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celestie0 · 9 months ago

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gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 12/x (probably 18)

ᰔ words. 11.3k

a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i don’t see you

11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?

11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where i’m gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyo’s side of the field

11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then I’ll look for you before the game starts

11:10am you: no pls don’t. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i don’t want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(

11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha you’re silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there

11:14am you: or be square?

11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie

It’s a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. You’re stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and it’s the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.

Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your car’s still at the shop, but you’re happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.

It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldn’t be at this game, and sure enough, it’s all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were cc’d in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you weren’t opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).

It’s because it’s the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Men’s Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasn’t much of an option for them anymore.

And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadium’s capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the school’s striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside.

You’ve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.

Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then she’s darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. She’s understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kai’s little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets.

A glance at your phone tells you it’s close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyo’s players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCU’s players practice shots off to the left. You can’t spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to.

When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. He’s leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and he’s stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like he’s mapping out plays in his head.

When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly there’s nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.

“Hey, you,” he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner that’s tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.

“Are you ready to win today?” you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, “clearly there’s no pressure.”

He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. “We’ve got no choice but to win.”

“Is that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?” you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. “Also, apparently you take years off of his life.” Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.

Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. “Yeah, it’s something he says to us often.”

“So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

It’s hard to assume that he didn’t have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesn’t think about these kinds of things as much as you do. “I see.”

His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why don’t we—…why don’t we just give it a go already? I don’t see how we can move forward if you won’t at least let me take you out on a date.”

Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. You’re sure he’s all you’ll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life.

You know when you want something so bad you don’t know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true?

“I just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,” you confess, “it’s just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. I don’t know if this is odd to say, and maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind of…forgot who you were for a little bit.” This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything.

His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced?

“I just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.” You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasn’t giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, to be honest.”

You can tell he’s at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because it’s exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that they’re within arms reach but never truly. And they’re slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that it’s a fault of your own. You’re not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, “what’s a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.” But he takes a deep breath, like he’s already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.

There’s a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as he’s suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field.

“Can we continue this conversation after the game?” he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, “sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like you’re taking up his time.

He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again.

“Um. Just a sec,” you say, “I have something to give you before your game.”

“Oh?” he looks at you with interest, “I fucking love things.”

“You have to close your eyes though.”

“…what is the thing…” He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.

“Just close your eyes!” you snap at him.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. “You’re scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.”

You roll your eyes, useless because he doesn’t see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. It’s short and sweet with the sound of a peck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. “Alright, c’mere you,” he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.

“No no no, only on the cheek for now,” you say with a small laugh.

He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. “You can’t do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.”

“If you win, then, maybe I’ll let you kiss me for real.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He’s close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. “Alright. I like those odds.”

You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyo’s alma mater.

You’re stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyo’s side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minato’s filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athlete’s station and then he comes back around to find you.

“Are you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,” he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.

You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. “Yesss, all set. I’ll try to keep up.”

He nods at you in approval.

The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course they’re high, because if they lose today then they’re out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but can’t quite discern.

Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and they’re all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realize— it’s their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that haven’t qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable.

The chief referee’s whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCU’s players choose to attack the left side goal.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. There’s a rhythm that you’ve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. You’ve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps you’ve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyo’s colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and it’s a desire you share with the crowd.

Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and you’re lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the ref’s whistle.

And then the kickoff starts.

The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyo’s players, placing pressure on YCU’s defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyo’s #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowd’s horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCU’s forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.

Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each other’s defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyo’s overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyo’s defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyo’s best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCU’s striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before it’s sent flying into the net.

The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit.

With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU.

Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta you’ve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyo’s defense winded from play.

You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead.

The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts.

YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyo’s offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but it’s passed between UTokyo’s players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.

The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows there’s not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him.

He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and it’s sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you.

1-1, even match.

UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojo’s back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.

They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyo’s defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.

Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCU’s attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet.

The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCU’s defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net.

2-1, UTokyo.

It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. You’re shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. It’s a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga who’s standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what he’s seeing.

You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and you’re insanely glad you’re not one of YCU’s defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines.

Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

The “athletic zone”... You’ve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and they’re completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.

Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state.

YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff.

There’s fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojo’s signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and there’s an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCU’s center forward loses the ball over the goal line.

Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyo’s best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCU’s defense. And with complete trust in his team, that’s exactly where he kicks the ball.

Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that they’ll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post.

You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where you’re dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. There’s no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You can’t even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.

It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalie’s head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him.

3-1, UTokyo.

The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers you’ve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.

There’s a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if they’re just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you can’t tear your gaze away from Gojo.

It’s one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with.

And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt so…close? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what you’ve been wanting resurfacing powerfully.

“This is insane,” you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.

You twiddle with your camera straps. “I know…almost done with the first half and we’re up 3-1…I thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But what’s even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.” He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. “By Gojo Satoru.”

Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.

“You know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?” Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in.

You shake your head and wait for his response.

He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. “Four. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osaka’s center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no one’s managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.”

You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.

“I think he’s trying to beat the record.”

You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the referee’s whistle draws everyone’s attention back to the field.

The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyo’s very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this year’s season so far, and is now on the road to beat the league’s long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!” And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.

YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the referee’s whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime.

All of UTokyo’s players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all don’t know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing.

You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as you’ve learned to at least, and you can tell he’s not satisfied. He’s thinking it’s not enough. There’s still more to be done, and it’s not time to celebrate yet.

His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you.

Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet.

Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while they’re at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and she’s showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side.

UTokyo’s players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound.

You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.

“There’s my freaky little photographer,” he says, and he’s standing up straight and—wait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.

Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments he’s been cocky, he’s been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, he’s been transformed into the final boss of cocky.

His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight you’ve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.

“You’re sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,” you reprimand him, “this is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.”

“Hey, you’re the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?” one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.

“Oh yeahhh, ‘cause Satoru wasn’t paying attention,” another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field.

You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojo’s got an irritated look on his face and he’s shrugging his teammate’s elbow off of his shoulder.

“I really hope you’re getting my good angles,” his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together.

The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. “At least it didn’t leave a scar on your cute face—”

Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he grumbles, “she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?” he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, “when I—”

“Oh god, you know what’s soooooooooo super sexy to me?” you interrupt him. “When guys are humble.”

“Oh c’monnn,” he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. “Tell me you aren’t at least impressed by me.”

You pout, because you are, and you’d really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. “Satoru,” you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, “I’m working right now. Cut it out.”

He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize you’re being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. “What? Are you embarrassed?”

“Of what?” Your face twists with confusion.

“Of me. Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks.

“No. Why would I be embarrassed of you?” you ask with sharpness.

“I don’t know, just, sometimes I feel like you’re always annoyed by me,” he says with a sigh. “It’s like, you’re really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and it’s sort of messing with my head.”

You pout. “You were messing with my head for weeks.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, “but you don’t have to act like you’re all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.” He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. “You don’t have to act embarrassed around me either.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. “In fact, I’m the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.”

He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. “Can you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.”

“You kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,” you grit as you cross your arms. “That’s the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.”

“Oh, okay, so there’s nothing else I’ve done that shows you that I’m serious about you?” he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

No. That’s not true, not true at all. But he’s pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not embarassed of me, and if you’re really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.” You’re speaking out of spite, and you fear you’ve just set him off too.

“Fine,” he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporter’s hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle he’s now holding with confusion. “I will.”

“W-Wait—” you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.

The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.

“Uhhh,” you hear Choso from beside you, who’s strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, “Why the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.”

“It can’t be for any publicly decent reason,” Geto muses.

All you can do is watch.

“Hi, uh,” Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, “sorry. I’m Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me from—uh, the game you’ve been watching?”

Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldn’t know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long.

Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. “Oh, yeah, uh, number 10,” he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, “division player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.”

“SAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!” you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.

“Anywho,” Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him he’s got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. “Just here to say that there’s this girl I really like.”

The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope he’s gonna name call one of them.

Gojo’s voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. “She’s standing over there,” he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, “with the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. She’s super cute and I really like talking to her.”

“Uh-oh,” Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you can’t.

Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like he’s working the crowd. “But get this—she thinks I’m not fuckin’ serious about her!!!”

The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, he’s playing them like a violin.

“Huh?” Gojo’s voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that he’s being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, “oh, what’s that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. I’m not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Er— shit, okay. Wait—shoot, okay.”

Choso’s smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.

“LIKE I SAID,” Gojo continues into the mic, “the girl I like thinks I’m just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that I’m serious about her, I’m gonna…” He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he says—“I’m gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.”

H–

Huh?!?!?

You don’t even have time to be horrified or scared, you’re just bewildered beyond belief that that’s what he came up with.

What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?

The crowd goes wild, it’s no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and you’re going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.

The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

“Ayo why’s Satoru Magic Mike’ing the field right now?” one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, “What the fuck did I miss?”

The cameraman does God’s work in a hella zoom-in of Gojo’s sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you can’t help but stare even among all your horror. It’s like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but he’s making a fool out of himself for you.

He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas he’s a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and there’s anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security.

Except he’s an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?

The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that you’re pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadium’s got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers don’t know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.

And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and he’s down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojo’s—forgive me, I need to be crass—huge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.

He’s outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowd’s cheers and riots and roars and you feel like you’re the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe you’re just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.

He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesn’t. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.

His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. “Baby.” The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. “Will you do me the honor,” he’s huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, “of being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?” And then he holds the mic to your lips.

“W-Wha—” you stutter, and there’s chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize they’ve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! “Oh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!”

The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and you’re gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yaga’s vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga can’t kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.

You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasn’t even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you don’t know Gojo as well as you think you do.

And then the halftime timer is up.

You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.

“Did that prove to you that I’m not embarrassed of you?” he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space.

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,” you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. “I’ll have to move to a different country.”

His grin is relaxed. “Yeah well you asked for it.”

“Maybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.”

“You’re my girlfriend now, you’ve gotta get used to it.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Satoru–”

“Tomorrow,” he cuts you off, “Hinode pier. I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.” And then he’s attentive to the chirp of the referee’s whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while you’re left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.

The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you haven’t taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.

Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that it’s shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCU’s player’s foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it was—that look again of pure focus.

3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.

It’s immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyo’s defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Geto’s feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyo’s defense, and one of YCU’s strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.

3-2.

The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.

One of YCU’s offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCU’s offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Choso’s attempt to lunge for it in mid air.

Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the players’ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the league’s number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isn’t good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other team’s defense.

Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and he’s huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but there’s a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCU’s defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius.

The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyo’s string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCU’s goalkeeper, up towards the corner, except–

It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who can’t even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and that’s exactly what it does.

The stadium erupts with the momentum.

4-3, UTokyo.

It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times they’ll ever get to play together on a team.

Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that he’s tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo players’ faces in the wake of YCU’s relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk.

YCU’s center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyo’s players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasn’t the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play.

The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.

YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyo’s midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCU’s offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.

Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCU’s star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipation–

And the ball lands in the net.

4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock.

There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum.

To your surprise, Gojo isn’t the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field.

The referee chirps his whistle.

Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyo’s midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCU’s defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowd’s roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyo’s defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion.

It was a moment you don’t think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.

With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCU’s offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yards–

In a moment you couldn’t believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalie’s hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.

With three-two-one seconds, the match was over.

5-4, UTokyo’s win.

The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their school’s team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.

You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You can’t see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.

His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath.

“IT’S OFFICIAL!! IT’S OFFICIAL!! UTOKYO’S VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITY’S RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!”

The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed.

You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.

He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your school’s team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But he’s made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.

“I believe you owe me a kiss,” he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesn’t stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.

You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.

You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, you’re pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.

It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, you’re not the one behind the camera taking the photo. You’re the one that’s in it.

[end of kickoff ch12]

a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior 😂😂 i’ll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!

OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didn’t really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n i’m not sure if i’ll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojo’s pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant.

the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0

➸ you're all caught up!

additional notes. please do not pressure me for updates or ask when i will next update (read rules); taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you'd like! :0)

taglist:

@megumisdivinedogs @witchbybirth @avatarl0v3r @mwtsxri @asherheed

@wynney @delulux3 @higurumapet @zombriesworld @xenop0p

@phoenix-eclipses @who-can-touch-my-boob @mo0nforme @reagan707 @lost-resonance

@foulprincesscycle @luniunia @alekssashka7 @beabadobeee @thexmistress

@tsukikourito @pickuptruck01 @gabriiiiiiii @4y3sh4 @tiredflame132

@cliosunshine @btszn @izayas-rings @semra4 @ethereally-lyann

@drthymby @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010

@joemama-2 @horisdope @banenemilk @nanasukii28 @spindyl

@ri-sa20 @thexmistress @mwtsxri @ritsatoru @sashisuslover

@chwesuh-imnida @megumisthirdog @imjustaweirdnerd @angelicscribe

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mrs-delaney · 1 month ago

Text

Behind The Lens | Part One

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

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 20k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Slow burn, unrequited love, emotional repression, late-night work sessions, professional boundaries being pushed to their limit, that sick feeling when you realize he’s seeing someone else, and the kind of yearning that makes you spiral in your group chat. No resolution yet, just a lot of tension, timing issues, and feelings no one wants to name.

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open for now, but it may take a minute to get to them, I’ve got several in the inbox.

Author's Note: So here’s Part One. I’m hoping this will be a two-parter, but let’s be real, I’m long-winded so we’ll see. My goal with this section was to really sit in the unrequited part. The slow burn. The quiet ache. The years of showing up, holding back, staying professional, and still falling deeper anyway. The almosts. The not-quites. The timing that never seemed to line up.

I’m also a little nervous because this is my first request and I really hope I got it right. Fingers crossed it hits the way it’s supposed to.

If you’re here for the angst, the emotional spiral, the girl who’s been in love with him for years while pretending it’s fine, this part’s for you. The heartbreak isn’t over yet, but the foundation is laid.

* * *

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility

The media room buzzed with activity, camera equipment being assembled, lighting adjusted, and PR staff running through talking points. First overall draft pick. Heisman Trophy winner. The savior of Cincinnati football. The narrative had been constructed well before Joe Burrow ever set foot in the building.

Y/N Y/L/N checked her camera settings for the third time, methodically working through her mental checklist. First official shoot as a Bengals staff member, and they'd assigned her to the franchise quarterback. No pressure.

Her phone vibrated against the table. Three texts in a row from the sibling group chat that hadn't stopped since she'd landed the job two weeks ago.

Matt: Don't drop the camera when you see him

Aaron: Ask him if he'll sign my jersey

Lucas: Remind him that the Y/L/N family has survived a lot of bad quarterbacks

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling as she typed back a quick response.

Y/N: I'm a PROFESSIONAL. Unlike some people I know.

Lucas: I’m professionally jealous that you're breathing the same air as our franchise savior

Growing up with three football-obsessed brothers in Louisville had prepared her for this world in ways her master's degree in sports management never could. She'd spent her childhood being dragged into backyard games, learning to throw a perfect spiral out of self-defense, and developing an encyclopedic knowledge of plays and statistics just to hold her own at the dinner table.

"He's on his way down," announced Kayla from PR, clipboard pressed against her chest.

"Everyone ready?"

Y/N nodded, adjusting her Bengals polo, still crisp and new against her skin, and straightened her posture. The room settled into expectant silence, cameras at the ready, the culmination of months of draft speculation about to materialize in the doorway.

When Joe Burrow entered, there was none of the fanfare his status might have suggested. He walked in with a quiet confidence that seemed to belong to someone much older than twenty-three. Dressed in Bengals gear that still looked just slightly unfamiliar on him, he surveyed the room with calm, observant eyes. His expression remained neutral, but there was something assessing in his gaze, taking in details and remembering faces.

"Good morning everyone," he said, nodding to the room.

Y/N watched through her viewfinder as PR staff introduced themselves, directing him to his mark for the initial photoshoot. She captured his handshakes, his nods, the way he listened carefully to instructions. Professional, focused, but with none of the arrogance that often accompanied first-round quarterbacks.

"We'll start with some standard shots," Kayla explained. "Then move to action poses with the ball."

As if on cue, an assistant hurried forward with a football, but in his eagerness, he fumbled the toss. The ball spiraled awkwardly through the air on a collision course with an expensive light setup.

Without thinking, Y/N stepped forward from behind her camera, catching the ball one-handed before it could cause any damage. The leather felt familiar against her fingers, a muscle memory from countless backyard games. She transferred the ball to her right hand in one fluid motion and sent a perfect spiral directly to Burrow.

He caught it easily, but his eyebrows lifted slightly, and that subtle Joe Burrow expression of being impressed without overstating it. The hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"Nice hands," he commented.

Heat rushed to Y/N's cheeks, but her voice remained steady. "Growing up with three brothers," she explained, already retreating to her camera. "You either learn to catch or get hit in the face a lot."

Something flickered in his eyes, recognition, maybe, of someone who understood the language of the game beyond the surface. He spun the ball in his hands, considering her for a moment longer than necessary before turning his attention back to the waiting PR team.

As the photoshoot continued, Y/N fell into the rhythm of her work, directing Joe through various poses with professional efficiency. However, something had shifted in their interactions, and a natural ease was developing between them. He responded to her cues without question, seeming to trust her judgment on angles and lighting in a way that surprised the more veteran staff.

"Can we get a few looking directly into the camera?" Y/N requested, adjusting her position.

Joe locked eyes with her through the lens, his gaze steady and unreadable. For a brief moment, it felt like everything else in the room had faded away, leaving just her, him, and the camera between them. Y/N swallowed hard, maintaining her composure as she captured the shot.

"Perfect," she said, her professional mask firmly in place. "Now just a slight smile, nothing forced."

The corner of his mouth lifted genuinely this time. Not the media smile he'd been giving the other cameras, but something quieter. Something real.

Click.

Later that evening, as Y/N sorted through the day’s photos from her new cubicle, she paused on the last shot. There was something in his expression she hadn’t noticed before. Focused, almost curious, like he wasn’t just looking at the camera but through it. Not vacant. Not posed. Just present.

She quickly moved to the next image, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. This was Joe Burrow, the franchise quarterback. She was just the newest media team member and was lucky to land a job during a pandemic. Whatever she thought she saw in that photograph was professional respect at best, her imagination at worst.

Her phone buzzed again.

Lucas: So... did you embarrass us or what?

Y/N glanced back at the photo on her screen, at those steady eyes looking directly into her camera, and smiled to herself.

Y/N: I was the picture of professionalism. Just caught a rogue football one-handed, saved thousands of dollars in equipment, and threw a perfect spiral to Joe Burrow. No biggie.

The response was immediate, all three brothers texting simultaneously:

Matt: WHAT

Aaron: YOU THREW A PASS TO JOE BURROW

Lucas: WE'RE GOING TO NEED DETAILS. ALL OF THEM. NOW.

Y/N laughed, setting her phone aside without responding. Let them stew in their jealousy for a while.

She returned to the images, continuing to sort through them with methodical precision, telling herself that this was just the first day of many, that Joe Burrow was just another player she'd be working with, and that the way he'd looked at her through the camera meant nothing.

But as she exported the final selections, she couldn't help saving that one particular shot to her personal folder. Joe looking directly into her lens, that hint of a genuine smile, eyes alive with something that might have been curiosity.

* * *

The COVID Protocol Meeting

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting

“And that’s the revised media protocol for the season,” Kayla concluded, her face serious in the Zoom window. “Limited in-person access, virtual press conferences, and strict distancing during the interviews we do conduct face-to-face.”

Y/N scribbled notes, mentally calculating how these restrictions would affect their ability to connect fans with the team. Everything would be more distant, more sanitized. The exact opposite of what made sports culture thrive.

“We need to address the fan engagement problem,” the director of media relations added. “No fans in the stadium means we’re losing that community connection that’s central to the Bengals experience.”

Y/N hesitated, then unmuted herself. “I have some ideas, if you’re open to them.”

Several of the veteran staff members exchanged glances, the new hire speaking up so soon. But Kayla nodded encouragingly.

“Go ahead, Y/N.”

“First, what if we did cardboard cutouts in the stands? Fans could purchase their photos to be placed in the seats. It gives them a presence in the stadium, provides visibility during broadcasts, and could generate revenue we could direct toward COVID relief efforts in Cincinnati.”

The director nodded slowly, making notes.

“Second,” Y/N continued, her confidence building, “I know the team is planning the march to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center and the $250,000 pledge to community programs. We could create a digital content series highlighting the social justice initiatives. In-depth interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, educational components. It’s meaningful content that connects to what’s happening beyond football.”

“And third, we need to replace in-person interactions with virtual ones. Q&A sessions with players, live-streamed limited-access practices, interactive social media challenges. The fans need to feel part of the Bengals community even when they can’t physically be here.”

When she finished, there was a moment of silence before the director spoke.

“These are solid, Y/N. Particularly the social justice series.” He looked around the virtual room. “Let’s form working groups to develop each of these. Y/N, I want you on the social justice content team, coordinating with player involvement.”

After the meeting ended, Y/N’s phone pinged with a direct message from Kayla.

Impressive first strategy meeting. The rookie quarterback is participating in the Freedom Center march. Since you’ll be handling content for that initiative, I’m making you the point person for his involvement. Virtual introduction tomorrow at 10.

Y/N stared at the message, excitement and anxiety wrestling in her stomach. Three weeks into the job, and she was already working directly with the franchise quarterback on a project that actually mattered.

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Meeting

Y/N logged into the Zoom call five minutes early, double-checking her presentation on the Bengals’ planned social justice initiatives. She’d spent half the night researching the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center and preparing thoughtful questions about what aspects of the initiative Joe might connect with most.

At exactly 10:00, a new window appeared in the meeting. Joe Burrow sat in what looked like a home office, wearing a plain gray t-shirt, his expression attentive but neutral.

“Good morning,” Y/N began, professional despite her nerves. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N from the media team.”

“The one with the good arm,” Joe replied, that hint of recognition in his eyes. “Kayla mentioned you’re heading up content for the social justice initiative.”

Y/N nodded, momentarily caught off guard that he remembered her. “That’s right. We’re developing a content series around the team’s commitments, particularly the Freedom Center march and community programs.”

She shared her screen, outlining the proposed series – player perspectives on social justice, educational components about Cincinnati’s history with the Underground Railroad, and documentation of the team’s ongoing involvement in community programs.

“We want this to be authentic, not performative,” Y/N explained, watching Joe’s reactions carefully. “So I wanted to talk with you directly about what aspects of this initiative matter most to you personally.”

Joe leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting from polite attention to genuine engagement.

“I appreciate that approach,” he said. “A lot of teams are putting out statements, but how many are actually listening to the communities they claim to support?” He paused, considering. “My platform comes with responsibility. I want to use it to amplify voices that don’t get the same audience I do automatically.”

Y/N found herself nodding, impressed by his thoughtfulness. This wasn’t a PR-trained response; this was someone who had clearly been reflecting on his position and influence.

“What if we structured part of the series that way?” she suggested. “Instead of just documenting the team’s involvement, we could use player platforms to highlight community organizers and local leaders who’ve been doing this work for years.”

Something changed in Joe’s expression – a spark of interest, a subtle shift as he reassessed her.

“That’s exactly the right approach,” he said. “I’d be on board for that. Actually…” he hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “I’ve been having conversations with some of the veteran players about organizing additional player-driven initiatives beyond what the team has planned. Would that be something you could help develop content around?”

Joe Burrow was a rookie, sure, but already, he was stepping into leadership. And now, somehow, he was bringing her into it.

He looked right at her this time, more serious than before.

“I might be a rookie, but I want to help create the right culture here.”

Y/N tried not to show her surprise. Joe Burrow, rookie quarterback, was already taking leadership on social initiatives and was bringing her into the conversation.

“Absolutely,” she assured him. “Whatever you guys decide to do, I can make sure it’s documented thoughtfully. Just keep me in the loop.”

Joe nodded, seeming satisfied. “Will do. Send me the schedule for the Freedom Center content when you have it. And Y/N?”

“Yea?”

“I meant what I said about amplifying other voices. That includes inside the organization. If you have ideas, bring them directly to me. I might be a rookie, but I want to help create the right culture here.”

After the call ended, Y/N sat back in her chair, processing. Joe Burrow wasn’t just another entitled athlete performing social consciousness for the cameras. There was a genuine commitment there, a willingness to listen and learn.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Lucas.

Lucas: How’s life shaping the Bengals’ social media empire?

Y/N smiled to herself.

Y/N: Just had a meeting with Burrow about the social justice initiatives. He’s actually… impressive. Not what I expected.

Lucas: Damn, they’ve got you working directly with QB1 already? Moving up fast, sis.

She didn’t respond, still thinking about Joe’s parting words. Bring ideas directly to me. It was an unusual level of accessibility from the franchise quarterback, especially to someone so new.

Y/N opened her laptop and began outlining additional concepts for the social justice series, feeling for the first time like she might be building something meaningful in this role and finding an unexpected ally in Joe Burrow.

* * *

September 2020 - Cincinnati

The morning of the team’s march to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center dawned clear and crisp. Y/N arrived early, coordinating with the small camera crew allowed under COVID protocols. She had two jobs today: document the event and support Joe’s involvement.

Players and staff gathered in small, distanced groups, many wearing masks with “END RACISM” printed across them. Y/N moved among them with her camera, capturing candid moments of conversation and preparation.

She spotted Joe standing slightly apart, reviewing what looked like notes on his phone. Approaching cautiously, she asked, “Everything good for today?”

He looked up, recognition crossing his features. “Y/N. Yeah, just reviewing some history on the Freedom Center. Figured I should be informed if they ask me questions.”

Something about his diligence touched her. Many players showed up for PR events with minimal preparation, but here was Joe Burrow, studying historical context before a march.

“The content team put together some background materials,” Y/N offered. “I can send them to you.”

“That would be helpful,” he nodded. “I want to get this right.”

As they began walking toward the starting point, Joe asked, “You’re from Kentucky, right? Louisville?”

Y/N looked at him in surprise. “Yeah. How did you remember that?”

A slight shrug. “You mentioned your brothers when we talked about the social justice series. Said they grew up playing football in Louisville.”

Before she could respond, they reached the gathering point, and Joe was pulled into a conversation with veteran players. Y/N stepped back into her professional role, camera ready, but she couldn’t help reflecting on Joe’s unexpected recall of personal details she’d mentioned only in passing.

The march itself was powerful, players, coaches, and staff walking together toward the Freedom Center, a physical demonstration of commitment to addressing racial injustice. Y/N documented it all, but found her lens repeatedly drawn to Joe. Despite being a rookie, he walked with purpose, engaged in serious conversations with teammates and staff.

At the Freedom Center, the team gathered for a group photograph and brief remarks. Y/N positioned herself to capture reactions, smiling slightly when Joe adjusted his stance to be more visible in her frame. She didn’t think he even realized it yet, but he was already learning how to work with the camera and with her.

As the formal portion concluded, Y/N was reviewing footage when Joe approached, now carrying a Freedom Center brochure.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, nodding toward her camera.

“Plenty of good material,” she confirmed. “Thanks for being so aware of the documentation needs.”

“That’s your job, right? Making us look good,” he said, that ghost of a smile appearing briefly.

“Making you look authentic,” Y/N corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Joe considered this, then nodded in apparent approval. “You planning to go through the exhibits while you’re here?”

“I want to, but I need to get this footage back for initial editing.”

Joe glanced at the brochure in his hand. “I’m going to take a look around. Part of the point was to learn, not just be seen here.” He hesitated, then added, “Let me know what you think of the final content package. I’d like to see how this whole initiative comes together.”

“Will do,” Y/N promised, trying not to read too much into his interest in her work.

As Joe walked away toward the museum entrance, Y/N’s phone vibrated with a text.

Matt: Saw coverage of the march on ESPN. Did you meet any of the players?

Y/N smiled to herself, thinking of Joe reviewing historical notes and asking for her feedback on the content.

Y/N: Working directly with several of them on this project. They’re taking it seriously. More than just a PR move.

She tucked her phone away and packed up her equipment, reflecting on how the Joe Burrow she was getting to know differed from both the media portrayal and her own initial expectations. There was a thoughtfulness to him, an attention to detail that extended beyond football.

Y/N glanced toward the museum entrance where Joe had disappeared. The flutter in her stomach when he’d remembered details about her family, the way her pulse had quickened when he’d approached her earlier, these weren’t just professional responses to a colleague.

Oh no, she thought, the realization dawning with uncomfortable clarity. She was developing a crush on Joe Burrow. The franchise quarterback. Her literal job assignment.

Y/N forced herself to turn away, focusing intently on packing her equipment. This was exactly the kind of complication she couldn’t afford in her first real career position. She was here to document the Joe Burrow era, not catch feelings in the middle of it.

But as she headed back to the media van, she couldn’t quite shake the image of Joe studying historical notes before the march, his quiet determination to get things right. Or the way his eyes had met hers when he’d asked about her Kentucky roots, attentive and genuinely interested.

Professional boundaries, she reminded herself firmly. Just doing my job.

Even as she thought it, Y/N knew she was already in trouble.

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

“This is surreal,” Y/N murmured, walking between rows of cardboard cutouts staring blankly from the stands. Her idea had turned into rows of life-sized fan cutouts, filling the empty seats with frozen smiles and silent support.

She snapped photos for social media, occasionally recognizing faces of season ticket holders who had submitted their images. The empty stadium echoed with the sounds of her footsteps and the occasional distant voice of facilities staff.

“Quite the crowd you’ve assembled.”

Y/N turned to find Joe Burrow standing a few yards away, hands in the pockets of his team-issued sweatpants. He wasn’t scheduled for any media today, and she hadn’t expected to see him.

“Tough audience though,” he added with that subtle lift at the corner of his mouth. “No matter how well I play, they never cheer.”

Y/N laughed despite herself. “But they never boo either. Built-in supportive fanbase.”

Joe moved closer, studying the cardboard faces. “This was your idea, right? Kayla mentioned it in a media briefing.”

“One of them,” Y/N confirmed, surprised he knew. “Part of our COVID adaptations.”

Joe nodded, walking slowly between the rows. “Creative solution. Kind of eerie, but better than completely empty stands.” He stopped at a particular cutout, an elderly man wearing what looked like decades-old Bengals gear. “Some of these go back generations of fandom.”

“The team means a lot to this city,” Y/N said, joining him. “Even when the seasons are rough.”

“Especially then,” Joe replied, his expression thoughtful. “Loyalty means more when it’s tested.”

They stood in oddly comfortable silence, surrounded by the two-dimensional crowd. Y/N was acutely aware that this was the first time they had been completely alone together, no cameras or meetings structuring their interaction.

“We’re setting up for a socially distanced filming session,” Y/N finally explained, gesturing to her camera. “Fan messages to play during the broadcast.”

Joe glanced at her equipment, then at the stands. “Need help?”

Y/N stared at him. “You’re volunteering to help set up a PR shoot?”

“I’ve got an hour before film study,” he shrugged. “Figured I’d see how the other side of this works. I’m usually the one being pointed at, not the one setting things up.”

