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theonottsbxtch · 22 days ago

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THE STATION DOWN THE ROAD | MV1

an: everyone seemed to love the flat next door so consider this a second instalment in the flat next door universe

wc: 15.6k

summary: she was too young to be taken seriously. he’d spent his whole life holding the world at arm’s length. they found home in each other, slowly, quietly, completely. not a love story with fireworks. just one that stayed.

MAX DIDN'T TALK MUCH ABOUT WHERE HE CAME FROM. Not because it was secret, exactly, but because some things sounded worse when said out loud. Like once you named them, they could crawl back in through the cracks and settle in your chest again.

He grew up in a council flat in Croydon, the sort where neighbours knew each other by the sound of arguments through the wall more than by name. His dad was loud. His mum was quieter, but not in a good way. Max learned early which floorboards creaked and how to move through silence without stirring it.

By sixteen, he was already trying not to be like him. He joined cadets. Signed up for any scheme that kept him out late. Police work hadn’t been a dream, not really. It was just something that looked like order. Something solid. Something with rules.

Now he lived a little further out. The town had just enough grey to feel real, but enough green round the edges to breathe properly. His flat was above a barber’s, with creaky stairs and a window that stuck when it got cold. But it was his. No shouting, no smashed plates. Just silence. Peaceful most of the time, though it could feel a bit hollow on Sundays.

He’d just finished a late shift, Friday, bit of a messy one, a pub scuffle that ended in a bloke crying on the kerb about his ex, and the streets were that in-between kind of quiet. Late enough that the buses were mostly empty, but not early enough for the milk floats. Streetlamps buzzed softly. His boots scuffed against the wet pavement.

Max didn’t mind nights like this. He liked the hush, the permission to think without interruption.

He unlocked his front door, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the sofa, still in uniform. The radio buzzed from his jacket pocket. He clicked it off. Enough for today.

It had been just past ten on a Thursday when the call came through.

Max was halfway through a lukewarm cup of tea in the station kitchen, watching condensation bead down the windows. One of the younger PCs had left a jam doughnut half-eaten on a napkin, sugar stuck to the table. Rain pattered soft against the roof. He'd been hoping for a quiet shift.

Dispatch crackled through on his radio, voice clipped and tinny. “Units for immediate. Child located in the high street, possibly lost. Caller states child appears unharmed, mother not present. Caller’s staying on scene.”

Max pushed back his chair with a sigh and clicked his radio. “PC Verstappen, responding. I’m five minutes out.”

He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and headed out into the drizzle, the kind that didn’t soak you straight away, just lingered like damp breath on the back of your neck.

The high street wasn’t busy. A few shops still had lights on. Off-licence, the late-night bakery that always smelled too good for its own good, and the nail bar with the flickering sign. Max spotted the pair straight away, just outside the pharmacy.

The kid couldn’t have been more than five, maybe six. She was sat on the low brick wall, swinging her legs, damp hair sticking to her cheeks. Beside her stood a woman, not much more than twenty, holding a phone in one hand and trying to coax the child into zipping up her coat with the other.

She wasn’t wearing a coat herself. Just a big hoodie with the sleeves half-pulled over her hands, trainers slightly scuffed, eyes flicking up as he approached.

“You the one who called?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

She nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, she was standing by the crossing, no adult in sight. Looked like she was about to leg it across the road.”

Max crouched down a little, level with the girl. “Hey there. You alright, poppet?”

She gave a tiny nod but didn’t say anything. Her thumb hovered near her mouth before she pulled it away, glancing uncertainly between Max and the woman.

“She wouldn’t say much,” the woman added, quiet now. “Just told me her name’s Elsie. Didn’t know her mum’s number.”

“Right,” Max said, nodding slowly. “You did the right thing. Staying with her, I mean.”

The woman gave a little shrug, like it was nothing. But it wasn’t. Most people walked past.

Max clicked his radio again. “Verstappen here. Found the child, safe. Waiting on possible parent. Could we run a check for any missing child calls in the area? Name’s Elsie, about six.”

He glanced at the woman again. She was standing close enough to keep the kid calm, far enough not to hover. No umbrella. Her hair was damp, clinging to her forehead. Still no coat.

“You cold?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

She looked down at herself like she’d forgotten. “Bit. Doesn’t matter.”

He almost offered her his jacket. Didn’t. Instead, he nodded toward the wall.

“Why don’t you sit a sec? You’ve done enough standing about for one evening.”

She gave him a faint smile, like she wasn’t used to people saying that sort of thing.

They waited like that for a bit, Max crouched beside the kid, the woman perched nearby, rain threading through her sleeves.

Eventually, the update came through.

“Mum’s just rung in. Panicked. Apparently thought the girl was with her sister. She’s on her way now, seven minutes out.”

Max relayed that gently. Elsie’s face didn’t change much, but she shifted a little closer to the woman beside her. Her shoulder pressed against her arm, just briefly.

“She likes you,” Max murmured once Elsie was distracted by a cat in the window across the street.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Kid doesn’t know me.”

“Still. You kept her safe. That counts.”

She glanced down, then back at him. “You’re not from round here, are you?”

Max tilted his head. “What gives it away?”

She smiled, small. “You’ve got that careful voice. Like you learnt it on purpose.”

Max smiled faintly. “Maybe I did.”

A beat passed.

Then the sound of a car pulling up, too fast, a woman jumping out, clutching a handbag, tears already running.

Elsie ran to her mum without hesitation, and the moment hit hard, the kind of relief that made your lungs ache.

Max let them have a minute. Once the mum had calmed, offered her breathless thanks, and filled out the basics on the clipboard he handed her, they left in a rush of apologies and relief.

Then it was just the two of them again. Him and the girl in the hoodie, now stood with her hands stuffed in the pockets like it was suddenly awkward.

“You alright getting home?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m only up past the church. Ten-minute walk.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Done it loads.”

He paused. Then held out a hand. “Max.”

She looked at it for a second before shaking it. Her hand was colder than it should’ve been.

“I know,” she said, not quite smiling. “You’ve got your badge on, officer.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair point.”

She stepped back slightly, hands shoved into her hoodie pocket, trainers scuffing the wet pavement.

“Thanks again,” he said. “For sticking with her.”

She shrugged, but there was a softness behind it. “Someone had to.”

He nodded. “Still. You didn’t have to be the someone.”

That got a small smile. Barely there, but it settled somewhere beneath his ribs.

“Get home safe, yeah?” he added.

She looked at him then, properly. Rain clinging to the ends of her fringe, cheeks a little pink from the cold. “You too, Max.”

And with that, she turned and walked off into the drizzle, footsteps light on the pavement, her hood still down despite the weather.

He watched her go, just for a second longer than he needed to.

Didn’t even know her name.

But he figured he might like to.

She didn’t look back, but she felt his eyes on her as she crossed the road.

Max. That had been his name. Short. Solid. The kind of name that felt steady, even when spoken quietly.

She walked the long way home, just for the space. The drizzle had turned into proper rain by the time she reached the alley behind the bookshop. She ducked through the side gate, keys already in hand, and climbed the narrow staircase that led to her flat above the shop. The steps were worn down the middle, edges scuffed from years of deliveries and clumsy tenants.

Inside, the flat was small but warm. The radiators ticked softly. Her boots squeaked faintly against the entryway mat. There was a distinct smell of paper and damp glue that always drifted up from the shop below. She’d grown to like it. It was hers.

She peeled off her hoodie and hung it on the hook, already thinking about the morning, early shift again. The café opened at seven, but she always arrived by half six. Just enough time to sort the pastry delivery and set up the machine before customers started begging for oat milk lattes and toasted bagels with no butter.

The flat was quiet. No telly on, no music. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional car tyre splashing outside. She boiled the kettle without thinking and stood by the window while it hissed behind her, watching the glow of the town bleed faintly through the rain. Somewhere down the street, a siren wailed, but distant. Not urgent.

She didn't miss living at home. Not really. Her mum still texted most days, usually some variation of “eating properly?” or ��when are you visiting?” but it was easier like this. Cleaner. She’d gone to uni a year early, skipped the last year of school because someone at her old place had said she was “a bit too clever to be hanging round with the rest of them.” It had seemed like a compliment at the time.

Now she was twenty, degree in hand, trying to convince café customers she could do more than steam milk and remember four regular orders without writing them down. Most didn’t believe she was old enough to rent a flat, let alone have studied economics. One bloke last week had called her “kiddo” and asked to speak to the manager. She was the manager. Sort of. They just hadn’t updated the name tag yet.

The next day, the rain had cleared, but the air still had that freshly wrung out feeling. Cold and clean. Her shift started like most, juggling coffee orders, wiping down tables too early in the morning, answering "what time do you open?” while clearly standing inside an already open shop.

It was just after eight when she saw him again.

Max.

He didn’t walk in with a swagger. More like he hadn’t planned to be there at all. Just ducked through the door with a slightly wind-blown look and the faint kind of hesitation that said he was deciding whether to stay.

She spotted him from behind the counter. He hadn’t clocked her yet.

He looked different out of uniform. Less official. Hoodie under a coat, hair slightly tousled like he'd towel-dried it in a rush. He scanned the board briefly, then looked up, and saw her.

Recognition flickered. Nothing dramatic. Just the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth, like a smile that hadn’t made up its mind yet.

She nodded. “Morning.”

He stepped up to the counter, hands in his pockets. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, super fancy,” she said, pouring a filter coffee for another customer. “You after anything complicated?”

“God, no. Just a tea. Strong. Normal milk.”

She smirked faintly. “Classic.”

“I try.”

She got to work, kettle already boiling, and busied herself with a spoon and teabag while he stood awkwardly on the other side, like he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“You alright?” she asked eventually, not looking up.

“Yeah. Just…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Don’t normally come in here. Didn’t realise you worked this close to the station.”

She poured the tea, slid the mug toward him. “Most people don’t notice the small places.”

He gave a small shrug. “I notice more than I used to.”

She tilted her head slightly. “That a police thing?”

“Maybe. Or maybe just a getting older thing.”

She gave him the kind of look that could’ve meant anything. “Must be ancient, then.”

He huffed a laugh, accepting the tea. “Cheeky.”

She wiped her hands on a tea towel, then leaned on the counter, her shift apron tied loosely round her waist. “So. What brings you here, Max?”

He paused, tea in hand. “Dunno. Just fancied a quiet one. This place looked not terrible.”

She gave him a proper smile then, dry and amused. “High praise.”

He took a sip. Winced. “Bloody hell. That’s hot.”

She smirked. “You said strong. Not lukewarm.”

He grinned, and for a second, they just stood there, that comfortable pause settling again. The quiet kind. Familiar. No rush to fill it.

Eventually he gestured toward the corner table. “That alright?”

She nodded. “Go on. Table service is extra, though.”

He walked off, still smiling to himself, and she turned back to the espresso machine, the warmth from the encounter still tucked somewhere beneath her ribs.

Max stayed longer than he meant to.

He nursed his tea like it might reveal the meaning of life if he just sipped slow enough. The café was quiet now, post-breakfast lull, just a couple of old regulars in the corner and one student with headphones in, typing furiously and ordering nothing.

She wiped down the counter and glanced his way. He caught her eye. She raised an eyebrow.

“You alright over there? Or waiting for a second round?”

He smiled, tilted his mug. “Still working through the first. Dunno what you put in it, but it’s strong enough to resuscitate a corpse.”

“That’ll be the house blend,” she said dryly, making her way over with a cloth in one hand. “Bit intense, but does the job.”

She leaned against the table next to his, arms folded. He watched her for a second, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear without thinking, the way she still had a bit of flour dust near her knuckles.

“So,” he said eventually, “how long have you worked here?”

She gave him a look, not cold, but evasive. Like she'd been asked that question one too many times by people trying to figure out what she was doing with her life.

“Mm,” she said casually, “how long have you been a police officer?”

