’s Apartment, Late Night

The soft glow from the city lights poured through the cracks in the curtains, casting thin silver lines across the sheets.

Y/N lay on her side, tangled in her duvet, sleep nowhere in sight.

Her phone was on silent, screen-down on the nightstand. She didn’t want distractions. Not from Kayla, not from Carmen, and definitely not from the part of her brain that kept spinning scenarios that always started with "What if Joe had just been honest from the beginning?"

She let her eyes drift toward the ceiling, her thoughts moving like waves she couldn’t stop.

It had been months now.

Months since that stupid, electric night in Baltimore—the Bengals game where it all began. She hadn’t even wanted to go. Football wasn’t her thing. But Kayla dragged her out, and somehow she ended up field-level after the game with a drink in her hand and him walking up to her like he already knew her name.

Joe.

Quarterback. Media darling. Supposedly reserved. Guarded.

But the way he looked at her? The way he made her laugh during that first conversation, called her out when she tried to play cool, leaned in close like she was the only one who mattered in a stadium full of noise?

It was intoxicating.

She remembered the tension in her chest that night—dangerous and thrilling, like something was about to change and she was just on the edge of knowing it.

And maybe that’s what pissed her off the most now. Because how could someone look at her like that... touch her like that... make her feel real for the first time in a long time...

...and still have a whole fiancée waiting in the shadows?

She turned over, clutching the pillow tighter.

He’d said they were over. Said Michelle wasn’t part of his life anymore. But the world didn’t know that. The media still thought they were engaged. And for a while, so had Y/N. Because Michelle made damn sure of that when she called and claimed otherwise.

And Joe? He hadn’t corrected the narrative fast enough. Hadn’t protected her from the fallout.

How do you make someone feel like the only one... while someone else still thinks they're the only one too?

Y/N blinked up at the dark ceiling, her chest hollow.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Maybe he really had been caught in the mess of ending one chapter while starting another. But none of it changed the reality—

She had trusted him. And he had let her walk straight into the fire without warning.

Now, even with the album coming, the release party being planned, the buzz building around her name... she still couldn’t shake the ache of what could’ve been, if only things had been real from the start.

If only he had been.

♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧♡+:•∴”:♡.•♬✧

Atlanta – Private Loft, Early Afternoon

The echo of Kayla’s voice reverberated off the high ceilings of the loft, cutting through the otherwise peaceful buzz of preparation. Her arms were crossed, her posture stiff with frustration, as she glared at Y/N like she’d just announced plans to invite a tornado to the party.

"You want drama?" Kayla’s tone was incredulous, each word sharp and deliberate. "Because this is how you get drama."

Y/N stood at a long table, her hands skimming over mood boards, menus, and sketches—each piece carefully curated for the launch party of her debut album. The table was a chaotic but beautiful spread of possibilities, from champagne flutes that shimmered in the light to outfit designs that screamed bold and unapologetic. Carmen, her manager, sat a few feet away, her eyes glued to an iPad as she scrolled through venue options with a practiced, detached air—clearly not getting involved in the brewing storm between Y/N and Kayla.

"I’m not trying to start drama," Y/N said, her voice calm and firm, an attempt to ground herself. “I just want to invite the people who’ve supported me. And like it or not, Tee and Ja’Marr were there for me, even when everything was a mess.”

Kayla scoffed, the sound cutting through the air like a blade. “Yeah, they were there—with him. Joe. Who I’ll remind you, in case you’ve blacked it out, is the entire reason your name trended next to the word homewrecker for a solid month.”

Carmen raised a brow but said nothing, merely tapping her finger thoughtfully on the edge of the table as she tried to remain neutral, letting the two women duke it out verbally.

“She has a point,” Carmen added, but her tone wasn’t judgmental, more like she was just stating the obvious.

Y/N’s eyes shot up to meet Kayla’s, irritation flickering in her chest. “I didn’t say I was inviting Joe,” she snapped, her patience slipping through her fingers. “I said Tee and Ja’Marr. They checked in on me after everything. Ja’Marr even sent flowers, for God’s sake.”

Kayla’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “That doesn’t change the fact that they’re basically his brothers. They spend every waking moment with him. Do you really want them at your release party? The most important night of your career—where the press will be crawling all over the place—when you know any photo of them will automatically turn into speculation about you and Joe again?”

Y/N’s grip on the sketch in her hands tightened, the pencil lines of the dress she’d been eyeing blurring slightly as she stared down at it. It was bold—floor-length, body-hugging, a statement. The kind of dress that commanded attention without saying a word.

She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. “I get what you’re saying. I do. But I’m tired of making choices based on what headlines might say. If I’m going to rewrite my story, it has to be on my terms. And that means letting people in who I want there. Even if it’s complicated.”

There was a brief silence as Kayla, arms still crossed, let her gaze linger on Y/N. She knew her best friend. She knew how Y/N could be—headstrong, determined, always pushing forward, even when the path wasn’t clear. But this? This felt like a choice that could lead to a public disaster.

Carmen finally lifted her eyes from the iPad, her voice breaking the tension. “So we’re locking in a guest list today or no?”

Y/N nodded, a decisive movement that seemed to settle something in her chest. “Yes. Closed to the public. Invite-only. Tight list. We’ll do media separately—maybe a prescreened outlet or two, and if we can swing it, a Vogue spread. But I want the actual party to be private. Just the music industry, close circle. No chaos.”

Carmen tapped a quick note into her device, making it official. “Got it.”

Kayla groaned and dropped her head back, exasperated. “Fine. But when you see Ja’Marr walk in and Joe shows up fifteen minutes later like this is some damn rom-com, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Y/N offered a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was meant to reassure Kayla, or herself. “I’m not expecting anything.”

But deep down, that small, quiet part of her—the part that had allowed herself to care more than she ever intended—wondered if Joe would show up. If he’d stand in the doorway like he had so many times before, his eyes flickering with that warmth that had always made her feel seen, wanted, alive.

Her thoughts spiraled for a moment, her mind rushing through the days they’d spent together—the laughter, the heated arguments, the quiet moments when she’d wake up next to him, his eyes sparkling with mischief as if they were sharing a secret the world didn’t get.

But that was before. Before everything had shattered. Before she’d convinced herself she was done, that there was no going back. But sometimes, even when you tried to lock away the feeling, the memories wouldn’t stay buried.

Kayla snapped her fingers, pulling Y/N from her thoughts. “Hello? Earth to Y/N?”