Before Y/N could respond, her phone rang, Kayla from PR, probably wondering where she was with the setup.

“Go ahead,” Joe said, already picking up one of the lighting stands Y/N had brought. “I’ll start getting these positioned.”

The call was brief, Y/N confirming she was already at the stadium preparing. When she hung up, she found Joe had already assembled the lighting setup, positioned exactly where it needed to be.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, surprised.

He gave a small smile. “Enough times to know where the light should hit.”

As they continued setting up, Y/N was struck by how easily they worked together, a wordless efficiency developing as they prepared the filming area. Joe would anticipate what she needed next, handing her equipment before she asked or adjusting lighting as she checked camera angles.

“My brothers would never believe this,” Y/N muttered, almost to herself.

“What’s that?”

“The franchise quarterback doing setup work for a social media shoot,” she said, a little sheepish. “They think I spend my days chasing you around with a camera, not actually doing anything.”

Joe smiled, a real one this time, not just the hint of one. “Happy to help rewrite the narrative.”

He glanced back at the rows of cutouts. “What did they think about your idea, by the way? The cardboard fans?”

“They actually thought that was brilliant,” Y/N admitted. “They submitted their own photos. They’re around here somewhere.”

“Which ones?”

“Row 23, I think? Three guys who look suspiciously related to me, wearing vintage Boomer Esiason jerseys.”

Joe immediately changed direction, heading for Row 23. Y/N followed, amused by his curiosity. He stopped when he found them, three cardboard men in their early thirties, indeed wearing matching vintage jerseys, grinning widely at the camera.

“The Y/L/N brothers,” Joe observed, studying their faces. “I can see the resemblance.”

“God help me,” Y/N sighed.

Joe turned to her with unexpected seriousness. “You’re lucky. To have family that supports what you do like that.”

There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet sincerity that made Y/N pause. Before she could respond, the stadium doors opened and the rest of the media team arrived, ending their private conversation.

“Thanks for the help,” Y/N said quickly as Joe prepared to leave. “Unexpected but appreciated.”

He nodded, already shifting back into the more reserved demeanor he typically displayed around staff. “Good luck with the shoot.”

As he walked away, Y/N turned back to the cardboard crowd, her eyes lingering on her brothers’ frozen smiles. You’re lucky, Joe had said, with something like wistfulness in his voice. Another unexpected glimpse beneath the composed exterior of Joe Burrow, not just the focused quarterback or careful public figure, but someone who noticed family bonds and valued them.

And despite her best efforts, Y/N couldn’t ignore how her heart had raced when he had studied her brothers’ faces with such genuine interest, or the warm flush that had spread through her when they had worked side by side, moving with that easy, inexplicable synchronicity.

This is dangerous territory, she thought, forcing herself to focus on the technical aspects of the upcoming shoot. She was here to capture the Joe Burrow era on film, not fall for it firsthand. Developing feelings for Joe Burrow would be professionally reckless and personally painful, especially when he was already in a relationship. Olivia wasn’t a rumor or a tabloid story. She was his longtime girlfriend, dating back to Ohio State. They didn’t post much, but when they did, it was enough to remind everyone where things stood. Including Y/N.

Earlier, while organizing the cutouts by section, Y/N had paused at a familiar trio in the lower bowl. Joe’s parents. And Olivia. All smiling. All submitted together.

Y/N had kept moving, pretending it didn’t sting.

Now, standing among hundreds of cardboard faces and listening to her own heart speed up at the memory of working alongside him, she reminded herself again. This wasn’t a crush. This was a complication. One she couldn’t afford.

Later, reviewing footage from the fan message recordings, Y/N found an unexpected clip at the end of the day’s files. Joe had recorded a brief message directly to camera before leaving.

“To all the cardboard fans,” he said, that subtle humor evident in his eyes, “we hear your silent cheers. And to the real fans watching from home, we feel your very real support. Stay safe, and we’ll see you back in these stands as soon as possible.”

It was perfect content, genuine, thoughtful, with just enough warmth to feel personal without being overly sentimental. Y/N added it to the editing queue, knowing it would resonate with fans.

But as she worked late into the night on the final cut, she kept thinking about Joe among the cardboard crowd, noticing her brothers’ faces, helping with equipment no quarterback would typically touch. The Joe Burrow the public saw, composed, occasionally reserved, and the Joe Burrow who noticed details, who said you’re lucky with quiet sincerity.

Two versions of the same person, and Y/N was beginning to suspect she was one of the few people who got to see both.

* * *

Early November 2020 - Virtual Children's Hospital Visit

"You're on in five, four, three..." Y/N counted down silently with her fingers, giving Joe the cue to begin.

He smiled into the camera – that media-ready smile he'd perfected over the season, warm but controlled. "Hey everyone at Cincinnati Children's! Sorry I can't be there in person this year, but I wanted to say hello and answer some of your questions."

Y/N sat behind her laptop, coordinating the virtual visit while Joe interacted with children appearing on screen one at a time. Despite the technical constraints, he managed to make each conversation feel personal, giving children his full attention, answering their sometimes rambling questions with patience.

Between children, while the hospital staff set up the next patient, Joe glanced at Y/N for guidance.

"You're doing great," she mouthed, giving him a thumbs up. "Four more to go."

He nodded, taking a sip of water. This was their fifth virtual charity event together, and they'd developed an efficient shorthand. Y/N could read the subtle shifts in his expression that indicated when he needed a break or when technical issues were frustrating him. Joe, in turn, had learned to trust her direction, responding to her non-verbal cues without question.

The final child was a twelve-year-old boy recovering from surgery, wearing a handmade Burrow jersey over his hospital gown.

"My question is," the boy began shyly, "what are you doing for Thanksgiving since things are different with COVID?"

The question caught Joe off-guard, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before his media composure returned.

"That's actually a great question," he replied. "Olivia and I are keeping it small at our place this year. She's from Ohio too, so we're staying local instead of seeing extended family. It's different, but we're making it work, just like you're making things work at the hospital."

Y/N kept her expression professionally neutral, even as something inside her deflated. Of course Joe had someone. Of course they lived together. Y/N had seen enough social media tags to know that Olivia was his long-term girlfriend from Ohio who'd supported him through his college career at LSU and his transition to the NFL.

The information wasn't new, she'd heard casual mentions of Olivia in conversations around the facility, but hearing Joe speak about her with such warmth and familiarity made their relationship suddenly more concrete.

After the call ended, Joe stretched in his chair. "Think that went okay?"

"It was great," Y/N assured him, busying herself with equipment breakdown so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "Those kids were thrilled."

"Thanks for coordinating all this," Joe said. "These virtual events could be awkward, but you make them run smoothly."

Y/N nodded, focusing on cable management with unnecessary precision. "Just doing my job."

"Still," Joe insisted, "it makes a difference having someone who..." he paused, searching for the right words, "gets it. Gets the balance between the PR stuff and what actually matters."

The sincerity in his voice made Y/N look up, against her better judgment. Joe was watching her with that quiet intensity that sometimes replaced his more guarded expression – the look that made it feel like he was really seeing her.

"Thanks," she managed, hating the flutter in her chest. "That means a lot."

An awkward silence stretched between them, until Joe cleared his throat. "So, uh, any plans for Thanksgiving? Going back to Louisville?"

"Can't this year," Y/N shook her head. "My oldest brother's wife is pregnant, so they're being extra cautious about COVID. We're doing a big Zoom call instead."

Joe nodded, understanding in his eyes. "That's tough. First holiday away from family?"

"Yeah," Y/N admitted, surprised by his perception. "It's weird, but it's just one year, right?"

Joe seemed about to say something else when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, a genuine smile spreading across his face – the unguarded kind that Y/N rarely witnessed.

"Olivia's wondering when I'll be home," he explained, already standing and gathering his things. "I should get going."

"Of course," Y/N nodded, the professional mask firmly back in place. "Have a great rest of your day."

He hesitated for a beat at the door, like he was going to say something else. But then his phone buzzed again, and the moment passed.

She stayed seated after he left, letting the quiet settle in. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known about Olivia. But hearing him talk about her like home—that was harder than she expected.

* * *

November 22, 2020 – Paul Brown Stadium

Y/N stood frozen behind her camera as the Washington defensive lineman crashed into Joe’s planted leg. Even from her position on the sidelines, she could tell immediately that something was catastrophically wrong. The unnatural angle. The way Joe’s body crumpled.

For a terrible moment, the stadium fell silent.

Then everything accelerated into chaos. Medical staff rushing onto the field, players from both teams taking a knee, coaches huddled in urgent conversation. Y/N’s training kicked in, her hands steady on the camera despite the sick feeling in her stomach, documenting what no one wanted to see but everyone needed to remember: the moment that changed the trajectory of Joe Burrow’s rookie season.

Through her lens, she watched as players from both teams approached Joe before he was loaded onto the cart. Even from a distance, Y/N could see his face, pale with pain but somehow composed, nodding at his teammates as medical staff secured his leg.

The cart began its slow journey off the field, passing near where Y/N stood. She lowered her camera for just a moment, their eyes meeting briefly through the crowd of concerned staff. Y/N gave him a small nod, part acknowledgment, part encouragement. The corner of Joe’s mouth lifted slightly in recognition before he was driven away, disappearing into the tunnel.

Hours later, after processing footage, filing preliminary reports, and fulfilling media obligations, Y/N sat alone in her office, staring blankly at her computer screen. The official announcement had come: torn ACL, MCL damage, additional structural issues. Joe Burrow’s rookie season was over, and a long rehabilitation lay ahead.

Her phone vibrated on the desk.

Matt: Just saw the injury. Absolutely brutal.

Lucas: You were there on the sideline? Damn.

Aaron: Recovery timeline?

Y/N appreciated their concern but couldn’t find the energy to respond with more than a brief acknowledgment.

Y/N: It’s bad. ACL, MCL. Looking at 9+ months probably.

She set the phone down and turned back to her computer, focusing on what she could control, organizing footage, preparing content plans for a team that would continue without its central figure.

A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up to find Kayla standing there, expression uncharacteristically subdued.

“Crisis management meeting in ten,” she said. “Oh, and you’re being assigned to Joe’s rehabilitation documentation.”

Y/N tried to keep her expression neutral. “Documentation?”

“The team wants to chronicle his recovery journey,” Kayla explained. “Limited access, very controlled narrative. Needs someone he’s comfortable with, who understands both the football and PR sides.” She gave Y/N a meaningful look. “He asked for you specifically.”

After Kayla left, Y/N sat motionless, processing this development. Amid the pain and chaos of a season-ending injury, Joe had thought to request her for the rehabilitation coverage. Had remembered her name in what must have been a blur of medical discussions and difficult conversations.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unexpected source.

Joe: Heard you’re documenting the comeback tour.

Y/N stared at the message, surprised he was texting so soon after the injury. She’d assumed he’d be wrapped up in medical consultations and processing the devastating news.

Y/N: If you’re sure that’s what you want. We can assign someone else if you’d prefer.

The response came quickly:

Joe: I want someone who won’t make this into a pity story. Someone who gets it.

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, deliberating her response. Professional, she reminded herself. Keep it professional.

Y/N: Then I’m in. We’ll document the comeback on your terms.

Joe: Surgery’s next week, December second. We’ll get going after that.

Y/N: Got it. Focus on healing. I’ll handle the content strategy.

She watched the typing bubble flicker on and off before one last message came through.

Joe: Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

She knew he meant her work on the sidelines, the professional documentation of a difficult moment, but there was something in those simple words that felt more personal. An acknowledgment of their brief eye contact, the small nod of encouragement she’d offered when she’d lowered her camera.

Y/N: Always. That’s what I’m here for.

Setting her phone down, Y/N turned back to her computer, already mentally outlining a rehabilitation content strategy that would balance the team’s PR needs with Joe’s dignity and privacy. This assignment would mean more direct, one-on-one work with him over the coming months. More opportunities to witness the person behind the professional facade. More chances for her inconvenient feelings to deepen.

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. She should request a different assignment. She should maintain more professional distance. She should stop the flutter in her chest whenever Joe sought her out specifically.

She should do a lot of things.

Instead, she opened a new document and titled it Burrow Rehabilitation Content Strategy, already knowing she was in far too deep to turn back now.

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 – Rehabilitation Center

“Just a few more clips today,” Y/N assured Joe, adjusting her camera as the physical therapist prepared for the next exercise. “We’ll keep it brief.”

Joe nodded, his face drawn with the familiar tension that came with these early rehab sessions. Two weeks post-surgery, every movement was still an exercise in controlled pain management. Y/N had been documenting the start of his recovery, creating carefully edited content that showed determination without exploiting vulnerability.

“Ready when you are,” she told the therapist, who nodded and turned to Joe.

“Let’s work on those quad activations again. Ten contractions, five-second hold each.”

Y/N captured the session with practiced ease, knowing when to focus on Joe’s face, when to catch the therapist’s coaching, and when to lower the camera out of respect. She’d developed an intuitive sense for the line between honest storytelling and intrusion.

After thirty minutes, the therapist called it. As he stepped out to retrieve Joe’s chart, Y/N began packing her equipment.

“How’s it look?” Joe asked quietly, nodding toward her camera.

Y/N glanced up. She knew he wasn’t asking about framing. “It looks like exactly what it is. The beginning of a comeback story.”

A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Pretty boring content so far.”

“The best comeback stories start slow,” Y/N replied, zipping her bag. “Makes the highlight reel more satisfying when it hits.”

Joe adjusted his position on the table, wincing. “This part doesn’t make the highlight reel, huh?”

“Only the parts where you’re showing superhuman determination,” she said. “Not the ones where you’re calling the PT sadistic.”

That earned a real laugh, though it quickly turned into a grimace. “You’re honest. I appreciate that.”

Y/N paused, sensing a shift. After two weeks of filming his rehab, the professional boundaries were still in place, but the nature of the work created a certain closeness. Documenting someone’s pain, frustration, and tiny victories had a way of drawing people closer, whether either of them liked it or not.

“The team wants an update for social tomorrow,” she said, steering them back to safer ground. “Any preferences for the message?”

Joe rubbed his thigh just above the brace, thinking. “Keep it simple. No dramatic promises. Just… I’m working. Progress is happening. Grateful for the support.”

“Done,” Y/N nodded, making a note. “I’ll send a draft for approval.”

“I trust your judgment,” Joe said. “You haven’t overplayed any of this.

“That’s why you requested me, right?” Y/N asked, trying to keep the tone light, though the question had lingered since she got the assignment.

Joe’s eyes met hers. “Yes. You see the person, not just the story.”

The honesty in his voice caught her off guard. Before she could respond, her phone chimed.

Kayla: Need the rehab footage by 3pm for review.

“Work calls,” Y/N said, holding up her phone. “I should get this back to the facility.”

Joe nodded. “Same time Thursday?”

“I’ll be here,” she said, collecting the last of her gear.

As she reached the door, Joe called after her. “Hey, Y/N?”

She turned. “Yeah?”

“You doing anything for Christmas?”

She shrugged. “Staying in Cincinnati. My brother’s wife is pregnant, so we’re playing it safe.”

“That’s tough.”

“It’s fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “First Christmas away from family, but honestly, not the worst thing happening this year.”

“Right,” Joe said, though something in his expression flickered. “See you Thursday.”

That evening, Y/N returned to her apartment to find a care package from her brothers: Louisville bourbon, family photos, and University of Kentucky gear to “keep her from turning into a full-time Bengals fan.” The gesture made her laugh, but it also made her chest ache. The distance felt heavier than usual this year.

While editing footage from the day’s session, she noticed again how different Joe seemed in rehab. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t polished. Just quiet, steady effort. It was more compelling than any mic’d-up segment she’d ever shot.

Her phone buzzed.

Kayla: Rehabilitation content is getting excellent engagement. Team’s impressed with how you’re handling the narrative. Authentic but respectful.

Y/N replied with a quick thanks, then sat staring at the paused frame on her laptop—Joe mid-contraction, jaw tight, eyes focused. She knew this wasn’t supposed to be personal. But somehow, it was starting to feel that way.

She closed her laptop firmly.

Joe Burrow was her subject. Not her friend. Not anything more. The fact that he trusted her with his recovery story was a professional compliment, not a personal invitation.

Even as she thought it, Y/N knew she was lying. But sometimes, professional survival required a certain amount of self-deception.

* * *

December 24, 2020 – Y/N’s Apartment

Y/N’s apartment felt too quiet on Christmas Eve. She’d decorated half-heartedly, a small artificial tree with a few ornaments, some lights strung around her living room window—but the holiday spirit was hard to capture alone in a city where she still felt like a newcomer.

She was curled on the couch watching Die Hard (a Y/L/N family tradition her brothers had insisted she maintain) when her phone buzzed with a notification from the building’s security desk.

Package delivered for Y/L/N – front desk

Puzzled, Y/N paused the movie and headed downstairs. She wasn’t expecting anything, and her family’s gifts had arrived days ago.

The security guard handed her a medium-sized package wrapped in simple brown paper with her name written in neat block letters. No address. No shipping label.

“Guy dropped it off about an hour ago,” the guard said. “Said it was important you got it tonight.”

Back in her apartment, Y/N carefully unwrapped the mystery package to find a plain white box. Inside was a Cincinnati Bengals snow globe, but not the kind sold at the team store. This one was custom-made with meticulous detail: a miniature Paul Brown Stadium filled with thousands of tiny cardboard cutout fans. When she shook it, confetti in Bengals colors swirled around the stands.

A small card rested beneath the snow globe.

Y/N – Thought you should have something to remember your first season with the team. The cardboard fans deserve a place on your shelf. – Joe

Y/N read the card twice, just to be sure she hadn’t imagined the signature. Joe Burrow had found a custom snow globe with cardboard fans—a perfect tribute to her COVID initiative, and had it delivered to her apartment on Christmas Eve.

While she was still absorbing that, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Did it arrive in one piece? The guy at the shop was worried about the cardboard details.

She saved the number before responding.

Y/N: It’s perfect. How did you even find something like this?

Joe: Custom order. Guy downtown does specialty snow globes. Took some convincing to add cardboard people instead of snow.

Y/N: I don’t know what to say. Thank you.

She hesitated, then added:

Y/N: How’s rehab going? That last session looked tough.

His reply came quickly.

Joe: Getting there. PT says I’m ahead of schedule, but it still feels too slow. Olivia’s tired of me being restless about it.

The casual mention of Olivia brought her back to earth. Of course they were spending Christmas together, Joe recuperating, Olivia looking after him.

Y/N: Well, the snow globe was incredibly thoughtful. This officially puts my Secret Santa game to shame.

Joe: Wasn’t Secret Santa. This was just… a thank you. For handling the rehab documentation the right way.

Y/N sat with that for a moment. Joe had gotten her a separate, personal gift. Something he’d commissioned, thought about, followed up on. It wasn’t part of any exchange. It wasn’t required.

Before she could figure out what to say without giving herself away, another text came through.

Joe: Merry Christmas, Y/N. See you for the next rehab session.

Y/N: Merry Christmas, Joe. Rest up, comeback next season is gonna to be epic.

She set her phone down and picked up the snow globe again, turning it over in her hands. Outside her window, snow had started to fall over Cincinnati. Her first Christmas in a new city felt a little less lonely.

Y/N knew she should guard her heart. Joe Burrow had a girlfriend he clearly cared about. This was just a thoughtful gesture from someone who noticed details and appreciated hard work. Nothing more.

But as she placed the snow globe on her nightstand before bed, she couldn’t help the warmth that settled in her chest. Couldn’t quiet the voice that whispered

He was thinking about you on Christmas Eve.

* * *

January 2021 – Rehabilitation Center

“That’s good for today,” the physical therapist said, making notes on Joe’s chart. “You’re pushing hard, but remember what we discussed about not overdoing it.”

Joe nodded, jaw clenched in a way Y/N had learned to recognize as pain management. The session had been particularly grueling, testing new movement patterns that clearly challenged his healing knee.

“I’ll send these notes to the medical team,” the therapist continued. “Same time on Thursday?”

“I’ll be here,” Joe confirmed, his voice controlled but tight.

As the therapist left, Y/N began packing her camera equipment, giving Joe a moment to compose himself. She had been documenting his rehabilitation for six weeks now, establishing a careful routine: arrive early, capture what was needed, create space for recovery between exercises, and never make him feel watched during moments of struggle.

“That looked rough today,” she said, keeping her tone neutral as she stored memory cards.

Joe exhaled slowly, adjusting his position on the treatment table. “PT says that’s good. Means we’re pushing boundaries.”

Y/N nodded, recognizing the stock answer he gave to staff and coaches. After weeks of these sessions, she had become adept at distinguishing between Joe’s responses—the media answers, the team answers, and, occasionally, the real ones.

“We got good content,” she assured him, shifting the subject. “The determination shots will play well with fans. And that moment with the resistance band tells a clear progress story from last week.”

Joe made a noncommittal sound, staring at the ceiling. Y/N continued packing, assuming the conversation was over, when he suddenly spoke.

“What if I can’t come back from this the same?”

The question hung in the air, so quietly spoken that Y/N wasn’t sure she was meant to hear it. She turned to find Joe still staring upward, his carefully maintained composure showing rare cracks.

Y/N set down her equipment and moved closer. She reached for the camera she had just packed.

“Off the record,” she said, showing him as she turned off the device completely. “Nothing recorded.”

Something in Joe’s expression shifted, relief, maybe, or recognition that she understood what he needed in this moment.

“Everyone keeps saying I’ll come back stronger,” he continued, voice low. “The team, the media, the fans. ‘Joe Burrow’s comeback will be legendary.’ But what if it’s not? What if this,” he gestured to his braced leg, “changes things permanently?”

Y/N leaned against the treatment table, giving him space but staying present. “What does your PT actually say? Not the public version.”

“That I’m ahead of schedule but have a long way to go,” Joe answered. “That most players come back from ACL tears, but it can take a full season to feel normal again.” He paused. “If normal even exists after this.”

Y/N nodded, considering her response carefully. This wasn’t a moment for empty reassurance or team talking points.

“I tore my ACL my senior year,” she said, surprising him with the personal reference. “Playing soccer at UK. Doctor said I might not play again. Six months later I was back on the field.” She paused. “Different, but better.”

Joe turned to look at her fully, genuine surprise breaking through his frustration. “You tore your ACL?”

“I did,” Y/N said. "The rehab was brutal. I used to ice my knee and cry in the training room bathroom so my teammates wouldn’t see.”

“What changed?” Joe asked, fully engaged now. “How did you get from bathroom tears to ‘better’?”

“I stopped fighting the process,” Y/N said simply. “Started respecting the injury instead of resenting it. And I learned that ‘same as before’ is the wrong goal. You don’t get the same body back. You get a new one that moves differently.”

She hesitated, then added, “But here’s what no one tells you—the mental game changes too. You become more strategic when you can’t rely on pure physicality. You see the field differently. You anticipate because you have to. Some of my best plays came after the injury, not before.”

A moment of connection formed as Joe finally met her eyes, a small smile forming. “You don’t bullshit me. That’s why I like you.”

Y/N felt that flutter but kept her composure, moving back to her equipment. “The comeback narrative isn’t bullshit. It’s just incomplete without acknowledging the struggle.” She picked up her camera bag. “And Joe? No one who’s watched you work these past weeks doubts you’ll be back. The question is just who you’ll be when you get there.”

Joe nodded slowly, processing her words. “Thanks. For the honesty. And for turning off the camera.”

“Some moments aren’t for documentation,” Y/N said. “Though if you ever want to talk about the mental side of recovery for the content series, I think it would resonate. Athletes don’t discuss that enough.”

“Maybe,” Joe said, his professional mask gradually returning. “I’ll think about it.”

As Y/N prepared to leave, Joe called after her. “Hey, Y/N? Your team ever regret drafting you after the injury?”

Y/N smiled despite herself. “I wasn’t exactly first-round NWSL material, Joe. But no. The injury made me a better player. Different, but better.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she left, aware that something had shifted between them—a new layer of understanding beneath their professional relationship. For the first time, Joe had seen her not just as the person behind the camera, but as someone who truly understood his struggle from the inside.

It was a connection she hadn’t planned for. And one that would make staying professional a little harder every week.

* * *

April 2021 - Y/N’s Apartment

“They’re absolutely taking Chase,” Lucas insisted through the Zoom call, his voice slightly delayed over Y/N’s laptop speakers. “Burrow needs weapons more than protection.”

“That’s insane,” Aaron countered, his window lighting up. “They’ve got to take Sewell. What good are receivers if your quarterback is getting murdered every play?”

Matt’s face appeared in the third window. “Y/N, you literally work there. What are they thinking?”

Y/N took a sip of her beer, settling deeper into her couch as the NFL Draft coverage continued on her TV. The brothers’ traditional draft night debate was in full swing, though this was the first year they’d done it virtually instead of crammed into someone’s living room.

“I’m in media, not the front office,” she reminded them. “And even if I knew anything, I’m not sharing confidential information with you degenerates.”

“Come on,” Lucas pressed. “You’ve been filming Burrow’s rehab for months. He must have dropped hints about who he wants.”

Y/N shook her head. “Professional boundaries, remember? I document the recovery. I don’t gossip about draft preferences.”

In truth, Joe had mentioned Chase during a rehabilitation session the previous week. A casual “Be nice throwing to Ja’Marr again” while working on his passing motion. But Y/N took her role seriously. What happened in those sessions stayed there, unless approved for team content.

Her phone buzzed with a text, offering a welcome distraction from her brothers’ continued debate.

Joe: You watching?

Y/N stared at the message, surprised. It was draft night. She had assumed Joe would be watching with friends, family, or Olivia.

Y/N: Of course. Annual Y/L/N family tradition, now over Zoom.

Joe: Predictions?

Y/N thought carefully about her response, hyperaware of her brothers still arguing loudly through her laptop.

Y/N: My brothers are arguing Chase vs Sewell. Heated debate in progress. I’m staying neutral.

Joe: Smart. But off the record?

She smiled at his persistence.

Y/N: Off the record, I think your LSU connection might win out over conventional wisdom.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.

Joe: We’ll see in about 4 picks. My phone’s been blowing up all night. Needed a normal conversation.

Something warm bloomed in Y/N’s chest at the implication, that texting her constituted “normal” for Joe, a respite from the pressures of draft night.

Y/N: Happy to talk about it like a regular person. How’s the knee today?

Joe: Good session this morning. Getting stronger. Doctor says I’m where I should be at 20 weeks.

“Y/N, who are you texting? You’re missing the debate!” Matt called through the Zoom.

“Just work stuff,” she replied absently, watching the three dots appear on her phone again.

Joe: Olivia says hi. She’s been impressed with the rehab content series.

Y/N’s fingers froze over her keyboard. The sting was immediate, the kind that crept up slowly even when she thought she’d braced for it. Of course Olivia was there. Of course they were watching the draft together. The reminder sat heavy.

Y/N: Tell her thanks and hey back.

She set her phone down and forced her attention back to her brothers and the draft coverage. On screen, the Bengals’ pick was approaching, the tension building as analysts debated the same Sewell-versus-Chase question that had divided the Y/L/N brothers.

When Commissioner Goodell announced “Ja’Marr Chase, wide receiver, LSU,” Lucas erupted in triumph while Aaron groaned dramatically. Y/N felt her phone buzz again but didn’t look right away, instead watching the coverage of Chase celebrating with his family.

Finally, she glanced down.

Joe: Like I said, LSU connections matter.

Y/N couldn’t help smiling, imagining Joe’s subtle satisfaction at the pick.

Y/N: Lucas says you’re welcome. Apparently he’s taking credit for Chase like he was in the war room.

Joe: Tell him I’ll let Chase know he’s got fans in Louisville. Heading into calls. Appreciate the breather.

Y/N: Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

She set her phone aside and rejoined her brothers’ now-heated debate about the wisdom of the pick. But part of her mind lingered on that text exchange—on being the person Joe reached out to for normal amid the draft night chaos, and on the complicated feelings that continued to develop despite her best efforts to contain them.

The rehabilitation documentation had created a unique space between them. Not quite friendship. Definitely not romance. But something intimate nonetheless. Joe trusted her. Relied on her perspective. Valued her discretion.

It was enough, she told herself. And for now, it had to be.

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp

The energy at training camp was electric, fans lining the practice fields for their first glimpse of Joe Burrow back in action after his devastating injury. Y/N moved efficiently through the crowd, capturing fan reactions and b-roll for the team’s social content.

“Y/N!” Kayla called, waving her over to the media area. “We need you on Burrow’s first team drills. Main camera, tight focus on his movement and confidence. This is the money shot everyone’s waiting for.”

Y/N nodded, adjusting her equipment as she headed to the designated position. After months documenting Joe’s rehabilitation journey, the painful early sessions, the gradual progress, the breakthrough moments, this felt like the culmination of a shared experience. Though she’d never say it aloud, she felt oddly protective watching reporters and cameras gather, knowing many were hoping to capture any hint of hesitation or weakness in his return.

When Joe jogged onto the field in full practice gear, a roar went up from the assembled fans. Y/N watched through her viewfinder as he acknowledged the crowd with a casual wave before joining the quarterbacks group. His stride looked natural, confidence evident in his movement. If he felt any apprehension about this first public session, it didn’t show in his body language.

Throughout the early drills, Y/N maintained her professional focus, capturing exactly what the team needed, Joe’s throwing mechanics, his footwork, the way he planted on the surgically repaired knee. But she couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction each time he executed a perfect dropback or stepped confidently into a throw, knowing how hard he’d fought for each of those movements.

During a brief water break, Joe glanced toward the media area, his eyes finding Y/N’s camera with practiced ease. He gave a subtle nod, something like acknowledgment or even gratitude, before turning back to his teammates. Y/N swallowed hard, refocusing her lens. That small gesture felt significant, a private recognition of the journey they’d documented together.

“Looking good out there,” commented a reporter standing nearby. “Can’t even tell which knee was injured.”

“That’s the point,” Y/N replied, not looking away from her viewfinder. “Months of work to make it look effortless.”

After practice concluded, Y/N was reviewing footage when she noticed Olivia standing near the family area, waiting as Joe finished speaking with coaches. She was stunning even in casual clothes, her easy confidence evident as she chatted with other players’ family members.

Y/N had managed to avoid direct interaction with Olivia throughout the rehabilitation documentation. Their paths rarely crossed during Joe’s recovery. Now, watching her welcome Joe with a warm embrace after practice, Y/N felt the familiar ache that she’d become adept at ignoring.

“Y/N, right?”

Y/N turned to find Olivia standing beside her, offering a friendly smile.

“Yes,” Y/N confirmed, professionalism automatically kicking in. “Nice to see you again.”

“I wanted to thank you personally,” Olivia said, surprising Y/N completely. “Joe mentioned how you handled the rehab documentation. Keeping it about the work, not turning it into some dramatic sob story. It meant a lot to him. To both of us, really.”

Y/N managed a smile, her grip tightening slightly on the strap of her camera bag. “Just doing my job,” she said, steadying her voice. “Joe made it easy. He was committed from day one.”