Max chuckled. “Alright. Fair. Seven years. Became a cadet as soon as it was legal then took a break. Worked in security, bit of door staff stuff in that in between then decided I wanted to be on the side that got called, not the one that got kicked out.”

She nodded like she understood more than she said.

He glanced up. “And you?”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just moved the cloth absently across a spotless bit of wood. Then, quietly, “Six months. Been working here since I graduated.”

He blinked. “Graduated?”

“Mm. Uni. Last summer.”

He tilted his head. “What’d you study?”

“Economics.”

That gave him pause. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She smiled, wry and small. “Skipped a year at school, went straight through. Finished my dissertation with a kettle that didn’t work and a housemate who thought pasta went in before the water.”

He let out a soft laugh. “And now you’re here?”

“Now I’m here,” she repeated. “No one wants to take a twenty year old seriously in finance, turns out. Doesn’t matter how good your marks were if you look like you should still be doing your GCSEs.”

He sat back, thoughtful. “Ever considered working for the police?”

She raised an eyebrow. “As what, a teenage detective?”

He grinned. “Not everyone wears a stab vest. We’ve got departments for everything. Finance. Logistics. Budgets. Payroll. People who make sure Danny from transport doesn’t blow the whole annual allowance on cola bottles and petrol receipts.”

She laughed, properly this time. A low, warm sound that made his shoulders relax without realising.

“Serious, though,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out his wallet, slid a card across the table. “That’s me. My PC number’s on there. If you ever want to come by the station, chat to someone about the admin side, see what’s what, you should.”

She looked down at the card. His name was printed in neat block letters. It didn’t have a fancy title, no big flourish, just PC Max Verstappen and a contact number.

She turned it over in her fingers, then glanced back at him.

“Bit of a jump from latte art and sourdough, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But so was door work to front-line response. You never know.”

She tucked the card into the front pocket of her apron. Didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no either.

“You offering this to every café girl you meet?” she asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“No,” he said honestly, finishing the last sip of his tea. “Just the one who called in a lost kid and didn’t flinch once.”

She looked away, just slightly. But her smile stayed.

It had been a week since she’d seen Max.

Not that she was counting. But the card he’d given her was still tucked in the side of her mirror, propped up behind a stray hair bobble and a nearly empty bottle of dry shampoo.

She looked at it most mornings. Didn’t touch it. Just looked.

The flat had started to feel smaller since then. It wasn’t awful, not really, a bit damp in the corners, taps that squealed, windows that didn’t shut properly in the bathroom. But it was hers. Sort of. If you ignored the landlord, anyway.

That morning, she’d found a note shoved under the door. Crumpled, biro-scrawled, barely legible.

Rent due on the 1st. No delays. Don’t forget the increase. Cheers.

No “hello.” No signature. Just another reminder that everything cost more than it used to, and she wasn’t earning more than she used to. At the café, hours had been cut slightly, “just while trade’s slow”, and she’d started skipping lunch without noticing. Tea and toast at home would do.

Then the night after, something happened next door.

She heard it first, a shout, then a crash, maybe glass. Someone swearing, a door slammed. She’d frozen for a second, standing barefoot in the kitchen with the kettle halfway to boiling. It wasn’t her flat. Wasn’t her business. But she crept to the peephole anyway, breath held like that could stop whatever was happening outside.

Police had shown up a few minutes later. She watched the flashing lights bounce across the opposite wall, hands curled around a cold mug of tea. A robbery, apparently. Second one in a month down that street. No one seriously hurt, but still.

She barely slept. Every creak sounded wrong.

By morning, her mind was already half made up.

The station was quieter than she expected. Not loud or chaotic like telly made it look, just tired and slightly beige. The reception desk had a cracked laminate top, and someone had left a half-eaten pack of biscuits beside the computer monitor.

She stood just inside the doorway, rain still clinging to her coat, her trainers damp around the toes. The woman at the desk gave her a polite smile.

“Can I help you, love?”

She cleared her throat. “Erm. Yeah. I was wondering if I could speak to someone about jobs. Admin side, I mean. Not… not the front line.” while fiddling with the card Max had given her.

The woman nodded. “Alright. Let me see who’s about. Name?”

She gave it and the woman typed it in like it might mean something. Then she picked up the phone.

Two minutes later, footsteps sounded from the hallway. And there he was.

Max.

He looked surprised, but not in a bad way. Just a small lift of the eyebrows and a soft, “Hey. You alright?”

She nodded. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Course. Come on.”

He led her into a side room, plain, with a kettle and a stack of mugs that had clearly been borrowed from someone’s nan. He gestured for her to sit, then closed the door behind them.

She stayed standing.

“I thought about what you said,” she began, fingers curled around the strap of her bag. “About the jobs. The finance side. Is that a real thing? Or were you just being polite?”

He smiled faintly. “Bit of both. But mostly real.”

She nodded once. “Right. Because I’m looking. I mean, I’ve been looking, but I need something more stable. Somewhere that doesn’t cut my hours the minute it starts raining. And somewhere I can actually use my degree. I’m good with numbers. Just not very good at being patient with people who think I’m twelve.”

Max leaned back slightly, arms folded across his chest. He looked at her like she’d already passed some kind of test.

“We’ve got a couple of posts open,” he said. “Civilian roles. Budgeting team, HR, resource planning. You wouldn’t be out on the beat, don’t worry.”

She smiled at that, a little dry. “Don’t think I’m quite stab vest material.”

He chuckled. “We’ve got an application portal online, but I can put your name forward, make sure someone actually reads it. If you want.”

“I do,” she said, firmer than she meant to. “I really do.”

He nodded once. Then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper, looked like he’d written something on it already.

“Go online, use that reference,” he said, handing it to her. “Should take you straight to the vacancies. If you want to list me as a referral, feel free. Might help. Don’t think they’ll hold the tea against you.”

She looked down at the note in her hands. His handwriting was neater than expected.

“Thanks,” she said, softly. “Seriously.”

Max tilted his head. “You alright, though? Really?”

She hesitated. “Just had a rough week. Landlord’s a tosser. Place got broken into next door. I keep telling myself I’ve got it under control, but it’d be nice to have something that is actually under control, you know?”

He didn’t say much, just nodded like he understood that far more than he was letting on.

“Then let’s get you something solid,” he said. “Yeah?”

She folded the slip and tucked it into her pocket, next to his card.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s.”

The weeks that followed unfolded in slow, steady steps, like crossing a stream on uneven stones.

The interview process was less terrifying than she'd expected, and more exhausting. Two rounds, plus a phone call with someone in payroll who seemed very invested in her knowledge of procurement software. She answered every question as clearly as she could, kept her voice level, tried not to overexplain or sound like she was trying to prove something.

Max didn’t make a big deal of it. He never hovered. An email here and there, a simple “Good luck today” or “Let me know how it goes”, always signed just with M from his work email. She appreciated that. The quietness of it. No pressure. No assumption. Just presence.

And then it happened. The job came through. A real one, with proper hours and paperwork and more than enough acronyms to get lost in. She stared at the offer email for five full minutes before she let herself believe it was real.

She handed in her notice that same day. Her manager barely looked up. Just muttered something about how it’d be hard to cover weekends and told her to print out her P45.

She didn’t tell Max right away. Not because she didn’t want to. But because the moment felt too raw, too personal. Like a small flame she wanted to protect from the wind.

He showed up at the café that Saturday. Not in uniform, jeans, a coat that had seen better days, and trainers that looked like they’d done a few too many miles. She saw him before he saw her, and by the time he reached the counter, her hands had stopped shaking.

“Alright?” he asked.

She nodded, wiping down the steam wand. “Still doing strong tea, or have you developed a taste for vanilla oat lattes?”

He made a face. “I’d rather chew glass.”

She poured his usual without asking.

“You busy?” he asked, glancing round. A couple of students hunched over laptops, a man reading the Metro with the patience of a monk.

“Quiet enough.”

She handed him the mug, their fingers not quite brushing.

“I got it,” she said.

He frowned. “Got what?”

“The job. I start on the twelfth.”

Max blinked, then his face softened in that way it did, like the smile hadn’t quite reached his mouth but had settled somewhere just behind his eyes.

“That’s brilliant,” he said. “You deserve it.”

She gave a small shrug, looking down. “Was starting to think maybe I wasn’t good enough for anything that didn’t come with a chipped mug and a dodgy boiler.”

He shook his head. “You were always good enough. Some people just take longer to be seen.”

That stopped her for a second. The way he said it, like he wasn’t talking about just her.

She nodded once. “Thanks. For you know. Putting my name forward. And not treating me like I was a child.”

“I figured,” he said quietly, “if anyone knew what it felt like to be underestimated it’d be me.”

A small silence opened between them. Comfortable, if a bit heavy.

She looked at him then, properly, saw the wear in the corners of his eyes, the carefulness in how he held himself. Like someone who’d spent years learning to take up as little space as possible.

“I owe you a coffee once I’m on the other side,” she said.

Max gave the faintest nod. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Then, like always, he paid without a fuss, nodded his thanks, and left without lingering.

But when she wiped down the counter a few minutes later, she found he’d left behind a folded napkin with a short note scribbled in careful block capitals.

You’re not inexperienced. You’re just getting started. M

She kept it in her pocket for the rest of the day.

The building looked different when you walked in with a pass.

She’d picked it up from reception half an hour before her shift, a plastic rectangle with her photo laminated on it and her name in blocky type underneath.

It felt strange, official. Like someone had finally let her into a room she’d been standing outside for years.

Her desk was on the second floor, tucked behind a stack of filing cabinets and two dying spider plants. The office buzzed in that low, fluorescent way, humming computers, quiet phone calls, the occasional cough. Everyone had a mug, she noticed. Bright colours. Slogans. Some in-jokes she didn’t get yet. Someone had taped googly eyes to the printer.

Her new manager, Hannah, was friendly in a brisk, no-nonsense way. She showed her how to log in, gave her a binder full of things she’d definitely forget by lunch, and introduced her to the people she’d mostly be emailing, not speaking to.

Then she was left to it. A screen, a login, an inbox that was already judging her.

She took a slow breath, rolled her shoulders, and got stuck in.

By eleven, she’d answered three emails, deleted seven spam messages about an expired toner contract, and double-checked a spreadsheet of overtime claims twice, just in case she’d missed something. Her tea had gone cold.

There was a knock on the doorframe.

She looked up.

It was Max.

In uniform this time, sleeves rolled, radio clipped to his vest, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her.

“Alright?” he asked.

Before she could answer, someone behind her desk piped up. “You’re not Danny. What are you doing here?”

The voice belonged to Gianpiero, she’d met him briefly that morning. Looked like he’d been working here since dial-up.

Max gave a faint smirk. “I’m here to check on a friend.”

That pulled a couple of glances. One or two eyebrows.

She stared at him. “A friend?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah. Thought I’d see how your first day was going.”

Before she could think of what to say, something witty, probably, or at least something that didn’t make her sound like she’d forgotten how speech worked, he reached into a paper bag and pulled out a mug.

He set it down on her desk.

It was mint green, slightly oversized, and in big white letters across the front it read, World’s Okayest Civilian

She blinked. Then laughed.

“Classy,” she said, picking it up. “Did you pick this yourself?”

“Course,” he said. “Had to fight someone for the last one.”

“Bet they were twelve.”

“Thirteen, actually.”

The moment hovered. She held the mug in her hands like it was something fragile and warm all at once.

“Thanks,” she said, quieter.

Max just nodded, a little smile threatening the corner of his mouth.

Then his radio crackled, and he glanced down at it, frowning.

“Sorry,” he said, already stepping back. “Gotta go, duty calls.”

She nodded. “Go be heroic.”

He gave her a look over his shoulder, something amused and gentle and gone too fast to pin down, and disappeared through the door.

GP leaned round the filing cabinet once he was gone.

“He your boyfriend?”

She stared at him. “What? No. He’s just helped me out. That’s all.”

GP shrugged, already turning back to his screen. “Alright, alright. Didn’t say anything.”