Y/N blinked, suddenly back in the present, her fingers still resting on the edge of the dress sketch. "Sorry," she murmured, shaking herself free of the fog in her head. “I’m just... figuring things out.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Kayla insisted, her voice softer now, but still filled with concern. “I don’t care what you say. Those guys are connected to Joe. They’re his teammates, his best friends, and no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise, that connection doesn’t just disappear.”

Y/N met her gaze. “I know it’s messy. I know it’s complicated. But I can’t keep hiding from it. I’m tired of hiding. I’m not going to pretend those months with Joe didn’t matter—because they did.”

Kayla exhaled sharply, her posture softening just a fraction. “You’re right. It mattered. But so did the fallout. You have to be careful, Y/N. The world is watching.”

Y/N stood there, her fingers still lightly tracing the edge of the table. Her eyes scanned the room, seeing the preparations laid out before her—the dreams, the ambitions, the moments she’d worked so damn hard for. It was everything she’d ever wanted, but it came with a price. Maybe this was just part of the cost.

But she wasn’t going to let fear of the unknown dictate her choices. Not today.

“I’ve made my decision,” Y/N said, her voice steady. “I want them there. It’s my night. I’m not going to let anyone else control that.”

Kayla sighed, her eyes softening with reluctant understanding. “You’re impossible.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “That’s why you love me.”

The moment hung there between them, a mix of frustration, love, and the unspoken bond of two people who’d been through everything together. Kayla might not agree with her decision, but in the end, she would have her back. She always had.

And Y/N? She was finally ready to take control of her own story—no matter how complicated it got.

JB9 Taglist: @lilfreakjez, @dasia21, @superanastasia1981, @gg-trini, @wickedfun9, @irishmanwhore, @Danielle143

[cece693]

I just like Hannibal crying...is that weird?? Like, there's just something beautifully poetic about this monstrous man who is still able to feel and show those emotions, in the face of something that does move him. Anyway, I just wanted to write something with a sad Hannibal and couldn't help myself. Be prepared, it's long and sad.

EVEN DEATH CANNOT SEPARATE US

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader tags: sad ending, both characters are dead, you actually have a terminal illness, it's not specific though, use your imagination, hannibal dies because he can't fathom to continue living without you, I like how this turned out, mention of afterlife

The Baltimore townhouse is hushed in the late-winter dusk, firelight peeling slow amber across mahogany paneling and half-empty bookcases. It smells of eucalyptus and polished leather and, faint beneath it all, the sterile sweetness of the morphine drip that follows you now like a last, reluctant valet.

You sit in one of the Hepplewhite wing-backs, quilt tucked around your shoulders. Every motion has become deliberate: you fold your hands, you breathe, you listen to the crackle of cedar. Hannibal kneels at your feet to adjust the quilt as though it were ceremonial—perhaps it is. He smooths the fabric over your knee, tracing the bones beneath, catalogue-careful, a man committing sacred anatomy to memory.

“You should save that strength,” you murmur; your voice is frayed silk.

“So should you,” he counters, but the words lack their usual lattice of irony. When he looks up, his eyes are almost fever-bright. He is not wearing a suit tonight—only a dark cashmere sweater whose sleeves bunch at the elbows—and the small untidiness feels indecent, a bare throat in church.

A strand of silver hair has fallen forward. You lift a trembling hand to tuck it behind his ear. “I’m not afraid, Hannibal.”

“I know.” His fingers circle your wrist to steady you; the gentleness burns. “Neither am I.”

You could tell him he’s lying, but you don’t. Fear is too small a word for what lives behind his composure. He is a creature accustomed to eternity—cultivating it in cellars, plating it in crystal bowls—yet here you sit, proof that time can still spoil the very finest cut. That discovery terrifies him more than death ever could.

“Come here,” you say.

He rises, settles on the ottoman so your knees bracket his ribs. Your pulse drums weakly under his palm. The fire pops and a coal collapses—soft thunder, like applause heard from behind velvet curtains. Hannibal’s gaze drifts to the hearth; when he speaks again his voice is hoarse, low:

“Does it hurt?”

“It already does. Not in ways morphine can touch.” You give a rueful smile. “But that’s all right. Hurt means I’m still here with you.”

A muscle leaps in his jaw. “And when you are not?”

“Then the hurt is yours.” You skim his cheek with your thumb, feel the heat of unshed tears there—Hannibal Lecter, whose eyes have witnessed rivers of blood without once watering, and yet for you... The first tear breaks, slow as syrup. It charts a shining course along the fine line of his nose and drops to your quilt. Another follows. He doesn’t wipe them away; he lets them fall the way one allows candles to gutter after guests depart—a sign that the evening, at last, is over.

You try to memorize the sight: the tremor in his lower lip, the wet lashes, the velvet darkness of his irises. You realize you are smiling. “Beautiful,” you whisper.

He bows his head until his brow meets the back of your hand. “This is unbecoming.”

“It’s the most becoming thing I’ve ever seen you do.” Your lungs tighten; you rest, catching breath. Hannibal’s tears soak your skin, warm, startling. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Live. Live like you always do—gloriously, shamelessly. Don’t pickle yourself in grief. I wouldn’t stand for that.”

He lifts his head. “You would haunt me?”

“Relentlessly.”

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth, and you see the man you met years ago—the impeccable host with jokes folded between syllables like origami knives. Now the knife is turned inward. “Very well,” he says. “I will live. But I will not love.”

“You will,” you assure him, “because loving me taught you how. Even if you hate it, the lesson’s learned.” Your eyes sting; vision doubles. “And I’ll go knowing I moved an immovable heart.”

Silence settles, thick and reverent. Hannibal slips from the ottoman to the rug, drawing your hand to his lips. He doesn’t kiss it. Instead, he rests it over his own heart, as though he means to press it through flesh, through bone, lock it there before the beat stops beneath your ribs.

The townhouse remains hushed after the last ember fails, but something enormous and wordless ripples in its bones—a tectonic shift in the house’s cruel, curated stillness. Hannibal does not rise. He feels the thin weight of you cooling in his arms and discovers, with surgical clarity, that grief is a blade he cannot grip by the handle; it cuts no matter how delicately he holds it.

It is obscene, almost comical, that the Chesapeake Ripper should finally understand loss in so ordinary a fashion. All the elaborately posed corpses, all the aria-sweet deaths he has orchestrated, and here—when confronted with a passing as gentle as candle-smoke—he is undone.