“Still,” Olivia insisted, “he said you understood what he needed from those sessions. Not many media people get that part right.” She paused, glancing toward where Joe was still engaged with coaches. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. It’s been a rough few months.”

The sincerity in Olivia’s voice made Y/N feel suddenly guilty for her complicated feelings. This woman clearly loved Joe and had supported him through an incredibly difficult recovery.

“He’s looking great out there,” Y/N offered. “All that work is paying off.”

Olivia nodded, relief evident in her expression. “That’s what the doctors are saying too. Though he’s still pushing too hard, in typical Joe fashion.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at that familiar truth. “Some things never change.”

“Exactly,” Olivia agreed with a knowing look. As Joe approached, she added quietly, “Anyway, thanks again. Looking forward to seeing the season content you create.”

Joe approached from across the field, catching sight of them mid-conversation. His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before he smoothed it out with a nod.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Just thanking Y/N for her work during your recovery,” Olivia explained, her hand finding his naturally. “The content series has been really well done.”

Joe’s eyes met Y/N’s briefly. “She gets it right. Always has.”

The simple validation shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. Y/N nodded professionally, already stepping back. “Just capturing what’s there. You looked solid today. Confidence reads clearly on camera.”

“Months of practice,” Joe replied, the hint of a private joke in his eyes, a reference to their many conversations about perception versus reality in the rehabilitation content.

“I should get this footage back for editing,” Y/N said, gesturing to her camera. “Good to see you both.”

As she walked away, Y/N tried to sort through her conflicting emotions. The professional pride in seeing Joe’s successful return. The personal satisfaction of having been part of his recovery journey. The complicated ache of witnessing his relationship with Olivia up close, their easy intimacy, their shared experience of his injury.

Y/N had maintained appropriate boundaries throughout the rehabilitation process, focusing on the work rather than her inconvenient feelings. But seeing him back on the field, confident and strong after all those difficult sessions, stirred something deeper than professional satisfaction.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Kayla: Need the practice footage ASAP. National outlets requesting clips of Burrow’s return.

Y/N welcomed the distraction, focusing on the immediate demands of her job. There would be time later to process the complex emotions of this day, and to reinforce the professional walls that seemed increasingly necessary as the new season approached.

* * *

2022 Season – January 2023

“And Joe Burrow leads the Cincinnati Bengals back to the AFC Championship game for the second straight year.”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium as Y/N captured the sideline celebrations, moving efficiently through the chaos to document the team’s triumph. After a remarkable comeback season in 2021 that took them to the Super Bowl, the 2022 Bengals had faced enormous expectations. They were meeting them with another deep playoff run.

Y/N had established herself as a key member of the media team, promoted to Social Media Coordinator at the start of the season. The role gave her broader responsibilities beyond player-specific content, though she still handled much of the quarterback and skill position documentation.

As players embraced on the field, Y/N captured Joe’s celebration with his teammates. The confident smile, the easy leadership that had developed over three seasons. When he glanced toward her camera and gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment, Y/N felt the familiar flutter she’d learned to ignore.

Their professional relationship had evolved over the past year. The intensive connection of the rehabilitation period had naturally shifted as Joe returned to full strength and Y/N’s responsibilities expanded. They still worked together regularly, but the intimate space of those recovery sessions, where vulnerability and trust had created something unique, had given way to the more structured interactions of normal team operations.

Later, in the locker room, Y/N navigated between celebrating players and capturing authentic moments for the team’s social platforms. Joe stood at the center of a media scrum, handling questions with the composed confidence that had become his trademark.

“Y/N!” called Chase, waving her over to a group of receivers. “Get this for the official account.”

She smiled and directed her camera toward their celebration. This was her world now. Trusted by players, respected by staff, the voice behind the team’s digital presence. The professional success was everything she’d worked for, even as she maintained careful boundaries with the quarterback who had once trusted her with his most vulnerable moments.

After finishing the required content, Y/N was packing her equipment when she sensed someone approaching.

“Good game to capture,” Joe said, now changed from his uniform but still flushed with victory.

“Congratulations,” Y/N replied, her smile genuine. “Back-to-back championship games is no small feat.”

“The content team has been killing it this season,” he said, nodding toward her coordinator badge. “That promotion was well-deserved.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, a little surprised he’d noticed. Since his full return, their interactions had been mostly professional. Still friendly, but nothing like the closeness they’d shared during his recovery. “Everyone makes it easy to create good content.”

Joe gave a small shrug. “Still. You’re the one shaping how it’s remembered.”

Y/N smiled at that. “Well, my job’s bigger now. I’m not just chasing quarterbacks around anymore.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. The kind that only develops between people with shared history. For a moment, Y/N felt a faint echo of their rehabilitation sessions, when conversation had flowed naturally despite the professional context.

“Olivia’s organizing a team gathering if we make the Super Bowl,” Joe said, breaking the quiet. “You should come. The whole media team is invited, but”, he paused, searching for the words, “it would be good to have you there. After everything.”

Y/N nodded, maintaining her professional composure despite the unexpected invitation. “Thanks. That would be nice.”

Joe seemed about to say something else when Chase called his name from across the locker room. “Quarterback meeting in five.”

“Duty calls,” Joe said with a quick smile. “See you around, Y/N.”

As he walked away, Y/N finished packing her equipment and tried to parse the brief interaction. There had been something in his expression. Not quite nostalgia, but recognition of their unique history. The rehabilitation journey had created a connection that, while carefully professional, had left its mark on both of them.

Y/N’s phone buzzed with the brothers’ group chat.

Lucas: Another AFC Championship! Bengals social team crushing it with the content.

Matt: They better be paying you overtime for playoff coverage.

Aaron: How close are you and Burrow these days? Still working together often?

Y/N stared at Aaron’s question, unsure how to answer. The truth was complicated. They worked together professionally, but the intensity of their connection during his recovery had naturally faded as circumstances changed.

Y/N: Professional relationship. I work with all the players in my coordinator role. But yes, still see him regularly for content.

She tucked her phone away and headed for the media room, where immediate deadlines awaited. The answer hadn’t been a lie, exactly. But it hadn’t captured the nuance of whatever existed between them. The lingering awareness, the comfortable silences, the way his eyes still found her camera in crowded moments.

Y/N had become expert at compartmentalizing these thoughts, focusing instead on her professional success and the exciting playoff run ahead. Whatever complicated feelings remained were her burden to manage. Not Joe’s, and certainly not something that would ever interfere with the career she’d worked so hard to build.

Even if, occasionally, she still caught herself watching him through her viewfinder a moment longer than strictly necessary.

* * *

February 2024 – Joe’s Home Gym

Y/N adjusted her camera, capturing Joe as he completed another set of wrist stabilization exercises. Four months into his second major injury recovery in three years, the rehabilitation routine had become familiar to them both. This session was taking place in the home gym Joe had built after his ACL recovery, a space that reflected his methodical approach to training, all clean lines and functional equipment, personal touches minimal.

“How’s that feeling compared to last week?” Y/N asked, lowering her camera as Joe finished the exercise.

“Better,” he replied, flexing his wrist carefully. “More control. Less hesitation.”

Y/N nodded, making notes for the recovery update that would be released to fans later in the week. As Social Media Coordinator, she no longer had to handle the daily documentation of Joe’s recovery, but she had still accepted his request to personally oversee the key elements of his rehabilitation content. After the success of their first recovery series, the team had readily agreed.

“The fans will be happy to see the progress,” she said, reviewing the footage. “They’ve been worried since Baltimore.”

“Four years with the Bengals and two seasons ended by injuries,” Joe commented, a rare note of frustration breaking through his composure. “Not exactly what anyone had in mind.”

Y/N looked up from her camera. “The comeback narrative plays well the first time. Second time, it reads as resilience. Those aren’t bad stories to have attached to your name.”

He gave her a small smile, the kind reserved for when she cut through the media spin to something more genuine. It was a look Y/N had catalogued without meaning to, along with his game-day focus, his press conference diplomacy, his unguarded moments of triumph. Four years of documenting Joe Burrow had left her with an encyclopedic knowledge of his expressions.

As his physical therapist entered to begin the next series of exercises, Y/N stepped back, camera ready but maintaining a respectful distance. She had perfected the art of being present without imposing, of capturing vulnerability without exploiting it.

“Y/N,” Joe called as the PT finished setting up. “The team said you’re heading to the combine next week?”

“Yeah, they want feature content on potential draft picks.” She adjusted her lens. “First time being on that side of the process.”

“Tell them to find someone who can stay healthy,” Joe said, that subtle humor in his eyes. “Someone boring who never gives the social media team anything dramatic to document.”

Y/N laughed. “I don’t know. Documenting your injuries has been good for my career. Got me this promotion.”

“Happy to help,” Joe replied dryly, though something in his expression shifted and grew more serious. “You deserve it. You always see the person beyond the player. Not everyone does that.”

The simple observation caught Y/N off guard. Before she could respond, the PT motioned that they were ready to begin the next exercise, and the moment passed.

Later, reviewing the footage alone in her apartment, Y/N paused on a frame that captured Joe mid-motion, his expression reflecting the focus and determination that defined him. After nearly four years, she still found herself studying these images longer than necessary, still felt that familiar tug of emotion she had long since accepted but never fully conquered.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming call. Sam, a colleague from the PR department who had gradually become her closest friend on the team.

“Please tell me you’re not still working,” Sam’s voice carried the easy warmth Y/N had come to rely on. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Just finishing up the Burrow rehab content,” Y/N replied, closing her laptop. “Wanted to get ahead before the combine trip.”

“How’s our quarterback looking?”

“Good,” Y/N said, careful to keep her tone professional. “Recovery’s on track. Should be cleared well before training camp.”

There was a brief silence before Sam spoke again. “And how are you doing with all of this?”

Y/N hesitated. She had never explicitly discussed her feelings for Joe with anyone. Not her brothers, not her colleagues. But over the past year, Sam had noticed things, the way Y/N’s expression changed when Joe entered a room, how she instinctively anticipated his needs during media sessions, the careful distance she maintained in group settings.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said automatically. “Just doing my job.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam replied, the skepticism evident in her voice. “And has that job gotten any easier in the, what, almost four years you’ve been doing it?”

Y/N sighed, glancing at the snow globe still sitting on her nightstand, a reminder of a Christmas Eve long ago. “It’s not like that. We work well together. We have a professional rapport. That’s all.”

“Y/N,” Sam said, her voice gentler now. “I’ve seen how you look at him when you think no one’s watching. And I’ve seen how he seeks you out in a crowded room, how his eyes follow you. Whatever’s between you two, it’s not just professional rapport.”

Y/N felt a familiar tightness in her chest. “Even if there was something, which there isn’t, he has Olivia. Four years together. That’s not nothing.”

“True,” Sam conceded. “But that doesn’t change what I’ve seen.”

After hanging up, Y/N moved to her window, looking out at the Cincinnati skyline that had become home. Four years. Four years of building a career, of establishing herself as a respected voice within the organization, of carefully maintaining boundaries while documenting the career of Joe Burrow.

Four years of feelings that hadn’t faded, despite her best efforts.

For the first time, Y/N allowed herself to fully acknowledge the truth she had been dancing around since that first photoshoot when a rookie quarterback had caught her perfect spiral and looked at her with surprised recognition.

She was in love with Joe Burrow. Had been for years.

Admitting it felt both crushing and freeing, like finally naming something she had been avoiding for a long time. But recognition didn’t change reality. Joe was with Olivia. Y/N was his colleague. The boundaries between them were necessary and fixed.

As she prepared for bed, Y/N made a silent promise to herself. When she returned from the combine, she would create more distance. Focus on other players. Delegate more of Joe’s content to her team. For her own preservation and for the career she had worked so hard to build, she needed to step back from the center of Joe Burrow’s world, even if she had helped hold it together.

It was time to tell a different story. One where she wasn’t caught in a perpetual state of yearning for something that couldn’t happen. One where she was the main character again.

* * *

March 2024 - Bengals Media Suite

Y/N had been back from the NFL Combine for exactly four hours when the whispers reached her. Moving through the facility's open office space, she noticed the furtive glances, the conversations that hushed as she approached, the unmistakable atmosphere of gossip in circulation.

"What's going on?" she asked Sam, who was leaning against the doorframe of the media suite, phone in hand.

Sam's expression shifted to something cautious, almost apologetic. "You haven't seen the news?"

"I just got off a plane. What news?"

Sam hesitated, then turned her phone screen toward Y/N. There it was, a sports blog headline blown up for emphasis: "Bengals QB Joe Burrow and Longtime Girlfriend Split After Four Years."

Y/N felt the floor tilt beneath her, but kept her expression carefully neutral. "When did this break?"

"This morning," Sam said, watching her face. "It's been confirmed by multiple sources. Apparently, it happened a couple weeks ago, before your trip."

Y/N nodded mechanically, her mind racing to process this information while maintaining outward composure. "Well, I hope they're both okay. Break-ups are rough."

Sam raised an eyebrow at her deliberately casual tone but seemed to understand Y/N's need for discretion in the middle of the office. "The PR team's in emergency mode trying to control the narrative. You might want to be prepared for questions about the social media approach."

"Of course," Y/N replied, already moving toward her office, seeking privacy to collect herself. "Thanks for the heads-up."

Once behind her closed door, Y/N sat heavily in her chair, the news still reverberating through her. Joe and Olivia had been together since before her time with the Bengals. Their relationship had been a constant backdrop to her own complicated feelings, a fixed reality that had allowed her to keep those feelings firmly contained. With that boundary suddenly removed, Y/N felt exposed, as though a wall she'd been safely hiding behind had vanished.

Her phone buzzed with a group text from her brothers, who had clearly seen the news.

Matt: Don't think we didn't notice you've been radio silent on the Burrow news.

Lucas: Is he okay? Getting bombarded with questions as the resident Bengals expert in the family.

Aaron: More importantly, are YOU okay?

Y/N stared at Aaron's message, surprised and unsettled by his perceptiveness. Had she been that transparent all these years?

Y/N: Just got back from the combine and learning about it with everyone else. Don't have inside info. And obviously I'm fine, it has nothing to do with me.

The response was immediate:

Aaron: If you say so, sis.

Y/N was saved from replying by a knock at her door. Kayla, the head of PR, stood there with a tense expression.

"We need to coordinate on the social media approach," she said. "Engagement's through the roof, but we need to strike the right tone. Respectful distance while acknowledging the fans' interest."

"Absolutely," Y/N replied, grateful for the professional focus. "I'll draft a content strategy for the coming weeks."

"What are you thinking?" Kayla asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Y/N considered for a moment. "Actually... I think we don't acknowledge it at all."

Kayla's eyebrows shot up. "Not even a brief statement?"

"Joe has never discussed his personal life publicly before," Y/N explained. "He's always kept that separate from his football identity. Starting now would set a precedent that his private life is fair game for public consumption."

"The fans will want—"

"The fans want football," Y/N interrupted gently. "We continue with regular football content, draft prep, team developments. We respect the boundary he's always maintained between his personal and professional life."

Kayla studied her thoughtfully. "That's... actually a solid approach. Let me run it by the team. Also, Joe's asking for you to handle his NBC Sports interview next week personally. Seems like he might be on the same page."

After Kayla left, Y/N sat motionless, absorbing this new development. Even amid personal upheaval, Joe still trusted her judgment, still sought her specific perspective. The weight of that trust felt heavier now than it ever had before.

Throughout the day, Y/N buried herself in work, drafting content plans, holding strategy meetings, responding to media inquiries. Every task provided a welcome distraction from the thought that circled her mind: Joe was single. For the first time since she'd known him, Joe Burrow was single.

It was nearly seven when her office phone rang.

"Y/N Y/L/N," she answered automatically.

"It's Joe."

She straightened in her chair, professional mask firmly in place despite the privacy of her office. "Hi. How are you doing?"

A soft exhale on the other end. "Been better. But surviving the media circus."

"I'm sure," Y/N said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. "We've drafted a content approach that should help."

"Kayla mentioned your strategy. No acknowledgment. Keep it focused on football."

"I hope that aligns with what you want," Y/N said, suddenly uncertain. "I just thought—"

"It's exactly what I want," Joe interrupted, his voice warm with approval. "That's why I'm calling about the NBC interview. I need you there."

Y/N paused, confused. The NBC interview was a major opportunity, but not typically something that required her personal oversight. "I can assign our best team—"

"I want you there," Joe interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "You understand that not everything needs to be a story. You respect the boundaries. That's rare in this business."

Y/N felt a rush of professional pride mixed with something more personal. "I'll be there. We'll make sure they stay focused on football."

"Thank you," Joe said, relief evident in his voice. "And Y/N? Thanks for not asking why it happened. Everyone else has."

After hanging up, Y/N sat in the quiet of her office, the lights of Cincinnati beginning to twinkle in the early evening darkness outside her window. The professional boundaries she'd promised herself felt suddenly more essential and more fragile than ever before.

Joe needed her expertise. Her professional judgment. Her ability to maintain boundaries when everyone else wanted to cross them. That's what this was about—nothing more. She couldn't allow herself to read anything deeper into his request, couldn't let hope take root where it had no business growing.

Yet as she packed up her things to head home, Y/N couldn't quite suppress the small, persistent voice that whispered through her careful defenses.

He's single now. And the first person he called was you.

The Next Day - Bengals Conference Room

Y/N arrived early to prepare for the content planning meeting, arranging her presentation materials and reviewing her notes on the NBC interview format. She'd spent half the night crafting the perfect approach, one that would allow Joe to gracefully deflect personal questions and maintain focus on football.

The door opened, and Y/N looked up, expecting to see the PR team. Instead, Joe entered alone. He was dressed casually in Bengals athletic wear, hair slightly tousled, expression calm but tired around the eyes. Without the usual buffers of coaches, staff, or other players, his presence seemed to fill the empty conference room.

"Morning," he said, setting down his coffee. "Hope I'm not too early."

"Not at all," Y/N replied, her professional demeanor instinctively taking over. "I was just setting up."

Joe nodded, taking a seat at the table, not across from her as she expected, but at the adjacent corner, close enough that she could detect the faint scent of his aftershave. "So what's the game plan?"

Y/N pulled up her presentation, grateful for the distraction of work. "I've drafted a content strategy for the NBC interview. The approach is straightforward—if personal questions come up, we have prepared deflections that redirect to football topics without acknowledging the headlines directly."

She walked through the key points, outlining potential questions and suggested responses, maintaining eye contact with the screen rather than with Joe. This was familiar territory, the professional space where she felt confident and in control.

"This is perfect," Joe said when she finished. "No drama, no personal details, just football."

"You've always kept your private life private," Y/N agreed, finally meeting his gaze. "No reason to change that approach now, regardless of the circumstances."

Joe studied her for a moment, his expression warming. "You've always understood that about me. Even from the beginning."

"It's my job to understand what players need in terms of media strategy," Y/N replied modestly.

"No," Joe countered, leaning forward slightly. "Other media staff push for personal angles, human interest stories, emotional hooks. You never have. You respect the boundaries I set, sometimes before I even articulate them."

The directness of his praise caught her off guard. "I just try to see the person behind the player."

"And that's why I trust you," Joe said simply. "You see me as a person first, not as content to be packaged."

He paused, his expression shifting to something more contemplative. "I've been thinking a lot lately about the frames we put around ourselves. The stories we let others tell about us. The parts we keep private."

"That makes sense," Y/N offered carefully. "Especially with everything going on now."

Joe nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "I've started to realize how exhausting it is to maintain those frames. To always be seen through someone else's lens. I'm starting to wonder what it would be like to just... be seen. Without the frame. Without the lens."

There was something in his voice, an undercurrent of meaning Y/N couldn't quite decipher. Before she could respond, the door opened and the PR team filed in, breaking the moment with their arrival.

As the meeting proceeded, Y/N maintained her professional focus, presenting her strategy and responding to questions. But beneath her composed exterior, her mind kept returning to Joe's words, to the strange intensity in his eyes when he'd talked about being seen without a lens.

When the meeting ended, Y/N gathered her materials, aware of Joe lingering as the others filed out.

"The NBC interview is Tuesday at ten," she confirmed, keeping her tone light and professional. "I'll have the final prep materials to you tomorrow."

Joe nodded, but seemed distracted. "Y/N," he began, then stopped, glancing at the partially open door. "Never mind. We can talk about it Tuesday."

As he left, Y/N remained in the conference room, trying to make sense of what had just happened. In four years of working closely with Joe Burrow, she had learned to read his expressions, to anticipate his needs in professional settings, to recognize the difference between his media persona and his authentic self.

But today he had looked at her differently. Spoken to her differently. As though seeing her fully for the first time, or perhaps allowing her to see him without the careful filters they'd both maintained for so long.

Y/N gathered her things and headed back to her office, reminding herself of the promise she'd made just days ago. More distance. More professional boundaries. Less emotional investment in a relationship that existed primarily through a camera lens.

Yet as she settled at her desk, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. Joe Burrow was single for the first time since she'd known him. And for reasons she couldn't yet understand, he seemed to be looking at her in a way he never had before.

Tuesday's interview suddenly felt like much more than a standard media appearance. It felt like standing on the edge of something new and unknown. Something that both thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.

* * *

March 2024 – NBC Sports Interview Setup

The NBC Sports crew had transformed a corner of the Bengals facility into a sleek interview set, complete with a branded backdrop and professional lighting. Y/N surveyed the space with a critical eye, making quiet adjustments and mental notes about camera angles as the crew finished setup.

“All set on your end?” asked the NBC producer, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense tone.

“We’re good,” Y/N confirmed, checking her notes one last time. “Just a reminder, football questions only. No personal inquiries.”

The producer’s smile tightened. “We’re aware of your guidelines. Though our viewers may find the personal angle relevant.”

“They’ll have to find that content elsewhere,” Y/N said pleasantly. “Joe’s here to talk about his recovery and the season ahead.”

Before the producer could respond, Joe walked in, dressed in Bengals gear, his easy confidence settling over the room. Y/N watched as he greeted the crew with practiced professionalism, calm but fully present.

“Everything look good?” he asked, joining her at the edge of the set.

“All set,” she said. “We’ve reviewed the outline and reestablished the limits.”

Joe nodded. After four years of media work together, their rhythm was seamless. Y/N knew where to stand, when to flag a break, how to redirect a question with a subtle cue. They didn’t need to talk much anymore.

“Five minutes, Mr. Burrow,” an assistant called.

“I’ll be over there,” Y/N said, gesturing to her post just off-camera. “Remember the deflections if they press."

Joe reached out, catching her arm gently. “Hey.” His voice dropped. “Thanks for handling this. For knowing what I need.”

Y/N met his eyes. “That’s what teammates do, right?”

A smile flickered across his face, referencing a conversation from years ago. “Right. Teammates.”

The interview began smoothly. Joe fielded questions about his wrist, the off-season program, and his expectations for the year ahead. The host was polished and respectful, at first.

Then came the shift.

“So, Joe, with everything going on in your personal life lately, how has that impacted your mindset heading into the season?”

Y/N tensed, ready to intervene, but Joe’s glance toward her stopped her. He had it.

“I’m focused entirely on football right now,” he said evenly. “My recovery’s on track. We’re building something special here. That’s where my head is.”

The host pressed gently. “But a change like that, after four years, has to affect your mental approach.”

Y/N’s fingers hovered, ready to call it, but Joe held her gaze. Calm. Steady.

“One thing I’ve learned is that some parts of life belong to the public and some don’t,” he said. “I’ll talk about every detail of rehab, film study, preparation. But my personal life stays personal, not because it’s secret, but because it’s mine. I hope people can respect that.”

The host, sensing the firm line and the soundbite, moved on.

Thirty minutes later, the interview wrapped. The NBC crew began packing up. Y/N was reviewing her notes when the producer approached.

“That was good television,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “We didn’t get the personal angle, but his response was better than any breakup statement.”

“He meant every word,” Y/N said.

When the room cleared, she found Joe still in his chair, scrolling through his phone.

“You handled that perfectly,” she said, sitting down across from him. “The personal boundary line, clean and confident.”

“I had a good coach,” he said with a faint grin, then set his phone down. “You free for lunch? I could use some normal conversation.”

Y/N blinked. In four years, they’d rarely had lunch that wasn’t attached to a content shoot or a meeting. “I’ve got a review at two, but I’m free until then.”

“Great,” Joe said, already standing. “I know a place where no one will bother us.”

* * *

Local Cafe – 45 Minutes Later

The place Joe picked was small and tucked away on a quiet side street, the kind of cafe that didn’t advertise and clearly didn’t care to. No branding, no social media walls — just warm lighting, scratched wood tables, and a menu written in chalk. They sat in a corner booth, out of view from the street, menus already half-forgotten between them.

“I come here when I need to breathe,” Joe said, catching the way Y/N looked around. “Owner’s son played D-II ball. He doesn’t care who I am. No photos, no questions. Just food and quiet.”

“Everyone needs one of those,” Y/N said, settling into the seat. “A spot where no one asks for anything.”

Joe looked at her, curious. “Where’s yours?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. “East side. Little cafe in the back of a bookstore. Average coffee, great scones. Nobody cares about sports. I just sit and read and pretend I’m not attached to a team account.”

Joe grinned. “That actually tracks. I can picture it. You with a book, probably judging the plot structure.”

“It’s a curse,” she said, smiling. “Comes from too much content review.”

They ordered lunch. The conversation stayed easy, lighter than it ever was at the facility. Joe asked about her brothers, recalling random details she didn’t even remember mentioning. Y/N asked about his training plans, casually weaving in suggestions for future content ideas without falling into work mode completely.

“So,” she said, nudging her empty plate away, “how’s the wrist holding up after all that expert-level pointing in the interview?”

He flexed his hand theatrically. “Strong enough to gesture with purpose.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s going on the injury report.”

Joe leaned back, relaxed in a way she didn’t often see. “This is nice. No cameras, no checklists. Just… lunch.”

Y/N nodded. “There’s a reason I didn’t bring the content kit.”

“We should do it again,” he said, casual but sincere. “Lunch. Coffee. Whatever. Just… not at the facility.”

She felt it then, that small shift. The line they’d both been quietly standing on for years moving slightly, the rules changing under them.

“I’d like that,” she said, keeping it light. “Might help with brainstorming.”

Joe tilted his head, giving her a look that was equal parts amused and direct. “Not for work. I mean just to hang out.”

Y/N blinked, a quiet flush rising to her cheeks. “Oh. Yeah, okay. That’d be nice.”

She looked down for a second, then back up, trying to play it off with a quick smile. “Not just for work, then.”

Joe smiled too, something almost teasing in his eyes. “Not just for work.”

Back at the facility, they walked side by side until the hallway split. Joe paused before they parted.

“Thanks for today. The interview. Lunch. All of it.”

“Just doing my job,” Y/N said, the reflex kicking in before she could stop it.

Joe looked at her, steady. “No. It’s always been more than that with you.”

And then he turned and kept walking, leaving Y/N standing there, trying not to replay the sentence before she’d even finished hearing it.

* * *

April 2024 – Bengals Facility Media Room

Over the next few weeks, a new pattern emerged. Joe would seek Y/N out after meetings or rehab sessions, suggesting coffee breaks or lunch outings that had less and less to do with content planning. They started talking more, not just about football or strategy, but about music, families, the random thoughts they didn’t usually share with coworkers. A friendship was forming, one that felt separate from everything else they’d been before.

“Y/N!” Sam called, poking her head into the media room where Y/N was editing draft day content. “Lunch plans?”

“Can’t today,” Y/N replied, eyes on her screen. “Meeting Joe about his charity event next month.”

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, already smirking. “That’s the third ‘meeting’ this week. Someone’s becoming a regular.”

Y/N glanced up. “We’re just talking through logistics.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Logistics. Of your friendship. That just so happens to involve daily lunch plans.”

Y/N sat back, crossing her arms. “We’re friends, Sam. Is that so strange?”

“Not strange,” Sam said. “Just new. And very different since the breakup.”

Y/N went still. “So what if it is?”

“Just… don’t act like you don’t know what’s happening,” Sam said gently. “You’ve been in love with the guy for years, and now he’s single and spending more time with you than anyone else on the team.”

“Keep your voice down,” Y/N muttered, glancing at the open door. “And no, nothing’s happening. We’ve always worked well together. That hasn’t changed.”

“Except it has,” Sam said. “You’re not just filming him in the weight room anymore. You’re texting. Hanging out. Laughing in the break room like it’s nothing. It’s something. And I just don’t want to see you get hurt pretending it’s not.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She stared at her screen, the video paused on a frame of Joe walking into a press conference, casual and calm and so familiar.

After Sam left, Y/N closed her laptop and sat with the weight of the conversation. She knew Sam wasn’t wrong. The boundaries between her and Joe had shifted. The conversations had changed. So had the silences.

Joe texted.

Joe: Still on for lunch? Found a new place with killer sandwiches.

Y/N: Definitely. Meet you in the lobby at 12:30?

Joe: Perfect. Looking forward to it.

Three simple words.

Looking forward to it.

And she was too. That was the part she didn’t know what to do with.

* * *

July 2024 – Training Camp

Training camp came in hot, literally and figuratively. The facility pulsed with energy: players returning, rookies getting loud welcomes, schedules tightening, everything moving fast. Y/N moved with it, camera slung over her shoulder, coordinating her media team between drills and pressers. This year, she had more responsibility, more people to manage, more angles to cover.

On the field, Joe looked sharp. The wrist held up. His throws were crisp, timing on point. Y/N tracked him through her lens, quietly relieved. This was the version fans had been waiting for. And she’d seen every step it took to get back here.

“Looking good out there,” she called as he passed during a water break.

“Feeling good,” Joe said, tipping the bottle back. “Might actually survive a full season.”

“Don’t jinx it,” she warned.

He grinned, and for a moment it felt like spring again, when they were texting about books and sneaking off for lunch and everything between them felt easy.

But something had shifted. Subtle, but noticeable. Their lunches had slowed. His texts, less frequent. He still sought her out during media stuff, still made space for her during press days. But the familiar rhythm had changed. More distance. A little quieter.

Y/N told herself it was camp. The pressure. The tunnel vision. Still, it lingered.

One night, after most of the building had cleared out, she spotted a familiar figure in the film room. Joe, hoodie on, eyes on the screen.

“Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked from the doorway.

He looked over, offered a tired half-smile. “Not this time of year.”

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him. “Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off.”

Says the woman who’s been here since dawn.” He nodded toward her camera bag.

“Touché.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen.

“You’ve been kind of MIA lately,” Y/N said lightly. “Everything good?”

Joe didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the paused film. “Yeah. Just… camp mode. Lot to lock in.”

She nodded. “If you need a break from all this, I’m around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football.”

That made him smile, just barely. “I’d like that. Maybe next week? When it slows down.”

“Deal.” She stood, grabbing her bag. “Don’t stay too late.”

As she walked back through the dim hallway, she couldn’t shake the quiet knot in her chest. Something was different. Not bad exactly, just… not what it had been. And maybe Sam had been right, that the closer they’d gotten, the more it risked tipping into something unspoken.