She looked down at the mug again. Bright green against the grey desk. Not subtle. But not loud, either.

She poured herself a fresh tea.

It tasted better than the first.

The rest of the day passed in fits and starts.

She read through a ten-page PDF on procurement protocols, half of which seemed written in another language, and tried not to look completely lost when Hannah came over to ask how she was finding things.

“Good,” she lied, with enough conviction that it almost sounded true.

Her new mug sat proudly on the desk, even though she caught one of the interns sniggering at it. She didn’t mind. It felt like a small anchor. Something that said, I belong here. Sort of.

By half five, she’d answered enough emails to feel useful and learned how to book meeting rooms without breaking the calendar system. A victory, by all accounts. She walked out of the building with her coat buttoned to the neck, the cold biting just slightly, her ID badge tucked into her bag like a ticket she didn’t want to lose.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t changing the world.

But it was hers.

The following weeks found their own rhythm.

Mornings started with the steady hum of the office, printer noises, people comparing meal deals, the occasional dodgy ringtone no one wanted to admit to. She kept her head down mostly, but people started to learn her name. GP brought her a KitKat on a Tuesday “just because” and muttered something about “decent work on that leave audit.”

Hannah let her lead on a supplier review. Nothing massive. But still.

Max didn’t appear often. Maybe once a week. Always at odd times, catching her by the printer, or standing by her desk with a coffee in one hand, looking like he’d just wandered in but had probably known exactly where she’d be.

Their conversations were still brief. Uncomplicated. But the tone had shifted. Warmer. Less formal. Like they were slowly building something that didn’t need naming yet.

One Wednesday, she came back from the loo to find a Post-it on her monitor that said Tea? 3:15. Downstairs. -M

She found him by the vending machine, leaning against it like he was waiting for the universe to deliver a snack. When he saw her, he stood up straighter and handed her a flapjack.

“Thought you might need a break,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “You psychic now?”

“More like observant. You’ve got your ‘I hate spreadsheets’ face on.”

She tried not to smile. “Do I?”

He nodded. “Same one I pull when someone says ‘let’s do a briefing.’”

They sat on the low wall outside, flapjack split between them, coats zipped up against the wind. No deep talk. Just quiet companionship. It was enough.

Another time, he popped by during her lunch and helped her fix a jammed stapler with surprising patience.

“You don’t seem like the stapler-fixing type,” she’d said.

“I contain multitudes,” he’d replied.

And once, when the fire alarm went off during a drill, they ended up standing together at the far end of the car park, watching clouds roll in.

“Didn’t realise you were still around,” she’d said.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he’d replied, then winced. “That sounded creepier than I meant.”

She laughed. Properly.

After a month, it wasn’t strange to see him. Wasn’t strange to hear his voice across the office, or find a text on her phone that just said, You still alive in that finance dungeon?

It was a slow friendship blooming between the two of them, nice.

She liked that he didn’t push. That he let silences be silences, instead of trying to fill them.

And sometimes, when she caught herself smiling at her phone, or watching the doorway in case he happened to walk past, she wondered if maybe he was doing the same.

That night the cold had settled in with a kind of quiet that always made her uneasy.

The shop below had gone dark an hour ago, shutters clattering down with a rattle that shook through the floorboards. Upstairs, her flat was dimly lit, the glow from the small lamp by the sofa doing its best against the flickering overhead bulb she'd never quite got round to replacing. The air smelt faintly of toast and damp. Someone’s car alarm had gone off earlier, again, but the street was silent now, save the occasional rumble of late buses and the hum of faraway traffic.

She was curled on the sofa, knees drawn up, one hand resting lightly around a chipped mug of tea gone cold. The telly was on, volume low, some forgettable panel show she wasn’t really watching. Just noise, really. A buffer against the emptiness.

It had been a long week. Work had been full-on. The finance team were in the middle of quarterly reconciliations and someone had managed to delete half a spreadsheet with four days to deadline. She’d sorted it, eventually, but her eyes were still aching from staring at formulas that barely made sense. All she’d wanted tonight was to switch off.

Instead, she heard the window.

A sharp noise, not quite a smash, but something wrong. The back room. The one with the bathroom and the tiny kitchen window that never shut properly.

She sat up, heartbeat stuttering.

Then, footsteps.

Not above. Not beside.

Inside.

She didn’t think. She just moved. Grabbed her phone off the coffee table, keys from the hook, and slipped her feet into her trainers without even bothering to tie them. She didn’t even stop for her coat.

The flat door stuck slightly, as it always did in the winter, she wrenched it open with more force than was needed, and bolted down the narrow staircase two at a time. Her breath came short. Hands cold. She didn’t look back.

Out on the pavement, she kept walking until she was a few doors down, then turned and pulled out her phone.

The patrol car showed up just under ten minutes later.

Blue lights spilled across the shopfronts, dancing over wet tarmac and bins left out from the morning collection. She was standing beneath the streetlamp, arms crossed over her chest, trying to look smaller than she felt.

When the driver’s side door opened and Max stepped out, something in her tensed, not fear. Something closer to relief, though she didn’t want to admit it out loud.

He spotted her instantly and came over, calm and focused in his uniform, radio clipped to his shoulder, expression unreadable but softer than she’d seen him at work.

“You alright?” he asked, tone low.

She nodded, though her voice stuck. “Think someone broke in. I was in the living room. Heard the back window, then footsteps. I didn’t see anything, I ran.”

“Good,” he said, gently. “You did the right thing.”

He glanced toward the stairwell, then gestured to one of the officers behind him. “Take a look inside. Back entrance too. Let me know what you find.”

She stayed rooted to the spot while Max remained beside her, not too close, but enough that she felt anchored. He didn’t push her to talk, didn’t drown the silence in empty words. Just waited.

Eventually, the officer returned. “Window’s been forced. Back one, like she said. Looks like they scarpered out the rear alley. Nothing major taken, far as we can tell, but flat’s been rifled through.”

She nodded slowly. “Right.”

Max turned to her. “You can’t stay there tonight.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“No, you won’t,” he said, firm but not unkind. “You’ve just been through a break-in. You shouldn’t be on your own.”

She hesitated. “I don’t really have anyone. Mum’s up in Cumbria and I’ve not got any friends who’ve got spare sofas knocking about. I’ll sort something, I just, I need to think.”

He looked at her for a moment, then said, simply, “Come back to mine.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I’ve got a spare room. It’s quiet. Heating works. I’ll be on shift most of the night, but you can sleep, lock the door, not worry. I’ll give you a lift in the morning. Deal?”

She wanted to argue. To prove she was fine. Independent. Capable.

But she wasn’t, not really. Not tonight.

So she swallowed her pride and nodded once. “Yeah. Alright.”

He offered the faintest of smiles. “Come on, then. I’ll stick the kettle on before I head out.”

And just like that, she wasn’t standing under a flickering streetlamp anymore. She was in the backseat of the police car, hoodie pulled tight around her, and for the first time all night, she didn’t feel like she was bracing for the worst.

The inside of the police car was warmer than she expected. Not fancy, but oddly neat. The kind of neatness that came from routine, not effort. She settled into the seat slowly, still holding herself like a coiled spring, and glanced around, not at Max, but at the car itself.

“Bit weird being in one of these and not in trouble,” she said, mostly to fill the silence.

Max huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s the goal, really.”

She ran her fingers lightly along the edge of the door, taking in the scratch marks and rips on the seatbelts. “Thought it’d be more gadgety. Like in the shows.”

He flicked a look at her. “Sorry to disappoint. We’ve got a dodgy radio and a cup holder that doesn’t actually hold cups. Welcome to glamour.”

She smiled, faint but real, and leaned back in the seat as he pulled away from the kerb. The city passed them by in smeary amber streaks. Shopfronts closed. Streetlights flickering overhead. Her fingers finally unclenched from around her phone.

“You sure this isn’t against a rule or something?” she asked after a minute. “Letting civilians crash at yours?”

“Oh, almost definitely,” he said. “Walking HR violation.”

She turned to look at him. “So why’re you doing it?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. Just said, quietly, “Because I’d rather get bollocked for that than find out you stayed and something happened.”

That shut her up, but not in a bad way. Just left her sitting there, heart beating a bit too loud in her chest, unsure what to do with the warmth creeping up the back of her neck.

His flat was on the top floor of a squat red-brick building, she recognised the type where builders once tried to make it look nice, then gave up halfway through. There was a crack up the side of the stairwell wall and the communal carpet smelt faintly of bleach and damp socks. Still, it felt private.

Inside, it was simple. Two rooms, one half-decent-sized living area, a cramped kitchen with slightly newer cupboards than hers. It was lived-in, but not messy, odd bits of kit from the job, a battered bookshelf, a pair of trainers by the door. A mug sat by the sink with I’m not yelling this is just my voice printed across it in fading capitals.

“Not much, but it works,” he said, locking the door behind them and flicking the hallway light on.

“It’s bigger than mine,” she said honestly, toeing off her trainers and glancing around. “Less mould, too.”

He gestured to the smaller room. “Spare bed’s in there. Sheets are clean, promise. Bathroom’s next door, if you want to shower or whatever. There’s toothpaste in the drawer, unless the cat nicked it.”

She blinked. “Wait, you have a cat?”

Before he could answer, a low, gravelly mrrrp echoed from down the hall.

A large, grey bengal appeared in the doorway with the kind of swagger usually reserved for ex-cons. One bent ear, slow-blinking dark eyes, and an expression that said he’d seen things and had no time for fools.

“That’s Jimmy,” Max said, tugging off his boots. “He hates everyone.”

Jimmy ignored him entirely and padded over to her. With all the ceremony of a royal inspection, he sniffed her bag, then her hand, then hopped up onto the bed, circled once, and plonked himself down beside her like she belonged there.

She blinked. “Right. Apparently not me.”

Max stared, dumbfounded. “He bit my last girlfriend. Through a sock.”

She grinned, scratching behind Jimmy’s ear as he purred like a small, lumpy engine. “Guess I’ve got better vibes.”

Jimmy butted his head against her elbow, still rumbling.

Max gave the cat a deeply betrayed look. “Traitor.”

She smirked, kicking her bag gently under the bed. “You’re lucky I don’t take that personally.”

He leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with a look that didn’t quite reach his usual quiet sarcasm. “You alright in here?”

“Yeah,” she said, suddenly, earnestly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “I’ve got to head off in a bit, can’t be slacking on shift when the lady doing the pay is watching me. You’ll be alright locking up after?”

“Course,” she said. “Jimmy’ll protect me.”

Jimmy sneezed.

Max shook his head with a quiet laugh. “I’ll wake you in the morning. Lift to work’s on offer. Try not to nick the telly.”

She smiled, not just amused, but something a little deeper than that. Warm, settled. For the first time in a while, she felt like the world had stopped spinning just enough to catch her breath.

The following morning the kettle clicked off just as she stirred.

The spare room was still dim, lit only by the grey spill of early morning light through the blinds. The sheets smelled faintly of fabric softener and something warm she couldn’t name, like clean jumpers and leftover sleep. She blinked at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented, before memory caught up with her.

Max’s flat. The break-in. Jimmy curled up at her feet like a lumpy guardian angel.

She sat up slowly, careful not to jostle the cat, and rubbed her eyes. Her hoodie was twisted from sleep, hair sticking out in too many directions. She hadn’t meant to sleep so well, but she had, solid and deep, like her body had finally stopped keeping score for a night.

The knock came soft on the doorframe.

“You awake?”

His voice was low, hoarse from overnight silence.

“Yeah,” she called back, just above a whisper.

Max stepped into view, still in his uniform trousers but with a plain grey T-shirt now, hair slightly rumpled, a mug in one hand.

He passed it to her without ceremony. “Tea. Still figuring out how you like it. Had a guess.”

She took it with both hands, fingers brushing his. “Thanks. It smells right, at least.”

He lingered just a second longer before leaning against the doorframe. The hallway light cast him in soft silhouette, shadows under his eyes but not sharp, just tired in that familiar, lived-in way.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

“Better than I should’ve,” she said honestly. “Didn’t realise how tired I was.”