Sadness was always a flavor he served to others. Now it coats the back of his own throat like ash. It has no elegance, no aesthetic potential; it is simply weight. It drags his ribs inward until every breath rasps. The house feels too voluminous, every hallway an echo chamber of absence. His monster’s brain chases solutions—taxonomies, distractions, new hungers to hunt—but they dangle uselessly, gutted of savor.

Hours slide apart from one another like pages warping in rain. He studies your face as rigor settles, committing each micro-contour to the cathedral of his memory. Then, slowly, he begins the rites:

He braids your fingers with his and speaks to you in unhurried Lithuanian lullabies remembered from childhood.

He wipes the last tears from your cheeks, then allows more of his own to fall and replace them—an unbroken exchange, grief for grief, salt for salt.

He refuses a physician, a coroner, any intrusion. Instead, he dresses you in the midnight-blue silk you once wore to the opera, fastens the pearl buttons with hands that suddenly shake, kisses each knuckle when the tremor threatens to snap a thread.

At dawn he carries you to the music room. Mahogany shutters filter new light across the Bösendorfer. He props your body against his chest, one arm beneath your shoulders, the other coaxing a final nocturne from the keys. The notes drag like chains—dense, deliberate—and in them Hannibal folds everything he cannot articulate: rage at his own helpless biology, reverence for your courage, the terrible privilege of watching fearlessness turn cold in his embrace.

By twilight he understands: living was your last command, but obedience has never been his native tongue. To remain here, breathing, is to endure a famine no feast can sate. The concept of years—a month, even a day—spinning forward without your pulse beside his is intolerable, a mathematical obscenity he refuses to solve.

“I will not outlast you,” he murmurs against your temple, voice raw as scraped violin strings. “I gave you my fullness—my darkness, my devotion. What remains is only residue.”

He imagines the simple choreography of a final dinner: crystal decanters reflecting candle-flame, the bouquet of a forty-year Barolo softening the air. There would be music—perhaps that very nocturne, recorded and looping, a hush between phrases like a held breath. And then—quiet, clinical—he will follow your path, matching your heartbeat’s last count with a dose measured to the milligram. An ending of his own composition, stitched neatly to the end of yours.

Before he executes the coda, he wraps you in a shroud of black cashmere and lowers you into the crypt beneath the townhouse, a space he once reserved for rarer vintages. Now, it becomes a sanctuary of two. He seals the room, presses his palm to the cool door, and speaks—not an operatic benediction, but a single, naked sentence that tastes of iron and farewell:

“Wait for me.”

And he knows you will.

When midnight returns, Hannibal ascends the spiral stairs, the house sighing underfoot like an old instrument retired from concert halls. In the dining room, he lights three candles—one for the life you lived, one for the life he spent beside you, and one for the small span that will soon join them.

The monster, at last, is no more afraid of death than you were, for death is only the corridor back to your side. Every other appetite pales. Every instinct of preservation folds, effortlessly, into hunger for reunion.

[sunlight-shunlight]

putting it into an ask because I don't want to derail your post sorry

As someone who's culture lost their last L1 Speaker around the time they were born. This!! So much this!!

It is EXTREMELY difficult to learn endangered languages, and from experience the people who do know how to speak some of it are extremely protective of it even to others from that same culture! (something that makes me even more attached to the dalish as a peoples sigh)

I would die for the chance to speak my tribes original language but even if I could jump through the hoops to do it, a decade is decisively not. enough. time. to do so. Yet alone to adopt the native cadence of the language. Again even if I wanted too! Which I desperately desperately do!

Lavellan would have to jump through so many hoops that by the time she might be ready to start speaking it regularly (in the context of ancient elvhen) that Veilguard would probably be on the horizon already. That's also given the idea that there are even universities willing to put aside discriminatory behavior twords the elves to provide classes on such specific subjects. AND putting aside the whole 'wow that's straight up the herald of andraste in my Sociolinguistics class' with the problems that would cause.

I mean, I know its a fantasy universe and I'm really projecting on it here but like hear me out- I have a dictionary and a book of stories translated by scholars I will never meet, and a series of audio-files that I myself had to copy convert to a format I could have on my phone and listen to. I'm untrained and uneducated on how to go about it sure but even with my available tools it feels like an uphill battle with every new word I pick out to practice. I sing songs from that book fully knowing Im butchering it the whole time, and try my best to feel connected to something i know I cannot fully understand. And that's beautiful! That;s fantastic! There's something to truly love there! And veilguard doesn't even let us try to explore that idea!

The fact that we don't get to choose whether or not we drank from the well makes this so extremely frustrating. The game gives both the Inquisitor and Moriggan the benefits of the well without ever allowing our input. Because to me the only way that Lavellan could become even partially fluent in ancient elvhen would be if she drank from the well. But then Moriggan is also allowed all types of unlocked knowledge from her deus-ex-inner-mythal shes suddenly alright with having been provided from her mother despite her horror in DAI.

It takes away a huge part of what I think Solas really liked about a romanced Inky, as she was always so curious and open to learning new things about the past- Even when they would clash on certain subjects. It takes away this really lovely concept that even if they are going into the torment nexus together that he could at least be teaching her the language in there on top of it all. He would love her broken annunciations and he awkward cadence, and respond in kind ;w;

I'm super biased about the torment nexus ending because I love the mythological tragedy of it but there should have been so many more choices ugghh. While I would still choose this ending regardless I think the idea that the inquisitor should have been able to have at least an on screen spat between her and Solas, There is absolutely good reason for it all considering.

She should have had moments where she slips in and out of what she had learned from the ancient dialect, Where she goes from in canter to out because of how passionate she might be in that moment. Going from trade to elvhen and back. It would be glaringly obvious that she practiced what she did want to say to him in the final battle and he would be able to tell. It would mean so much more to him than her just magically understanding it all at once.

we could have one of his stupid chuckles with tears welling in his eyes and everything like damn you bioware *shaking fist at cloud*

At least give me some kind of 'a romanced inquisitor convened with spirits to learn' kind of explanation if you're going to magic it into her knowledge I mean please!

Anyway sorry for the ramble, I wouldn't have the confidence to share this if it wasn't for your posts so thanks for all of your lore-dives and analysis posts I do genuinely enjoy all of them.