Maybe Joe felt that too.

Still, whatever this was between them, it mattered. And if keeping it meant backing off, Y/N could do that.

She had before.

* * *

November 2024 – Late Night

Y/N’s phone lit up with an incoming call, dragging her out of a dead sleep.

Sam (2:47 AM)

She answered immediately. “What happened?”

“You haven’t seen your phone yet?”

“No, I just got in from the flight and crashed.”

Sam exhaled. “Joe’s house got broken into tonight. While we were still in the air.”

Y/N sat up, heart pounding. “Wait, what? He was on the plane.”

“I know. That’s what makes this weirder. Apparently someone showed up at his house and found a shattered window. Cops were called. No one hurt, but it’s all over the internet.”

Y/N blinked. “Who showed up?”

Sam hesitated. “A woman. Ellie James.”

The name hit like ice water.

“She told police she was his employee. But fans already clocked her. She’s a 21-year-old model. Big on Instagram, runway work, a couple of campaigns. TikTok found her instantly.”

"It's blowing up on X right now. Apparently, he's been seeing someone for months. No one had any idea, not even the team."

Y/N was already unlocking her phone.

“‘Break-in at Joe Burrow’s home while team in Texas. No injuries reported.’”

“‘Ellie James identifies herself as “employee” in police report. Fans suspect more.’”

“‘Burrow and Ellie James: timeline of a secret relationship?’”

“They’ve got screenshots, tagged photos, weird little clues going back to July. That’s when people think they started seeing each other. Which—” Sam hesitated. “Kind of lines up, right?”

It did. July was when Joe had started pulling back. When their texts slowed, when their lunches stopped, when the tone of everything between them shifted into something more careful and less open.

Sam continued, “She wasn’t living with him, but she had access. Enough to be there alone. That’s the part everyone’s running with. The whole internet’s treating it like confirmation they’ve been together for months.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“Kayla called an emergency meeting for seven,” Sam added gently. “You’ll be in the room. We’re keeping it quiet for now, no official posts, no statements, but it’s gonna be messy. Just… be ready.”

After the call ended, Y/N scrolled through her phone. Headlines were popping up faster than she could keep track: Model Found Inside Joe Burrow’s House After Security Alarm Trip. Woman Identifies as Employee. Internet Says Otherwise.

Photos from Ellie’s Instagram. Old likes on Joe’s posts. A resurfaced clip from preseason camp that now felt painfully obvious. The puzzle pieces were already being assembled by fans who needed no confirmation to draw conclusions.

Y/N dropped her phone onto the bed and stared into the dark. It all made sense now, why he’d started retreating, why the easy momentum between them had suddenly stalled. While she’d been wondering what changed, he had already been moving toward someone else.

And she hadn’t known. Not once had he mentioned Ellie. Not to her. Not in passing. Not even after everything they’d shared.

She let herself lie back down, though sleep wouldn’t come again. Her chest ached with the kind of heartbreak you can’t rationalize away. Four years of working beside him. Of being trusted. Of feeling like maybe, just maybe, she was something more than just a colleague.

But tonight made it plain. She hadn’t been the one he’d let in. Not to his house, and not to the private parts of his life he kept so fiercely protected.

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, a tear sliding quietly into her hair. She would go to the meeting in the morning. She would do her job.

But in this quiet hour, there was no protecting herself from the truth.

He had let someone else in.

And it wasn’t her.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility, 7:00 AM

The conference room was already filled when Y/N arrived, PR staff and executives huddled around the table, phones buzzing with alerts, coffee cups scattered like defensive positions. Dark circles under eyes revealed who had been up all night tracking social media fallout. Kayla stood at the head of the table, a slideshow of current headlines projected on the wall behind her.

Y/N took a seat beside Sam, grateful for the friendly face amid the tension. She'd spent the hours since Sam's call cycling through shock, hurt, and professional resolve, finally landing on a numb determination to get through this day with her dignity intact.

"Good, we're all here," Kayla began, silencing the murmurs. "As you're aware, there was an incident at Joe's residence last night while the team was returning from Dallas. The situation has escalated with social media speculation about his relationship with Ellie James, the woman present during the break-in."

Y/N's eyes remained fixed on her notebook as Kayla continued detailing the situation: security footage being reviewed, police statements, media requests flooding in. The office was buzzing with opinions about how to handle the revelation of Joe's apparent secret relationship.

"We need a clear, consistent message," said Marcus from PR. "Confirm the relationship, express appreciation for privacy during this unexpected exposure, pivot back to football."

"We should get ahead of this," another executive agreed. "Have Joe make a brief statement addressing the speculation directly."

"No," Y/N said quietly, then louder when several faces turned toward her. "No. That's exactly what we shouldn't do."

Kayla gestured for her to continue. As Social Media Coordinator, Y/N's perspective on public messaging carried weight, especially regarding Joe, with whom she'd worked closely for years.

"Joe isn't going to want to talk about this," Y/N continued, keeping her voice steady despite the emotional undercurrent. "He's never discussed his personal life publicly before. Not with Olivia, not after their breakup, not ever. We need to let him lead and share what he wants to, if anything."

"But the speculation is already overwhelming," Marcus countered. "The internet's connecting dots, creating narratives—"

"And that's the internet's problem, not ours," Y/N interrupted firmly. "This wasn't a planned reveal. His home was broken into. His privacy was violated. And now we're sitting here discussing how to package his personal life for public consumption?" She shook her head. "He deserves better from us."

A silence fell over the room as her words sank in.

"Y/N's right," Kayla said finally. "Joe's always maintained clear boundaries between his personal and professional life. Our job is to respect and reinforce those boundaries, not erode them further."

"So what do we do?" someone asked.

"We focus on the break-in as a security matter," Y/N suggested. "We acknowledge the incident without commenting on personal details. We prepare for questions but don't volunteer information Joe hasn't chosen to share himself."

The meeting continued with logistics planning, security protocols, media management strategies. Y/N participated with professional focus, offering insights on social media monitoring, content approaches, protective messaging. No one in the room would have guessed from her composed exterior the turmoil beneath the surface, the personal devastation she was carefully compartmentalizing to do her job.

As the meeting concluded, Kayla approached Y/N. "Joe's coming in at ten for a scheduled press briefing about Sunday's game. After this, reporters will obviously try to shift focus. Can you prep him? You've got the best sense of how he'll want to handle this."

Y/N nodded, her stomach twisting at the prospect of facing Joe after last night's revelation. "I'll handle it."

10:15 AM - Press Prep Room

Y/N was reviewing notes when the door opened and Joe walked in. He looked tired but composed, dressed in standard team attire, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. For a moment they simply looked at each other, the air between them heavy with unspoken complications.

"Hey," he said finally.

"Hey," Y/N replied, professional mask firmly in place. "You okay?"

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking a seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed neutrally. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her with that perceptive gaze she'd come to know so well. "What do you think I should do?"

Y/N took a deep breath, pushing aside every personal feeling to focus on what Joe needed professionally right now.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

Joe's expression softened slightly. "That's what I figured you'd say."

"The reporters will try to ask," Y/N continued. "They'll find roundabout ways to bring it up. But you can respond the same way you always have when personal matters arise. Redirect to football. Maintain your boundaries. We're not confirming or commenting on anything you don't want to discuss."

"Thank you," Joe said quietly. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Y/N felt a flash of hurt at the implied gratitude for her professional distance, when all she wanted was to ask why he'd never once mentioned Ellie during their countless lunches, their growing friendship, their shared confidences. But she pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand.

"That's my job," she said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing likely questions and deflection strategies, maintaining a careful professional rapport that revealed nothing of Y/N's inner turmoil or whatever Joe might be feeling about this unexpected exposure of his private life.

As they finished their prep, Joe paused before standing. "You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

The irony of his gratitude for her professional boundaries when she'd spent years carefully hiding how much more she wanted from him was almost too much to bear.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed. "Even you."

Something flickered in Joe's expression, a moment of searching, before he nodded and stood. "Right. Let's get this over with."

Press Conference

Y/N stood in the back of the room as Joe stepped up to the podium, dressed in Bengals gear, posture steady, expression unreadable. The media had been buzzing since early morning, the room packed with local and national reporters, every one of them waiting for a chance to ask the question that had consumed the internet overnight.

Before they could.

Joe adjusted the mic slightly, then spoke with calm clarity.

“I know there’s been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours. Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I’m going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share.”

He paused, letting the silence settle over the room.

“I’m here to talk about football. That’s what I’ll be answering questions about today.”

The room went still. Not stunned, but quieted. Everyone knew exactly what he meant. He wasn’t dodging. He was drawing a line.

Y/N exhaled slowly, a complicated ache settling in her chest. It wasn’t what they’d written together, but it was unmistakably him, measured, respectful, honest. Joe didn’t deny or explain. He simply protected the parts of his life he hadn’t invited anyone into.

A few reporters tried to pivot back toward the story, but Joe held firm, calmly redirecting every question to Sunday’s matchup, his wrist recovery, the team’s progress. He gave them nothing else.

When it ended, he stepped down from the podium and looked once toward the back of the room. His gaze met Y/N’s for half a second. A silent acknowledgment. Then he was gone.

Sam appeared beside her. "That wasn't what we prepped, but it worked."

"Better than what we prepped," Y/N agreed, her professional assessment genuine despite her personal turmoil. "No one's going to push after that."

"And how are you handling it?" Sam asked quietly, concern evident in her voice. "This can't be easy."

Y/N kept her eyes forward, not trusting herself to maintain composure if she looked at her friend. "I'm fine. It's not about me."

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Media Office, Later That Day

Y/N sat at her desk, monitoring media coverage of Joe's press conference. His direct statement had effectively shut down the most invasive questions, though speculation about Ellie James continued across social platforms. She was crafting guidance for the social media team when a knock sounded at her open door.

She looked up to find Joe standing there, changed from his press attire into casual team workout gear.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

Y/N nodded, professional mask firmly in place despite the sudden acceleration of her pulse. "Of course."

Joe closed the door behind him and took a seat across from her desk. For a moment, he just studied her, those observant eyes taking in details in a way that had always made Y/N feel simultaneously seen and exposed.

"I went off script," he finally said.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe nodded, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. "That's what I figured you'd say." He hesitated, then added, "I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning. Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N shrugged, keeping her expression carefully neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Y/N kept her focus on her professional role, refusing to acknowledge the hurt and confusion swirling beneath her composed exterior.

"The coverage should die down in a soon," she said, gesturing to her monitor. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

Joe nodded, but made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, heart suddenly pounding. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe trailed off, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. The word stung despite its truth. "It's really okay, Joe. I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face. "It's complicated. More complicated than what people are assuming."

Y/N felt a flicker of something, not quite hope, but curiosity, before she tamped it down. Whatever was happening between Joe and Ellie James, it wasn't her business unless it affected his public image, which was her professional concern.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

Joe nodded slowly, seeming both grateful and somehow disappointed by her response. "Right. Well, I should let you get back to work."

He stood to leave but paused at the door. "I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon. Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The invitation hit Y/N like a physical force, stirring up the complicated feelings she was trying desperately to compartmentalize. Part of her wanted to accept immediately, hungry for any connection with him. Another part knew that continuing their friendship after last night's revelation would only prolong her heartache.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," she replied, a neutral response that neither accepted nor rejected. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

Something flickered across Joe's face, disappointment, perhaps, before he nodded. "Sure. Just let me know."

After he left, Y/N sat motionless, staring at the door. That conversation had left her more confused than ever. Joe seemed to want to maintain their friendship, perhaps even explain whatever was happening with Ellie, while Y/N was still reeling from discovering the relationship existed at all.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam.

Sam: Just saw QB1 leaving your office. You okay?

Y/N: Fine. Just discussing press conference fallout. Professional stuff.

Sam: Available for wine and venting later if needed. No judgment.

Y/N smiled despite herself, grateful for her friend's support.

Y/N: Might take you up on that.

She turned back to her work, focusing on the tangible aspects of her job rather than the emotional complications. Whatever Joe's relationship with Ellie James was, whatever "complicated" meant in this context, Y/N needed to accept that she had been firmly placed in the "friend" category. And perhaps it was time to accept that and establish some healthier boundaries of her own.

That Evening - Sam's Apartment

"So he just showed up at your office to thank you, then vaguely called his relationship with Model Barbie 'complicated'?" Sam asked, refilling Y/N's wine glass. "What does that even mean?"

Y/N sank deeper into Sam's couch, the professional composure she'd maintained all day finally crumbling in the safety of her friend's apartment. "I have no idea. And I didn't ask."

"Why not?" Sam demanded. "After four years of pining—"

"I don't pine," Y/N interrupted defensively.

"Fine, after four years of 'professionally admiring from an appropriate distance,'" Sam amended with air quotes, "don't you deserve some answers? Especially after how close you two got this year?"

Y/N took a long sip of wine. "What would I even say? 'Hey Joe, why didn't you mention your secret girlfriend during all our lunches and conversations?' Or maybe 'Just wondering why you pulled back right when I thought we were getting closer?'"

"Yes!" Sam exclaimed. "Exactly those questions!"

"That's not who we are," Y/N sighed. "I've spent four years respecting his boundaries, his privacy. I can't suddenly demand explanations about his personal life just because I'm hurt."

"But that's the thing," Sam said gently. "You're not just a colleague anymore. You became friends, real friends. And friends tell each other when they start dating someone."

Y/N stared into her wine glass, confronting the truth in Sam's words. "Maybe we weren't as close as I thought."

"Or maybe there's more to the story," Sam suggested. "He called it 'complicated,' right? That's not exactly 'madly in love.'"

"It doesn't matter," Y/N said firmly. "The point is, I've been holding onto this hope that maybe, someday, he might see me as more than a friend or colleague. But the reality is, when he became single, he didn't turn to me. He found someone else. Someone completely separate from his football life."

"And you think that's what he wants? Separation?"

Y/N nodded slowly. "It makes sense. I represent his professional world, the cameras, the documentation, the public scrutiny. Ellie represents something completely different. Something private."

Sam studied her friend's face. "So what are you going to do?"

"My job," Y/N replied simply. "I'll keep doing my job excellently. And I'll start creating some healthier boundaries for myself." She took another sip of wine. "Including not accepting lunch invitations that will only make it harder to move on."

"And if he persists? If he wants to explain this 'complicated' situation?"

Y/N considered the question, recognizing both the temptation and the potential pain. "Then I'll listen. As his friend. But with no expectations beyond that."

Sam seemed skeptical but supportive. "Just promise me you'll prioritize yourself this time, not just his privacy or comfort."

"I'm trying," Y/N admitted. "Four years of habits are hard to break."

As they continued talking, Y/N's phone buzzed with an incoming text. She hesitated before checking it, already knowing who it would be from.

Joe: Just wanted to check how you're doing. Today couldn't have been easy for you either, managing all the fallout. Thanks again for having my back.

The sincerity of his concern, even amid his own privacy crisis, was quintessential Joe Burrow. Y/N stared at the message, debating whether to respond.

"Him?" Sam asked, watching her face.

Y/N nodded.

"What are you going to say?"

After a moment's consideration, Y/N typed a response that embodied her new resolution: friendly but with clearer boundaries.

Y/N: Just doing my job. Everything will settle down soon. Get some rest, we have a game to win Sunday.

She set her phone aside, ignoring the immediate notification of his reply. Tonight was about processing, about beginning to disentangle her heart from the web of hope and expectation she'd woven around Joe Burrow.

Tomorrow would be about moving forward. Professionally excellent as always, but with a new personal awareness that what she'd spent years hoping for simply wasn't going to happen.

It was time to protect her heart as carefully as she'd always protected Joe's privacy.

* * *

November 2024 - Game Day

The stadium hummed with energy as Y/N moved along the sidelines, camera in hand, documenting pre-game preparations. Despite everything, she found comfort in the familiar routines, the professional focus required to capture the right moments, the technical aspects of her job that left little room for emotional distractions.

She had successfully avoided direct interaction with Joe since their office conversation, managing team social media remotely when possible, delegating player-specific content to her staff when appropriate. The distance was self-protective, a necessary step toward accepting that their relationship would never be what she had hoped.

As players took the field for warm-ups, Y/N kept her camera trained on rookies and highlight plays, deliberately avoiding lingering on the quarterback. She was reviewing footage when a voice spoke behind her.

"Avoiding me?"

Y/N turned to find Joe standing there, helmet in hand, pre-game intensity evident in his posture but a question in his eyes.

"Of course not," she replied smoothly. "Just focusing on the content plan."

Joe studied her, that perceptive gaze seeming to see through her professional excuse. "You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Y/N maintained her composed expression despite the confrontation. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

"Right," Joe said, clearly unconvinced. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game," she interrupted gently. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

A mix of frustration and concern crossed his features. "This conversation isn't over. But you're right about the timing."

As he turned to head back toward the team, Y/N called after him. "Joe?"

He looked back.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that subtle smile she knew so well. "Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

Y/N watched him jog back to the quarterback group, his form perfect, his presence commanding attention without effort. She would always admire that about him—the natural leadership, the focused intensity, the quiet confidence.

But admiration could exist without expectation. Respect without romantic attachment. Professional excellence without personal entanglement.

At least, that's what Y/N was determined to learn.

As the game began, she threw herself into her work, capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating the content that brought fans closer to the action. This was what she excelled at. What she had built her career on. What had earned her respect throughout the organization.

And if her heart ached when the camera caught Joe celebrating a touchdown, when he glanced toward the sideline where she stood, when he gave his post-game interview with that mixture of humility and confidence she'd documented for four years—well, that was her burden to bear.

Her phone buzzed with a text as she was packing up her equipment after the game.

Joe: We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

Y/N stared at the message, her new resolution already being tested. Every instinct urged her to agree immediately, to hope that "complicated" might somehow explain why he'd kept Ellie a secret from her, even as they'd grown closer as friends.

But the reality was painfully clear. Joe had chosen someone else. Someone young and beautiful, someone entirely separate from his football life. Someone he'd wanted to keep private. The "complicated" aspects of his relationship with Ellie didn't change the fundamental truth: he didn't see Y/N the way she saw him.

Y/N: I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

It wasn't technically a lie. She had been planning to visit her brothers sometime soon, and now seemed like the perfect opportunity to gain some distance and perspective.

Joe: If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

She paused, fingers hovering over her keyboard, temptation warring with self-protection.

Y/N: We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Putting her phone away, Y/N finished packing her equipment, her mind already planning her impromptu trip to Louisville. Maybe time with her family, away from the daily orbit around Joe Burrow, would help her find the strength to maintain a friendship with him while accepting the reality of his relationship with Ellie.

Because one truth had become painfully clear: being Joe Burrow's friend, confidant, and trusted colleague was both a privilege and a form of exquisite torture when you were in love with him.

Something had to change. And since she couldn't change her feelings, she would have to change the dynamics of their relationship, for her own sake.

Even if that meant creating distance where she'd once sought closeness.

Part Two

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i-cant-sing · 1 year ago

Text

Time Traveller AU part 7

Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here. Time Traveller au masterlist is here. Check out my MASTERLIST for more!

Part 8 is here!

"Gather the troops and have them warn the public. All the infantries will be stationed here and here. The archers and cavalary-" Salauddin was sending orders to his generals. As soon as he was informed of Baldwin coming, you knew he had only limited time to make a game plan.

You didnt understand why Baldwin would come all the way here for a war. He wouldnt leave Jerusalem unarmed this way, so either he's bring half of his army while the other half protects his kingdom from invaders- which would put him at a great disadvantage against Salauddin. Or he's bringing all of his men and that means Jerusalem is practically up for grabs.

No. He wouldnt leave Jerusalem unarmed like that, so that means he's inadequately prepared for the war?

No. Baldwin's too smart. If he won against Salauddin at just 16 years, then he's definitely coming up with a plan. And it scares you to not know what he has in mind.

You looked at Salauddin who had just finished instructing his generals, as they left. He was stressed, you could see that. War. Its not a small thing. There are no true winners when there's blood shed on either side. While Salauddin does have the advantage of fighting in his home ground, that is also his disadvantage. At the end of it, his people- his Egypt will suffer.

"Y/n." Your eyes meet. "I need you to stay inside the palace. I will have guards assigned to you. If they tell you to go somewhere, follow them."

"What? No. I'm coming with."

"Have you lost your mind?"

You ignored his insult. "If Baldwin is coming for a war-" "You're gonna talk him out of it?" "I mean, its not a bad plan but I was gonna offer you to use me as a bargaining chip? That way you could avoid blood shed." You wouldn't offer to put your life in danger but since your time machine is still not ready, you need to avoid a war.

"No." He gave you a stern look. "I dont want you anywhere near him or his men. You will stay here. Listen to me for once."

"But I-"

"Y/n." He warned. You sighed before nodding. Well I could always just go out when he leaves, just like last time.

Almost as if he had read your mind, he made you follow him to a room that had no windows or any other exits besides the one door that was made of solid wood and had guards stationed outside.

"This is the safest room, Y/n. It is impenetrable." Oh no, you cant stay here.

"I think you're overreacting a bit-"

"Overreacting? Your fiance is coming over to start a war because of your crazy brother-in-law who you underestimated because you said that he's just a tool. I think I'm reacting very appropriately." He shut you up.

"I want Isabella."

"No."

"Please Salauddin, I need to keep her safe too-"

"No."

"This may be the last wish you ever grant me, so can you just agree-"

"You think I'm going to die?!" Salauddin stared at you in disbelief.

"I... I didnt say that." You tried to think of a lie. "I mean, maybe this might be the last time you see me... alive? Who knows when the angel of death pays you a visit? If we look at the statistics, between you, me and Baldwin, at least one of us going to die-"

"Stop talking." He gritted out, "Fine."

"Princess." Isabella wailed as soon as she entered. You let her hug you. "I missed you too, Isabella." You smiled wiping away her tears.

"I- I heard rumors of a war! Is it- his majesty coming?" The girl sniffled. You nodded.

"Its true. A war is going to happen... unless I do something about it." She blinked in confusion. "Huh?"

You held her hands and gave her your most pleading eyes. Its time for manipulation.

"I need you to get me out of here." "Why?" "Because I need to talk to my future husband out of war."

Her eyes widened. "B-but its too dangerous for you to go outside, princess!"

You sighed. "If I cant even protect people from unnecessary pain and bloodshed, then what good am I as a queen?" Yes, time for some heart breaking lines about self sacrifice. "I would rather risk my life than the lives of those who have their families waiting for them at home. I would happily fall on my own sword if it means my subjects wont have to. If I cant prevent suffering of the very people who would bleed for me, then I have no right to be the queen of Jerusalem."

Half an hour later, Isabella had knocked on the door for the guards to let her out.

"Sultan Salauddin has forbidden-"

"Princess Y/n from leaving. Not me. I'm her lady in waiting and the princess needs me to get her belongings so that she can write her will."

"We can have it fetched-"

"You? A common man she has no relations with- wants to touch her stuff? I dont think so." Isabelle glared at them through her niqaab (all of your maids had followed your dress code in Egypt). She didnt wait for an answer as she began walking away before a man appeared by her side. It was one of Salauddin's guards.

"What?" She snapped at him, continuing to walk.

"They sent me to walk with you and bring you back safely." He said before grinning at her. "I thought you'd be happy to see your habeebo."

"Habeebo?" She asked, reaching your room.

He caught her wrist and turned her around, gazing at her veiled face with affection. "You cant still be mad at me for leaving the other night- I had duties."

"What right do I have to be mad at you?" Isabella kept her face down, conveying she was still very much mad.

"Habeebo's habibti- you have all rights over me. You're the only woman for me." Habeebo said as he placed a hand over his heart.

Isabelle finally giggled, freeing her wrist from his grasps. "Stop... someone could walk in on us." She warned.

"So? I'm not afraid. I can do anything for love!"

"Anything?"

"Anything." He assured her.

"Then go fetch me some cold water while I pack the princesse's belongings. Hurry now, I'll be waiting for you here." Habeebo all but smiled before walking towards the kitchen, leaving Isabella alone in your room.

As soon as she was sure he was gone, she removed her veil and quickly changed her chaddar with yours.

"Thanks Isabella." You muttered as you slipped on your chaddar. Yes, you had left Isabella in the room upstairs and pretended to be her to slip out of there. She had told you about her crush Habeebo who you had also fooled into leaving you here, and youre sure that if he were to go back upstairs and find Isabella instead of you, he'd protect her. Surely.

Sneaking out of the palace wasnt a hard feat by now. What was hard was trying to figure out what way to go to find Baldwin or Salauddin, with all the people panicking as they were being constantly warned by guards about Baldwin's arrival.

You decided to go through the market and head towards the madarrasa, though you doubt Abbas is anywhere done with the parts you gave him to make. You had given a week's deadline but only because you needed him to hurry up, not because he could actually make them in such little time.

The streets were packed, shops were getting closed and people were trying to rush home to safety. You were nearing the madarrasa when you were pulled to the side in an alley.

"Y/n!" Abbas exclaimed. "Finally, I found you." You raised a brow and he grinned. "Your things are ready."

"Already?" You were in disbelief. How did he-

He puffed his chest. "Of course. I had a deadline and with the war being announced, I'm glad I made haste!" You felt hope again. If the parts are ready, all you need to do is assemble them and you can leave this timeline for once and for all, and if Baldwin and Salauddin do end up fighting each other, everything works out! You're sure that Salauddin would win by playing to his strengths, and because eventually Guy will fuck up and betray Baldwin and cause him to die. Then another crusade will happen and Salauddin will take over Jerusalem! Everyone wins.

"Well? Hand it over."

"I dont have it with me right now! I took the parts home to work on them. Lets go." You trailed behind him, the market still bustling as the air became more tensed. They're kingdom is about to be attacked and they have little to no time to prepare for it.

Soon, you reached his home. It was a cozy place, made of mud. The beige walls added onto the coolness. He lead you inside, crossing the patio. Abbas told you to wait there while he went inside a room to get your parts. While waiting, your eyes landed on a cage in the corner that had 5 doves.

"Here it is." Abbas returned with a wooden box and gave it to you.

Opening it, you saw the designs you had given him. You took the parts out and examined them. They weren't top notch, but they'll make do.

"Thank you." You handed him a pouch of gold coins. He pocketed it before raising his brows at you. "So... will you finally tell me what this is for?"

You looked up at him before taking out your time machine. Might as well assemble it here and leave as soon as possible. "I would but I'm afraid it'll go over your head." He frowned at your words before grumbling angrily under his breath before going to the doves to give them seed. Good, he should be distracted while you put these parts in.

It didnt take more than a few minutes for you to place them in. All you had to do was to put in the last key, turn it on and set the date-

"Y/n." You looked up at Abbas, not understanding his horrified expression. What's wrong? You followed his gaze and looked behind you, and there it was-

A shadow standing at the doorway of the patio.

You squinted your eyes before your heart dropped at the realisation.

Black robes, hood over the head, geared up.

Assassin.

"This is the wrong house." Abbas said with a trembling voice.

The assassin stepped forward into the light, while you and Abbas took a few steps back.

"What- what do you want?" The assassin didnt answer him, his eyes fixed on you. This is- this is not an Ismaili. They wouldnt attack alone, and especially not so soon, and not when a war hangs over their head.

The assassin took another step forward, this time you grabbed the time machine and held it closely. This made the dark figure tilt his head at you.

"Get behind me." You moved behind Abbas. "Get out of my house- this is not the time. Evacuate!" Abbas warned the guy but he didnt stop staring at you.

As soon as he took another step, Abbas grabbed a wooden stick from the side and ran towards him, only for him to be flipped over his shoulder and slammed to the ground. You took this as a sign to run but the assassin was faster, grabbing you by the chaddar as it ripped off you. Your eyes widened as he grabbed you by the shoulder and yanked you back and your immediate reaction was to slap him, but he caught your wrist and pushed you back inside the patio. Abbas got up and tried to punch him, but he was knocked down back on his back in a second.

You ran, but didnt make it more than a few steps before you got tackled to the ground. You struggled to break free but the assassin had his arms wrapped around your neck, putting you in a chokehold.

Knowing Abbas couldnt come to your rescue, you clawed at the assassins hands, flailed about trying to break free from under him. But he had overpowered you, putting immense pressure until you started seeing black dots.

Just at the last moment, your eyes caught the sight of the dove cage and instinctively, you yanked the cage, hoping to hit the assassin in the head with it, but all you managed was to tip it over, the latch holding it close dropped.

And in the next moment, the doves flew out and went straight for the assassin. You wouldnt say they were attacking him, but the moment he saw them flying in his direction, he raised his hands to bat them away, which only caused him to get scratched-

You didnt stick around to find out if they clawed his face off, springing to your feet as you ran inside a room, hoping to find a window to escape.

You spot the window, quickly opening the wooden frame to leap out. Only the moment you have one foot out, you're pulled back inside and thrown against the wall.

The assassin is back, his body language conveying he's more pissed now than before.

You cant outrun him. You take a fighting stance. You know very well that you cant beat him either, but it works well to at least make him doubt that.

Maybe you could bribe him?

"What do you want?" You ask him, your fists raised. He tilted his head at your attempt to look ominous.

You glared at him. "You let me and my friend go, and I can assure you I can give you enough gold to keep you out of work forever. I am..." you pause before using your last card. "I am King Baldwin's fiance, future queen of Jerusalem. Let me go, and I'll give you anything you want."

He took another step forward and you knew you were backed into a corner so you punched him, only he caught your fist before it was anywhere near his face.

He stared at you, tightening his hold on your wrist.

"Please dont hurt me." You gulped before raising your other hand to punch him, but he caught it too. Now both of your hands were in one of his while he used the other to grab your throat and push you against the wall.

"Oh fuc-" He squeezed a pressure point on your neck until you passed out.

Salauddin was on his horse at the front of his army, waiting at the gates of his kingdom for Baldwin. His generals had informed him that they had placed the respective troops posted according to his plan. Everyone waited with baited breath for his command. They're ready to protect their sultan, ready to sacrifice their lives to protect their kingdom.

Salauddin heard them before he saw them.

The heavy jingle of metal armour, the marching of the horses and then he saw their cross flags. He gave a nod to his men, signalling to be prepared.

They're coming.

In all honesty, Salauddin was expecting Baldwin's army to not make it through the hot desert, since they rarely ever leave Jerusalem.

But it was still a surprise when he saw the actual size of his army.

It wasnt that much. Thought he anticipated it, after all Baldwin wouldnt have left his kingdom without some men, but now this means that Baldwin is not relying on numbers.

He's relying on strategy. And its hard to predict Baldwin's moves.

Salauddin's mouth turned into a grim line. What was he planning?

The templars lead the army to the gates of Egypt. The Muslims had their weapons ready to be drawn. Salauddin watched the Christians Knights halt.

Do they attack now?

Baldwin emerged from the masses on his horse, sporting his iron mask despite not needing it anymore. Salauddin also rode his horse to meet him halfway, knowing his generals dont appreciate him leaving.

Their horses stopped a few feet apart from each other. Everything was silent apart from the sound of warm air whooshing through the desert.