He nodded. “That’s how it gets you. You power through, then one quiet room and a cat with poor boundaries and you’re done for.”

She smiled into her tea. “Speaking of, he didn’t move all night. Like a warm rock.”

“Rude. He usually abandons guests halfway through.”

“Guess I’m winning him over.”

“More than I ever have.”

They stayed there a beat, just sipping quietly. Jimmy meowed from somewhere down the hallway, clearly annoyed breakfast hadn’t been served yet.

Max scratched the back of his neck. “Look, I’ve just come off and I’ve got no intention of seeing the station until tomorrow, but I’ll give you a lift in.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in, soft but firm. “But I’m doing it anyway. I’ll sleep better knowing you got there alright.”

She looked down at her tea, then back up at him. “You’re allowed to be looked after too, you know.”

His mouth tugged into a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. Maybe. Just not today.”

She didn’t press. Just nodded, because she understood what he wasn’t saying. Some days you needed to be the strong one, not because you had to be, but because it was easier than letting someone else try.

“I’ll be quick,” she said. “Don’t want you crashing the car from lack of sleep.”

He huffed a tired laugh. “I’ll be fine. Coffee and spite’ll carry me through.”

She set the mug down and stood, stretching out stiff shoulders. “You’ve got cereal, yeah?”

“Top cupboard. Might be some toast if Jimmy hasn’t nicked it.”

She padded past him toward the kitchen, brushing his arm as she passed. Nothing big. Just a moment. The kind that warmed the edges.

He watched her go, the weight behind his eyes not quite heavy enough to dull the faint lift in his chest.

Outside, the world was starting up again. But inside, it still felt like early. Like maybe they had a little time before the noise came back in.

She didn’t know where anything was at first, rummaging through unfamiliar cupboards with Jimmy underfoot, offering helpful grumbles every time she opened the wrong one. Eventually, she found what she needed: bread, butter, a slightly dented jar of raspberry jam, and a mug she recognised from last night still on the side. I’m not yelling, this is just my voice.

She ate at the kitchen table, one leg tucked beneath her, Jimmy sprawled across the other chair like he paid rent. The place was quiet, warm in that lived-in kind of way. A small radio played quietly from the corner, some breakfast show with people laughing too early for comfort, and she watched the kettle steam in the light, toast crumbs on her plate, feeling oddly still.

Somewhere down the hall, the shower started running.

She finished her tea, wiped her hands on a napkin, and stood to rinse her plate. Jimmy followed her to the sink, tail flicking, clearly judging her speed. She bent to scratch behind his ears.

“You’re very needy for a cat who hates people,” she murmured.

He blinked, slow and smug.

She padded out into the hallway a few minutes later, intent on grabbing her bag from the spare room, and stopped dead.

Max.

Midway between the bathroom and his room, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping, steam still clinging to his shoulders. He was walking away, back turned, completely unaware of her presence.

She froze. Eyes wide. Brain short-circuiting slightly.

It wasn’t that she’d never seen someone in a towel before. Just not him. Not like that. Not with his back all bare and shoulders solid and everything else her eyes weren’t supposed to linger on.

She spun on her heel, face burning, practically tiptoed back into the kitchen like she’d just walked in on national television.

Jimmy watched her, unimpressed.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, pressing her palms to her cheeks.

By the time Max reappeared, fully dressed in a grey tracksuit, towel now wrapped round his neck instead of his waist, she was sat at the table again, pretending very hard to scroll through her phone.

He looked good. Ridiculously so. Comfortable in his own skin, hair still damp, sleeves pushed up slightly. The kind of good that made her teeth ache.

“Toast alright?” he asked, slinging his keys into a bowl on the counter.

She nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Think Jimmy wanted half of it.”

Max eyed the cat, now snoozing on the windowsill. “He’s always starving. Don’t fall for it.”

She finally looked up then, just briefly, and caught him mid-sip of water, one hip resting against the counter, his tracksuit clinging a little too well to his frame.

Unfair.

He noticed her looking but didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow like he’d clocked something and let it pass.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Just need to grab clothes and my laptop from mine. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Right,” he said, straightening. “Let’s go, then.”

The drive over was quiet in the best kind of way.

Soft radio on in the background, something low and acoustic. Houses rolling by in a blur of greys and browns. Her bag tucked at her feet, seatbelt clicking gently as Max took corners like he’d done them a thousand times before.

He didn’t fill the silence. Just let it be. Every now and then, she glanced over, at the line of his jaw, the way his hand rested loose on the gearstick, the quiet concentration on his face, and wondered when things had started feeling like this.

They pulled up outside her building, the shop shutters still halfway down, her window just visible above.

“I’ll wait,” he said, shifting into neutral.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You’ll be five minutes tops, right? What could possibly go wrong?”

She gave him a look. “Don’t tempt fate.”

He smirked. “Go on, then.”

She dashed up the stairs, keys already out, and grabbed what she needed. Work bag, fresh clothes, a spare charger. She changed quickly, jeans, jumper, warm coat, stuffed the rest into a tote, and took one last glance round the flat before locking up again.

Still didn’t feel quite like home.

Max didn’t ask questions when she slid back into the passenger seat, slightly breathless, Jimmy’s fur somehow still clinging to her sleeve.

“All good?” he asked.

“Yeah. Think so.”

“Alright,” he said, pulling away smoothly. “Let’s get you to work.”

The station came into view just as the sun started to peek out, weak and watery, but trying. The morning moved on. But something between them had shifted like a needle on a record finding the next groove.

Quiet. But playing the same song.

The week frayed around the edges.

Work was steady, spreadsheets, supply reports, someone in IT shouting gently at their screen, but she was off-kilter. Snapping pencils without meaning to. Forgetting her mug on the printer. Laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, just to stop the silence swallowing her whole.

Because on Tuesday, folded inside an envelope with no return address and stuffed through her letterbox, was an eviction notice.

The wording was polite enough. “Due to recent concerns regarding property safety and tenant suitability”, whatever that meant. She read it three times before the meaning settled in her stomach like a brick.

She was being kicked out. For being burgled.

Apparently, the break-in had made the landlord "nervous" about her "ability to keep the premises secure.” Which was rich, considering he hadn’t fixed the lock on the back window in over a year.

She didn’t cry. Not then. Just sat on the edge of the bed, heart thudding in her throat, and stared at the wall like it might blink first.

By Thursday, Max noticed.

She hadn’t said anything. Didn’t want to make it a thing. But she must’ve looked different — hunched in slightly, her eyes that bit too sharp and tired, because he caught her by the vending machine after lunch and didn’t let her wriggle out of a conversation.

“You alright?”

She blinked, halfway to tapping the hot chocolate button. “Yeah. Fine.”

He tilted his head. “Liar.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He waited.

Eventually, she sighed. “Got an eviction notice.”

Max stared. “What?”

“Apparently I’m a ‘risk’. Landlord reckons the break-in proves I’m not a reliable tenant.” She did air quotes so hard her fingers nearly cracked. “It’s nonsense, but it’s legal nonsense, and I’ve got to be out by the end of the month.”

“That’s—" he stopped himself. Took a breath. “That’s bollocks.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t afford anywhere else round here. Not unless I fancy living in a cupboard with six other people and a damp problem.”

They stood there in silence. The vending machine buzzed faintly behind them.

Then, quietly, he said, “Move in with me.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Spare room’s yours. You’ve stayed before. You know where everything is. Heating works, cat’s already in love with you. Makes sense.”

She folded her arms, defensive without meaning to. “I’m not just going to freeload off you.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“I’ll pay rent.”

He looked at her, steady. “Can you cook?”

She frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“I’ve been living off pasta and beans for the last ten years. If you feed me something with actual flavour, you can stay for free.”

She stared at him. “That’s your pitch?”

“Take it or leave it.”

A beat passed. Her mouth twitched.

“I make a decent lasagne,” she said.

“I’m sold.”

“Bit manipulative, don’t you think?”

He shrugged again. “You can always poison me if I get annoying.”

She laughed then, the stress cracking at the edges just long enough to let the sound out. He smiled, quiet and soft, watching her.

“Seriously,” he said, more gently now. “Spare room’s there. You’ve got enough to deal with. You don’t need to fight on this one too.”

She looked at him. Not just his face, but all of it, the steadiness, the way he didn’t flinch when things got uncomfortable, the way he never tried to rescue her, just stood there until she felt steady again.

“Alright,” she said at last. “But I’m making you eat vegetables.”

He grimaced. “Bit harsh, but fine.”

“And I’m not doing the washing up.”

“Jimmy does it,” he said deadpan.

She grinned. “I’ve made worse deals."

She moved in on a Sunday.

No fanfare. No removal van. Just three overstuffed bags, one suspiciously heavy box, and a carrier with Jimmy’s new scratching post that she’d insisted on buying because, “If I’m moving in, the cat needs enrichment.”

Max picked her up in his car just after lunch. He offered to help carry things before she’d even asked. She tried to protest, said she was fine, really, but he just raised an eyebrow, took the heaviest box without blinking, and carried it like it weighed nothing. She didn't argue after that.

“Alright,” he said, setting it down inside the flat with a quiet grunt. “You packed bricks?”

“Books,” she said, shutting the door behind her with her foot. “And maybe one casserole dish.”

“Just the one?”

“It’s versatile.”

He smirked. “You’re not allowed to judge my three frying pans, then.”

They unpacked slowly, without pressure. She tucked clothes into the drawers in the spare room, stacked her tea bags next to his in the cupboard without asking, and set her alarm clock by the bed like it had always been there.

It was easy. Too easy.

Every so often, Max appeared behind her with another bag or a box. At one point she turned to find him hanging her coat on the hook by the door, like it was already her hook. She stared for a second too long, and he glanced over, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just weird how not weird this feels.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

They stood like that for a moment, the kind of quiet that wrapped around them instead of falling between them.

Jimmy wandered in, tail flicking, and leapt straight onto her new bed like it had always been his.

“Right,” Max said, clapping his hands together. “We’re in. Now what?”

She looked round, hands on her hips. “I’m starving.”

“You’re the cook.”

“You have pasta, don’t you?”

He snorted. “Obviously. Question is which kind of sad student meal do you fancy?”

She grinned. “Leave it to me.”

That evening, the flat smelled like garlic and tomatoes and something warm and real. She moved round the kitchen like she’d always known where everything was. Max sat on the edge of the sofa with a beer in hand, watching as she stirred, tasted, adjusted.

“You’re very calm in a kitchen,” he noted.

“Years of being the only one in my uni house who could read a recipe,” she said. “That and my mum used to make us all cook one dinner a week from the age of twelve. Builds character.”

“You trying to impress me?”

“Obviously. You’ve got top-notch cutlery and a slow cooker. I’m trying to earn my keep.”

He smiled into his bottle. “You already have.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Dinner was nothing fancy, pasta with a sauce that took more effort than she let on, garlic bread from the shop round the corner, side salad that Max prodded at suspiciously.

But they ate together on the sofa, plates balanced on knees, Jimmy snoring gently on the rug, telly on but muted. And when she looked round the room, laundry folded on the radiator, a half-done crossword on the table, her mug already in the sink, it didn’t feel like she was staying over.

It felt like she’d come home.

Over the next month and a half, things blurred in the loveliest way.

She was still technically looking for a new place. She had a spreadsheet and everything, bookmarked listings, a budget column, a list of must-haves like “no mould” and “close to bus stop” and “not run by a complete knob.”

But she wasn’t rushing. Not really. Not anymore.

Max never brought it up. Not once. Just carried on like this was normal, her using the last of the milk, her socks in the laundry, Jimmy choosing her lap more often than his.

They fell into a rhythm without meaning to.

He worked late, came in quiet, sometimes left a note on the fridge if he missed her, cat’s a menace, save me leftovers if you love me. She worked days, brought home biscuits from the office when someone had a birthday and they’d bought too many. They watched telly together more often than not, her on one end of the sofa, feet tucked under her, Max half-stretched out on the other side, always warm and within reach.