♥🤝

yeah!! i very much agree. i'm very mildly bilingual (not good at it ahaha) and like... that language is not endangered in the least, half my family still speaks it, and it's still just hard to re-learn on a basic level! and to me there's always that degree of self consciousness and feeling a bit bad about not knowing, when it's a language i feel like i "should" know, as opposed to a fully second language that i'm just learning from scratch. and personally i get stressed and actively worse at it when people expect me to be fluent and get disappointed when i'm not. the social pressure alone removes some linguistic ability, haha.

so i found it sad that lavellan - regardless of the well - gets pushed into suddenly being 100% fluent. she can still be dalish and not good at it! or just not the type of person who'd think to speak in it in front of random people (everyone else standing there fdhjdgd). i thought of my inquisitor as a city elf who was adopted into the clan as a child, and tried REALLY hard to learn elvhen afterwards bc she wanted to fit in. but it's not "natural" to her to slip into it for longer or more complex ideas. and arguably if a lavellan got "woe, fluency be upon ye" from the well, they might actually be LESS likely to use it in speaking, bc it is also a bit of a mind control symptom at that point...

and imo it's actually really sweet that solas falls in love with someone who - at least in dai - is really different from him! on top of being a cringe fail mortal from the world he initially hated, and from a culture that doesn't like him, lavellan does not have to be very in tune with the language or culture as he knows it. he goes for their ~rare and marvelous spirit~ rather than anything else, and is happy to share with them, but it's never like a mandatory thing.

I mean, I know its a fantasy universe and I'm really projecting on it here but like hear me out- I have a dictionary and a book of stories translated by scholars I will never meet, and a series of audio-files that I myself had to copy convert to a format I could have on my phone and listen to. I'm untrained and uneducated on how to go about it sure but even with my available tools it feels like an uphill battle with every new word I pick out to practice. I sing songs from that book fully knowing Im butchering it the whole time, and try my best to feel connected to something i know I cannot fully understand. And that's beautiful! That;s fantastic! There's something to truly love there! And veilguard doesn't even let us try to explore that idea!

and this is exactly it!! i think that experience of slowly picking up things and figuring out how much you can learn is really important, and they just skipped over that entirely to "lavellan is now suddenly fluent in elvhen. yay!" which kind of elides how much work that is, how or why they would've done that, whether they would've wanted to...

like that's a whole character arc that seemingly just gets skipped offscreen and made mandatory! and it's not bc the writers are saying anything really deep and meaningful about cultural reconnection, but bc i think they were likely not ever in the position of having to think about those types of decisions themselves, and uncharitably, were like "ok. solas is super elfy, right. so to make it more romantic, make lavellan super elfy as well! yay! Problem Solved :)" when that was never a problem. ;-;

[silverynight]

The heart of the barbarian King

<---Previous

Chapter 15

"I'm Midoriya Izuku, Eri," the omega mumbles in a sweet voice, trying to calm the pup down. "Listen, I'd like to carry you to get you out of here quickly. Is that okay?"

The pup smiles nervously; she's still trembling, and even though they have to get going as soon as possible, Izuku decides to give her a few seconds.

"Yes, I–"

Suddenly, there's a weird noise approaching them; it sounds like a whistle, but it's ridiculous to think someone would be doing that in a situation like this.

"I'm sorry!" Eri sobs, running in the opposite direction after letting go of the omega's hand.

Izuku panics for a moment, the smoke is getting dense even in that area, and the pup fades from view in an instant.

The smoke makes it difficult to trace her scent, but the omega tries, worrying that she might have rushed towards the house covered in flames.

It's been a while since he lost sight of his friends, so he decides to focus on the lost child.

"Eri!" He calls her, even though he knows he'll have little success, there is too much noise around; people screaming and running as the flames keep illuminating everything in shades of orange.

Then, as he keeps going, wondering if he should turn around and help the people trying to put out the fire, he sees Eri again and runs towards her.

But Izuku realizes something's wrong as he notices the big hand squeezing her tiny shoulder with too much force.

The smoke clears a bit, and Izuku stops right in front of them, only to be facing Chisaki himself again.

That hand moves and the omega can see there's a knife pressed against Eri's back; it makes him see completely red for a second.

"Calm down, prime omega," Chisaki smirks, not moving one bit away from the scared pup.

"I'm not a prime omega," Izuku hisses, hands closing into fits in seconds, feeling a new rage inside him.

Chisaki is threatening his pup.

"Can't you feel your teeth sharpening? Only a prime omega has such a reaction to a pup in danger."

Now that he mentions it, Izuku recognizes the feeling now; that primal need to protect a pup, the urge to get rid of any threats around her without caring about the consequences. If he's not careful, he'll go completely feral, and Eri could end up hurt in the fight.

He cannot risk it.

"Now. I'm sure you know the drill by now. You alert someone of my presence, she dies. You try to attack me, she dies. You don't do exactly as I say, she dies."

Suppressing a growl, Izuku nods, constantly eyeing Eri with concern; the little one looks like she's tearing up already.

"What do you want from me?"

Chisaki grins, and the omega wants nothing more than to punch that smirk off his smug face.

"You'll lead us away from here. You have to walk slightly ahead and not turn around, or you'll be forcing me to hurt Eri here. Which is something neither of us want."

He knows her name. Did she ask him for help as well?

"Do you know her?"

"I found her a while ago, and I thought she'd be useful. She's been with me for a few weeks now."

By the way Eri presses her lips together, she doesn't like being near him that much.

Izuku feels more anger bubbling inside him, but he tries to control himself; he can't let himself go feral now.

"I'm s-sorry, Izuku-san... I didn't-"

"It's alright, Eri," the omega smiles back at her. "I'm not mad at you, I promise. None of this is your fault."

"Well, enough of this nonsense. We don't have time; the smoke is getting here." Chisaki cuts in, pressing the blade closer to the pup, prompting her to yelp.

Izuku can't stop the growl that emerges from his throat, directed at the alpha. Chisaki grins like the omega is paying him a high compliment or something.

"I will have so much fun with you," he smirks. Although his expression changes the moment he notices Izuku taking a step closer. "None of that. Turn around and lead us away from here."

What follows is a very tormenting hour in which Izuku can't help the people around, nor make his presence known or ask for help himself because he's sure Chisaki will hurt his pup.

He shakes his head; the smoke begins to clear because of the effort of the barbarians in the area but also because they're getting farther and farther away from the house on fire.

Izuku is not only sure there are more people still working for Chisaki among the barbarians, he also knows the fire was provoked and used as a distraction.

"I assume you found out Kacchan left a few of his friends keeping an eye on me."