Baldwin raised his hand. Salauddin heart skipped a beat. He's going to signal them to attack-

"Salam alaikum!" Baldwin greeted with a wave.

Salauddin gave a nod. "Walaikum asalam."

Baldwin tilted his head. "Why so tense, Sal? Not happy to see me?"

"I dont like uninvited guests." He replied. Baldwin chuckled. "Of course. But we're friends-"

"Why are you here, Baldwin?"

Baldwin stared at him. No king appreciates being interrupted.

"I'm here to meet my fiancee."

Salauddin stared at him unamused. "You left the Holy Land to meet your fiancee who was going to return home soon anyways?"

Baldwin shrugged. "I missed her."

"Baldwin."

The young king sighed. "I know I should've informed you before coming but I really do want to see Y/n. I mean no harm, Salauddin." He raised his hands in surrender. "I just thought it would be a nice surprise for her. Ever since she cured me, I realised I hadnt seen the world that much, so what better location than Egypt?"

Salauddin stared at him, before his gaze fell on his army.

"Come on, Salauddin. Where's Y/n?" Baldwin asked with a goofy smile.

Salauddin's brows furrowed before he sighed. "In my palace." He nodded at his men to open the gates as he lead Baldwin in. But not before whispering to his second in command to surround the kingdom from all perimeters and be on high alert. Things can always go south.

Baldwin smirked looking at the size of Salauddin's army. "Aww, you didnt have to bring them for my warm welcome." Salauddin ignored him, knowing very well that Baldwin knew how it looked when a king comes unannounced at another king's door.

They soon arrived at the palace, welcomed by servants and maids who were looking at Baldwin in awe. They had heard rumors of his beauty, and when he removed his mask, they realised how huge of an understatement it was. And the fact that this young king was the one to defeat their sultan at just 16 years age, it definitely added to the charm.

But Baldwin wasnt blind to the furious gazes of his soldiers either. He just ignored them, which was easy since his mind was occupied by thoughts of you. Y/n. My princess. My angel.

What surprised Salauddin was that Baldwin hadnt come alone. No, Guy was here too which only confused him more. If Baldwin brought Guy along, then who did he leave to take care of Jerusalem? Sibylla and Guy's son was still too young to be a heir.

He did remember your theory about Guy being the one to hire the assassins to ambush you in the desert. If Guy came here despite his failed attempts to get rid of his enemies, then he's either incredibly stupid or he's well assured that he'll get away with everything.

Salauddin wont let him. He'll make Guy pay.

"I hate to rush you Salauddin, I know Muslims are knows for their hospitality but can you just lead me to Y/n's room? She is a sight for sore eyes." Baldwin requested sweetly, making Salauddin roll his eyes. He signalled a servant to bring you down.

Guy looked disgusted to be in the presence of so many Muslims, but the moment he caught sight of any maids passing by, he would be eyeing them like a piece of meat. A maid came by holding drinks in a tray. When she offered it to Baldwin and then Guy, the latter startled the poor girl by purposely touching her wrist with his grubby paws.

Salauddin gripped the armrest tightly. If he wasnt Baldwin's brother-in-law, Salauddin would've plucked his eyes out and had him whipped in public to make an example out of scum like him.

"So, when did you leave your camp outside Jerusalem? I was expecting to see you there on my way here, but there were new troops of yours instead." Baldwin asked, sipping the cool drink.

"I came here with Y/n. I had some errands that required my attention." Salauddin didnt bring up the ambush, watching both him and Guy to gauge their reactions. Did they know?

"Went on any new conquests recently?" Salauddin decided to make small talk as they waited for you. He hopes you're not taking time to get ready to meet Baldwin. He'd rather you come up covered in a chaddar when Guy is here.

Instead of allowing Baldwin to answer, Guy cut him off. "Of course! We are the noble warriors, the Chosen Ones! God wants us to conquer as much as possible, for the sake of his-"

"How dare you talk to me?" Salauddin silenced him. "I'm talking to your king. He may allow it but you're in my kingdom now. You will abide by the rules or so help me, your head will be on a spike for the crows to shit on." Guy's eyes widened and his jaw fell open. No one had threatened him like that, at least not since he married Sibylla.

Baldwin barely suppressed a smile and when Guy looked at him for help, he only shrugged. "You should listen to him. We are his guests, after all."

The servant returned with the special guards he had assigned to protect you, all looking scared.

"S-sultan... the princess-" Baldwin and Salauddin's gaze sharpened at your mention. The poor servant gulped.

"The princess is gone."

There was deafening silence. The servant had his head bowed, along with the guards, all too afraid of the wrath they're going to face.

"Gone? Gone where?" Salauddin spat as he walked upto them.

"I- I dont know-" Salauddin grabbed the guard by the collar and shook him. "I left her in a room with no windows, a room guarded by the 6 of the most skilled men. Where did she go?!"

The guard's head only lowered further. "Sultan, we only opened the door to let princess Y/n's maid in and out. B-but- but when we opened the door, the maid was waiting there instead of the princess!"

"Which maid? Where is she?!" Salauddin roared.

The guard nodded at his men who pushed a young girl forward roughly. She fell on her knees, crying pitifully. He immediately recognised her.

Isabella.

"Where's the princess?" Salauddin questioned her, only to be answered in hiccups and tears. A vein on his forehead popped. He doesnt have time for this. Who knows where you are? If you're safe-

"Isabella." Baldwin called out gently, kneeling in front of her. She sniffled and bowed her head. "Isabella, look at me." She took panicked breaths before lifting her eyes to meet his kind ones, not a a grain of anger in them.

"You know where princess Y/n is?" He asked, pushing her hair back over her ear. She shook her head, hiccuping though she wasnt bawling her heart now.

"Use your words, Isabella. Tell me what happened." Enchanted by his gentleness, she spilled, told him all about how you made her take your place so that you could go and stop you from starting a war with the sultan.

Salauddin watched the interaction closely, trying to figure out if Isabella was lying. He did note Baldwin's behabiour throughout this entire interrogation as well. For someone whose future wife is missing, Baldwin is surprisingly calm. Then again, he's rarely ever seen Baldwin lose his temper.

"Where did she go?" Baldwin questioned her once again.

"I- I dont know, your majesty. She never told me!" Isabella cried out.

Baldwin nodded before standing up, his brows furrowed as rubbed his chin with his thumb and index finger.

"If Y/n was going out to stop me and she never reached the gates, then it means... she's still here." Baldwin said after some deep thought. He looked at Salauddin. "Your men have surrounded the kingdoms, havent they?"

Salauddin nodded before ordering his men to find you.

"Search every house, every place. No one gets in or out of the kingdom!" He yelled at them, watching them leave. He felt Baldwin stand beside him and out of the corner of his eye, he saw his face wasn't... too concerned.

"You know, for someone whose fiancee is missing, you're surprisingly calm." Salauddin was both stating his observation, and accusing him too. Did Baldwin know where you were?

Baldwin simply smiled, his dimples showing. "I know you will find her."

"And why is that?"

"Because if I dont have Y/n in my arms by today, then I will burn your Egypt to the ground."

The Templar Knights kicked down doors, rattled the poor citizens and took great glee in destroying their belongings, using you as an excuse to "search thoroughly". Salauddin's army was also rigorously working to find you, interrogating everyone for any clues on you. Then again, no one had really seen how you looked like. You were just another woman covered in a chaddar and niqaabi among a whole city of them. It would be like finding needle in a hay stack and Salauddin wasnt about to allow anyone to rip off the niqaabs off his Muslim women. He wont allow such a transgression.

Fortunately, Baldwin agreed. After all, why would you be hiding from him? You dont have a reason to, right? But still, he had to find you. So he was walking through the streets of Egypt himself to look for you.

Salauddin had joined him, and not just because he wanted to ensure the safety of his folks but also to stop Guy from provoking Baldwin by feeding him any lies.

That cretin was getting on his last nerves.

Salauddin pretended to be deaf as Guy harshly whispered to Baldwin that "How can a princess just vanish? Clearly, there's someone plotting. These Arabs must've sold her off! They dont respect women like we do-" only to be pushed away by Baldwin who told him to focus his energy on finding you.

Its been 3 hours since Baldwin's arrival and still no sign of you. Despite his best attempts, Salauddin could see Baldwin's calm demeanour chipping away. He was running out of patience.

They were now standing outside the madarrassa where all the scholars, students and staff were rounded up. Salauddin was the only one who knew about Abbas, but now that he looked at each face, he realised he was the only one missing.

Immeadiately, he sent the guards to find him. Salauddin was sure that he knew about your whereabouts, He had to.

"Who is Abbas?" Baldwin asked as they both followed the guards that had found out his residence.

Salauddin didnt miss the suspicion in his tone. As much as he wanted to toy with Baldwin, now is not the time.

"He is a craftsman. Y/n had hired him to make something for her. Maybe she went there to collect it." He purposely avoided telling him about the unique chessboard you had gifted him.

After half an hour, they had reached Abbas's residence. It wasnt all that odd to find the front door open, and truth be told, no one was expecting anyone to be home.

It was concerning to find the disasterous state of the house as they entered. Clay pots were smashed to the ground, a cage lying empty in one corner. Clearly, something had happened here.

However, something caught Salauddin's eye that made his heart sink.

Your chaddar, lying on the ground.

You woke up with a pounding headache. When your lids fluttered open, they first spotted the single candle in the corner of the dimly lit room. Memories of the previous events flashed through your mind and you fitted the pieces like a jigsaw puzzle.

When your eyes finally adjusted to the dimly lit room, you realised you were still in the same room the assassin had knocked you out. Not only that, but Abbas was also lying beside you, though he hadnt regained conciousness yet.

"Abbas- Abbas, wake up." You raised your hand to shake him, but your eyes caught the sight of your ripped sleeve. When- when did this-

You looked down at your clothes and realised they were all tattered too. Your niqaab was gone, you recalled the assassin had pulled off your chaddar during your escape attempt, and now that you looked at Abbas, he was in a similar state too. His clothes were torn and ripped too. But why? The assassin had already knocked you two out, he didnt need to-

You gasped, patting yourself to find your lack of belongings. Your time machine was gone, as was your jewellery an coins. You'd been robbed!

Panic surged into your veins as you violently shook Abbas, your machine was gone- your only way out of this era was gone!

"Abbas! Wake up!" But he only groaned in response. What was wrong with him?

You dont have time to wonder as you rushed to open the door. You need to catch that thief, assassin- whatever he was, before he got too far and you lost your time machine forever. Grabbing the handles, you tried to yank the door open, but it didnt even budge. Its... locked.

You whipped your head around, remembering the window you were trying to get out of earlier. Running up to it, you tried to open the wooden shutters, but they didnt move an inch. No. No. This is- this is not happening. You ran back towards the door. You felt your throat close up as you pulled the door with all your might before banging your fists against them in frustration.

You were locked in.

The thief has your time machine. He's probably gone far away with it. By the time anyone comes to your aid, he'd have fled the city. He'd be gone as Baldwin and Salauddin fight and burn Egypt to the ground. I'll be trapped here, probably die under the rubble with Abbas-

Abbas.

You look back at him, still unconscious. How hard was his head hit?

You fall back on your knees besides him, trying to wake him up. He'd know- Abbas would know how to get out of this room. He's smart, and he knows his house, probably built it himself- he'd know a way out.

"Abbas! ABBAS! Wake up! Wake up-!" You grabbed his head and laid it in your lap, turning it side-to-side to see if he was bleeding. You started to massage his temples, hoping the circulation will wake him up.

Wait. Circulation.

You recalled what they taught you in first aid class- what to do when someone faints? Raise their legs above heart level. You quickly moved and pulled his knees up until they were able to stay bent on their own, before cradling his head in your lap again, tapping his cheeks.

"Abbas- Abbas, wake up please. Abbas-! I swear if you dont wake up, I will give you a tight slap-"

You were cut off by the sound of the door being banged.

What in the-

The door shook as something hard banged against it. You jumped at the force. Did the war start already? Are they using cannonballs?

No. While cannonballs were used as heavy artillery in medieval Europe, it was more popularly used in the 1700s, but I'm still in the 1100s-

NOT THE TIME TO GEEK OUT! I'M ABOUT TO DIE-

The door burst open and light flooded into the room, blinding you for a moment. You raised your hand to shield yourself from the light before slowly bringing your hand down as you saw figures entering into the room.

Once your eyes finally adjusted, you recognised the figures in front of you.

Salauddin. Baldwin. Guy-

Guy?

All three of them stared at you, though your eyes remained focused on Baldwin, who looked at you, then at your clothes, and then... at Abbas.

The look of relief turned into confusion. What? Whats wrong?

You heard Salauddin yell something in Arabic at his soldiers, which made them instantly look away and leave the room. Baldwin kept looking at you in barely suppressed shock.

"Baldwin?" You whispered, though it was Salauddin who moved first, removing his chaddar and bending down to cover you with it, but your eyes were fixated on Baldwin's face. Why is he... looking at you like that?

Wait. If Baldwin and Salauddin are here together, then it means there's no war. Which means-

"Are you okay? What happened?" Salauddin asked you, though before you could answer him, Guy began laughing.

"Okay? She's more than okay!" He smirked. "After all, she was spending some time with her secret lover!"

Both your and Salauddin's eyes went wide. It finally clicked why Baldwin was looking at you like that.

He thinks you and Abbas-

"No. That's not true-" You tried to speak but Guy cut you off.

"Of course it is! Look at you, holding his head in your lap so sweetly!" He accused before snarling at you. "And you chose a dirty Muslim to cheat on our King? The audacity! And the lack of taste."

You shook your head. "Thats not true. This is Abbas. He's a- a craftsman-" "Oh, I'm sure you were pretty crafty with him too." Guy cut you off.

"Shut up, Guy!" You snapped. "I came to get my valuables from him. It was a gift! I had them commissioned for- for you Baldwin!" You half lied.

"And where is that gift?" Guy interrogated.

"I was robbed. We both were-" "Oh how convenient!" You glared at him. He was framing you. You pointed at your clothes. "How else do you explain the torn clothes?!"

Guy hummed and you knew you were going to regret as soon as a disgusting smile crept on his face.

"Well, animals fuck with wild passion-"

"I WAS ROBBED!" You yelled. "Look, the thief even knocked out Abbas!"

"I dont see a head injury." Guy shrugged. "I just think he's passed out from drinking. Or maybe his stamina wore out-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Your face was red with rage, though to anyone else it may have looked like you were caught red handed in a lie. You calmed yourself down. You need to explain before things got worse.

"Baldwin, I'm not having an affair with Abbas. He's married-" Once again, Guy cut you off, this time waving his hands. "My king, it doesnt matter to these Muslims. They're into polygamy. Whats one wife, when you can have four?"

Of all the things, this is the one thing he knows about Islam?

You didnt detect one, not a single emotion of trust or love from Baldwin's stoic face. Is he- is he actually believing this bull?

Why wouldnt he? He's a man after all. And who knows what other lies Guy has been filling his head with to make him doubt your loyalty?

Enough is enough. You need to come clean.

"You know what Guy? I was going to keep this a secret to let you beg for forgiveness, but I think its time for the truth, hm?" You watched Guy's smirk falter. Enough games. You stared at Baldwin with determination. "Here's what has happened Baldwin: Charlotte didnt just happen to drop by Jerusalem. No, Guy summoned her by pretending to be you. Oh and I have that exact letter where Guy used your respectful name as proof. Guy exploited Charlotte and his plan was to use her and her son's illness to infect you so that you could die and he could get your throne."

Guy's face paled. But you didnt stop there.

"Of course, when that didnt work because you and I have an unbreakable bond, Guy decided to get rid of me." You looked at Salauddin. "When I left for Egypt and I was at Salauddin's camp, he had hired assassins to ambush us in the dead of the night and kill me or Salauddin, or both! If I were to die while I was with Salauddin, he would've convinced you that Salauddin was the one who killed me. And if Salauddin was dead, then it meant good news for Guy because he would have to deal with one less enemy after he took your throne."

"Lies! There's no proof-"

"No proof? Baldwin, did you realise that more than half of my entourage was missing? Its because they're dead. And if that isnt enough proof, then this might help-" You pulled up your sleeves to show your fading burn marks. "My back is full of these marks because the assassins left me to die in a burning tent. It was Salauddin who saved me!"

"And today? When we heard you were coming, everyone thought that there will be a war. I left the palace on my own, to find you Baldwin. I wanted to stop you from committing unnecessary bloodshed! I came to Abbas's house to get my gift for you, but Guy sent a thief after us! The thief knocked us out and he robbed us both!" You explained. "Didn't you ever wonder Baldwin- why Guy decided to accompany you today? Guy has never left Jerusalem, not even for a war, not to defend his people. He wouldnt leave the throne empty! He hopes, he prays and he plots for you to die everytime you leave Jerusalem so that he can finally be king!"

"BLASPHEMOUS!" Guy screamed, red in the face. "You wench-!"

"With all due respect Guy, which is NONE! I didnt think you would be smart enough to come up with such schemes. I underestimated you, which turned out to be mistake because you made Baldwin doubt me!"

Guy shook his head and stood in between you and Baldwin, acknowledging the stoic faced king first. "This is slander! All lies, Baldwin! I'm your brother-in-law! I would never betray you!"

"Never betray Baldwin? You aren't even loyal to Sibylla! I could have more than half of Jerusalem attest to that you've tried sleeping with other women! Adulterer!" Guy's eyes practically popped out of his socket and he screeched.

"You dare accuse me of cheating?! YOU?! You're the one who is locked in a dark room with a strange man in your lap like a fucking whore!" Not risking Baldwin's suspicion, Guy stormed towards you with his hand raised to strike you.

"You unfaithful, lying bitch-!" You heard the air being sliced and you flinched as you felt something splatter across your cheek.

Thud.

You looked down to where the sound came from.

Guy's head dropped in front of you.

Your ears began ringing. Slowly, your eyes trailed back up to where his body remained.

Headless body. That fell to its knees before dropping to the side.

You could hear the ringing get louder.

Baldwin stood there, his eyes full of rage, his hand holding his sword that had just cut off Guy's head.

He was breathing heavily, nostrils flared and a vein popped in his temple. Your heart dropped as his eyes landed on you and he moved towards you.

Your consciousness finally gave out.

Salauddin caught you but not for long as Baldwin made his way to you. Fearing for you, Salauddin tried to bargain for your life.

"Baldwin, she didnt-"

"Let her go. Now." Baldwin commanded, throwing Abbas's head off your lap. He didnt wait for Salauddin to move, simply taking you from his arms, ripping off the chaddar and replacing it with his cloak instead, before picking you up.

"Lets go home." He whispered in your ear before kissing your temple, pulling you snug against him as he walked out of the room.

You wake up to the feeling something wet on your legs. You jolt, eyes snapping open as you look for your potential assaulter-

"Isabella?" You croaked as you saw the young girl at the foot of the bed, her face red and eyes swollen from all the crying.

"P-princess." She greeted tearfully, holding a wet towel in her hand. Her lips wobbled as she spoke, nose bright red, sniffling as she stared at you with those big sad eyes.

"What's wrong?" You couldnt help but be soft with her. She just- she looked so pitiful.

She looked down, her hands clutching the towel tightly. "You- you were- you were gone for so many hours. I- I didnt know where you were- his majesty and the sultan- they were so mad- they were so concerned- i- i didnt think they believed me when I said I didnt know- where- where you were- i thou-thought you were-" Her tears cut off her hiccuping explanation. You didnt think she would be this distraught over you.

"Its... its okay, Isabella. You didnt do anything wrong. I'm... fine." You tried to calm her down, beckoning her forward. You sat up on the bed, taking the rag from her hands before holding her hands in yours. Giving them a gentle squeeze, you assured her. "I'm fine, Isabella. In fact, I should apologise for causing you all the trouble-" She shook her head. "No- princess- its my duty to serve-" You gave her hands another squeeze, calming her down.

"Thank you- oh. Isabella-" You looked at her hands, noticing something red peeking from her wrist. You pulled her sleeve up, realising that the redness was from the welts on her arms. "What happened?" You asked, turning her wrist around, noticing a small scratch.

She pulled her hands away, pulling down her sleeves as she sniffled. "N-nothing to worry about, princess-"

"Did you get injured? Are you okay?" She nodded. "I just- when I heard you were missing, it made me worry too much and I- I tend to scratch my arms when I'm stressed!"

You gave her sympathetic look, grabbing the cool towel from earlier and handing it to her. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Isabella. Here- take this. It'll help your skin, hm?"

"But the king asked me to wipe your sweat with this-"

"Its fine- wait? What sweat?"

She nodded. "We've been travelling through the desert for some days. His Majesty suggested I be the one to wipe you clean while you were unconscious." Now that you looked around, you realised you were in a tent, much different in design to Salauddin's.

Wait, desert?

"We've left Egypt?"

"Yes-"

She stopped speaking as soon as the sound of footsteps filled the room.

You stiffened at the sight of Baldwin.

Isabella had to only take one look at his face before taking her leave. Events of the last time you had seen him flashed through your mind, and you couldnt help but be scared of him when you remembered the murderous look on his face as he killed Guy. It is one thing to know that a king has killed people, perhaps even more brutally than this but after spending so many months with Baldwin, you had become accustomed to his soft nature. Never in your worst nightmares could you have ever imagined such a barbaric actions from him, and to his own brother-in-law.

It made you question everything, your own mortality- your own safety with him.

"How are you feeling?" He had his arms crossed behind his back as he made his way towards you. It took everything for you to not flinch back and beg for your life. No- no, you need to think smartly. If he wanted to kill you, he wouldve gotten rid of you back there-

Or maybe he has decided to torture you.

"I'm fine." You replied weakly, keeping your eyes on your lap. You dont want to risk pissing him off.

Maybe I should apologise, clear the air before he has any other doubts about me.

"I'm sorry." You said abruptly, finally looking up at him. His stoic expression didnt falter. This is not the Baldwin you knew, no. This was the king you had imagined when you first came here. Stiff and apathetic.

Taking his silence as a sign, you continued. "I'm sorry... for everything. For hiding the truth about Guy, for causing misunderstandings, for making you doubt me-"

"I never doubted you." He cut you off.

Your brows raised in surprise. He sighed sitting down on the bed besides you.

"I never doubted you, Y/n. Not once." He said with conviction."I didnt doubt you when Salauddin said you'd be with Abbas. I didnt doubt you when Guy raised false allegations. I didnt doubt you when I saw you in that dark room alone with that man. You could've been naked in there and I still would not have doubted you."

Your lips parted. What... what was he-

"You trust me? That much?" You couldn't help but whisper.

He smiled sadly. "I do. And more than that, I trust in my love for you." Baldwin looked down at his hands, still smiling gently. "I love you so deeply that I know you would never betray me. I have loved you the way I want someone to love me. My love for you... it is free of impurity, of imperfection. And thats how I know you would never betray me."

You couldnt help the tears that came in your eyes, and you looked down. How could he- how could he-

"If anyone should apologise, it should be me, Y/n." Your head snapped back at him. He was looking at you with genuine guilt. "I may have loved you deeply but I have failed to express it to you. Had I- had I done a better job, had I let you know just how much I feel for you, you wouldn't have hesitated to come to me. You wouldn't have felt the need to hide your traumas, your pain from me. You wouldn't have felt shy to get my help, to tell me your secrets. All of this could've been avoided if I had made you feel secure enough to come to me. I alone am responsible-"

"Baldwin." Your teary voice cut him off. You shake your head, sniffling at him. "This- this isnt your fault- I-"

"You did nothing wrong." He assured you, holding your hand. "Traps were set for you, but it was my job to save you from them. I am your protector, your shield. I owe my life to you. I owe everything to you."

A tear slipped from your eye. "I- I didnt think you'd save me. I thought you didnt trust me- I thought I lost you forever." You dont know why you said that, but they were true.

"I would've found you. I will always find you." Baldwin cupped your cheek, he felt his heart break at your confession.

"If I don't go to you Y/n, then where do I go?" And at that, the dam you'd been holding finally broke.

Baldwin immediately pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you as you buried your head into his shoulder, sobs wracking your entire being. You dont know why you're crying, whether its because of Baldwin's pure love for you, or that Guy is dead because of you and you've ruined the timeline, or because you're mourning the loss of your time machine and its just dawning on you that you're stuck here forever.

He patted your back, rocking you gently like a child. "All my paths lead to you, Y/n. All my conquests bring me to you. Everything leads to you." He kissed your cheek, his hand petting your hair smoothly as you broke down in his arms. "You... you are the beginning and end of my everything."

Baldwin pulled you away and wiped your tears away with his thumbs. "I love you, Y/n. And I know you love me too. You may not say it, but I know deep down in your heart, you love me. I know you do-"

"I love you, Baldwin." You said.

His eyes went wide. "You don't have to say it-"

"I love you, Baldwin. I really do." You admitted.

Baldwin's shock was replaced with joy, a grin gracing his face as he cupped your face and kissed your forehead deeply.

"You have no idea how happy you've made me." He whispered before pulling you into his embrace.

Following this, you both began your journey back to Jerusalem. Every now and then, you'd start crying again because you'd realised just how much you were loved by Baldwin. You remembered the time when you saw him with Charlotte and you didn't give him a chance to explain. You had already decided that he was a cheater, he was disloyal. Yet when the tables were turned, when everything pointed against you and Baldwin had every right to find you disloyal, have you punished for even being in a locked room with another man, he trusted you. He didn't question your love for him. And even if you didn't love him back then, you respected him enough, both as a king and as a man and he still didn't ask for an explanation, let alone accuse you of adultery.

The rest of the trip home was spent with you crying and Baldwin consoling you like a toddler. No matter how many times your tears fell, he was right there to wipe them away and assure you that you did nothing wrong.

Did you love Baldwin? Maybe not back then, but you do now. Perhaps he was right. Maybe you did love Baldwin deep down, you just didn't know it.

And it's not like you don't have a choice either way. With your time machine lost, you can't leave this place. So, you've accepted your fate and agreed to marry him. Baldwin says the wedding preparations are mostly complete and the wedding day is on Sunday.

Today is Friday, when you both finally reach Jerusalem. It didn't dawn on you until now just how you were going to face Sibylla, the woman whose husband was killed because of you.

But Baldwin already had a plan. "Guy was buried in an unmarked grave outside of Egypt. I have instructed my knights to inform everyone that Guy had died a dishonourable death because he was a traitor to the crown."

"Traitor to the crown?"

He nodded. "I'll tell Sibylla I caught him cheating on her and plotting against me." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Its believable. She'll be upset, but she'll get over it. Besides, she deserves better than him. I have already found a list of suitors for her."

He truly has thought of everything.

Sibylla as expected was the grieving widow and after she welcomed you and Baldwin, she excused herself and left. You pitied her, she really did love Guy despite all his shortcomings. But she also respected her brother.

After a quiet dinner, you had returned to your room. You sat on your bed as you thought over the events of the past few days. Baldwin had assured you that he doesnt hold any hostility towards Salauddin. In fact, to further put your mind at peace, he told you that he had invited Salauddin to the wedding. As for Abbas, Baldwin said he doesnt know what happened to him but he's sure Salauddin didnt harm the man.

"Did you ever find your family?" Baldwin had asked earlier. You shook your head, telling him that you mistaken someone you thought was family.

"I know you would prefer to have the Nikkah first, before our actual wedding, but I wasnt able to find someone to marry us off in the Islamic way. But then-" He grinned, almost proud of himself. "I decided who better than Salauddin?! Since he'll be arriving on the day of the ceremony, he could walk you down the aisle and then later that day, he could do the Nikkah for us!" You could only smile and agree, what difference does it make what ceremony happens first? You're stuck here either way, and you're gonna be his wife soon.

You sighed and got up to dress into something more comfortable. As you removed your clothes, your hand found something in your underclothes.

The key.

You fiddled with it. Its useless now. The thief probably has broken your machine or sold it and it could be anywhere in the world now, also useless without this key here.

You put it back in your underclothes. Perhaps it'll be of use you can craft your machine again one day.

Lying in your bed, you thought about Guy. You didnt feel guilty, no. He had it coming, and it really was a matter of you versus him at the end. But what bothers you is how much you had underestimated him.

Guy's plan was perfect. There was no chance of escape for you. He had ambushed you and Salauddin, and when you narrowly escaped that attack, he brought Baldwin to Egypt to cause misunderstandings between him and Salauddin. And when they found you with Abbas, all his allegations were perfectly said. You're only here because Baldwin was far too much in love with you. He had no reason to not take Guy's words over yours.

You turned to your side and closed your eyes.

Perhaps God saved me.

Today is Saturday and Sibylla had taken you to get your dress fitted.

"Whats that?" You pointed at the huge frame, covered by silk as the servants struggled to hang it on the wall.

"Oh, you're not supposed to see it yet, but Baldwin had commissioned a portait of you. He wants to gift it to you tomorrow, so dont peek. He'd hate to miss your first reaction." She explained.

"You look... absolutely stunning." Sibylla praised as she looked at you in awe. She brought some jewellery to pair with your white gown. A diamond necklace, tear drop earrings, and-

The ring.

"Its the-"

"The exact same ring!" Sibylla finished for you, slipping it on your finger. "After yours was stolen by that thief in Egypt, Baldwin had the same ring made again by the royal jeweller within a day!" Your heart warmed at the gesture. Baldwin must've known you felt guilty over losing his family ring.

"Isabella, will you pass me the veil?" You asked. Isabella brought the soft veil and helped you wear it. As she was adjusting it, your eyes caught sight of her hands again.

"Oh, they didnt heal?" You gently grabbed her hands, taking note of the same red welts on her arms again. She pulled her hands from your grasp away.

"N-no, they healed princess. Its just- its that I'm stressed again! Thats why my skin is itchy and I- scratched them raw."

"Stressed? By what?" You asked.

"Oh- um, the wedding." She muttered. "Its- its not that I'm not excited for it, I am very happy for the union of you and His majesty, but its just we have very little time and there's so much to do-"

You giggled, nodding at her understandingly. "I see. Well, I apologise for causing you to stress. And I hope you know how much I appreciate your efforts."

"Its my honour to serve you, princess." She squeaked.

"Well, do get those checked out soon, Isabella. I dont want you getting sick." Sibylla advised the young girl who bowed her head before taking her leave.

Sometime later, after you had lunch with Baldwin, you decided to go to the gardens and... be by yourself for a while.

Planned or not, I'm getting married tomorrow. This will be my last day as a single woman and I... I should savour every moment left.

You were sitting in a cozy little spot in the royal garden. It was besides the huge bush maze, near the area where your time machine had first gotten burned by the maids accidentally. Speaking of maids, the small entourage had given you space and were standing near the maze, away from your eyes with some knights. They were all eager to please you, the future queen, if only to get a better status by you or Baldwin.

But you had already decided to make Isabella your lady-in-waiting. She deserves it, for everything she's done for you.

You laid down on the soft bed of grass, looking up at the sky as you wondered what will happen tomorrow. Well, nothing about the wedding, Sibylla had made you rehearse several times that you knew exactly how the ceremony will go tomorrow. No, you were curious about... how your wedding will impact the future.