Sometimes she fell asleep there, curled up with a blanket she hadn’t unfolded properly, the end credits of some quiz show still playing. And when that happened, she’d wake up hours later, back in bed, hoodie tucked round her shoulders, everything dark and still.

Max never mentioned it. But she knew it was him.

He’d carried her. More than once.

The first time she caught on, she nearly asked. Stopped herself at the last second. Didn't want to make it weird. Didn’t want him to stop.

She started seeing him shirtless more often, too. Not on purpose, just mornings, usually. He’d stumble into the kitchen half-awake, hair all over the place, joggers slung low and no top, rubbing at his eyes and mumbling about the kettle being too slow.

The first time, she’d dropped a spoon.

He didn’t notice. Just yawned and opened the fridge like he hadn’t just ambled in looking like an advert for domestically competent, emotionally repressed men with decent arms.

She told herself it was fine. Just a normal thing. Totally standard flatmate experience.

Except it wasn’t. Not really.

Because now, whenever he sat next to her on the sofa, all warmth and sleepy weight, or reached over her for something in the cupboard, or knocked her foot with his under the table and didn’t move it straight away something in her chest shifted.

Something small. And slow. And real.

There were moments, too. Quiet ones that almost said too much.

Like when she made him soup from scratch on the day he came home drenched, muttering about road closures and paperwork soaked through with rain. He didn’t speak much, just sat at the table while she stirred, and when she put the bowl in front of him, he said, “No one’s ever made me soup before.”

Like that meant something.

Or the night she came in late, soaking and fed up, and found her dressing gown warm on the radiator and a note beside it that just said, Shower’s free. Thought you might need it. — M

Or how he always waited up, even if it was just half an hour. Even if he didn’t admit that was what he was doing.

One morning, she came into the kitchen and found him standing barefoot by the sink, tea in one hand, phone in the other, bare-chested and blinking against the light. The sight hit her like it always did, a little spark of heat in the chest, the kind that stayed, even after she looked away.

He turned to her, sleep-mussed and soft-eyed.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she replied, opening the cupboard for a mug. Her fingers were steady. Just.

He didn’t move. Just watched her for a second longer than usual. Then turned back to his phone like nothing had happened.

Jimmy meowed loudly, possibly offended by the lack of food. She reached for the cat biscuits, heart thudding far more than the situation required.

Something was happening. Quietly. Gradually.

And neither of them had said a word.

Then something happened and it was GP’s fault.

She should’ve known better. Should’ve run the other way the moment he said, “He’s from the fire station, lovely bloke, good pension,” like he was reading from a checklist.

But she’d laughed it off and said, “Why not?�� before she could think too hard.

The date was fine. Technically. Polite. Predictable. His name was Jack, he was good-looking in a catalogue sort of way, talked a lot about protein shakes and the gym. Ordered a steak, rare, and made a comment about vegans being “a bit militant.” She wasn't even vegan. Just tired.

By the end of the meal, her smile felt stapled on.

He tried to kiss her by the bus stop. She leaned left instead of right and it ended in a half-hug that was more tragic than polite.

She let out a breath the moment she got home.

The flat was quiet, warm. The hall light was off, but the living room lamp glowed. Jimmy blinked at her from the windowsill like he was judging her outfit.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, kicking off her shoes.

She half-hoped Max would be asleep. That she could sneak past with her dignity intact and pour herself a glass of wine in peace. But he wasn’t.

He was on the sofa, legs stretched out, hoodie on, hood down, telly muted. Just a low hum of street noise drifting in through the cracked window.

She froze for a second in the doorway.

He looked up. Took her in, hair curled from the wind, lipstick smudged, expression tired in that bone-deep way.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “Not really.”

He sat up without a word, patted the space next to him.

She hesitated. Then crossed the room, dropped onto the sofa beside him, and let her head fall back against the cushion with a sigh.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Fireman.”

She groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

“GP was grinning like he’d set up a marriage and he has a habit of trying to liaise police and fire.”

“He said he had a 'feeling'. That’s never a good sign.”

Max chuckled. “Was it awful?”

“Not awful. Just off. You know when someone ticks boxes, but none of the ones that matter?”

He didn’t reply straight away. Just nodded, slow and quiet.

“I kept thinking, ‘I’d rather be on the sofa with a cat and a blanket and a packet of bourbons,’” she admitted.

“Reckon Jimmy’s offended he wasn’t invited.”

“He’s got standards.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that hummed with more than it said. She turned her head and found him already watching her.

Their eyes met.

Something shifted.

It was the smallest thing, a pause, a breath, a fraction too long of looking, but it crackled in the space between them like static. Like standing too close to a fire.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them smiled.

The room felt still. Suspended.

He looked at her mouth.

And she felt it. That low, aching pull in the chest. That heat blooming at the base of her throat. That sense of this means something.

If someone had walked in just then, they’d have apologised. Backed out slowly. Closed the door with a whispered sorry, like interrupting a prayer.

Max blinked first. Not away, just slower. Softer.

“You deserve better than someone who makes you feel ‘off’,” he said, quiet like a promise.

She swallowed. “I think I already have better.”

His fingers twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for her. But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he nodded once. Barely. Like something had been agreed on without needing to be spoken.

The moment passed. Kind of.

But it stayed there, too. Settled in the air between them. Waiting.

And when she stood a few minutes later, brushed her hand against his arm just a second longer than necessary, he didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Another month slipped by. Quietly. Intimately.

She told GP, quite firmly, that she was no longer accepting any romantic recommendations from someone who thought George from dispatch was “a bit of a catch.” He sulked for half a day, then brought her a custard cream and muttered an apology. Peace was restored.

Life continued in the in-between.

Work. Shared dinners. Him pouring the tea, her washing up. Jimmy playing favourites depending on who fed him most recently. Everything felt ordinary on the surface, still platonic, still friendly, but the edges had started to fray.

The kind of tension that builds slowly, like heat from a radiator you didn’t notice had been turned on.

Max was quieter than usual. Not cold, just a bit more deliberate. Lingering less. Looking longer. He still carried her to bed when she fell asleep on the sofa. Still left mugs out for her in the morning. But something about him had shifted.

And she knew exactly when it started.

It was a Tuesday. She’d been half-asleep, padding to the kitchen for a glass of water after a late shift, barefoot and bleary-eyed in an oversized T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. No bra. Shorts underneath, technically, though they barely showed. The shirt hung off one shoulder, neck wide, worn soft with age.

She didn’t think twice.

Until she walked into the kitchen and found Max already there, lit only by the open fridge. He’d frozen mid-sip of orange juice straight from the bottle. Looked up. Stared.

Then blinked like he’d forgotten how light worked.

She’d mumbled something, probably sorry or just water, and edged round him to the sink, painfully aware of how much leg was on show.

Max hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, completely still, like someone trying not to spook a deer.

When she left the room, he didn’t follow.

And since then something had been off. Not wrong. Just aware.

It didn’t blow up. It wasn’t like that.

But one Friday evening, with the flat quiet and warm and the telly playing some old detective drama they weren’t really watching, it finally cracked.

She was curled in her corner of the sofa, knees tucked up, hoodie zipped halfway. He was beside her, arms folded, head leaned back against the cushion, eyes closed but not asleep.

It was raining, softly, rhythmically, against the windows, and Jimmy was snoring on a tea towel someone had left on the radiator.

She turned her head to say something. Maybe a joke. Maybe do you think they’ll actually solve it this time.

But he was already watching her.

She paused. “What?”

He didn’t answer straight away. Just looked at her, really looked, like he was trying to decide something.

And then, quietly, almost like it surprised him as much as her, he said, “This is getting harder.”

She blinked. “What is?”

“Pretending this isn’t something,” he said. Soft. Honest. No edge to it, just quiet resignation.

She sat very still. Her heartbeat felt louder than the rain.

“I thought maybe I was imagining it,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You weren’t.”

Another beat passed.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she said. “What we’ve got. Living here. You.”

“You’re not,” he said simply. “You couldn’t.”

And that was it.

Not some grand declaration. No fireworks. Just that shift, the tension giving way like breath finally released.

He leaned in, slow, like he wanted to give her a chance to move away.

She didn’t.

Their lips met, soft, unsure, careful at first. Like testing something fragile. And then, not so careful. Warmer. Familiar.

When they pulled apart, his hand still resting lightly against her knee, she exhaled shakily.

“Well,” she said.

Max gave a faint smile. “Bit overdue, that.”

She huffed a laugh. “Little bit, yeah.”

Their mouths met again, slower this time.

Like neither of them could quite believe it had happened the first time, like they needed to check it was real.

She shifted closer, knees brushing his thigh, hand resting lightly on his chest. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Just let her move, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow as her fingers found the edge of his hoodie and slipped underneath, brushing bare skin.

He exhaled, sharp and low. Like he’d been holding it in for months.

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him easily, her legs folding around his hips like she’d always belonged there. The hoodie rode up, and his hands found her waist instinctively, warm, steady, tentative only in the way they lingered.

Her forehead pressed to his. They breathed the same air.

“Max,” she murmured, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Tell me to stop if you need to.”

But he didn’t.

He pulled her back in, kissing her like he meant it this time, like he’d finally let go of all the reasons why he shouldn’t.

It was slow, and deep, and so full of longing it hurt.

And then.

He broke away, suddenly, jaw clenched.

“Ahh, fuck,” he muttered, hands dropping from her waist. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

She blinked, still breathless. “What?”

He looked up at her, properly looked, the guilt already forming.

“You turn twenty-one in two weeks,” he said, voice low and pained. “This is bad. I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You know when my birthday is?”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the cushion, hands covering his face for a second. “Please be serious.”

“I am serious!” she said, a little breathless still. “You know my birthday. That’s kind of sweet.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, dragging his hands down his face, “I also know I’m twenty-eight and I’ve seen you barefoot in the kitchen and I just spent the last six weeks pretending I didn’t want to touch you every time you fell asleep on the bloody sofa.”

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold.

He just looked wrecked. Not because he didn’t want this, but because he did.

“I’m not a kid,” she said, gently.

“I know,” he replied, just as quiet. “You’re brilliant. You’ve lived more than most people my age. You pay council tax, you make your own soup, you talk back to Jimmy when he gives you attitude.”

She snorted despite herself.

“But,” he continued, softer now, “part of me still feels like I should be the grown-up here. The boring, sensible one.”

She tilted her head. “Are you saying you don’t want this?”

He looked at her, and it was all there, in his eyes, his hands, the way he still hadn’t let go of her entirely.

“No,” he said. “I’m saying I want it too much.”

She was silent for a beat.

Then, “Right. Well. If it helps, I’m the one on top, so technically I’m in charge.”

Max gave her a flat look.

She grinned.

“Alright,” she added, softer now. “We can slow down. If you need to.”

He exhaled, long and shaky. “Yeah. Just for now.”

She climbed off his lap gently, settling beside him instead, pulling her hoodie down with exaggerated modesty.

They sat there for a moment, hearts still thudding, the air still warm and charged, but calmer now. Closer.

“I wasn’t joking, though,” she murmured after a moment. “About you knowing my birthday.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s in your HR file. I’m not a stalker.”

“Still sweet.”

“Shut up.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, still smiling.

And even though they’d stopped, even though everything was still complicated and just slightly tangled, neither of them moved away.

Because whatever this was it wasn’t going anywhere.

In the week leading up to her birthday, something shifted.

Not suddenly. Just gradually. Like snow melting.

They were still careful, still hadn’t talked about what they were, exactly, but hands lingered longer. Shoulders brushed more deliberately. Her fingers found the crook of his elbow when they passed each other in the kitchen. His hand slid into the small of her back when he reached for the kettle behind her.

Once, in the middle of an episode neither of them were really watching, she’d tucked her feet under his leg. He didn’t blink. Just adjusted, like that was normal now.