Behind him, Chisaki laughs; it's amazing how no one even glances in their direction because they're too worried about the fire. Izuku can't blame them for that, they're dealing with their own nightmare.

"Yeah. Had to keep them away from you somehow," the former barbarian general says. "Though I wasn't expecting the knights. Why would the prince leave them with you? What kind of relationship you have with him?"

The omega presses his own lips and refuses to answer. The less Chisaki knows, the better.

"Silent treatment? Really?"

Eri makes another yelping sound that both alarms and makes Izuku see red again. He stops. They're heading to the woods, close to the mountain.

"I didn't ask you to stop. I just want a fucking answer."

"Prince Todoroki is my friend."

"I see... Still a slut, huh? It's alright. I don't mind as long as you don't have a mating bite."

Izuku doesn't care about the insults; he only wants his pup to be safe.

His pup. Why does he keep thinking of her as his pup? Izuku can't explain it, but he feels deeply connected to her, even though he just met her.

He needs to come up with a plan to save her.

***

Finally, they get near Katsuki's house; that part of the territory is almost isolated from the rest of the barbarians.

The woods are right there; the good thing is that they're still part of the barbarian kingdom, which means the curse won't activate anytime soon.

"Let's stop for a moment here."

Izuku does, trying to contain his rage one more time; his mind can't be clouded by strong, negative emotions, otherwise he'll probably lose it.

"You can turn around now."

A wave of relief spreads from his face towards his chest the moment he realizes Eri is perfectly fine; she's scared, but in one piece, and that's all that matters at the moment.

"Are you alright, Eri?"

"Yes, Izuku-san."

The fact that she doesn't use his family name to address him intrigues him, but it pleases him as well because it makes him feel closer to her. His inner omega insists that she's his pup now.

"Please, let her go."

Chisaki, grinning the whole time, moves the tip of the knife away from the little girl. Eri relaxes just a bit.

"She'll probably drag us back on our way out of the woods," he nods, considering it. "And she certainly is not useful to me anymore. But at the same time, I cannot risk her going back to ask for help."

"She won't!" Izuku assures him before turning his head down at her. "Eri, you must head to the mountain. You'll be safe there, I promise. I know it might not look like a safe place, but it is..."

He can't tell her about Dynamight, not in front of Chisaki... he knows the former general might be aware of the dragon, but perhaps not of his exact location.

Dynamight will keep Eri safe, Izuku is sure of it.

"I didn't say anything about letting her go."

The omega realizes what Chisaki is about to do before he even moves; fortunately, Izuku's body reacts on instinct and tackles the alpha to the ground before he can touch the child.

"Izuku-san!"

"Eri, run towards the mountain now! Don't worry about me. GO!"

Relief spreads down his body as he watches her leave, but the distraction costs him: a sharp pain in his abdomen tells him that Chisaki managed to cut him with the knife.

Instead of focusing on the pain, the omega bites the barbarian's hand, which prompts him to release the knife.

"YOU STUPID BITCH!"

Izuku tries to reach for the weapon, but Chisaki kicks him on the stomach, prompting the omega to hiss in pain again. The alpha rises from the ground first, but this allows Izuku to take the knife and get up with a jump.

Kirishima used to teach him how to attack with a dagger; this should not be that different from that.

He lets Chisaki lunge forward and takes advantage of the force of his movement and his body to grab one of his arms and send him flying over his shoulder. The former general curses again as he gets slammed against the ground.

The only problem is that all that effort is making Izuku lose blood from his open wound.

The alpha manages to grab one of Izuku's legs, but he cuts his hand, prompting him to release him almost immediately. Chisaki kicks him on the shins and the omega falls to is knees before making another cut on both the barbarian's ankles.

However, the effort is too much for him and the alpha gets his knife back.

When the general is about to throw himself at the omega again, they both hear a roar that sounds as strong as a thunder.

"Izuku-san, I made a friend! He's going to help me save you!"

The last thing he sees is little Eri sitting on Dynamight's back, with a triumphant grin on her cute face, then, after a few seconds, Izuku passes out from the blood loss.

***

"No, Kiri, I have no idea who the kid is, but she doesn't seem to want to get away from Midoriya."

"Have you asked one of the families outside?"

"Yeah, but none of them know who she is. Listen... I don't think she's a barbarian."

Izuku is not sure if he's dreaming or not, but he can hear his friends' voices nearby; the conversation doesn't make sense at first, until flashes of what happened before he lost consciousness hit his mind, one after another.

Eri, Chisaki... Dynamight!

He tries to open his eyes, but doesn't seem to have enough strength to do it until he smells Eri's distressed scent.

"Maybe you should wait outside for a moment, little one," Iida's voice reaches Izuku's ears when he manages to wake up completely.

He notices Eri curled up right at his good side on a bed with white, clean sheets and realizes they're both in some sort of infirmary. With one hand he strokes the pup's hair gently to calm her down; his scent turns so protective in seconds that everyone inside the room look at him.

"I want her to stay with me." It's the first thing that comes out of his dry lips; he doesn't even give Kirishima the opportunity to speak. "She's my pup now."

Eri smiles at him, and moves closer; Izuku tries to curl up his body against hers, even though his left side hurts.

"Don't move too much," Yaoyorozu says with worry. "Your wound hasn't healed yet."

"I-I'm fine," he mumbles, trying to suppress a grimace. "What happened to the fire? Is everyone alright?"

Ashido and Kirishima start informing him about the situation; they're still not sure what started the fire, but the house got partially destroyed. Some people got hurt because of it, although there are no casualties. Kirishima already helped the family who lived there move in another house.

Izuku manages to relax a bit after that.

"What happened to Chisaki?"

"We cured his wounds," Ashido grimaces, like the mere thought of helping him disgusts her. "He's in a cell now, right where he belongs. At least until our gremlin King arrives. He's probably murderous at the moment because Kiri told him what Chisaki did to you."

The omega can't suppress a smile; he's desperate to see Katsuki again.

"Dynamight?"

Ashido chuckles.

"That dragon is very protective of you, and probably the reason why we could catch Chisaki in the first place, although you did a damn good job at kicking his stupid ass."

Turns out Dynamight was not only trying to keep Izuku warm, he hit the former general with his tail to knock him out. He didn't return to his cave until he was completely sure the omega was in good hands.

Eri hasn't left his side ever since. She probably hasn't relaxed enough with all those unfamiliar faces around.