Will you cease to exist? Will the world change because the crusades might not happen since a Christian king married a Muslim commoner? Will there-

Doves flew up in the sky. You smiled, recalling the doves in Abbas's house. You hoped he was alright now. Maybe he could attend the wedding-

Wait.

You sat up with a jolt at the realisation, heart beating fast as you connected the dots.

Isabella rushed to the gardens. A servant had told her that you had immediately summoned her. Fearing the worst, she hiked up her gown and ran as fast as she could.

She was out of breath by the time she found you. "You called for me, princess?" She gasped out. You hummed, standing beside a gilded cage of doves.

"Arent they so beautiful?" You asked her, beckoning her to come forward. "They are indeed." She agreed, standing beside you.

"I was thinking of releasing them tomorrow, outside the chapel. All the maids could hold them in their hands and release them as I walk out with the king. What do you think?"

She nodded. "Wonderful idea. I'll go and have it arranged-"

"Hm? Oh, I took care of that. Why dont you open the cage and hold this one for me?" You smiled at her as you made you took a few steps back. "And gloves off, Isabella. I want to see how you will look like tomorrow."

Isabella throat ran dry, She gulped looking at you, then at the cage before back at you.

"I- I cant hold the doves, princess. They'll slip out of my hands-"

"We have plenty here for you to practise. Dont worry. Now make haste." You crossed your arms in front of you and looked at her expectantly.

She parted her lips to say something, but then looked back at the cage. "Whats the matter? Dont know how to hold them?" You sighed before making your way back to the cage. "They're just tiny little birds, gentle ones really. They wont bite you, so I dont know why you fear them. Here, let me show you how to hold one." You opened the cage and carefully held the dove in your hands, petting it softly. "There, there."

You suddenly thrusted the bird in her direction, and Isabella jumped back. "What's the matter? Scared of birds?"

Isabella hesitantly nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry princess- I- I- dont like birds. I'm very much afraid of them." You nodded understandingly, before placing the bird back in the cage. "How very inconsiderate of me. Very well, off you go." Isabella bowed graciously and was about to leave when you suddenly grabbed her arm and rubbed a feather along her exposed arm.

"P-princess-!" She shrieked, trying to yank her arm out of your grasp but your grip didnt relent.

"Would you look at that?" You grinned looking at the area turning bright red. "Are you itchy now? Did I stress you too much?"

Isabella could only look at you in horror as you became angry.

"How stupid do you think I am?" You snarled before throwing her hand down. "That itchy red skin wasnt from stress, it was from birds!" Her eyes widened.

"You had me thinking that your tears, your red skin, your snotty sniffles was because you were soooo concerned for me. But you actually had the rose fever from birds!" You recalled seeing the scratch on her hands the day you had first seen her skin, which wasnt just random skin welts. They were hives, from her allergy to avian protein (or birds, in simple terms).

Isabella could only look at you in silence as you continued. "How long did you think you could keep this charade up? Did you honestly think I wouldnt find out?!" She kept quiet while you continued, which only made you angrier.

"It was you. You were the thief. You- only you knew when I would leave the palace. You followed me! And you stole from me?!" When she didnt speak, your threatened her.

"Say something before I tell the king how you attacked me!"

Isabella looked up, and she smirked.

"You have no proof."

You looked at her in disbelief. Instead of defending herself, denying all the things- she basically admitted to it all.

"Isabella, where are my belongings?" You asked her. "If you return my things, I wont let you stay here, but I will let you leave this castle on your two feet." You didnt bother asking her why she did it, you cant waste any more time. You need to get your time machine back.

She shrugged, playing with her nails. Now that she was caught, she didnt bother putting up her scared, demure little girl image. "It doesnt matter. You will never get it. And you're not getting rid of me either. After all, you have no proof of any of the things you accused me of."

"You think you're going to get away with it?" She hummed. "I already have, princess. Now, I will be returning to my duties to prepare for you wedding tomorrow. And I think we'll do no birds-"

You pulled out a knife, silencing her. She looked at the knife before smiling. "Are you really going to kill me? Did you forget how I overpowered you and Abbas back there?"

"I havent." You bring the knife up to your throat. "But if you dont tell me where my belongings are this instant, I will slit my throat and let you explain to the king how you killed me. Oh and you may think you can just sneak out of here, but remember, there's a whole entourage who saw you come here. They'll tell Baldwin you were the last person to see me, and then no matter where you run, Baldwin will hunt you down. Him and his Templar knights."

Her brows furrowed at your threat. "Princess, I dont-"

"Dont think for a moment I wont do it, Isabella. I'm mental." When she remained quiet, you pressed the blade harder into your neck, just enough for the skin to break and blood to pour, making her eyes wide.

"Okay! Okay- stop! I'll tell you."

Isabella lead you to a room inside the castle, hidden away in a corner. You had never been here before, you realised when you stepped inside. She pulled out a drawer from the desk, which had a false floor in it. Lifting the wooden panel, you saw all your belongings, including your time machine.

"Leave." You ordered her. Once you were alone, you pulled out the key from your underclothes and placed it inside. Saying a tiny prayer, you turned on the machine.

It worked. The tiny lights turned on. All you had to do was set the date and-

The machine was snatched from your hands. "Isabella drop-!" Your eyes widened at the sight of Baldwin holding the machine.

"What are you doing?" He asked you, looking at the machine.

"Baldwin, please give it back-"

"This?" He shook the machine in his hands. "Sure, you can have it." He smiled at you before bashing the machine to the ground.

"BALDWIN NO! STOP!" You tried to stop him, but Baldwin pushed you away and kept smashing the machine until its lights went out and they key broke.

"NOOOOO!" You finally snatched it from his hands but it was too late. The screen wouldnt turn on, wouldnt display the date no matter what you did. The key was broken.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" You cried out.

"What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you?!" Baldwin yelled. "What were you going to do with that? Leave me, the love of your life, to go where?! Back to heaven?!"

Heaven? No fucking way-

"Do you- do you actually think I'm an angel?" Oh god. The look on his face was enough to let you know that he was actually serious.

"You can deny it all you want, but I am your husband to be and you cannot lie to me! You appeared out of nowhere in my castle. You cured me, you brought that baby back to life and you have escaped death one too many times! You may think I'm a fool, but I'm the king of Jerusalem, head of the Church and you were sent to me by God Himself! YOU ARE MINE AND I WILL NOT LET YOU GO BACK!"

Oh God. Oh God, you're marrying a crazy person.

Wait.

"How did you know I was here?" Your brows knitted together when he didnt reply, still looking at you in rage. "Did Isabella-" You gasped.

Of course. OF-FUCKING-COURSE!

"She wasnt a thief. She was a spy!" You chuckled humourlessly. "All this time, I thought Guy was behind it all, but I knew- I knew he was too dumb to come up with such a plan. It was you! It was always you! You sent the Ismailis after me! You sent Isabella after me to steal my belongings and spy on me! You set me up with Abbas so that when you "saved" me, I'd fall for you! Oh and I'm sure you made it seem like Charlotte was also here because Guy had called her. You framed Guy just so that you could have an excuse to get rid of him!"

"I did it because I love you!"

"You hurt me because you loved me?" You whispered to him, tears flowing down your cheeks. "I almost burned to death because of you. And you say- no. Why did you do this, Baldwin? Why the hell did you do all this?!"

"I was- I was testing you." He answered, bending down on his knee to cup your face. "I... only wanted to see if you would come to me for help. If you truly trusted me, loved me enough to come to me." He wiped your tears away. "I'm sorry it had to happen this way, but it worked out in the end-"

"You dont test the people you love, Baldwin."

"Oh, come on. Even God tests his strongest believers-"

"YOU ARE NOT GOD!" You shrieked, pushing him away.

"I'm not, but I'm special to Him. He made you for me. He gifted you to me. He made you fall in love-"

"I dont love you!" You cried. "I can never love you! Never!"

Baldwin's face hardened. "You do love me. You said so yourself. Now, youre just saying nonsense out of hysterics. Calm down-"

"I hate you. I have never loathed anything as much as I loathe you. I would never love you, even if you were the last man on Earth. I fucking hate you."

Baldwin stared at your red face. "Well, I hope you can change your mind because we will be getting married tomorrow regardless." He tried to touch your face but you slapped his hand away. "Besides, I love you enough for the both of us."

Its Sunday. You were locked in your room with a whole infantry ordered to not let you out. You had cried the entire night at your loss, at your fate, at your stupidity. How could you have ever trusted Baldwin? And now you will have to marry this religious lunatic.

The maids did their best to dress you up and tried to mask your red, swollen eyes. And with Isabella in the room, you were sure she had told them to not comment at your pitiful state.

You were standing outside the chapel with Salauddin. Everything seemed to blur, the choir singing, the attendees- you couldnt focus on anything.

"Y/n." You finally looked up at Salauddin, who was looking at you with deep concern. "Are you okay?" He asked you, noticing your teary eyes and dull expression.

"No."

He wasnt expecting you to answer bluntly.

"Do you want to marry Baldwin?" He whispered.

"No."

"I can help you-"

"No." You sniffled. "No one can."

The knights stood outside the chapel doors, waiting for you to enter. A few ladies held your trail behind you. Salauddin cast a glance at them before passing you something in your hand discreetly.

"Abbas asked me to give you this."

You opened your palm to see-

A key.

The key!

But how did he make this? You never designed it-

You smiled. That genius. He must've used the other parts to figure out the design and crafted it.

Abbas, I'm sorry I dont give you enough credit.

"Give him my thanks. And a lot of money, hm?" Salauddin could only nod in confusion. You looked back at your ladies. "I need to pee." Their eyes widened at the use of such crass language, especially in front of the sultan.

"But princess, the ceremony is about to start-"

"Would you rather I pee in my gown?" You snapped.

"But there is no bathroom here-"

"Then be useful and find a sheet and a bush. Now!" They all scrambled away to find some bush. You looked at the knights in front of you. "Go inside and inform them of a delay. The princess has to take a shit."

They looked hesitant to leave. "I'm not taking off my underclothes in front of you men. LEAVE!" They hurriedly went inside and closed the door to give you privacy.

You looked at Salauddin. "Can I borrow your horse?" He nodded, helping you up on it.

"Where are you going? I'll come with."

You shake your head. "No. I have to go alone. And I suggest you go inside as well."

"Y/n-"

"Please, Salauddin. No more questions. I dont want to lie to you." You smiled at him.

Salauddin reluctantly went inside the chapel, and you rode the horse out of there. There was only so long before Baldwin realised you had left, so you needed to speed things up. Grateful that you had swapped your broken time machine during your heated argument with Baldwin. You placed the new key in, just as you heard the sound of galloping horses and Baldwin-

"Y/N!" You didnt pay attention as you sped off ahead, only stopping when you reached the edge of the cliff. Climbing down, you looked at your machine as you turned the key.

It didnt turn on.

No. No. No-

"Y/N! GET BACK HERE!" Baldwin yelled at you, getting off his horse as he made his way. His troops had surrounded the area so you couldnt escape.

You looked back at your time machine and you- you banged it with your hand. "Come on. Come on!" This had to work- you banged on it as you would bang on a TV set when it stopped working, on a remote when it didnt operate quite right.

"Did you think you could escape me?!" You looked up and Baldwin was a few feet away.

"Baldwin stop!" You took a step back, nearing the cliff. "I'll jump-I'll fucking jump, I swear!" He halted.

"Dont be stupid, Y/n. Come to me, and we can put this behind us-"

You banged on the machine, cutting him off.

The machine turned on.

You grinned as Baldwin stared at you, shaking his head. "Dont-"

You jumped, pressing the button and hoping you returned to your time. You hadnt been able to set the date cause of the broken buttons.

The last thing you heard was Baldwin screaming your name.

So what do you guys think? Yall better comment and send asks and reboots because i sacrificed lunch and dinner for this.

Also, what do u guys think will happen in the next part? Do you think she'll return home or to a new timeline??? And which era???👁👁

PART 8 is here!

#yandere baldwin #yandere salauddin #time traveller au #baldwin iv #king baldwin x reader #the leper king #king baldwin iv #salauddin

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beemynumberone · 3 months ago

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Pictures from Pinterest.

Oh no, he’s hot

→ Kindergarten teacher assistant!Reader x older brother of a student (it’s Taeyong)

→ heart-warming fluff, as the title suggests

→ inspired by an event that occured last week (yes, took me some time to process it; no, I don’t think it meant anything for either of us hopefully)

-> also inspired by the Taeyong pictures at military service :D

word count: ~592 words

—-

Nat was a sweet, intelligent girl in your assigned class who could be quite mischievous. She was precocious for her age - probably due to growing up around adults since young. Her boba eyes could melt even the head teacher’s frost-like temperament.

She did the same three things every morning when she arrived:

Firstly, arm wrestle (you let her win every time, to her dismay, so it was a win win situation - you didn’t become a statistic of her losses and she was technically the winner).

Secondly, check your ear lobes to see if you had put on new earrings, remarking if you changed and if you didn’t.

And last but not least; ask, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope.” “Why not?”

(You felt guys your age were too… immature? Undeveloped? In both brains and brawn, you suppose. A wise woman at the fish market once told you to wait till a guy had finished his military service before even considering to date him. You believe wholeheartedly in that after going through a high school relationship that left you traumatised for the foreseeable future.)

---

Nat waves goodbye to you with one hand, the other clinging onto her brother’s. Who is currently trying, with surgical precision, to manoeuvre her bag over to his arm without disrupting her waving.

“Nat’s brother is really good-looking, isn’t he?” The teachers gush in hushed tones near the cubby holes. You squeeze past them to get your bag.

You've never thought much about him. Sure, he was easy on the eyes. His style, immaculate. You’re sure he’ll never need to go through the relationship phase of needing his girlfriend to pick out clothes for him.

---

Nat talks about her brother constantly. Despite the large age gap, it seems that Nat adores him. Shows you his baby photos that she’d snuck into her books for safekeeping.

He’s off at army, she says. Comes back for the weekends to stay with the family.

It’s fun with him around because she usually doesn’t see him, ever, even on the weekends. You nod along sympathetically, picturing this lean guy you’d seen on brand advertisements or the occasional fancam appearing on your fyp. In a baggy shirt, bucket hat on his head when picking Nat up from school.

---

Then one fine day, you mistake him for a stranger. You blame his muscular back, and the fact that you’ve never seen him wear such… fitting clothes before.

You’re entering a mall to run errands when the person in front holds the door for you.You thank said person in your “public voice” - that kind which warrants a response, like a nod or a “you’re welcome”.

The person turns to face you, still holding the door, and you two make eye contact. It takes you a hot second to recognise him — Nat’s brother.

As if you hadn’t stared enough for the both of you, he looks, really looks at you.

Time stands still. Your heart thunders in your chest.

What is happening.

Those eyes. Sucked you right in.

And cut! You can almost hear someone shouting. Taeyong drops his gaze from yours and smiles softly.

He rushes ahead of you, rejoining his sister and mother who are browsing the menu of a restaurant further away.

You’re screwed, really screwed.

He really should’ve kept his eyes to himself.

—

If you want this fic to have a continuation, please select your preference here. Thanks!!

#nct #nct 127 #nct fanfic #taeyong x reader #nct taeyong #nct x reader #nct fluff #nct 127 fanfic #taeyong lee x reader #taeyong lee #taeyong fluff #kpop fanfic #bee’s writing #bee:nct

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inthelibrarybtw · 3 months ago

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you want me to pretend? | five

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: college!basketball!captain!rafe x college!student!reader content: fluff, college au, smau/irl, inaccurate school system talk

summary: You were trying to make one problem disappear. You were tired, so you lied. That small lie led you to contact the last person you wanted to ask for help. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Rafe; only that you didn’t want to deal with his constant teasing more than you already did. Also, you two weren't that close, but this one lie was going to bring you two closer and maybe help some truths come to light.

word count: 0.6k

authors note: we're back, literally. there will be more flashbacks in the future so stay tuned. Also I made a playlist with the songs up to this part.

04 | 05 | 06

Sophomore year - 2022

Statistics. You weren’t the biggest fan of the class, yet you took it every semester of your major. One positive thing this class brought you was Kelce. You and Kelce had met thanks to your moms when you were kids and had also gone to kindergarten together. You had moved houses, and when it was time for elementary school, you belonged to a new district, so you didn’t attend the same one as Kelce. But life brought the two of you back together last year in this very same class. As a freshman, you thought you wouldn’t know anyone, but there was the familiar face with whom you had shared so many memories. Kelce didn’t hesitate to talk to you, and it felt like no time had passed.

This was supposed to be the second class, but the professor was sick last week, so there was no class. Even if this was the first class, he was already assigning a project. It was small, but it had to be done in groups of no fewer than three people, and those groups would remain for the rest of the semester.

“You can work with us,” Kelce said.

“Us who?” you asked, confused; he was alone.

“He is late; he had an impromptu basketball meeting.” Just as on cue, the guy Kelce had been talking about walked into the class, excusing himself to the professor and standing in front of you.

“You’re in my seat,” he said in a gentle tone.

“Well, you weren’t here.” You gave him a little smile and added,

“I think I can forgive you just because of that smile,” he smirked.

“Just sit down, Rafe,” Kelce motioned to his friend, and you just stared at him.

After the class ended, Kelce formally introduced the two of you and mentioned that he would create a group chat to talk when needed. You said goodbye to both and left for your next class.

“So, how long have you known her?” Rafe asked Kelce.

“Since when do you care how long I’ve known someone?”

“Since today,” he paused. “Now answer.” Kelce chuckled.

“Since we were kids; our moms are friends. You would’ve met her if she hadn’t moved away before we started elementary school.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?”

“Why would I mention it before?… Wait! You liked her,” Kelce laughed as they walked out of class.

“Not to be that guy, but have you seen her? Why wouldn’t I like her?”

“Have some backbone, would you? You don’t even know her.”

“And that’s your fault! Why have you kept her hidden?” Kelce laughed out loud again.

“I haven’t kept her hidden.”

“Do you like her?”

“Calm down, would you? No, I don’t like her. She is pretty, but she’s not my type, and I’ve known her for so long I can’t see her that way.”

“I didn’t know you knew Rafe,” Sarah says as you both make your way inside the coffee shop.

“I don’t; Kelce introduced us yesterday in statistics class, and now we are working together as a group.”

“That’s nice. He’s pretty good with numbers.”

“Good to know. I’m not a big fan,” you said, chuckling softly. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, he is my cousin. We were born almost at the same time and grew up together,” Sarah smiled.

“It’s like you are siblings.”

“Oh, we definitely treat each other like siblings sometimes,” she laughs.

You both continued talking and decided to order because the guys weren’t showing up, and Ruthie had told you that she was going to be late because she had forgotten to buy groceries. After you two had ordered, you sat and continued talking while scrolling through your phones.

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#writinginthelibrary #YWMTP?#rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smau #rafe smau #college!basketball!captain!rafe #college!student!reader #college au #rafe fluff

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defmaybe · 3 months ago

Text

Engineering Statistics

Kep1er’s Seo Youngeun x Male Reader

1.8k words

A/N: Part of suchsweetstories' prompt event! This one's for delph. :luvv:

—

“When do you use the Poisson distribution?”

“It’s–” and Youngeun pauses, tapping the Apple Pencil on her cheek, eyes pointing elsewhere “–number of events occurring in a timeframe?”

“Correct!”

The library is quiet, making reservations for the encouraged silence. The squeaky clean scent of the air wafts into your nose. The tables and chairs are neatly arranged, at least before the crowd enters and scatters them all over the place.

You decided to apply for the faculty’s tutor position for some quick cash, good money per hour, after all. You can spend it on some nice meals after a few sessions.

Your first student is Seo Youngeun, a sophomore, just a year below you, and you can tell that she has done a decent amount of preparation for this, being receptive and eager so far. She asks questions and tries to solve problems the best she can. It’s making your first time easy, really.

“What about binomial distribution?”

“Hmm, a chance for a certain number of successes?”

“You’re making this really easy for me.”

Youngeun laughs, covering her mouth with her hand, body falling backward slightly. “I’m just trying to be a good student, if that helps.”

“You certainly are.”

The session goes on, and Youngeun continues to be resolute. She asks questions, summarizes the answers in her own words, constantly trying to understand the subject she’s learning. This is really easy for you, and you only wish that the next sessions will be like this.

“Can I take a look at your old assignments?” Youngeun asks, shifting slightly in her seat. “I wanna see how you did them.”

“Sure! I’ll just AirDrop–” Your words are cut off as Youngeun leans in closer towards you, scrolling your iPad for the assignments. Her flowery perfume hits your nose, making you shiver a little.

“Uh.”

Her hand presses into your thighs for a hold, feeling a bit heavy against your skin. You tremble slightly as she applies the pressure on you, feeling a brand new kind of current running through your body. Your eyes are focusing on her face—so gorgeous. Smooth jawline. Curious eyes. Soft-looking lips. She’s definitely a catch.

Inevitably, your vision shifts down towards her workshop shirt. She only wears a tight, white crop top underneath. It looks good on her, casually stylish. How nice would it be to go on a date with her in these clothes?

Soon, your eyes wander towards the smooth, milky skin of her cleavage. Oh, how nice would it be to sink your face into that dip of her curves? Your mouth feasts on her hard nipples—so salty, so full of her perfume—eliciting sharp moans from her lips. She presses your head into her chest, creating such a salacious, filthy bond between your mouth and her tits. Your hands sink into the plumpness of her ass, feeling those muscles flexing against–

The automatic door opens, introducing a new patron to the chilly library. You blink, regaining that precious awareness back, and you know that you’ve been staring a tad too long. Lucky that her eyes are still on your iPad.

You quickly look away, hoping to find some reprieve in other objects—chairs, tables, books. Your legs press into each other, adjusting the growing erection in your pants. Heat creeps up your body. Your stomach sinks—this is fucking embarrassing. You’re supposed to teach your student, not imagine yourself sucking on her tits!

Her hand lingers, staying there. She doesn’t squeeze; she doesn’t press harder, but it’s sure having an effect on you. Your breath quickens. Your hands tremble. Your cock hardens. Fuck, you can’t let her see you getting all worked up like this!

She even adjusts her top, revealing even more of her cleavage. There’s no way out of this. Your pants are barely holding it together.

After what felt like an eternity, Youngeun’s hand finally leaves your thighs, giving you the space you’ve been craving. You let out an exhale as she lets you go. Youngeun goes back to writing something on her iPad, completing her assignments as you desperately cling on to your composure.

“Divided by k factorial–can I take a break for a bit? We’ve been studying for half an hour already.”

You clear your throat, trying to maintain a professional façade. Hope she doesn’t see it slipping.

“Uh–sure.”

—

You let out a sigh as you relieve yourself alone in the bathroom, eyes closed, head falling back. Your body feels so light; the tension slowly dissipates away. Just half an hour more and this will all end. No need to worry about her intimacy like that again. Just be a professional, keep your cool.

Until you feel a pair of arms wrapping around you.

“Hey there, pretty boy.”

Youngeun.

Your eyes widen in shock. Your body jolts in her warm embrace that disarms you completely. Her hands trail down your taut abdomen, down to your cock that’s in the middle of the business. She holds it gently with her fingers, making your cock grow harder in an instant.

You glance back at her. “What–What are you doing, Youngeun?”

“Shhh, be quiet in the library, baby. It’s against the rules,” she coos—voice so airy, so seductive. It’s a wonder how she manages to be so calm and authoritative in this situation. Your body easily wobbles under her touch, control being stripped away so quickly. The hold on your length is flipped over to hers in an instant.

You’re still in the middle of emptying your bladder, but the grip on your cock is fully hers. She grips it firmly, but never too tight. Youngeun is holding a goddamn royal flush here, and she makes sure that you can’t fold.

The stream weakens—from continuous flow to smaller drops. Youngeun wiggles your cock lightly, getting rid of the final remnants on your slit, and you can only watch helplessly as they fall into the urinal.

“Flush it,” she orders—so calm, so hushed.

Nervously, your hand moves towards the lever, barely able to push it down. The urinal makes noise as the water falls from the top, cleaning your filth into the pipes.

Youngeun tightens her hold around your hard cock—warm—sending a jolt of electricity through your body. Her other hand trails down your body, caressing the skin along the way, until she reaches your testicles. Youngeun cups it gently, delivering warmth to your frame. Your breath comes out shaken from the overstimulation, almost a moan. This is just too much, too intense. You have to grab the compartment divider to keep yourself standing.

Her warm hand begins to stroke your length, and that almost makes you collapse in her hug. She slides your foreskin back and forth, slowly, tortuously, stimulating you with such divine sensations. Your body squirms, overloaded by the act. Your back arches against her embrace. You struggle to stand upright. Breathless moans leak out of your lips into the cold air of the bathroom. You’re getting loud, but you just can’t help it when you have your student jerking you off like this!

“What did I say about making sounds, baby? Hmm? High chance of people hearing us,” Youngeun whispers, quickening her pace on you, tightening her grip. You feel even more helpless with her restraining you like this. And the worst part is: she’s smiling all so casually, like this is a normal occurrence for her.

Your cock swells against the palm of her hand, aching for that sweet, sticky release. Precum leaks out of your slit. You’re desperately trying to hold your body still within her warmth, trying not to collapse, to falter. The chill from the air conditioner hits you, contrasting the warmth from her small frame. Your muscles tighten against her—chest heaving, thighs clenching, so ready to cum. The wet, obscene sounds of the strokes fill the bathroom, lucky that no one is here yet in the morning.

“I’m gonna make sure you cum so hard that these little balls become dry.”

Your body shudders with her words, shaken by the sheer anticipation and pleasure she creates with her tiny hands. You can feel that you’re close—how your body strains against her abdomen, how your hips begin to thrust into her hands, how your breathing comes out short. You’re just Seo Youngeun’s plaything, and she makes sure that you are more than aware of it.

“Come on, cum for me. I wanna know how you taste.”

Your breath hitches. Your entire body spasms—a shock delivered from her filthy little hands. The first spurt of your cum is shot onto the urinal, painting it with the first stroke of ivory. Your moans leak out, barely suppressed. The second spurt brushes against the porcelain with another stroke. Then the third. Then the fourth. Then the fifth. You strain with each burst of your cum, barely able to breathe properly.

“You’re cumming so much, wonder who did this to you,” Youngeun coos, rubbing your cock to coax any cum left in your balls. Your nectar continues to dribble out of your slit. Your body shakes in her hug.

Bursts become drizzles. The orgasm slowly subsides, but Youngeun is making sure that you’re all drained by the time she’s done with you. Her pace slows down, but the grip is still tight—to empty you, to make you devoid of any essence. The drops begin to stain her hands, leaving white on her skin.

Youngeun teases, still forcing the last drops out, “Oh no, how am I going to clean my hands now?”

You can’t say a thing, overwhelmed by this entire situation. Your mind already went blank by the time she put her hands on your busy length.

Finally, you’re drained, tired, spent. Your head rests against the wall, watching your cum running down the white of the urinal. Sweat falls down your forehead. Your heart races. You can barely stand up straight. You’re full of shame, so overtaken by the pleasure that just coursed through you.

You’re such a slut.

Youngeun finally lets go of you, hands all stained with your cum. “Look what you’ve done to me,” she says, teasing her hand in front of your face, so full of mischief. Then, as promised, she brings her hand closer to her lips, before you hear a lewd, obscene sound of sucking. You just can’t bear to watch—too weary, too drained—but you sure know what she’s doing.

“You taste good,” Youngeun says, continuing to make that filthy sucking sound. “Wonder how it’ll taste from the source.”

Your mind spins from her filthy words, slipping into such a salacious, debased scene. Her lips stretch around your cock, making the filthiest sounds. You can barely stand up straight. Your body squirms in her touch. Her hands work on your cock, so determined to taste your cum shooting out of your slit. Pleasure cuts through you like a blade. And finally, you break, making Youngeun take every single drop of your cum into her throat. Her eyes flutter as your dick stretches her mouth out. Your cock pulses against her lips, hands gripping against the counter.

Shame that it’s just a product of your spent, overclocked brain, though.

“But maybe later,” she playfully quips, giving her fingers one last suck before walking away. Her steps echo through the bathroom, replacing the sound of the session earlier. You slowly turn back towards her, seeing her cute little ass swaying from side to side in her jeans. Your breathing is still all ragged, legs barely holding you up straight. You lean against the divider, gathering that precious composure back for the rest of the tutoring session. You feel weak. You feel used. It’s one hell of a final show.

She glances back at you over her shoulder one last time, before musing, “So, what’s the probability of me making you cum again? One?”

—

#youngeun #kep1er #youngeun smut #kep1er smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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op1umeyes · 2 months ago

Note

I am OBSESSED with ur hotch story’s, if ur taking requests could you do one where the unsubs lawyer (when the unsub in the the interrogation room) is hotches academic rival and then just normal rival back when he was an prosecutor or smth

thxxx

~ 🔮

Some Things Never Change

Aaron knew it was you from a mile away- your laugh, your posture, your voice. Back in college, he had all the time in the world to memorize everything about you to make sure to avoid you and anything to do with you.

You were talking to another woman near you, stoic face bringing back every memory of every test, quiz, and assignment you had silently boasted about- getting the better grade (best out of the class).

You turned, the door opening twenty minutes earlier than scheduled grabbing your attention. Aaron watched you closely, giving nothing away about how he felt. Your face- mirroring his own bland expression- gave nothing away. But the way your right pointer finger and thumb twitched made Aaron tilt his head up in acknowledgment.

You stared back, eyes glinting. Were you excited to see him, even though you had been sole rivals in college? Was that… anger? In your eyes? It would make sense if you were mad, I mean, Aaron was your competitor for so many years. But Aaron couldn’t decipher the way your lips started to move before he heard his name being called.

“Who’s that?” The woman at your side inquired. She let her gaze drop and examine Hotch thoroughly- possibly too thoroughly.

Just like you did at school, you kept Hotch pinned with your sharp eyes until he finally turned his head away. While his back was towards you, you let yourself note how his shoulders and back had filled his suit jacket nicely. His crisp black pants were not like the sweatpants and jeans he was usually wearing in college- something that made you unconsciously smile at. Hotch’s dark hair was brushed neatly away from his face. “No one. Let’s get to work.”

Hotch watched you bid goodbye to your assistant after the judge had sustained a recess. Your mannerisms had changed since college, Aaron noted, but didn’t altogether disappear. You still kep a solemn face even in the face of stress, your left eye still narrowed slightly whenever you suspected someone was lying, and you still tilted your head back when you laughed. Maybe some things don’t change, Aaron mused.

Before he knew it, Hotch found himself darting over to fall in line with your steps. “You look well, l/n.”

In response, you shook your head. “What do you want, Hotchner? Come to ask me to lay off of your clearly guilty client?”

Hotch cleared his throat. “Well, no. I’d cone to ask you if you’d like to grab lunch.”

“To compare test scores and personal case statistics? No thanks,” you brushed off quickly. When the hallway came to and end, you pressed the button to the elevator without sparing a glance at Hotch. Deep down, you were worried that if you even looked at him, all those years of convincing yourself that you actually hated him would fall apart.