And then, one Thursday night, they both fell asleep on the sofa.

She was curled into her usual corner. He’d stretched out beside her, hoodie half-zipped, one arm slung lazily across the back of the cushions. Jimmy, with the authority of someone who owned every surface in the flat, had nestled himself directly between them, a warm, furry barrier, tail twitching against her knee.

They hadn’t meant to sleep.

But the telly was quiet, and her head had tilted onto Max’s shoulder at some point, and when she blinked awake at three in the morning, the world was dark, and Max was still there, breathing slow and even beside her.

Neither of them moved.

Not until the next morning, when she woke to find Jimmy sitting on her hip like some triumphant gremlin king and Max already in the kitchen, clattering about with suspicious urgency.

Her birthday arrived grey and drizzly, the kind of typical early spring morning where the light couldn’t decide what it was doing.

She padded into the kitchen in her pyjamas, hair rumpled, blinking blearily at the smell of toast and something distinctly sugary in the air.

Max was by the counter, back turned.

“Morning,” she mumbled, rubbing one eye.

He glanced over his shoulder, slightly sheepish.

“Happy birthday.”

She froze. “Wait. Did you—?”

He stepped aside.

There, on the kitchen table, sat a birthday cake.

Well. Two, technically.

One clearly shop-bought, neat icing, little sugar flowers, a ribbon round the base.

The other was less successful.

Lopsided, slightly sunken, icing already starting to slip down one side. A single candle jammed into the middle, tilting at an alarming angle.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “You didn’t.”

Max folded his arms. “Don’t look in the bin.”

She laughed, really laughed, that open, surprised kind that bubbled out of her chest.

“Was it that bad?”

“Looked like a victorian crime scene by the end,” he said, deadpan. “Flour everywhere. Jimmy fled.”

She reached for the shop cake instinctively, then paused.

“I kind of want to try yours.”

He looked horrified. “Don’t. You’ve got so much to live for.”

She grinned, grabbing a fork. “It’s my birthday. I’ll risk death.”

After a heroic effort of politeness and three mouthfuls of dry sponge, she gave in and set the fork down, laughing as she reached for the proper cake.

Max, still pretending not to be slightly proud of his culinary chaos, handed her a box.

“Before you accuse me of being sentimental,” he said, “this was Jimmy’s idea.”

She opened it.

Inside was a mug. Big. White. With you’re brew-tiful printed in bold, terrible lettering above a smiling teabag.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is horrendous.”

He looked smug. “Thank you.”

She clutched it to her chest. “I love it.”

“Thought you might.”

But then he reached into his pocket, suddenly quieter, and pulled out something small, neatly wrapped in brown paper with a red ribbon tied round it.

“This one’s less awful.”

She blinked. “There’s more?”

He shrugged. “S’pose twenty-one’s a proper one. Thought you deserved something that didn’t come from the bargain mug aisle.”

She unwrapped it slowly.

Inside was a delicate silver chain, fine and simple, with a tiny engraved pendant, a moon on one side, her initial on the back.

She didn’t speak.

Not straight away.

When she looked up, her eyes were shining. Not crying. Not really. But close enough.

“No one’s ever done this for me,” she said, voice quiet.

He stepped forward, hand brushing her cheek. “You deserve more than this.”

She looked at him and something in her chest cracked wide open.

Then she kissed him.

Soft. Properly. No hesitation. No build-up.

Just something full and warm and real.

He kissed her back instantly, hands finding her waist, drawing her in. No overthinking this time. No rules. Just them.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

She smiled, fingertips brushing his jaw. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

After her birthday, something shifted, but not in a loud, dramatic way.

It was gentler than that. Quieter. Like slipping into clean sheets after a long day. Familiar, and lovely, and soft at the edges.

They didn’t have a conversation about it. No sit-down, no labels, no awkward what are we now moment.

They just were.

Some mornings she woke to find him already dressed, coffee in one hand, his other trailing lightly down her back as she stirred. Other mornings, it was her brushing the hair off his forehead while he snored into the pillow, one leg hanging off the bed like he’d lost a fight in his sleep.

They went food shopping together on Sundays, her with a list, Max pretending they didn’t need one.

“We’ve got pasta,” he’d say.

“You’ve always got pasta.”

“That’s preparation. It’s not my fault I’m efficient.”

She’d roll her eyes and chuck a bag of spinach into the trolley, only for him to sneak in a multipack of crisps when she wasn’t looking. Jimmy once tried to climb into the shopping bag when they got home and got stuck in a packet of brioche rolls in hopes there were treats there.

At work, they were still careful. Sort of. But people noticed.

She made him packed lunches, proper ones. Left notes on napkins, little drawings of cats and reminders to eat the fruit. He acted like it was embarrassing. Always finished everything, though. She caught GP smirking once, and just raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t start,” she warned, a phrase she kept for Jimmy and GP only.

“Didn’t say a word,” he replied, smug.

Sometimes, Max would come up behind her in the kitchen, no fanfare, just a warm hand on her hip, a kiss pressed to the curve of her shoulder like it was second nature. And it was.

She started leaving things in his room. He started stealing her shampoo. They bickered over the thermostat. Shared tea in bed on Sundays. Found themselves existing together in the kind of easy silence that spoke more than words.

Their official hard lunch was at the end-of-year service gala and it was a bit of a production.

Not black tie, but close enough to make Max grumble when he realised he’d need to iron a shirt. She caught him halfway through, sleeves rolled, top button undone, looking unfairly good and pretending not to notice.

She spent longer than she wanted picking a dress. Nothing too much, just something that felt nice. Her hair refused to behave, Jimmy tried to eat her mascara wand, and Max, to his credit, didn’t rush her once.

When she finally emerged, he actually froze.

His mouth opened like he was going to say something clever, then closed again.

“You alright there?” she asked, smirking.

“Yeah,” he managed. “You, uh. You look incredible.”

She smiled. “So do you.”

He offered her his arm like a gentleman. “Come on then. Let’s go drink prosecco out of plastic and make polite conversation with people I avoid during the week.”

The venue was buzzing by the time they arrived, a function room done up in serviceable navy and gold, clusters of uniforms dotted around high tables, the occasional gleam of medals. The kind of affair with a cheap bar, a decent buffet, and an overenthusiastic DJ on standby.

She stuck close to Max as they wove through the crowd. He greeted a few people with polite nods, muttered “don’t ask” to someone from traffic enforcement, and made a direct line for the drinks table.

He handed her a glass of fizz with a lopsided smile. “Alright so far?”

She nodded. “Still standing. You?”

“Just about.”

Then someone called out from across the room.

“Oi! Verstappen! Thought you weren’t showing!”

Max turned, already smiling, the proper kind. Soft and real.

Two men approached, one in a dark suit with the top button undone, the other in a tailored jacket and expression that said I’ve got my eye on you, even while smiling.

“Gentlemen,” Max greeted them, nodding. “Didn’t think I’d find you vertical past eight.”

“Rude,” said the man in the suit, grinning. “This your better half, then?”

Max turned slightly, hand resting lightly on her back.

“This is, yeah” He paused, just a beat. “She’s with me.”

The man stuck out a hand. “Lando. Fire service. He hates us.”

“Not all of you,” Max muttered.

The other one leaned in, charming as anything. “Oscar. Also fire. Don’t hold it against us.”

She shook both hands, surprised by how easy it felt.

“So,” Lando said, glancing at Max with raised brows, “you’ve managed to not scare this one off?”

“Not yet,” she said, dry.

Lando smirked. “You might be alright.”

They chatted a while, light stuff, easy, Oscar talking about some botched catering order at their station, Lando teasing Max about the time he once fell asleep in the back of a van during academy.

And through it all, Max stayed close.

Not possessive. Just present.

When someone called the fire lads over to the buffet queue, Lando saluted with mock solemnity.

“Pleasure meeting you. If he gets weird and quiet later, it’s because someone mentioned budget reviews. He’ll recover.”

Once they were gone, she turned to Max. “They’re nice.”

He gave her a look. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I can see why you like them.”

He shrugged, a bit bashful. “They’re alright.”

She bumped his arm lightly. “You proud of yourself?”

He gave her a soft smile. “Yeah. Bit.”

The night droned on and thankfully the speeches were mercifully short.

A few awards handed out, a couple of polite laughs, someone from HR choking up halfway through a thank-you. Then the music shifted, something slower, older, the kind of song you’d recognise if you’d ever grown up hearing it from a kitchen radio.

She looked up from her glass and found Max already watching her.

“What?” she asked, smiling.

He didn’t answer. Just extended a hand.

“Dance with me?”

She blinked. “You don’t dance.”

“I make exceptions.”

She let him lead her to the edge of the makeshift floor, where a handful of couples were already swaying gently, some more tipsy than romantic. The lights had softened; the music curled around the room like a warm duvet.

Max rested one hand low on her back, the other catching her hand, fingers slotting between hers like they belonged there. No fancy footwork. Just the two of them, slow and quiet, bodies close enough to hush the world.

He leaned in slightly. “You alright?”

She nodded, pressing her cheek lightly to his shoulder. “More than.”

His hand moved, sliding up to rest against her neck, thumb brushing just beneath her jaw.

And then, right there, in the middle of everyone, he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not cautious. Just real. Solid. Like something he’d meant to do for a long time and finally had the nerve to finish.

A few people glanced over. Lando nudged Oscar. Someone let out a very unsubtle “finally” from the bar.

She smiled against his mouth. “Bit bold, Verstappen.”

He smirked. “Bit late for subtle.”

Back at the flat, it was quiet again, the kind of late-night hush that wrapped round your shoulders like a cardigan.

She kicked off her heels by the door with a groan. “I’m never wearing those again.”

“Want a brew?” he asked, slipping off his jacket.

She shook her head. “Come help with the zip.”

He followed her into the bedroom, fingertips light as he tugged the fastening down, slow, careful, like the fabric might bruise. She let the straps fall from her shoulders, the dress pooling at her feet as she stepped out and reached for her pyjamas.

But then his hand found her waist.

Still soft. Still careful.

He kissed her shoulder, warm, open-mouthed, right where her skin met the curve of her neck, and her breath caught.

She turned, and he was already there, mouth meeting hers with more heat than either of them meant, hands sliding over her back like he was trying to learn it by feel.

She kissed him back, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

It didn’t go further than that.

But his hands stayed on her waist when they stopped, his forehead rested gently against hers, and when she whispered, “Stay?” he didn’t even nod.

He just reached for the duvet, pulled it round them both, and held her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

The years folded in quietly, without fanfare but full of little milestones.

Max met her mother one damp autumn afternoon, the kind where the sky refuses to clear and the scent of wet leaves clings to your coat. It was awkward at first, polite smiles and cautious conversation, but by the end of the visit, her mum had accepted him with a nod that said, I like him. That was all Max needed.

They moved out of the cramped flat not long after. The place had served its purpose, but it felt right to leave it behind, to find somewhere that felt like theirs.

The house was modest, just around the corner from the station, nestled on a quiet street where the noise of the city softened to a gentle hum. It had two floors, a small garden they barely kept tidy, and, best of all, a study where she could work from home a few days a week. Max sometimes teased her about turning the place into a number cave, but he’d settle into the living room with a book or just his thoughts, content.

They got Sassy a bengal kitten not long after she’d started working from home, a wild splash of grey and black spots that darted around the garden chasing shadows. Jimmy, ever the grumpy old king, had at first regarded Sassy with thinly veiled disdain, but even he softened as the weeks went by, especially when she’d settle in Max’s lap, purring loud enough to drown out the news on TV.

They didn’t rush anything. No grand declarations, no shiny rings flashing in the light, just slow mornings with shared mugs of tea, soft banter across the kitchen table, and the quiet certainty of someone always being there.

They’d cook together, usually something simple and quick, a stew or pasta, but the way Max would peel the vegetables while she chopped herbs made the ordinary feel special.