"Chisaki had something to do with the fire," he blurts out, in case he forgets; he's getting sleepy already, they surely gave him a potion for the pain and wounds. "And there are probably more people who support him here. We have to be careful."

Noticing that the kid is falling asleep, Kirishima asks about her; Izuku can't blame him, her presence could mean that maybe even more people who don't belong in barbarian kingdom are around, but the omega doesn't believe that's the case. Chisaki told him how he found her, and she seems... really lonely.

When he's done telling them how he found her, Izuku looks at every single one and adds: "I want to take care of her from now on, like she's my own pup."

He won't change his mind about that.

***

You can read Chapter 16 , Chapter 17 and Chapter 18 on my patreon already!

Patreon

[arch-aeology]

I did not expect so many people to enjoy 80s jayvik, but im glad yall are also allergic to happiness. Anyways here’s them with some falsettos lyrics

Aaand some bonus doodles of these freaks that I’m not gonna finish (cw for needles in the third one, though it’s nothing super graphic)

[inardescere]

@hancfubuki // Pirate!Caleb x Sea God!Rafayel, served

"At this rate, the children might be targeted next."

Deep sighs echo through the giant room, walls with a shiny blue sheen glowing under the light of the fake sun, shining brightly in contrast to the gloomy expressions on the faces of everyone present. "We've warned them not to go past the barrier, and most are smart enough not to disobey when they've seen what happened to our people." They shake their heads, some with arms crossed and their brows the arched with concern and fury, thinking back on the brave souls who had made it home, away from the insistent attacks from those... Pirates-- that's what those humans had called themselves.

"Konche still hasn't returned. He might be-..."

One figure turns, expression blank as he silently tries to walk out of the hall. But he's stopped with a heavy 'wait right there', and he gives a defeated roll of his shoulders, turning back to the elders of his kin.

"You don't know what humans will do if we attack them," the old man starts grimly. They are weaker by nature but stronger in numbers, they have always spoken this truth and he... lifts his head, eyes cold amethyst and pink, stopping any more words from the elder. He knew better than anyone here what they could do to them, the Lemurians. Because they knew this, knew of his failure, the pity in some and the understanding in others, he is able to walk out without another word. It is the rule of the Deep Sea. It is a survival of the fittest. If one doesn't attack first, they will become prey to bigger fish.

Luckily for them, in their seas, they had the advantage.

"Rafayel!"

A bluenette runs towards him from the direction of Whalefall city, stopping before him. Algie, her beautiful braid coming loose, looks up at him with the same look of hope and determination, fiery rage in her eyes just as bright as she steps up towards him. "Are you going up there? I'll come with you, help you distract them if you need! Those greedy humans, they deserve to be capsized and eaten by the sharks for taking my little brother!" Rafayel lets out a silent huff through his nose, much preferring this over the dull atmosphere within the hall. "No, I'll make a better distraction," he starts with a wave of his hand, watching as the woman looks ready to fight him in protest. "I need you to take Konche back safely while I deal with them." Since they don't know what state he is in.

With an understanding nod, they swim out towards the edge of the barrier where the usual sea creatures standing guard let them pass without a knock back behind the gates, rushing up to the top. Algie looks around, on high alert and scrunching her nose in distaste as thunder crashes on the surface of the raging sea. A perfect setting, and he signs, directing Algie to the side of the ship while he floats up, emerging through the waves and standing still on the surface as the waves by his feet go still under his power. The ship is already unstable, swaying from side to side as tall waves crash on its side, water filling the deck as it slowly sinks, and sinks. The sea knows, there is fury burning under his skin.

"There's something out there!"

Finally, he's seen. Tilting his head up with a languid toss to the side, he raises his hand and pulls a flute out from his sash. The sharp melody pierces through the storm, his eyes giving the shortest of glances towards Algie who climbs the side of the ship and onto deck, covered in a thick cloak as she blends in, hidden from the pirates running to stare at his show as she finds her brother. It is easy, to play a daring tune that weaves itself through the air, into the water which heeds his calls.

One by one, tendrils of water crash into men.

As soon as they are within the sea, no level of swimming prowess could save them from the water entering their lungs, pressure pulling them downwards as if the water was sentient and was punishing those who wronged its children. If only that were the truth.

The water calms as the sound of his flute ceases, the loud splash of water catching his attention and he sees the vibrant glow of scales as Konche is plunged into the sea with Algie's arms wrapped tightly around him. The ship now sways, eerily quiet in the night as pelts of rain continue to drip. Rafayel takes a languid stroll towards the ship, hand reaching up to touch the engravings on the side, another step as he stares at the anchor the size of a whale's child. Then he hears it, a spurting sound followed by coughs. A survivor, one that he looks down at and blinks slowly. Hmm... it wouldn't hurt to bring someone in for questioning.

It doesn't matter if he dies, or lives. If left here to fend for himself, he would easily be eaten up by the waves in seconds before the fish even got to him. But out of curiosity and the lingering anger running through his veins, he crouches down, feet balanced on the surface of the water as he reaches out, tilting the man's face up by the chin like one would to a pet. He was a bit ugly, but not as much as the others he saw knocked off the ship.

"Do you want to live?"

No matter his answer, Rafayel simply shrugs and picks him up by the arm, tossing him into the Deep Sea.

[shroomerr]

I finally watched arcane s2

[angeltism]

bg.3 launching a year after one of the big events involving my trauma and dropping one of the most mecore characters who echoes eerily well how I was during that time and how things were with my abuser. it was. um. it sure was. lar.ian can I get some money for the therapy /silly

[agendratum]

salang-salang is a beautiful song about how happy you get when your package finally arrives

[alliluyevas]

bruce springsteen the river song of all time

[fellhellion]

Utena’s soundtrack has literally Pavlov’d me. Overture hits and it’s like ah fuck here comes the waterworks.

[regulargoose]

Not emotionally prepared for what listening to never grow up (Taylor's version) is going to do to me.

[bigassmoth]

yandere! elf x reader

Character belonging to @meo-eiru

(I hope I did him justice)

You are quite fed up with your stupid captor coddling you like a "mother" and then coaxing you to swallow his cum. While you have tried to correct his thinking, talking just didn't cut it. You had to take action now.

"Sit down." You speak to Silas as soon as he comes into the home, tone authoritative. He gives you a large smile, ears flushing- since when have you ever greeted him so cutely!? He happily chirps his assent and sets down a basket of various berries and herbs to sit with you on his couch.