“No, y/n. I wanted to get lunch with me so we could talk. About anything. You can choose.”

Aaron cursed himself for sounding so… pleading, but clearly he was embarrassing enough to finally get you to look at him. And when you did finally meet his eyes face-to-face? The world faltered.

The unspoken accusation in your eyes were as bright as ever: an oddly comforting fact that soothed Aaron to know you still loved your job. Your cheekbones weren’t flushed like they usually were when Aaron got one more extra credit point than you. Your lips were pursed- beautiful and breathtaking as he remembered- as you observed him.

“Italian. I’m driving, you’re paying.”

Aaron smiled. “Lead the way.”

You tilted your head up a little- like you did whenever you bathrd in the success of winning. Some things never change.

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imjustdreamingig · 6 months ago

Text

Jesus, what's a girl to do?

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Robin meddles, Steve is clueless, and you're freaking out. So a regular day.

A/N: i genuinely have no idea where this came from, i legit posted the first part like 2 years ago. but I guess I want to start actually writing more? idk! we shall see. anyways, this fic stems from my (occasional) exhaustion to shy!reader and i'm basing this more on how horrifically i acted around the guys i would like even tho i consider myself an extrovert. enjoy whatever this is??? and lmk if u want a part 3! also this is not proof read so bear w me

warnings: sfw, swearing, uhhh i think that's it???

You were screwed. Absolutely, terribly, fucking screwed.

You were also very angry at your mother, giving her a glare every time she glanced your way at the dinner table. She merely gave you a wink in return, not understanding the true implications of her actions.

"So, Steve," your mom began as she cut a bit of the chicken on her plate, "you play basketball, right? Is that something you want to keep doing in university?" This time, you openly stared at your mom, trying to telepathically convey that you would literally kill her if she kept talking. You haven't made up your mind if you're joking or not.

Steve cleared his throat, "Yeah, I do, I'd say I'm pretty good at it, too. Wherever I end up going, I'll probably join their team for fun." He turned to you after taking a bite of his meal, smirking. "You like basketball too, right?"

You choked on your water, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. You looked at Steve properly for practically the first time that night, but your voice never wavered. "No, not really, why?"

He turned back to his food, amusement gracing his voice. "Well, I see you and Robin sitting together at every game, even the away ones, so I just assumed." If your face could sport a visible blush, you knew it would be a bright red, hot, mess.

"Well, I- I get dragged by Robin because she doesn't like sitting alone or going to random schools by herself like, half an hour away. Do you even watch the news? Girls by themselves are basically the perfect bait for random kidnappings and stuff, especially girls in high school, like I mean the statistics for-"

"Y/N" You're rambling is halted by your mother's voice. Steve is looking at you in bemusement. You are contemplating death. The situation is not looking good.

"Could you grab me some water from the kitchen, with ice," your mother said with a strained smile, holding out her glass. You grab it and push your chair out. "Sure, yeah," you replied. As you made your way to the kitchen, your mind replays the last hour of the events that have transpired, wondering what you could've possibly done in your past life to deserve this.

How could your own mother, the woman who birthed you, ask the hottest guy in your grade if he wanted to stay for dinner and not consult you first, all whilst knowing you had the most ridiculous crush on the guy.

Betrayed by the ones closest to you. This is probably how Julius Caesar felt.

After overcoming your initial shock, and lets face it, mortification of being paired up with Steve for your English project, you attempted to the best of your abilities to push down your feelings and remain professional in order to actually work on the project and make sure you got an A. Your grades would not suffer over a stupid crush on a stupid boy, that's where you drew the line. Unfortunately, this plan was not working out so well.

It was actually failing, horrifically at that.

It had been about a month since the semester started and the project had been assigned—a complex analysis of a classic book of your choice and how that particular novel has inspired the creation of others and advanced its genre. You had to write a collaborative essay to hand in to your teacher, as well as create an interactive presentation for your classmates explaining your chosen novel.

This was all due at the end of the semester and you'd be given no in class time to work on it since you had an ample amount time to work on it outside of school. It would also replace the need for a final exam, which was great news. When your teacher had explained the project, you were ecstatic, knowing exactly what book you wanted to do: Pride and Prejudice.

Then, you remembered who you had to do the project with, this huge, daunting, complex, project, where you would need to interact with your partner in close proximity for an extended period of time. You felt faint.

Steve, in his defence, had tried to approach you on multiple occasions to try and figure out when you two should meet to try and start the project. But, obviously, whenever you saw so much as a glimpse of him in the hallway, you would make yourself scarce.

The only time he would actually be able to talk to you was in your shared English class. Robin was beginning to go crazy at your increasingly outlandish excuses as to why you couldn't meet up with Steve after school in order to work on your project.

"Oh sorry, my mom needs my help on some stuff tonight."

"I have to take my brother to soccer practice."

"I can't today, I have an eye doctor appointment."

"My dog actually needs to go to the vet, she's sick, sorry."

"My family and I are going on a road trip this weekend, so I'm not free."

"My sister broke her leg uh— skiing, and she needs help writing stuff for school."

"Funny story, Robin has a crazy ex thats trying to get her to meet up with him again, and I have to help her slash their tires and like, do girl stuff, it's personal, so I'm not free, maybe next week though?"

That last excuse is what caused Robin to snap. She knew that Steve knew that you were making shit up, Robin has never even been in a relationship, let alone have an ex. Also, you didn't even have a sister, what gives!

You also had no clue exactly how close the pair had gotten due to working together at the video store and that she'd told Steve she was into girls. Therefore, like the great best friend she was, Robin decided it was time she intervened, for everyones sake really, but mostly yours.

"God," you sighed, "I never thought I would be so into arms, like not the huge, bulging one, you know? All veiny and red, that just scares me, hello, his are just ones that are like slightly defined, but have a very obvious outline of muscle, like I can tell he's strong, and fuck, his biceps, is it bad that I want to like, bite them? Because every time I look and him and he's fixing his hair I just keep getting this urge to—wait where are you going? Robin? Ok, OK! I'll stop, I promise! Come back!"

If Robin had to hear another anecdote about how you wanted to bite his arms, she was going to puke.

Your continuous blabbering about how good Steve's hair looked or how good those jeans looked on him and your inability to have one proper conversation with him or stay in the same room as him for longer than two minutes was making her go insane. She couldn't take it anymore.

So, Robin devised a plan, which one day she was sure you would thank her for—hopefully.

First, she inconspicuously made sure that you had nothing planned for Thursday night, already knowing you were free but wanting to double check that no random stuff had come up.

Then, she called your mom, who absolutely adored Robin. She told her about your situation and how if she did nothing, your infatuation for Steve was literally going to give her an aneurysm. Robin would tell you that she wanted to hang out Thursday night so you would get ready, but instead of her showing up, it would be Steve.

Not surprisingly, your mom agreed to Robin's crazy plan. She thought it was about time you got a boyfriend. You had already talked about Steve so much to her anyways, but any time she would tell you to just try talking to the guy, you vehemently refused.

"Mom, are you insane, I'm not going to do that," you scoffed as if literally just having a conversation with another person was the most insane idea in the world.

"Mija, how else are you supposed to get to know people if you can't speak to them? Besides, you never seem to have a problem talking back to me whenever we have an argument," you mom shrugged as she continued folding the laundry you were helping her with.

"Oh come on," you sighed exasperatedly, "that's not the same thing and you know it."

"I'm just saying, by the looks of it, I don't think I'll be a grandmother."

"Mom, what, hello!?"

Getting Steve to show up at your house was easier than Robin thought. She conveniently told him right before the beginning of their shift on Thursday that you'd told Robin that they should all get together at your house to finally get started on the project. Robin smiled a bit wider than necessary when Steve enthusiastic agreed to go.

When Robin gave Steve your address and told him that she would be over a little later because she left some stuff at her house, that no, she didn't need a ride and that no, she was fine walking, Steve was none the wiser to her actual plan.

As Robin saw Steve pull out of her driveway and making his way to your house, she gave herself a mental pat on the back and started thinking about what movie she should watch after dinner, knowing that the school day tomorrow would be very entertaining.

When Steve rang your doorbell, he was still clueless about the real intentions of Robin's plan, but when you opened the door and he saw your eyes go wide and your mouth drop slightly open, almost as if you weren't expecting to see him, something clicked in his head.

This was going to be fun.

#help what is this #steve harrington #robin buckley #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington my beloved #stranger things fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington fluff #fluff #steve harrington x female reader

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sheerfreesia007 · 5 months ago

Text

Polar Opposites

Pairing: Lee Know x Reader

Word count: 2,912

Content warnings: Fluff, sexual harassment

Summary: Lee Know never thought that he was a good fit for you as your guardian angel the two of you are complete opposites. But when you’re put in danger he surprises himself by how quickly and easily he steps in for you.

A/N: This little series was all inspired due to @jellymochii brainstorming for her GaurdianAngel!Felix fic. Please go read her fic as well it’s a wonderful piece!

Pabo: fool

“You know this pabo is lying to you right?” He asks you with a tsk as his lip curls up distastefully. His eyes rake up and down your coworker who’s promising you that he’ll finish the project that you’ve both been assigned to at work if only you started it for him. He even offers to give you full credit for all of it if you just started it for him. Minho rolls his eyes as he hears you agree to start the project on your own and he sighs loudly with frustration, this would be the second time that his coworker has done this to you and he can’t stand it that you’re just going to let him do it again. “You always do this. You always put yourself in these situations.” he gripes out angrily as he sits on your desk slowly kicking his feet back and forth as he watches your coworker walk away with a smirk on his face. His eyes trail after the man as he watches him walk back over to his friends and high fives one of them as they all chuckle to themselves.

As he turns his head back to stare at you he watches as you continue to type on your keyboard with a soft smile on your face, your normal happy aura practically shining around you as you work causing him to sigh. He doesn’t understand how he got paired with someone so naive and clueless, it was beyond him at this point how to get you to understand that people were taking advantage of you. There were often times that he wished that he had been paired with someone with a little bit more wherewithal or street smarts. Someone a little more jaded so that they matched his attitude about people.

But no, he had been paired with someone who seemed to see the good in everyone or at least tried to. Someone who seemed too sweet for this harsh cruel world. And it wasn’t like you hadn’t ever been shown how people take advantage of you, you had been let down time and time again by those you had trusted. Minho just couldn’t understand how you could freely give these people second chances until you finally took a step back. It was mildly infuriating to him because he could see how they wanted to manipulate you and take advantage of you but you always seemed to give them the benefit of the doubt.

“You know he’s making fun of you with his buddies right now. Calling you a gullible chump. Why do you do that to yourself?” Minho asks into the air as he leans back on the desk and looks back over to you. You’re happily typing away on your computer finishing up a project that you had already been tasked with. Sighing loudly Minho shook his head as he stood from your desk and began to wander around the office space.

The floor that you worked on was mainly for statistics and data analysis, to Minho it was mind numbing and boring beyond belief. So when you were in your zone and working on whatever it was that you did for the company he would wander around the company getting the latest gossip on all of your coworkers. He went right over to the floor above yours because that was the floor for advertisement and they always had the juiciest gossip. He knew he could leave you for a few hours before needing to come back and check up on you since you normally kept to yourself so he happily made his way up to the advertisement floor to see what he could find out today about the employees there.

*-*-*-*

Hours later Minho was making his way back down to your desk since most of the advertisement employees had gone home for the evening. He had found out that there were two new couples on the floor, someone was trying to steal clients from a different team, and at least three were trying to sabotage a new employee in a managerial role. With a satisfied smirk Minho walked back onto your floor feeling rejuvenated with all the juicy gossip and the drama that he had learned about.

As he walked around the corner of your cubicle row he saw that you were pouring over something on your computer screen and saw that it was the project that your coworker had asked you to start for him earlier today. Stepping up behind you he tilted his head to the side and saw that you had already completed the project, he’s impressed that you had already finished it with so little time but as he peered over your shoulder he saw that you already had a template for this type of project since you had worked on one prior and were just swapping out the old information for the new information.

”Clever girl.” He whispered softly as he looked over at your side profile with an impressed look on his face. But then his eyes widened when you emailed the project over to your manager and the floor supervisor while including your coworker on the email. “Oh, have we learned from the last time?” Minho asked softly with a proud lilt to his voice.

He knew that your manager was most likely out to dinner with all of your coworkers while the floor supervisor was still here at the office since he didn’t leave until much later in the evening. Minho felt a sense of pride fill him as he watched you smile softly at the computer screen before powering it down and packing up your things into your bag for the evening.

Just as you were walking towards the elevators Minho following you at a lazy pace he noticed the floor supervisor exiting his office before looking up at you. Minho smirked softly watching as the supervisor looked out at the rest of the cubicles before turning back to your retreating back. Him and the supervisor followed you to the elevators before stopping behind you.

”That project you completed. It was excellent work.” The supervisor mentioned softly and you turned your head over your shoulder surprised with wide eyes.

”Thank you. I try my best at work.” You said with a shrug of your shoulders. Minho leaned against the wall next to the elevator hoping that the supervisor would be smart enough to put two and two together.

”I don’t see Bui here. Do you know where he is?” Asked the supervisor and you shrugged your shoulders once more.

”Probably out for a drink with the rest of the team. They normally all go for a drink after work.” You say without thinking and Minho practically grins feraly at your candor.

“Even your manager?” He asked quietly and you nodded your head as the elevator dinged softly while the doors opened. You stepped onto the elevator and turned around to press the button for the first floor while Minho stepped in as well. You both stared at the supervisor who frowned at the floor before nodding his head. “You go ahead. I forgot something in my office. Get home safe, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said with a nod of his head and Minho smirked knowing that the man had figured out that you had done the project all on your own.

”Good job.” Minho said proudly before he watched you sigh and sink back against the elevator wall with a soft frown, your aura dimming slightly at the conversation you just had with the supervisor. He knows you don’t like confrontation but you’re able to stand up for yourself when you need to even though you don’t like doing it.

*-*-*-*

The bar is packed tonight and Minho feels as if he’s electrified with all of the auras of the people here at the bar. He’s been living it up dancing around a few of the groups of women who are here for the ladies’ night promotion the bar is holding. He looks over to where you are leaning up against the bar in your cute pleated skirt with the chains dangling from the waistband and your tight v neck halter top. He has to admit for someone who gives off the nerd vibe at work you know what fits your body well and you’re not afraid to show it off. It’s almost as if you have two completely different sides.

From his position he can see you happily chatting with your best friend as your other girlfriends are close by and a man is settled on your best friend’s other side. He smiles to himself when he watches you tilt your head back with loud laughter and sparkling eyes at whatever your best friend just said to you. He loves to see you happy like this, carefree and just enjoying life the way you’re supposed to. It makes a warmth fill his chest at seeing you so happy.

Suddenly your best friend says something to the man on her left before slipping away from the bar with a soft smirk on her face and Minho is instantly tensing at the movement. He starts weaving through the crowd to get to you when he sees the man slide along the bar to crowd you against it as you look after your best friend with a confused furrowed brow. Your eyes follow her as she rejoins your group of friends with a laugh and a flick of her hair over her shoulder before you turn and focus on the man who is now leaning into your space.

Minho’s moving faster as he watches the man lean in close and whisper something to you that makes your eyes widen for a second before narrowing in disbelief. The man raises his hand to slowly trail up your arm and you flinch away from him while shaking your head. Minho watches as you lift your hands to ward off the man who leans even closer to you and absolute rage fills him. This asshole obviously saw your head shake and the fact that you were flinching away from him and raising your hands to ward him off but yet he still moved closer to you.

Just as the man reached for the back of your neck to pull you towards him as he puckered his lips Minho watched your panicked expression fall over your face. He reached your side feeling a tension fill him as he lunged forward and shoved the man back into the bar top. There’s an almost blinding light surrounding him as he restrains the man against the bar top before the lights above you, him and the man suddenly shatter and screams ring out in the air.

One of the bartenders hops over the bar top and grabs the man by his collar and drags him out of the bar as a bunch of people cheer and holler in approval. Minho turns to you only to see you staring straight at him, there’s glass in your hair and your eyes are wide as you gasp and pant softly while still staring at him. He feels a pit form in his stomach and he wonders if you can see him all of a sudden. But just as he’s about to move closer to you your girlfriends all swarm around you brushing the glass out of your hair and checking up on you to make sure you’re okay.

Minho watches as the girls all crowd you and your best friend begins to apologize incessantly as you stare at the space where Minho had been with wide unseeing eyes. For the rest of the night you’re quiet in your group. Your best friend tries to apologize all throughout the evening but you brush her off and don’t say anything to anyone else. He’s worried about you, you’re never this quiet and your aura has dimmed so much that he can barely see it around you. It worries him greatly so he keeps to your side for the rest of the evening not even letting you out of his sight for a second.

*-*-*-*

The taxi ride home is aggravating for Minho as he sits between you and your best friend who hasn’t stopped apologizing since you left the bar. She had promised to pay for the taxi and you had told the driver to drop you off first in a cold unwavering tone that had shocked not only him but also your best friend who quickly agreed even though the drive to your apartment would raise the price of the taxi ride for her.

You were still quiet throughout the whole ride as your best friend tried to apologize again and again. When the taxi had pulled up to the curb your best friend grew desperate and as you slipped out of the taxi she grabbed your hand to stop you as she peered up at you with wide teary eyes.

”I am sorry for what happened. I didn’t think he would do that to you.” She said softly. “But do you really think it’s fair that I pay for the whole taxi?” She asked and Minho scoffed loudly at her audacity. He rolled his eyes knowing that you’d probably agree to pay half of the ride because your best friend had always been a soft spot for you. You had always given her the benefit of the doubt and had always caved to her manipulation. But when you yank your hand out of her grip Minho’s eyes widen as he watches you glare down at her darkly.

”I heard what you said to that guy in the bar.” You said coldly and your best friend’s eyes widened in shock. “She’s an easy target. She’ll give you what you want. After tonight, the least you could do is pay for my taxi ride. Don’t call or text me again. I don’t want to see you anymore, you’re no friend of mine and I finally see it.” You tell her with a curl of your lip as you glare at her with hatred and betrayal shining in your eyes.

You then slam the taxi door shut and turn before walking slowly towards your apartment complex not bothering to look back at your best friend. Minho is absolutely shocked by how you just handled your best friend or more over your ex-best friend. He never knew that you could be that confrontational or upfront with someone.

He follows you into your apartment complex and watches at how quiet you are still. Your aura is still so dimmed that he can barely see it but there’s still a soft glow around you. With a quick elevator ride up to your floor and then a simple trek down the hallway the two of you are entering your apartment in silence.

He moves further into your apartment before turning around to watch you wearily slip your boots off and store them on your shoe rack before you hang up your jacket and then put your keys on the hook by the door. It’s only when you stand there after removing everything that your shoulders sag and tears slip down your face. Obviously the shock of the evening is finally hitting you and Minho stands there awkwardly wondering if he should comfort you in some type of way. He walks over to you and feels the same tension filling his stomach before he gently wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his embrace.

He’s shocked when you actually move into his embrace and you gasp loudly as well as your head whips up to stare up at him. But your eyes dart from side to side unable to see him and he sighs softly while still holding you.

”I saw you tonight.” You whisper softly in your quiet apartment and Minho stands there still holding you gently. “It was faint but in that blinding light I saw you. I even saw the outline of your wings, they’re beautiful.” You adamantly say. The two of you stand there quietly for a moment as your tears stop flowing down your cheeks and Minho feels the tension fade away. “Thank you by the way. If it wasn’t for you I don’t know what would have happened tonight.” You whisper and he looks down at you as you frown softly to yourself as your words settle within you. “I appreciate you looking out for me.” You say softly as a single tear slips down your face. “I hope I’m not too much of a bother to you.”

Minho stands there feeling a strong desire to protect you at all costs consume him and he suddenly understands why he was paired up with you. The two of you are complete opposites, he’s more jaded and cynical while you’re more gracious and emphatic. The two of you shouldn’t work together at all but somehow as he stands there still embracing you in the middle of your dimly lit apartment he can’t imagine being paired with anyone else. Leaning forward he presses a soft kiss to your forehead and you sigh softly right after alerting him that you felt his presence.

”You will forever and always be my bother.” He says softly to you and watches as a soft small smile slips onto your face as your aura starts to brighten around you.

SKZ Taglist: @intartaruginha, @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @simpforleeknaur, @inlovewithstraykids

@channiesrightasscheek

#my writing #stray kids #skz #skz x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know #lee minho

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mads-hemmo · 4 months ago

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Too Sweet - Jschlatt part 1

baseball coach Schlatt x math teacher reader

Reader is a math teacher who finds her computer science teacher coworker an asshole. Schlatt finds his algebra/geometry coworker very annoying. What happens when they are forced to be around each other and get along?

You knew you wanted to be a teacher from a very young age. At first you thought you wanted to teach at the elementary level, but you found a love for math. After graduating with a math degree, you accepted a job at a high school in New York. Although you wanted to teach AP Statistics and Calculus, you got a job as the general algebra and geometry. This means that the majority of your classes are full of athletes and kids who do not care about their education.

You watch as a group of baseball boys walk into the classroom. “Josh, Drew, Sawyer did you do your homework?” You ask the boys.

Sawyer grabs a crumpled piece of paper out of his backpack and hands it to you. The other two boys look at you in shock. “We had an away game last night. We weren’t able to complete it,” Drew finally says.

“How did Sawyer get his done, but you two did not?” You ask the boys with a look of disbelief.

“I did mine on the bus.”

“Coach Schlatt told us not to worry about it as focusing on the game is the most important,” Josh tells you.

“I guess I’ll be having a conversation with Coach Schlatt later. Go take a seat, we are learning a new concept,” you tell the boys. You turn around to take a deep breath. Of course, Coach Schlatt, the baseball coach and computer science teacher would tell his players to not do your homework. You both have had an issue with each other since you started working here. All Schlatt cares about is baseball and his players being the best. Which sometimes means that he doesn’t expect them to do your assignments or if they fall asleep in class. He claims that they probably needed the sleep.

At the end of class, you decide to pay Coach Schlatt a visit during your prep time. As you both worked in the math and computer department, you had the same prep period. You knock on his open door and he looks up from his phone. “Ms. (Y/L/N), can I help you?” He asks you.

“Yes I needed to speak with you about a few of your players,” you tell him, walking up to his desk.

“What did they do this time?”

“Well Drew and Josh did not do their homework. Sawyer completed him, but the other two didn’t. They claimed that they weren’t able to because you had a game last night and also you told them it didn’t matter.”

He sighs and looks directly at you. “I told them to focus on the game. But have you read the research that shows that homework isn’t an effective way of teaching?”

You narrow your eyes at him, slightly. “Yes, I have. The only reason they had homework is because they felt my class time was time to play around.”

He nods a bit. “I’ll talk to them. Though you may need to work on your classroom management and also I’m sure they needed your help.”

“Thank you for your time. I’ll leave you alone.” You turn around to walk back to your classroom. “What an asshole,” you mutter under your breath.

You go back to your class to get some work done, hopefully working off your stress. How could someone be so bluntly rude? Did he really insult your teaching and your classroom management? You felt that you did your job well. Your admin seems to think so, but maybe you aren’t.

At lunchtime, you walk into your best friend’s classroom in the fine arts building. Ted or Mr. Nivision is the drama teacher and the two of you quickly became kids. As you have the same lunch period, you eat together every day. You grab your premade lunch from the mini fridge in his room. After you grab it, you slam the door. “Woah what’s wrong with you?”

You put your lunch in the microwave and slam that door too. “Coach Schlatt is what’s wrong! He’s such a douchebag.”

“What did he do this time?” Ted asks, eating his salad.

“He told his players that my homework was not important. When I went to talk to him about it, he brought up research about how homework is unnecessary. Obviously I know that. They only have homework because they refused to do it in my class. I told him that and he insulted my teaching and my classroom management,” you vent to him.

“I’m so glad I don’t teach a core content class. I think I would choke a kid out.” You laugh slightly at him. “That’s stupid of him. He’s usually a pretty good guy, but that was just uncalled for.”

You grab your lunch from the microwave and take a seat beside Ted. “I know he’s your friend or whatever, but he’s an asshole. I don’t know what I did to make him hate me so much.”

Before Ted can say anything, you hear footsteps walking into his room. You look up to see Schlatt walking in. You turn to look at Ted in disbelief. “Oh yeah (Y/N), I forgot to tell you that Schlatt is going to start joining us for lunch.”

“Awesome,” you mutter with a forced smile. “Glad that you are joining us,” are the words that came out. You wanted to tell him to fuck off and choke on his lunch. However, you decide to stay civil and give him your best smile. Hopefully Coach Schlatt will do the same.

A/N: new series!! I am so excited to write some enemies to lovers and teacherxteacher ! I hope you guys enjoy it!! Let me know what you think!!

Masterlist

#jschlatt #jschlatt x reader #chuckle sandwich #jschlatt fanfic #youtube #grumpy sunshine #enemies to lovers

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dragonridersandhighlords · 1 month ago

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Chasing Shadows | S I X

PLEASE READ NOTE AND WARNINGS BEFORE READING

masterlist | CS Masterlist

Summary: Amid the high stakes of War Games and mounting political tensions, Wrenley struggles to reconcile fractured loyalties, a dangerously complicated love, and the dark truths hidden behind trusted faces.

Notes: PLEASE READ This chapter includes difficult topics that may be difficult for some readers. All of these things are things I have experienced in my own life and but should not be taken as fact as I am not an expert. Please if something in this chapter is something you find triggering DO NOT READ, this chapter can be skipped using this non descriptive summary in order to continue the story. Your mental health matters.

Warnings: implied threats and political coercion, power imbalance, sexual coercion, noncon physical contact, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, mentions of trauma, ptsd responses, and romantic conflict

Word Count: 7.6k

previous part

The air crackled with tension as the Fourth Wing’s leadership huddled around a map, the weight of the upcoming War Games heavy in the air. Xaden's voice cut through the murmurs, confident yet laced with an undercurrent of uncertainty.

“Give Dain the flag.” My thoughts spiraled as I momentarily opened a door in my mind that I had worked hard to keep shut.

“Are you sure about that?” Xaden’s voice echoed in my head, a blend of skepticism and concern. I could hear him speaking to the others, but my focus was solely on the lingering connection between us—fragile and complicated.

“He learned something in Montserrat. Let him prove it,” I shot back, my heart racing not just from the stakes but from the way he seemed to challenge me, as if questioning my judgment hurt more than I cared to admit.

“Wrenley is going to be running point for our wing here on the flight field.” I turn to glare at him, my annoyance evident but he speaks before I can. “Want me to trust your boyfriend? You aren’t going into War Games with a hidden signet like last year.”

His words ignited a fire in my chest. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I snapped through the channel, fighting to keep my composure as I remembered last night's events again. I shake off the memory and return to my squad with Dain, flag in hand, heart still racing.

“You need to tell someone what happened.” Desa chastises, she’s been telling me the same thing since I ran out of Dain’s room.

“Telling someone makes it real. I don’t want to admit that he’d go that far.”

“Youngling—“

“Drop it, Desa.”

“Which is it? Offense or defense?” Heaton's question broke through my thoughts.

“Both,” Dain replied, his smile infectious, easing the tension as he detailed our strategy. The second and third years erupted in cheers, while I watched the first years, their expressions a mix of excitement and confusion.

“What are we missing?” Ridoc asked, glancing between Dain and I. “Because you guys seemed thrilled about an egg,” he added, clearly trying to piece together the buzz in the air.

“From past years, we know that eggs are worth more points,” Cianna chimed in, her enthusiasm palpable. “Flags have statistically been the lowest, and captured professors rank somewhere in the middle.”

“But they like to switch it up,” Dain added, his gaze shifting back to the map. “The same way we could be going for a real objective on the line only to discover it’s not as valuable as we thought.”

Rhiannon tilted her head, skeptical. “So how is this both offense and defense? If they have the egg, then clearly we should go get the egg.”

“Because we’ve also been given a flag to defend and no outpost to do it in.” Dain’s smile is infectious, his enthusiasm illuminating the otherwise tense atmosphere. “And our squad has been assigned to carry it.”

“And who is going to carry this flag?” The question hangs in the air, charged with anticipation.

Dain, ever the optimist, somehow manages to widen his grin even more, revealing the carefree spirit that makes him so beloved among us. “That’s going to be the fun part.” As we walk towards the flight field, he details the plan, his voice animated, every gesture lively. I can’t help but smile at how effortlessly he commands attention and support, but my head spins from the memories and my smile drops.

Violet, her arms crossed and brow furrowed, interrupts with a sneer, “Where’s Tavis going to be?”

“I’ll be running point from here,” I assert as we arrive at the field, the scent of leather and dragonfire permeating the air. The sight of our squad's dragons, majestic creatures waiting in the far corner on the right, fills me with a mix of pride and apprehension. “Any flag, egg, or captured professor you get will be brought to me. I’ll be tracking points.”

“So you get to stay here all safe while we all risk dying?” Violet’s tone drips with sarcasm, her resentment palpable. It takes all my restraint not to punch her. “I don’t even have a signet yet.”

“And you’re a first-year with the strongest dragon alive,” I counter, adopting a playful pout. “If you have a problem, you can bring it to leadership.” My glare hardens, determined to stand my ground. “Watch your attitude, Sorrengail. I’d hate for you to get stuck with the worst of the second-year jobs next year.” With that, I stride past her toward Desa, the tension in my chest tightening.

“Did you see Xaden had a saddle made for her?” Imogen remarks, joining me with a curious glint in her eye.

I turn instinctively, spotting the sleek leather saddle on Tairn, where Violet and Xaden are engaged in conversation. “Quit playing favorites,” I retorted, rolling my eyes as I connected with the channel.

“Just trying to make sure I don’t accidentally drop dead because she can’t keep her seat,” Xaden responds, his voice smooth and teasing.

“Maybe save us all the trouble and let it happen.” I think to myself.

“Alright then.”

Fuck, I didn’t mean to send that. “That’s not what I meant, Xay.” The weight of my words lingers.

“I heard you loud and clear, Wren. I know what it sounds like where your thoughts are pushed through.”

The words tangle in my mind, a chaotic storm that threatens to drown me in its intensity.

Fuck me. Fuck. Me.

“I’m sure the squad leader would enjoy that.” Desa’s voice cuts through the haze, her amusement ringing like a bell, brightening the tension that has cloaked me.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and be anywhere else?” I groan, dragging my hand across my face, feeling the heat of frustration radiate through my skin.

“Just saying. Cath complained to me all night because of it.”

“You know why I—”

My words dissolve into the air as the dragons launch into the sky. Their powerful wings beat against the wind, sending gusts swirling around me as I lift my gaze. The air fills with the sound of roaring flames and cries of exhilaration, a chaotic symphony that drowns out everything else. I focus on Xaden, who soars high above, laughter spilling from his lips, a carefree spirit against the vast blue canvas of the sky.