Some nights they’d fall asleep tangled up, her head on his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat lulling her. Other nights she’d wake first and watch him, marvel at how someone who’d seemed so guarded could become her home.

Work days were often rushed, rushing to get ready, grabbing breakfast on the run, getting to the car first or walking to the station together. She liked how it felt, the rhythm of their mornings syncing without effort.

Birthdays came and went, each one marked not by big gestures, but by shared mornings and lazy evenings, takeaway boxes on the sofa, candles only lit because one of them remembered.

When she turned twenty-three, the air was just beginning to change, that first hint of spring stretching into the afternoons. They were in the park near the house, one they always walked through when Max was off-shift and she wanted to stretch her legs after a long day at her desk.

He stopped beneath a tree that was just beginning to bloom, fingers brushing nervously against the inside of his coat pocket. She was mid-story, something about a spreadsheet disaster and too many biscuits, when he dropped down on one knee.

She’d blinked at him. “Max. What are you—?”

And then she saw the ring.

Simple. Silver. Unfussy. Just like him.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered.

He gave her a soft look, that lopsided, uncertain smile she’d fallen for ages ago. “Don’t panic. I’m not expecting fireworks. But if you’ll have me I’d like to make this a bit more official.”

She stared for a beat, heart hammering.

“You didn’t need to get on your knee, old man,” she teased, even as her voice caught. “You’ll do your back in.”

He laughed, breathless and relieved. “Bit late for that.”

She didn’t cry. Not properly. But she said yes, and kissed him like it meant something big, because it did. And when they walked home, hands laced, the whole world felt settled somehow.

Two years later, curled up on the sofa on an ordinary Tuesday night, she’d said it, offhand, like it had only just crossed her mind.

“I think I’d like a kid. Not mine, though. Just someone. You know.”

Max had looked up from his book. Quiet, thoughtful.

Then, “Yeah. I think about that too. Not a baby. But maybe someone who’s had it rough. Someone who needs a place.”

They didn’t say much else about it that night, but something had shifted between them, a thread laid down gently.

A few months later, it happened. A boy, quiet, with wary eyes and shoes that didn’t quite fit. From the same estate Max had grown up on. Same school, even.

Max saw himself in the boy before anyone else did.

They didn’t talk about fate. That wasn’t their style. But when they brought him home and showed him the freshly painted room where the study used to be, she noticed Max pause in the doorway, saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his eyes softened.

The boy didn’t say much, but he let their older Bengal sit on his lap that first night. That felt like enough.

Life settled into new shapes. School runs and packed lunches. Late-night whispers under duvet covers. Burnt toast and forgotten PE kits. Laughter, low and real. They were a family now, not by blood but by choice, and that, in every way, felt more honest.

They still had the mugs from their old flat, mismatched and chipped. Jimmy and Sassy still ruled the house, often found curled together in the warm patch beneath the living room window. Max still left his boots by the door and she still grumbled about it every single time. Nothing perfect. Everything real.

And in the quiet moments, when the house was still, when the rain tapped soft against the windows and the cats dozed in warm corners, she’d look across at Max, the man who’d once offered her a chance and ended up offering her a whole life, and she’d feel it down to her bones: the peace of being truly seen, truly chosen. Not for what she could prove or pretend to be, but just as she was. And as he reached for her hand without looking, like he always did, she knew, this was the kind of love people didn’t always get. Not loud or perfect or shiny. But steady. Built in quiet kitchens and long drives and shared jokes. Built in the softest, bravest ways. The kind that stayed.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

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v6quewrlds · 3 months ago

Text

REWIND, JOE BURROW.

pairing⠀⁎⠀joe burrow x doctor!reader. word count⠀⁎⠀10.8k.

summary⠀⁎⠀a collection of firsts & special moments.

author's note⠀⁎⠀thee timeline fic! featuring a little backstory about wifey. another installment in my 'joe can't shut up when he's in love' campaign. incorporated things discussed in the wifey tag <3 warnings⠀⁎⠀18+ mdni, established relationship, some smut & angst but mostly fluff.

read more⠀⁎⠀joe burrow masterlist / series masterlist.

BACKSTORY, about her.

Honor Roll student, president of every club she set foot in, certified over-achiever. From a young age, she knew exactly what she was put on this earth to do: succeed. She had always been perfectly self-motivated, a tireless perfectionist whose determination landed her a full ride to MIT.

Living in Boston taught her a lot about life.

Double-majoring in Biology & Psychology while designating yourself as a Pre-Med student is not for the weak.

Gummies make her tummy ache.

It's never a good idea to mix liquor with beer.

She needs her pilates fix even if it might bankrupt her.

Those lessons paled compared to the one she learned from the 6-foot-tall Economics major who lived across the hall from her. Junior year made for a lot of ups and downs as she began her studying for the MCAT. Mr. Economics ruined her perception of love and forced her to swear off men. Indefinitely.

For the next few years, that decision proved to work out well for her. Perfectly on track, she attended medical school at UPenn. Though she was unfortunately separated from her best friend and college roommate, Leah, she made it a point to stay on track. No time for serious conversations - much less relationships - with men.

By some miracle, she matched into Case Western's Dermatology program, where Leah also matched for Anesthesiology. To celebrate, she and Leah immediately found an apartment in Cleveland and decided to throw a hybrid graduation/housewarming party. Kyla, deciding she had enough of her best friend's swearing off of men, extended an invitation to her brother's childhood friend: Cincinnati Bengals starting quarterback, Joe Burrow.

Coming off of a season-ending injury his rookie year, Leah sent Joe a charming text urging him to stop by under the guise of good vibes, a promised slice of cake, and a girl she thought he should meet.

"What do you think? Denim skirt with the black tube top or the red mini-dress?" Leah asked, holding up two options as she stood in front of the full-length mirror in their shared bathroom. She sat on the edge of the tub, swiping through her phone, distractedly offering an opinion. "Red mini-dress," she murmured, her thoughts already drifting to the party preparations.

The apartment was a modest two-bedroom in an up-and-coming Cleveland neighborhood, a place they'd both be calling home for the next few years as they embarked on their medical residencies. The walls were a soft shade of cream, with hints of pink and blue in the accent pillows and curtains. The living room was a cozy blend of second-hand furniture and IKEA staples provided by Leah's parents, now transformed with strings of fairy lights and a makeshift bar set up on a folding table.

She was already dressed, her own leopard mini-skirt paired with a black corset top that accentuated her curves. She'd spent hours getting ready, her hair in loose curls that fell down her back, her makeup a perfect blend of smoky and natural. The scent of her favorite vanilla perfume lingered in the air as she lifted her gaze from her phone to look at Leah. Her best friend looked stunning in both outfits, but the red mini-dress was definitely the winner. It hugged her figure in all the right places and brought out the life in her brown eyes.

The doorbell rang, jolting her out of her thoughts. "Oh, shit!" Leah squealed. "Help me decide on shoes!" Leah grabbed a pair of strappy black heels and a set of red ones, holding them up to the dress. She nodded towards the black ones, her hands reaching to help Leah zip her dress the rest of the way up. "Aren't those Kayla's?" she asked with a knowing smile.

Leah rolled her eyes. "In the breakup box for a reason. But they're the only ones that don't kill my feet." She stepped into the shoes and twirled around. "Alright, let's do this," she said, leading the way to the front door as they headed to greet their first guests.

The party grew in numbers and volume as the night went on, the laughter and chatter filling the air. She felt the tension of the past few months of exams and residency applications slowly unraveling as she mingled with her friends from Penn, Leah's from Ohio State, and those they both met at MIT. The music played a mix of their favorite tracks, and the smell of pizza and various flavors of wings wafted from the kitchen. Leah's friends from high school had brought a few board games, which had devolved into drunken versions of Cards Against Humanity and Jenga.

Joe Burrow had arrived nearly 30 minutes prior, his towering frame and perfectly coiffed golden brown hair preventing him from fully blending in with the rest of the crowd. The guests had buzzed around him, eager to talk about his recovery, his future in the NFL, and the upcoming reunion with one of his wide receivers from his national title-winning LSU team. She had caught glimpses of him from across the room, it was hard not to as he stood head and shoulders above the vast majority of the partygoers.

She was vaguely aware of Leah's connection to the Bengals starting quarterback. Her younger brother had played with him in high school, Leah and Joe hadn't been particularly close since then. Yet, here he was, looking like a god in a room full of mere mortals—the others in the room certainly treated him like one.

"Babe!" Leah's voice cut through the chatter as she approached, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "I want you to meet someone." Leah grabbed her hand and practically dragged her across the room. "Joe, this is my roommate and best friend," Leah announced, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she made the introduction. "Babe, this is Joe. He's really good friends with Alex. We grew up together," she added with a dramatic flair.

Joe extended his hand with a polite smile. "Nice to meet you." His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. He had a firm handshake, undoubtedly honed over years of convincing rich old men to take a chance on him. She could feel her face heating up, a meekness that she hoped the dim lighting would hide. She took his hand, giving it a firm shake back. "It's nice to meet you too," she replied, her voice surprisingly steady despite the sudden jitters in her stomach.

Leah practically vibrated with excitement as she played matchmaker, conveniently leaving them to navigate the awkwardness of their first encounter. Her eyes locked onto Joe's, noticing the playful twinkle in his baby blues as he watched Leah depart just as suddenly as she'd arrived. He took a sip of his soda, his bicep flexing against the fabric of his t-shirt, and she found herself momentarily speechless.

"Can I get you a drink? An actual drink?" She offered, trying to shake off the nerves with as brilliant a smile as she could muster.

Joe's eyes lit up at the prospect of a break from the lukewarm soda. "Sure, what do you have?" he asked, long legs trailing behind her as she led him to the makeshift bar. She grabbed a chilled can of vodka soda, popped it open, and handed it to him. He took it with a nod of thanks.

Two High Noons, a shot of tequila, half a spilled drink, and two hours later, she found herself in a corner of her crowded living room, almost chest-to-chest with Joe. The music had gotten louder, the lights dimmer, and the party had evolved into a dance floor with a pulsing bass line. Up close, he was magnetic. Intense blue eyes, an impossibly broad frame, and a smile that could melt the panties off a glacier. In the span of two hours, they had managed to exchange their entire life's stories—his football triumphs, her medical school horrors, and their near identical gym playlists.

"Come on, you can't be serious," Joe said with a laugh, holding his ice water contained in a red Solo cup against his chest.

She leaned against the wall, shaking her head with feigned distaste. "There isn't a single universe where Eminem has the best verse on 'Forever'. It's all Wayne," she insisted, watching his expression over the top of her own cup.

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Did we listen to the same song? Because Eminem's verse on that track is untouchable."

She rolled her eyes, her smile growing wider. "I'm not saying Eminem's verse isn't good, but Wayne's verse just hits different," she said, taking a sip of her drink, feeling the cool liquid wash down her throat.

"Eminem's verse was so good, Kanye rewrote his verse after hearing Em's. That's gotta say something," Joe countered, his eyes sparkling with the same passion she had for her argument. She laughed, subconsciously taking a step closer to him, enjoying the debate more than she'd enjoyed any non-academic conversation with a man in a long time. She took a deep breath, the scent of Joe's cologne—something clean and masculine—mingling with the faint lingering aroma of pizza and the heavy scent of alcohol.

Her hand brushed against his bicep as she leaned in to make her next point, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric of her own clingy top. "But Wayne's was so well written, had the better flow, his personality shines through. You can't just ignore that," she argued, her eyes meeting his.

Joe took a step closer, his voice dropping an octave. "Okay, okay, I'll give you that. It's a close call, but for me, Eminem takes the cake," he conceded, his smirk growing. The room spun slightly around her as she took another sip of her drink, her eyes lingering on his full lips.

"Why aren't you drinking with me?" She asked him, half whining. She swayed to the music slightly, the alcohol loosening her inhibitions, making her more flirtatious than she normally allowed herself to be. His eyes searched hers, the playfulness in her gaze clear.