"How are you? Are you hungry? Are you thirsty-"

"Do you remember what I have told you about mothers?" You interrupt him and take a sip from your mug, which contains a latte thankfully absent of his cum.

Silas claps and then finally picking up on your tone, decides to lower his hands and voice to sound serious. "Yes! You said mothers care for their children so they grow into adults and then let them go to support them from afar. And you said that mothers don't....uhm..." It was a genuine mental block, Silas didn't like or understand what you told him about his un-motherly behavior so he forgot it entirely.

As you silently scrutinize him, Silas begins to tear up. "I-I'm sorry I forgot-- I was listening I promise but I just can't- it's so hard." He blubbers and then wails, tears spilling over his cheeks. Months ago you would have thought it was over-dramatic acting trying to gain your sympathy. Ah, such a sweet thought. But no, this elf couldn't help but cry over the idea of disappointing you- or worse, not giving you his full undivided attention.

"That's ok, Silas." His waterworks stop when you softly use his name, a rare treat. "I know, it's complicated for you. So we are going to try something different today, I am going to show you everything that a mother cannot do." You set down your mug.

"Ok! Please show me!" He readily agrees, fired up despite his cheeks still being wet.

"Show you, what mothers never do." You emphasize and crawl into his lap, gently pushing him down on his couch.

He tilts his head in confusion, "Mothers don't do this?"

"They do not." You assert and press your lips to his. You start off the kiss with searing heat, all tongue and teeth. You slurp his own tongue into your mouth and nibble it- he squeaks and jerks but your hands hold his face still. Through the thin gossamer fabric of his clothes you feel his cock begin to harden. Quick to seize the opportunity, you grind down harshly on him, using the rough material of your own pants and the rolling of your hips to push his dick down as it struggles to stand.

Silas is beside himself, his hands have naturally come to rest on your hips and cannot decide if they should push or pull you. His hips have a mind of their own, bouncing up against you as you cruelly keep his now fully-hard member between his thighs. He is seeking friction and relief now, different from the controlled release of his 'feedings'. The noises that come from his mouth are high in pitch and frequent, he slips out 'please's in between your bites. Only after you are satisfied he will remain under you do you pull your mouth away from his.

"Who can do this to someone else, Silas?" You demand coolly. He squirms under you and your hips still. Coming down from the feelings of surprise, Silas thinks hard about his answer.

"M....Mothers?" His hesitant answer is progress.

You briefly lift your hips just so his cock can raise against the back of your ass and then you sit back down- hard. Silas throws his head back and yelps, his thighs trembling.

"No." Comes your rigid response. Silas is crying and squirming, likely without realizing he is doing so. He doesn't give you a response, only moans and sniffles. You grip his face until he looks at you.

"Silas, this is what a lover would do." You lift and roll your hips so his dick can finally stand up, and you place yourself behind it so it sits between your crotch and his stomach. You grind on him without build-up, setting a rough and hard pace. To keep your balance you place your hands on his chest and pinch his nipples hard enough you know it hurts.

He is practically possessed under you, letting out the deepest sounds you had heard from him as they become unlocked from his chest. He fully grinds his hips against yours, holds your ass tightly. Typically he touches himself lightly, as if unsure why he is doing it. The wetness he feels from between your legs, restricted by your clothing. The warmth, angry painful warmth, from his cockhead against his own stomach and the trail of thick cum that has begun sliding down his stomach from all of his bucking. Dimly, Slias is aware of how small you are compared to him, not small like a child anymore. Small in a different way, still exciting but new. Would his throbbing piece fit inside of you? Would you even let him? Small as you are, clearly you are an experienced and controlled adult. For the first time since he found you, you finally hold power over him. Now he wants to relinquish all of his power, trust it in the hands of someone who can make him feel so good, so used, so...in the back of his mind Silas remembers a term he read in human erotica, "sexy".

"Lovers milk cocks, lovers pin each other down, lovers touch these parts. Only lovers, no one else is allowed." He wonders how he could have ever thought your voice was innocent. Just hearing you made his ears tickle and his balls tighten. Would you say his name in that husky tone? Would you say his name the way he is chanting yours, mouth thick with drool and tongue too abused to enunciate?

He is choking under you, at this point you can't tell if he is processing your words or not. Finally without warning he snaps, his orgasm zaps through him with a ruthlessness that he hasn't experienced before. His cum coats your pants and his stomach, his cock twitches under you. He moans softly, erotically, as he comes down from his high. On your ass his fingers are twitching, weak from the strongest orgasm of his life but desperate to continue holding you. You pull away anyway, deciding that your work is done. You could now change into clean clothes and hopefully be done with this strange misguided pseudo-incest coming from the biggest bimbo of his species. No more waking up to hear "A good mother always feeds her children!" and receiving a cumshot to the face. You briefly clean the cum off of your own skin and slip into decidedly more comfortable clothes, finding Silas where you left him.

You are tempted to leave him on the couch, shuddering in his afterglow. But your sympathy wins out, you quickly clean him off with a rag (and ignore the way he starts loudly moaning as you touch him), throw a blanket onto him, and place a cup of water by his head.

"Rest for a bit. Once you can walk, clean yourself up. I'm going to make dinner." You turn to go to the kitchen but Silas catches your wrist.

Patiently, you look at him and wait for him to speak. But nothing comes out, the elf stares at his hand holding onto you, mesmerized by your fragility. Something so dainty he could easily break it- this used to terrify him. But now he can only think of ways to restrain you, or to be touched by you.

"Ok, let go. We need food." You sigh and pull your hand back but his grip tightens.

"I am not your mother."

Your face lights up, thank god! He caught on way faster than you thought he would! You should have done this ages ago! Of course some backwards pervert elf would respond to backwards pervert reasoning.

"Yes! Perfect!" In your excitement you are patting his massive shoulder and grinning, "You got it. I am an adult, not a child. You are not my mother, and I don't need a mother. So no more feedings-"

With a speed you didn't know he had, Silas pulled you against his chest. You groan with frustration.

"Fuck! Not this again! I'm not going to suck your tits, your mammary glands don't produce milk if not pregnant-"

"Lovers..." He rasps against your ear. You still as one of his hands, suddenly so intimidatingly large, slides down your back and pushes itself into your pants. His fingers glide between your asscheeks and curiously rub at your hole. You are flinching from the contact, his arms iron cages. He raises his legs and puts them between your own, then spreads them so your hole is forcibly exposed for his fingering.