The memory of last year rushes back like a tidal wave, filling me with warmth and nostalgia. Bodhi, Garrick, Xaden, and I had been an inseparable team, chasing after Second Wing’s egg with hearts full of laughter and camaraderie. We were fearless, or so we thought, until I was unceremoniously knocked from my dragon by an air wielder, plummeting toward the ground. The rush of air around me had transformed into a chilling silence as my screams echoed in Desa and Xaden’s minds. I can still recall the frantic dive, their desperate attempts to catch me. Just a heartbeat away from disaster, Sgaeyl’s claw had caught me, the rough grip saving me from a brutal impact.

I shake my head, pushing the haunting recollection aside, and focus on the present. The dragons weave through the sky, their forms blurring in the distance as points are scored in the ongoing chaos of War Games. But as my gaze darts around, searching for familiar silhouettes, my vision sharpens and falters, blurring at the edges, causing me to stumble slightly.

In the midst of my swirling thoughts, I catch sight of Liam and Deigh locked in a fierce battle against Jack and his dragon. My heart skips a beat as I watch Jack strike—his blade piercing Liam’s side before he forcefully kicks him off. Liam falls, spiraling away from Deigh’s back, the world suddenly narrowing to that one horrifying moment.

I gasp, breaking free from the vision, my breath hitching in my throat.

“Jack’s going to kill Liam. They’re to the south of Basgiath on the cliffs.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Xaden!” I shout, my voice slicing through the cacophony of chaos as I sprint toward him, the ground vibrating beneath my boots. The smell of scorched earth and dragonfire hangs thick in the air, a lingering reminder of the fierce battles fought. When he dismounts Sgaeyl, my heart races, each beat echoing my desperation. “Is he alive?”

“Violet caught him,” he responds, his voice strained, urgency woven through every syllable. I catch a glimpse of his sweat-soaked hair, the damp strands clinging to his forehead, his eyes flickering with a mix of relief and concern. “Rhiannon is taking him to the healers now.”

A breath escapes me—a sigh that rushes from my lips like a storm breaking, the weight on my chest lifting just enough to let in a glimmer of hope.

“Barlow is dead,” he adds, his tone flat as if the words alone could bury the pain. “Violet hit him with a lightning strike.”

“She’s a…” I begin, my mind racing to catch up with the implications of his revelation.

“Lightning Wielder,” Desa interjects, her voice crisp and clear, like the crack of thunder that accompanies such a powerful force. I turn to seek confirmation from her, but my gaze drifts to Dain instead. He stands there, holding Violet as she retches, the color draining from her face. His arms cradle her protectively, but I can’t help the pang of jealousy that tightens around my heart. I know Xaden sees my reaction; I can feel the hurt settling in my chest like a weight I can’t shake, and when he mutters something about handling it, he strides over to them, leaving me in a tempest of conflicting emotions.

Violet Sorrengail is no longer just the girl with the most powerful dragon; she is now the first Lightning Wielder in over a century.

Everyone will choose her in the end.

Xaden has no choice but to prioritize her life, while Dain has known her—loved her—longer than he’s known me. It’s a bitter truth that gnaws at me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the new Violet, it’s that friendships mean nothing to her now.

And I won’t let her ruin the few I have left.

The last month has been strange, an unsettling tapestry woven with uncertainty and fleeting connections. I left the channel between Xaden and me open, an invisible thread hanging in the air, and to my surprise, he reached out through it. His voice, a mixture of warmth and urgency, always aims to remind me that he’s not tangled in Violet’s allure—that his focus remains solely on her training, nothing more.

With every interaction, I feel the strain of my friendship with Dain stretching thin. After the chaos of War Games, the emotional toll began to weigh heavily on me; it felt as if we were teetering on a precipice, and I found myself instinctively pulling away, seeking the safety of distance.

Today, is Reunification Day, a day celebrated fervently by the Navarreans, yet for me, it carries the weight of memories I would rather forget.

Last year, Melgran demanded my presence at the festivities—his call an unwelcome reminder that even amidst celebration, shadows linger. The very dragon that charred my father was a constant specter of pain, and now, Professor Devera’s words haunt me: the King himself requested my attendance. I feel trapped in a web of duty and expectation, ensnared by a title that once felt like a privilege but now burns like a brand on my soul.

As I stand beneath the opulent canopy of the main college courtyard, the murmurs of the gathered cadets swirl around me. My gaze sweeps over the crowd, landing on Dain, who, with a smile that could melt glaciers, now seems lost in conversation with Violet and Liam. Their ease is a stark contrast to my simmering irritation, especially with Liam’s presence here—whether by choice or coercion, it feels like an intrusion into my fragile equilibrium.

“Miss Tavis,” the king begins, his tone deceptively casual.

“Cadet Tavis, your majesty.” I correct him politely, the words flowing with practiced grace as I bow to him. “I am a rider after all.”

He nods before speaking, “Oh, of course,” he replies, his voice steady but warm. “I hear you bonded your mother’s dragon your first year. Eden was always one of my most trusted leaders.” The name reverberates in my mind, a bittersweet echo of a time when I was sheltered by her fierce presence.

“She was greatly appreciated anywhere we went,” I add, my tone imbued with solidarity. As I speak, I envision the countless lives she touched, the battles she fought, and the sacrifices she made.

King Tauri's expression softens, the corners of his mouth curving into a nostalgic smile before his gaze turns somber. “I was sorry to hear about her passing. I tried to reach your father, offer refuge to the two of you at that time. I wish I had gotten to you sooner.” His eyes, filled with an earnest longing, dart pointedly toward my relic, a tangible reminder of the lineage I carry.

“My father made mistakes,” I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil roiling inside me, “but I’d never say taking me home when we needed family the most was a mistake. Just in the wrong place, at the wrong time scenario.” I smile through the comment, though the ache of that moment lingers still.

“Appear sympathetic with Navarre. Stay alive,” Xaden's words flash through my mind, a mantra etched into the fabric of my being. I have rehearsed this dance before, the delicate balance of allegiance and survival.

“Of course,” the king nods along, his approval palpable, before continuing, “You know, Halden speaks highly of you in his letters.”

“Oh?” My eyebrows arch in surprise. What is Halden Tauri doing talking about me? “I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of the Prince since our run in during an RSC class with his quadrant.”

“Yes, well my son has taken very seriously to his studies in his last year.”

I stifle a laugh; even I know Halden’s not passing because he studied.

“In fact, I wanted to speak with you regarding a conversation your parents and I once had,” he continues, his voice shifting to a more formal tone, “and with how influential you’ve become with your bonded dragon, I think our previously discussed proposal would be beneficial.”

Proposal? My heart quickens, confusion swirling as I grasp for clarity in the midst of this unexpected conversation.

“My son will need a queen of your standing. A bonded rider born of a loyalist and a traitor. You’d be very beneficial to keeping the separatists' kids loyal."

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Uhm,” I stutter, the words tumbling out as I grapple with the weight of the king’s proposition, my mind swirling in a tempest of disbelief. “I’m sorry, could you excuse me, Your Majesty? I just remembered that–I forgot about my parole around the dorms. Responsibilities of being leadership.” I attempt to infuse my voice with a lighthearted tone, forcing a laugh that feels brittle against the rising bile in my throat.

“Of course. Think about my offer, though.” King Tauri's voice is steady, tinged with an urgency that curls around my senses. He inclines his head slightly, an unyielding reminder of the authority he wields. “It won’t go into effect until you graduate, of course, but I’ll need a response before then.”

“Of course, enjoy your night,” I manage to reply, my tone polished and formal as I execute a curtsy, the gesture hollow as I turn away. As I step back into the hall, I nearly sprint away, each footfall quickening until I’m out of sight, the weight of the encounter pressing down upon me like a heavy shroud.

I find refuge by the parapet, the cool breeze wrapping around me as I draw in staggered breaths, each inhalation an attempt to reclaim my composure. My fingers clutch the stone wall, grounding me as I stare into the depths of the sprawling landscape below, illuminated by the glow of the moonlight. The castle stands tall behind me, a fortress that suddenly feels like a gilded cage. Although the king’s words linger without a clear threat, I can't shake the feeling that they carry the weight of an ultimatum. A responsibility I never sought now clings to me, its presence suffocating.

I step onto the narrow bridge, the ancient stones cool beneath my soles as I make my way down, seeking solitude away from the chaos of the evening. But just as I step from the safety of the walls, I freeze, a voice cutting through the stillness like a knife.

“Wren?”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was out here,” I reply quickly, my heart racing as I reach for the skirts of my dress uniform.

“It’s alright. Just wanted to get away from everyone,” Xaden sighs, his eyes locked onto me from where he sits, an unwavering anchor amid the swirling tempest of my thoughts.

“I’ll let you be then,” I start to turn, but his voice halts me.

“It’s okay,” he reassures, warmth threading through his tone, laced with promise. He pats the space beside him, an invitation wrapped in kindness. “Have a seat. I won’t talk if it’ll make you feel better.”

Reluctantly, I agree, settling beside him, noting the comfort of this shared silence. I remember all too well finding him in this very position last year, a quiet refuge that speaks volumes without words.

“You look good in the dress uniforms,” he offers after a beat of silence, his gaze softening as I get myself situated, my legs and skirt hanging off the side, a small balm against the storm raging within me.

“I thought you weren’t going to talk?” I say teasing him. Xaden chuckles softly, a warm sound that mingles with the gentle rustle of the night breeze, before he turns his gaze back to the expansive sky.

The stars above shimmer, illuminating the darkness with a flickering brilliance, and for a moment, it feels as though time stands still. It’s not an awkward silence that envelops us; rather, it’s a comfortable stillness.

As I gaze into the depths of the cosmos, thoughts swirl in my mind, heavy and tumultuous. I don’t know why I choose this moment to share my burdens, but the words spill out, unfiltered. “King Tauri wants me to marry Halden after I graduate.”

“What?” His voice is a mix of surprise and concern, drawing my attention back to him, where the moonlight casts gentle highlights across his features.

“Apparently having a marked one who had one loyal parent and one traitor parent makes me more influential in keeping the others loyal,” I explain, my voice tinged with incredulity. A sigh escapes my lips, a release of pent-up anxiety. “Apparently, he and my parents had discussed this arrangement before my mother died. The apostasy just made him want it more.”

“Fuck, Wren.” Xaden’s sigh is heavy with sympathy. Then, a laugh escapes him, lightening the moment. “We break up, and you manage to snag a prince instead of the duke who lost his title.”

“I like the duke more anyways,” I admit, the words slipping out easily, buoyed by the comfort of our shared space.

“Do you still think about them?” Xaden asks, his tone shifting, probing gently into my guarded heart.

“Not my father as much, but Desa makes it hard to not think of my mother,” I answer, my gaze fixed on the vast tapestry of stars above, lost in memories.

“They’d be proud of who you’ve become,” he says, his gaze intent, pinning me down with a sincerity that stirs something deep within. It’s as if I can hear their voices echoing in his words, a haunting and beautiful affirmation.

“I know,” I nod, feeling the weight of his watchful eyes. “I missed you,” I confess, inching closer, the distance between us shrinking beneath the moonlight’s tender glow.

I shouldn’t be this close to him, I remind myself, but the way he looks at me, the warmth emanating from his presence, makes it all too tempting. At this moment, I wish I could forget everything that has happened.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Wren,” he murmured, his voice barely rising above a whisper, an echo of regret that pierced through the armor I’d built around my heart.

“Do you regret it?” I asked, daring to tread into dangerous waters. The stillness of the night wrapped around us, holding its breath as I waited for his answer.

“I can’t change what happened,” he replied, a shadow passing over his features, but something flickered in his gaze, a spark of hope woven into the fabric of our conversation. “But I wish I could take back the hurt. You deserve so much more.”

“More?” The word slipped from my lips like a silken thread, igniting the space between us. “What do you think I deserve?”

Xaden's breath hitched, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know if I can give you everything you deserve, Wren, but I would do anything for that chance.”

His sincerity washed over me like the gentle caress of a warm breeze, soothing and invigorating all at once. In that moment, everything felt possible, as though the shadows of our past were mere specters, dissipating beneath the brilliance of a newfound resolve. I had come here seeking solace, and instead, I found the undeniable urge to bridge the chasm that had formed between us.

And before I knew what was happening, I was gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the heat radiating from his body. The world around us blurred into a soft haze, and I pressed my lips to his, igniting a fire that had long been smoldering beneath the surface. His initial hesitance melted away, and I could taste the sweetness of his surprise, the warmth of his acceptance as he began to kiss me back. But as quickly as it had started, it ended. I pulled away, standing tall as the weight of reality settled upon my shoulders once more.

“I want to talk,” I declared, determination lacing my words. I gather the skirts, standing on the narrow path. “I can’t promise we can fix it,” I continued, the truth heavy on my tongue, “but I do miss my best friend.” The words hung in the air like a fragile truce, offering us a pathway back to each other, a bridge across the troubled waters between us.

His expression shifted, a mix of surprise and relief flooding his features as he stood, still in shock yet undeniably present in this moment. “I miss you too,” he said, the fervor in his voice igniting a flicker of hope deep within me.

“Meet me in my room in an hour,” I instructed, firm and clear. “Don’t be late.”

And with that, I turned, my heart racing as I walked off the parapet, each step echoing with the promise of what lay ahead. The anticipation of our conversation thrummed in the air, a symphony of possibility weaving through the threads of the night, as I headed toward the unknown that awaited me.

“He’s not coming.” My voice trembles slightly as I pace the length of my room, the familiar rhythm of my footsteps echoing against the walls, a nervous symphony to accompany the chaos swirling in my mind.

“He still has ten minutes,” Desa chimes in, her tone steady and reassuring, cutting through the anxiety that claws at my chest.

“Why did I invite him here? Am I insane?” The thought feels like a thunderclap, a jarring realization that sends my heart racing, each beat a reminder of the stakes involved.

“Maybe—”

“Desa!” I snap, irritation flaring as I struggle against the rising tide of uncertainty.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she shoots back, but the urgency in her voice does little to quell the tempest brewing inside me.

“Well, I—” Just then, a knock resonates through the quiet of my room, a sharp sound that makes my pulse quicken. “It’s not real,” I murmur, barely able to comprehend the notion that he might actually be here.

“Open the door,” she presses, her voice laced with an expectation that feels both foreign and exhilarating.

“Wren?” His voice, low and familiar, cuts through the air like a warm breeze, sending a shiver down my spine.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“I know I’m early. I figured we—” I pull the door open, revealing him in the soft glow of the hallway light. His presence is magnetic, drawing me in with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. “Hey,” he says softly, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

“Hi.” The word escapes my lips in a breathy whisper, and I open the door wider, urging him to step inside. But he hesitates, lingering in the doorway. “Are you going to stand in the hall all night?”

Xaden chuckles, a sound that warms the air around us. “You have to pull me through, remember?”

“Right! Sorry.” I reach for his hand, feeling the warmth radiate from his skin, a spark that ignites a fire within me. I wasn’t supposed to touch him until we talked; I knew that, yet the intoxicating scent of his body wash wraps around me like a familiar embrace, making it hard to focus on anything but the heat coursing between us.

“Kiss me,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, as I push the door closed, sealing us in this moment of vulnerability.

“We should talk, Wren,” he replies, his tone steady, but I can feel the tension crackling in the air.

“Xaden, I want to, I really do,” I confess, urgency clawing at my chest as I push him back against the door. “But I feel like I’m losing control and I fucking need you.”

“Dain can’t take care of you?” The words hit me like a cold splash of water, and I instinctively back away from him, retreating into the emotional wall I’ve built around myself.

“Don’t do that,” I say, dropping onto my bed, the weight of his question crashing down like an anchor.

“Wren, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No,” I whisper fiercely, tears brimming in my eyes. “No, you did. And that’s the problem.” As I blink back the moisture threatening to spill, I feel the truth of my words clawing its way out. “I ran out on Dain because every time he touched me, I wished it was you.” His mouth opens in surprise, but no sound comes forth. “He… I just… I need to feel like I have control over my life again.” I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, the weight of our unspoken words hanging heavily in the silence.

Xaden’s presence loomed large, an anchor in my tumultuous sea of feelings. He took a careful step towards me, his brow furrowed with concern, and for a moment, time itself seemed to pause.

“I don’t want to use you, Xaden,” I said quietly, my voice trembling as it broke the tension. My heart ached, the rawness of my admission spilling out like a confession in the dark. “But I need you to be the one who puts me back together.”

His gaze softened, an understanding shining in the depths of his eyes. “I want that too,” he replied, his tone almost a whisper, as though he feared shattering the fragile moment we shared. “But not when you're this broken.”

And just like that, the dam I had so carefully constructed crumbled, giving way to a torrent of silent, shaking sobs. My body shook with the weight of all I had been holding inside. Xaden moved closer, enveloping me in his arms, and the warmth of his embrace wrapped around me like a cocoon, comforting yet suffocating.

“You have to put yourself back together, Little Bird,” he murmured, his voice a gentle balm against the chaos within. “I can’t do it for you.” His lips pressed to my temple, a soft gesture that felt like a prayer. I felt a flicker of hope ignite within me, battling against the shadows that had been looming for far too long. “And I’ll gladly sit by your side while you do it,” he promised, the sincerity of his words resonating deep within my soul.

I nodded, a small movement that felt monumental against the tide of despair. Leaning into his hold, I allowed myself to surrender to the moment, if only for a fleeting heartbeat. For just a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. Xaden held me close, his presence steadying, as he hummed a lullaby—a haunting melody that wrapped around us like a shield against the world outside.

As my eyelids grew heavy, the soothing rhythm of his voice lulled me into a gentle slumber. My thoughts began to blur, merging with the soft cadence of the lullaby, and I drifted off…

Then I’m back in Dain’s room, the familiar chaos of maps and notebooks strewn about, each one a testament to the meticulous planning and strategizing that characterized the night before War Games. The air is thick with tension, the kind that wraps around me like a heavy cloak.

I start to rise from the edge of the bed, intent on finding some semblance of rest before the day ahead. But before I can move too far, Dain steps in front of me, his presence blocking my path with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

His hands reach up, cradling my face with a possessive gentleness, his thumbs grazing over my cheekbones as if trying to anchor me to this moment. “Wren,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, eyes searching mine with an intensity that feels both intimate and suffocating. “Stay.” The tenderness of his touch should have brought comfort, but instead, it feels wrong—like a well-rehearsed performance, carefully crafted but lacking authenticity.

“I think I should go.” I turn my head, trying to break free from his grasp, but his hold remains unyielding, fingers pressing into my skin with a stubbornness that betrays his desperation.

“No,” he insists, his voice softening, a coaxing lilt that feels almost manipulative. “You don’t have to run from this. From me.”

“Dain, I said—”

He leans in, closing the distance between us, and his lips find mine with a ferocity that leaves no room for hesitation. This kiss is not gentle—it's hungry, possessive, as though he’s trying to imprint his presence onto me, to convince me of something that hangs heavy and unspoken between us. I freeze, shock jolting through my body before instinct kicks in, and I push him away, harder than I intended.

“What the hell?” I snap, my breath coming in sharp gasps, the pulse of my heart echoing in my ears.

His expression darkens, shifting in a way that reveals an unfamiliar side of him, one flickering with jealousy and frustration. “You’re still caught up on him, aren’t you?”

“This has nothing to do with Xaden,” I retort, stepping back, my heart racing with indignation. “This is about me not wanting this.”

“I’ve been patient,” he states, his tone morphing into something colder, more calculated. “I’ve backed off every time you needed space. But don’t forget who vouched for you when no one else would. Who still does.”

My blood runs cold at his implication. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m reminding you,” Dain replies carefully, as if choosing his words with the precision of a blade, “that leadership has eyes. That reputations… especially yours, are fragile things.”

“You wouldn’t,” I whisper, my voice trembling—not from fear, but from fury that courses through me like wildfire.

He took a slow, deliberate step toward me, the air crackling with tension, his arms loose at his sides, yet his posture screamed control. It was as if he was a predator sizing up his prey, and I was caught in his crosshairs. “You already walk a fine line, Wren,” he began, his voice smooth, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. “Bonded to a Loyalist dragon, with a traitor’s last name—a relic. The wrong whisper, the wrong report, and suddenly you’re no longer just ‘difficult.’ You’re dangerous.”

I felt bile rise in my throat as his words settled over me like a heavy shroud. “You’re disgusting,” I breathed, my heart pounding in my chest as I instinctively backed toward the door, every instinct screaming for escape. “You think I owe you something because you smiled at me when no one else did?”

He didn’t respond, his silence a chilling affirmation of his intentions. When my fingers reached for the door handle, I felt his hands push me firmly against the wood, the force of his presence looming over me. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?” His voice dripped with a mixture of anger and betrayal.

Fury ignited within me, and I pushed back against him, my hand deftly pulling out my dagger and pointing it at his throat before he could close the distance again. “Touch me again and I’ll find myself Squad Leader by the games tomorrow,” I threatened, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside me, fingers tightening around the hilt of my weapon.

He didn’t need to respond; his eyes held a mix of surprise and anger as I yanked the door open, stepping into the hallway. The air outside was like ice against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heated confrontation I had just escaped. My boots echoed against the stone floor, each step a desperate beat as I walked faster—then broke into a run.

“Wrenley!” Xaden’s voice broke through the nightmare, slicing through the remnants of my fear. I met his concerned gaze, the intensity in his eyes grounding me in the moment. “Is that what happened?”

“What?” I stammered, still shaken.

“You didn’t think thoughts and communication were the only things you could send, did you?”

“You saw…” I trailed off, the memory flooding back with visceral clarity.

“What he fucking did?” Xaden growled, springing from the bed. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Xay—” I started, desperation clawing at my throat, but a pounding at my door cut me off. Please don’t be Dain.

“Wren?” Garrick’s voice came through, worry lacing his tone.

“Gare?” I swung the door open, relief washing over me momentarily as my cousin stood before me. His eyes flicked from my tear-streaked face to Xaden, the tension in the air shifting. I could almost see his blood boil, rage simmering just beneath the surface as he tried to enter my warded room and failed.

“What the fuck did you do, Riorson?” he growled, the anger in his voice deepening the weight of the moment.

“Believe me, Garrick. This,” Xaden gestures toward me with a fierce intensity, “is not on me this time.”

I spin to face Xaden, my heart racing as I murmur through the channel, “Do not tell him.” The urgency of the situation is a weight pressing down on my chest, the cold metal of my dagger a reminder of the confrontation that still lingers in my mind.

Garrick runs a frustrated hand through his hair, the worry etched on his features evident as he groans, “We don’t have time for this.” His voice is taut, each word laced with the urgency of the moment. “We’re being called in for a full quadrant formation.”

“At this hour?” Xaden questions, his brow furrowing, concern flickering in his eyes like a flame caught in a gust of wind.

“We’re under attack.” The gravity of those words sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a spark of adrenaline that buzzes beneath my skin.

Without hesitation, Xaden turns to my armoire, the wooden doors creaking softly as he flings them open. He rummages through my belongings with a sense of urgency, pulling out my flight leathers, the smell of leather and oil mingling in the air as I quickly change. Garrick darts off, presumably to gather the others, leaving me alone with the storm brewing in Xaden's gaze.

“Where the fuck is your flight jacket?” he growls, his voice low and demanding as he digs through the chaos of my armoire.

“Fuck, I must’ve left it in Dain’s room,” I groan, the realization crashing over me like a wave of dread. Slipping my boots back on, I steel myself, ready to take action. “I’ll just go—”

“Absolutely not.” His voice cuts through the air, sharp and uncompromising as he rips his own flight jacket off, wrapping it around me with a swift motion. “I’ll go grab my extra one. You are not to be alone with Dain again, understand me?”

“I can handle myself,” I protest, though my heart races, a mix of determination and fear coursing through me.

“My fuck-up is what got you in that situation, Wren.” Xaden’s grip tightens on my shoulders, his gaze earnest and unyielding, conveying the weight of his concern. “I’ll be damned if it happens again. Please.” With a nod of agreement, I feel the tension start to ease, if only slightly. “Alright, you head on down. I’ll be there in a minute.” The words hang in the air, a promise wrapped in urgency, as we brace ourselves for the unknown that lies ahead.

I make my way to the formation, the cool night air wrapping around me like a shroud. The courtyard is alive with activity, the energy palpable as squad leaders return to their ranks, their expressions a mix of determination and tension. Just as I reach our designated spot, Dain’s eyes lock onto mine, a predator’s gaze that sends a shiver down my spine. I instinctively shift to stand closer to our quad, creating a buffer of distance between us, hoping to diminish the weight of his presence.

“Why are you wearing Riorson’s flight jacket?” Imogen's voice cuts through the air behind me, teasing yet curious. I can feel the warmth of embarrassment creeping into my cheeks.

“I lost mine,” I mumble, avoiding her scrutinizing gaze, desperate for her to let the topic drop. But as I glance at Violet, her head snaps in my direction, a sly glint in her eye as she zeroes in on the unmistakable markers on the jacket.

“Bullshit,” Imogen laughs, the sound bright and infectious despite the tension. “You can admit that you two were fucking.” She gives me a playful nudge with her elbow, and I groan at her jest.

“Nothing happened. We talked, Garrick came to get us for this, and I realized my jacket was missing. That's it,” I protest, but the words feel weak against the teasing atmosphere.

Commandant Panchek strides onto the dais, exuding authority, followed closely by Colonel Aetos and the wingleaders, who flank him like sentinels. Xaden, clad in his spare jacket, stands with a fierce intensity, his eyes searing into Dain, an unspoken challenge hanging between them.

“Leave him alone until this is over,” I tell Xaden, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. He turns his gaze from Dain to me, his expression softening, revealing a glimpse of the concern beneath his hardened exterior.

“Third years might get sent out if it’s bad enough,” he replies, a hint of gravity underscoring his words. My heart sinks at the implication.

“You’re leaving?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe. Though I’m sure Sgaeyl will drag me back soon enough,” he reassures me, though the tension in the air suggests otherwise. Nyra leans in to whisper something to Xaden, and his voice cuts through the tension again, filled with annoyance. “Fucking War Games.”

“This is for War Games?” I ask, incredulity flaring inside me.

“Think I can get away with stabbing Aetos? I’m sure this was his idea,” Xaden jokes, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface as I stifle my own.

“I’d pay good money to see that,” I reply, caught up in the moment,

"Don't tempt me, Little Bird," and he winks at me from the dais, igniting a spark deep inside me as Panchek begins to speak.

“Riders Quadrant!” Panchek’s commanding voice booms across the courtyard, reverberating against the stone walls and cutting through the murmur of anxious chatter. As the gathered cadets straighten, the air crackles with anticipation and trepidation. “Welcome to the last event of this year’s War Games.” The atmosphere shifts, excitement mingling with the weight of what’s to come. “The alert that was sounded is similar to what it would have been if this were a real-life attack—to see how fast you would muster—and we will continue this exercise as if it is.” A chill runs down my spine at his words, a visceral reminder of the stakes involved. “Were the borders to be simultaneously attacked, and the wards faltering, you would all be called into service to reinforce the wings. Colonel Aetos, would you do us the honor of reading the scenario?”

With a fluid motion, Dain’s father steps forward, scroll unfurling in his hands, and begins to read aloud. His voice carries the weight of grim reality. “The moment we’ve dreaded has arrived. The wards we’ve dedicated our lives to upholding are falling, and there has been an unprecedented, multilevel attack along our borders, putting villages under siege from drifts of gryphon riders.” The imagery he conjures is stark, igniting fears of chaos and destruction. “Mass casualties among civilians and infantry are already being reported, as are the deaths of multiple riders.”

The crowd’s collective breath hitches, faces paling under the gravity of the scenario. “As we would if you were a battle-ready force, we are sending your wings in every direction,” he continues, his gaze honing in on each wing. When he reaches ours, my heart thunders in my chest. “Fourth Wing to the southeast. Each squad will pick which outpost they will reinforce within that region. Choices are first come, first served. Wingleaders, however, will be assigned to theirs for the purposes of determining a headquarters for this exercise.”

Colonel Aetos pauses, the silence stretching taut before he turns to the wingleaders, issuing rapid-fire orders. But his gaze flickers toward Dain, and I can feel the tension build. Then, he looks at Xaden, his smile slipping for just a heartbeat, a fleeting moment that sends a shiver coursing through me. “Riorson, you’ll establish your headquarters for Fourth Wing at Athebyne.”

A wave of unease washes over me. That’s outside the wards. They never send cadets that far.

The tension in the air hangs thick, a palpable force swirling around us like an impending storm. As Colonel Aetos steps back, the echoes of his orders fade into the background, replaced by the frantic heartbeat of anticipation thrumming in my chest. Xaden’s command cuts through the fog of uncertainty, a lifeline amidst the chaos.

“You’re coming with me.” His voice is authoritative, carrying the weight of unyielding resolve, as he locks eyes with me. There’s an urgency in his expression that I can’t ignore, a fierce intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. “And wear every dagger you own.”

My heart races, confusion twisting in my gut. I want to ask why, to demand clarity, but before I can voice my questions, Dain’s presence draws my attention. He’s facing us now, his demeanor resolute as he turns to address the squad. “We’re going to claim the outpost at Eltuval, the northernmost one in our assigned region,” he declares, and I can feel the gravity of his decision settle over us like a cloak. “I’m not getting stuck at some coastal outpost when we know that’s not how Poromiel would choose to attack. Anyone have a problem with that?”

We all shake our heads.

“Good, then you heard the commandant. You have thirty minutes to change, pack what you can carry for five days, and get your asses to the flight field.” Dain’s voice is firm, cutting through the chaos with clarity. I turn to leave, adrenaline igniting my senses, when Dain’s grip on my arm halts me.

“Wren—”

“Get your hands off her, squad leader,” Xaden growls, striding toward us like a storm rolling in. His presence is electric, igniting a spark of defiance within me, and I feel a rush of gratitude for his protective instincts.

“What’s going on?” Dain questions, his grip reluctantly releasing my arm. The tension crackles between them, a silent battle of wills, but Xaden’s glare is a shield, fierce and unwavering.

“Leave her alone, Aetos. I’m warning you.” Xaden’s voice is low, a rumble of thunder that demands obedience. He guides me away from the confrontation, a firm hand at my back that ignites an unexpected warmth in my chest. “Before you freak out, I’m also bringing Violet on our team.”

“What?” The surprise spills out before I can think better of it. But as I look into Xaden’s eyes, I see the truth etched in his expression. He’s made his decision, and I can’t argue with the conviction behind it.

“I can’t trust Aetos to prioritize her life. And Sgaeyl demands Tairn come with. That’s it.”

His gaze holds mine, a steady flame against the encroaching darkness, and I feel the weight of his words settle over me. There’s a fierceness in him that assures me he’ll do everything in his power to protect us, a promise woven into the very fabric of his being.

“Okay.”

“Good.” He sighs. “Now go pack, meet me on the flight field,” he says, his voice a low murmur that sends a thrill through me. The world around us fades into a blur as I nod, swallowing the whirlwind of emotions within me as I turn to return to the dorms.

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