"No- this isn't what I meant. We aren't lovers, lovers are- it's different. It requires a mutual component of emotional intimacy and chemical responses from environmental circumstances-" He presses a kiss to your ear and then wiggles his tongue inside. You writhe against him until he withdraws.

"Hmm~ I don't get it." He cheerily says and his fingers begin thrusting into you. "But I am not a mother, I understand now. I'm sorry for making so many mistakes." Your clean pants are becoming drenched in your own slick. "We will only do lover things from now on. Milking, Pinning, Touching. Both of us." He whispers sappily into your ear, positively lovestruck. You are still as cute as ever, protesting against the things that make your body feel good. He understands now that you are used to giving, which is why you gave him so much pleasure. He will have to be more assertive a lover for you, to make sure that your body is milked, pinned, and touched.

[ineffectualdemon]

Mushroom Shen is the best Shen because he loosens up and you really get to see what an idiotic madman he is

In the short time he's a mushroom man he:

Saves some cultivators

Nearly introduces himself as Shen Qingqiu and then instead of using his actual name calls himself his dumb dick joke internet handle

Beats up a bunch of demon

Internally debates running a business with them

Gets distracted thinking about demon names being nonsense

Imagines Luo Binghe being called Big Dick Haver

Laughs himself silly and then slaps his own face

All without saying anything outloud to the demons he beat up

Asks them if they have seen anyone uncommonly sexy (meaning Luo Binghe) and then sends them on their way

Runs into Sha Hualing

Trims her nails because he remembers her tearing up Binghe's back during sex and disapproves

Rescues Liu Qingge's little sister and personal disciple from Sha Hualing

Chastises Yang Yixuan for being straight

Realises Luo Binghe is coming and hoofs it away meeting up with Liu Mingyan and Yang Yixuan again to have a meal

Listens to gossip about himself so much he forgets to be watching out for Sha Hualing

Gets very angry that people think Luo Binghe would rape him when OBVIOUSLY if Luo Binghe came on to him he'd put out because it's Luo Binghe

Leaves Liu Qingge's people and immediately gets captured again but with Luo Binghe this time

Sees Luo Binghe have emotions about the fact he looks a lot like Shen Qingqiu so cuts some cloth off of Sha Hualing's clothes and makes himself a shitty mask

Gets caught in one of Binghe's dreams and immediately blows his cover but doesn't realise and has a crisis over Binghe being gay and for him specifically

Realises that Liu Qingge is fighting Luo Binghe and even though he knows this has been happening for five years he abandons escape and goes to help Liu Qingge and ends up playing hot potato with his own corpse and lets Liu Qingge take it

Sees Luo Binghe looking sad and only doesn't say "hey it's okay I'm your Shizun" because he gets kidnapped by snake boy

Has another dream with Luo Binghe and is like "well I guess doing gay stuff is fine if it's with Luo Binghe" despite his sexuality crisis because Luo Binghe is being pathetic

Demands whores from Snake boy

Listens to the prostitutes sing a song about him fucking his disciple even as he plans his escape from Snake boy

Leaves snake boy and walks straight into Luo Binghe's trap because he literally cannot walk away from Luo Binghe effectively

Finds out Luo Binghe was acting Pathetic on purpose in the dream to trick him

Punishes Luo Binghe by telling him to go away

Gets mad when he does as asked

Wrestle/flirts when he does show up to show he's still mad but also skinship

Dies again

He's at maximum bullshit at Mushroom Boy

[luna-azzurra]

Crafting Breakup Scenes That Actually Hurt

(because “we can still be friends” is a war crime)

Listen, if your characters are splitting up and the vibe is “mutual and mature” and “no tears at all”, congratulations, you’ve written a politely boring obituary for a relationship. Breakups are messy. Even the amicable ones. Especially the amicable ones. Because it's not just losing a person, it's losing the version of yourself that existed next to them.

❥ The “We’re Still Halfway in Love” Break Most people don't walk away clean. They still love each other a little. Or a lot. It's not a neat amputation—it’s tearing Velcro off skin. Show that ache. The lingering looks. The fingers almost reaching out and then clenching into fists instead. The “if one of us said ‘stay’ right now, this wouldn’t end” tension. Make your readers beg for one of them to crack and then don't let them.

One character leaves their favorite sweater behind. Not on purpose. Not exactly. They just... forget it. Or maybe they want to give themselves an excuse to come back for it later.

❥ The "Wrong Words at the Worst Time" Implosion Nobody says the perfect thing during a real breakup. They stammer. They say too much, or nothing at all. They lash out in clumsy, cruel ways because "I’m hurting" doesn’t sound heroic, but "you never loved me right anyway" comes out real easy. Write the fights that should have gone differently. Let your characters regret what they said before the echo even fades.

“I guess you never needed me after all.” Silence. The other person blinking like they’ve been shot. Because that wasn’t true. But now it’s hanging in the air, poisonous and permanent.

❥ The “Silent Break” Because Sometimes Words Are Useless Not every heartbreak needs a monologue. Sometimes it's sitting in a car together, staring out the windshield, saying nothing. Sometimes it’s standing at a door, one hand on the handle, too many words trapped in your throat. Let silence be heavy. Let it say, “I love you but I can’t anymore” without making anyone say a damn word.

The engine's ticking as it cools. Neither of them moves. One finally gets out of the car. They don't look back.

❥ The “Stupid Mundane Detail That Breaks You” Moment Big speeches are forgettable. But a breakup feels real when it’s tied to something stupid and tiny. Like they’re arguing and suddenly one of them notices how the other always folds the pizza box before throwing it out. Or how their coffee mug is still sitting on the table. Ordinary things take on the weight of the extraordinary loss.

She’s screaming, he’s begging, and somehow he notices her chipped nail polish and thinks, God, I’m losing her, and I still know what shade that is.

❥ The “One Last Selfish Touch” Goodbye Before they walk away, before its final, one of them touches the other’s face. Or smooths their hair. Or pulls them into a hug that lasts way too long. Selfish, tender, desperate. Knowing it’s the last time and doing it anyway because they physically cannot help themselves.

“Don’t go.” “Then tell me to stay.” Silence. Shaking heads. They kiss. It doesn’t fix a damn thing. It just hurts better.

Remember: The breakup isn’t the death of love. It’s the death of hope. That's what you need to break. Not just the hearts. The possibility of a different ending. That’s when it wrecks your reader in the best way.