Joe took a step back, holding his cup of ice water up as a defense. "I gotta drive back to Columbus tonight," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Can't be drunk driving. You know how it is."

"Hmmm," she hummed with a nod. "NFL superstar… right. Image comes first," she teased, her eyes twinkling. "But what if you didn't have to drive?" she asked. She leaned in closer, her breath warm and sweet, hinting at the stolen sips of some vodka lemonade mix she'd gone back to throughout the night.

Joe looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "If I didn't drive…" he began, the challenge in his eyes unmistakable. "Where would I crash?"

She felt the heat rising in her face but held his gaze, her voice dropping to a murmur. "Well, I have a perfectly good couch. Or, if you play your cards right, get lucky, you could crash with me." She bit her bottom lip, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into him. "I'm really warm," she continued. "And cuddly."

Joe's laugh was low and deep, sending a thrill down her spine. "Is that right?" His gaze swept over her, lingering on her cleavage before meeting her eyes again. "I don't think I should." He shifted his position, the fabric of his shirt brushing against her bare arms. The coolness of the wall settled against her back as he stepped closer, a muscled arm reaching around her to place his drink on the windowsill beside her. "But maybe I could use a good cuddle," he teased. Instead of retreating to his side, his hand found her waist, his thumb brushing gently against the exposed skin of her midriff.

She felt a shiver of excitement. "Maybe," she echoed, her voice barely audible over the music. She leaned into his touch, her eyes searching his for any sign of hesitation.

The room was spinning, but she wasn't sure if it was from the drinks or Joe's pull. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her cool, but her heart was racing. His lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "Why would you want me to stay in the first place?" He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek.

"Just because," she replied, her voice playful but laced with a hint of desire. She couldn't help the sigh that left her lips at the feeling of his skin on hers, her eyes dropping to his mouth before returning to his eyes.

"That's not a good reason," he hummed lowly, his hand sliding around her waist, pulling her closer. The room was a blur of colors and sounds, and she could feel the bass from the music pounding in her chest. His touch was surprisingly gentle despite the strength of his arms. "Which is a shame, because I'd love to stay."

Her breath hitched as Joe leaned in closer, his voice a warm caress against her ear. "I should go," he said, his hand dropping from her waist, his grip loosening. She felt a sudden coolness where his touch had been, and she realized she'd been holding her breath, waiting for his next move.

"Wait," she said, a hint of desperation in her voice as she reached out to stop him. Her hand found his bicep, feeling the firmness of his muscles under the softness of his skin. "Gimme your phone."

Joe raised an eyebrow, his smirk unwavering. "My phone? Why?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine.

"You know why," she replied, a gentle laugh bubbling up from her chest. She held out her hand, palm up, expecting him to just hand it over.

Joe looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "No, I don't think I do. You wanna tell me?" His voice was teasing, but there was an underlying seriousness that made her heart race even faster.

"So I can get a better look at you," she murmured, her eyes tracing the strong line of his jaw. She knew she was being brazen, but the alcohol had loosened her inhibitions and the way he looked at her made her feel invincible. "When I'm sober."

Joe chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. He pulled out his phone and handed it to her with a playful eye roll. "Fine, but only if I get yours too," he said, holding out his hand expectantly.

She grinned, handing over her own phone. "Fair trade," she murmured, watching as he took her device in his hands, making her phone look miniscule in his grasp. His thumbs danced over the screen with dexterity, and she couldn't help but wonder how those same fingers might feel on her skin.

"Okay," he said, handing it back. "Now I have your number. What's the plan?"

She mirrored his actions, their devices safely storing one another's numbers. She felt a strange mix of excitement and apprehension as she took in the sight of the new contact in her phone. "No plan," she started, her eyes meeting his once more. "Just… maybe we could go out sometime?" The words slipping out before she could overthink them.

Joe looked at her, his blue eyes piercing through the haze of the party. He took a moment before nodding, his expression unreadable. "Maybe we could," he agreed, his voice low and heavy.

They stood in simmering tension, their eyes locked, for just a moment longer. Then, Joe took a step back, pocketing his phone. "I should get going," he said, his voice a touch rougher than it had been earlier. "But I'll call you?"

She nodded. "You better," she replied, trying to sound cool. "Drive safe. I'm expecting a text when you get to Columbus," her voice shook slightly as she felt herself drawn into a hug, his arms wrapping around her in a gentle embrace. The warmth of his body was intoxicating, and she felt a jolt of electricity run through her as he leaned in and whispered into her ear, "See you soon."

I should've done it.

The text from Joe had lingered in her thoughts all week, a silent drumroll of anticipation in her mind. His admission that he should've done it, should've kissed her, had set her heart racing every time she read it. And now, here she was, in his kitchen, surrounded by the sweet aroma of pumpkin spice and the quiet hum of his oven preheating in the background. The room felt electrified as they baked together, a dance of open stares and stolen smiles, each waiting for the right moment to make their move.

"When it says fold in the cream cheese…" Joe began, his voice trailing off as his eyes darted from his iPad to her side profile. Her hands were busy, scooping the pumpkin mixture into white paper liners. His spatula hovered in the air, a dollop of cream cheese frosting threatening to drop onto the counter as a result of his hesitation.

"I thought you said you've done this before," she teased, briefly looking over to find his eyebrows scrunched together, his tongue darting over those pink lips she'd been dying to feel against hers.

Joe rolled his eyes, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I have. It's just… this recipe is worded weird." His biceps flexed as he worked the spatula through the sugary mixture. With the cupcakes safely tucked into the oven, she stepped closer, peering at the screen over his shoulder, their bodies almost touching.

"It looks simple enough," she said, her voice suddenly dropping to a whisper, her eyes darting from the recipe to Joe's.

"You're laughing at me," Joe accused, though the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smirk. The prettiest splash of pink appeared on his cheeks.

She shook her head, pursing her lips together to hold back her laugh. "I'm not," she lied, attempting to avoid his eyes. "I swear I'm not."

"Well, if you're so confident, you do it." Joe stepped aside, offering her the spatula and the bowl of frosting. She took the challenge, shaking her head as laughter finally spilled from her lips. She dipped the spatula into the bowl, motioning for Joe to sift the powdered sugar as she folded the creamy goodness in on itself. The cool metal of the mixing bowl felt good against her fingertips, a welcoming reprieve from the heat that seemed to pulse through her every time she caught Joe's gaze.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her intently. She felt his eyes on her, and she couldn't help but feel self-conscious under his scrutiny. "Okay, hold the bag open. I'm gonna scoop the frosting in," she instructed, trying to keep her head clear of the looming kiss she knew was on the horizon. It was almost nausea inducing, the anticipation of finally feeling him close to her, tasting the sweetness of his lips for the first time.

The plastic crinkled in her hands as Joe took the spatula from her, scooping a generous amount of frosting into the bag. She held her breath, feeling the warmth of his body so close, the scent of him—a blend of clean laundry and the faint hint of his cologne—surrounding her. She watched his strong hands manipulate the bag, pushing the frosting into the piping tip with a gentle squeeze.

"I gotta wash my hands," she muttered under her breath, turning towards the opposite counter to hide her anxiousness. She hadn't been this nervous in years, not since her first kiss ever back in high school. The kitchen tap's cool water brought her back to reality, and she took a deep, steadying breath. When she turned back, Joe's back was to her, his tall frame silhouetted against the kitchen window, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the scene.

Confusion melted into amusement as she watched him turn to face her, a spoon dipped into the bowl. He scraped at the leftover frosting, the silver utensil shining in the soft light. "Joe," she said with a laugh, "What are you doing?"

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that signature smirk that she had grown to adore. "Taste test." The spoon dipped into his mouth, and her heart skipped a beat as she watched his eyes close, savoring the flavor. "It's good," he murmured, opening his eyes to find hers locked on him. He dipped the spoon into the frosting again, offering it out to her. "You want to make sure we're not serving subpar dessert, right?"

Her stomach flipped, but she stepped closer, accepting the spoon with a nod. The creaminess of the frosting coated her tongue, the duality of the tang and sweet a delicious symphony in her mouth. She swallowed and nodded. "It's good. But I think I need another taste."

Joe's grin grew wider, his blue eyes sparkling in the light of the setting sun. "I figured you might," he said, scooping up more frosting. This time, when he offered it to her, she leaned in, closing the gap between them. The tip of her nose brushed against his, and she felt his breath warm against her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she waited for him to bring the spoon to her mouth.

But instead, he held it just out of reach. "What are you doing?" she murmured, a hint of laughter in her voice.

He didn't answer, simply hovering the spoon there. She could feel the tension building, a palpable force that made her lean in even further, her chest brushing against his. His eyes searched hers, looking for a sign, a silent question that she was ready to answer. And she was, more than she had ever been. Impatience bubbled up within her. She moved for the bowl, removing it from his grasp before she reached up, placing her hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet her.

Their kiss was tentative at first, a gentle brush of their lips that sent a jolt of electricity through her. She felt his hand, now rid of the spoon, come up to cup her face, his thumb stroking the soft skin there as their mouths opened slightly. The sweetness of the frosting mingled with the taste of him, a heavenly combination that she hadn't anticipated.

His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer, making her feel as if she were melting into him. Her hand slid from the nape of his neck into his hair, the soft golden strands mingling between her fingers. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if the weeks of unspoken tension were demanding their due. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, a beat that matched her own. The room around them faded away, leaving only the two of them in a warm, sugary bubble of newfound intimacy.

As they parted, breathless, Joe whispered against her lips, "I've been wanting to do that since the moment we met." Her heart swelled with joy, her pulse racing in her ears. She finally opened her eyes to meet his gaze. "Me too," she admitted, her voice barely audible.

Her knees felt weak, grateful for his arms still holding her close. She searched Joe's eyes, finding the same wonder reflected in the blue pools that had captured her from the start. They remained like that, frozen in the sweet moment, until the timer on the oven beeped, jolting them back to reality.

"Looks like our cupcakes are ready," Joe murmured, his voice low. He made no attempt to separate from her. The bite of his bottom lip and the flicker of his eyes to her lips saying everything he couldn't put into words.

She felt a shiver run down her spine as she nodded, her hand still tangled in his hair. "We should check on them," she said, her voice unsteady.

Joe leaned in and kissed her again, this time with more confidence, his hand sliding to the small of her back, pressing her even closer. When they finally pulled away, she could see the hunger in his gaze, the desire that mirrored her own. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "Cupcakes."

Joe was due to arrive any minute, and she couldn't help but feel a little nervous as she chewed at her bottom lip. Leah looked over from the open bathroom door, her grin widening as she saw her fidgeting. "You're so down bad for him," she teased, swiping a brush through her straight hair. "It's cute."

"I'm not down bad," she shot back, trying to keep her voice light as she straightened up from her laptop. "Just… excited for a chill night, you know?"

Leah stepped out of the bathroom. "Uh-huh, sure. Chill like Netflix and Chill?" She winked at her best friend, who rolled her eyes playfully. Just then, the doorbell rang, the sound echoing through the apartment. "And cue Mr. Ohio," Leah announced sarcastically.

Her heart skipped a beat as she walked over to the door. She took a deep breath, composing herself before swinging it open to reveal Joe, his tall frame filling the doorway. "Hi," she breathed out, trying not to sound too eager.

Joe looked her over with a smile, his eyes crinkling familiarly at the sight of her. He stepped in, his backpack sliding off his shoulder to thump onto the floor. Her eyes trailed over his tight, athletic body, and she felt a rush of heat to her face. He leaned in for a kiss, his lips pressing against hers gently before pulling away. "Where's Leah?"

Leah sauntered out of their bathroom, a wide smile on her face. "I'm about to leave for my family dinner. I'm honored you would ask, Joe," she said with a wink.

"I wasn't asking to be nice," Joe said, his sarcasm thick as he stepped aside for her to lock the door. "Usually I can hear you before I see you."

Leah chuckled before walking over to the couch, picking up her purse. "With ears like those, I'm sure you do, Burrow."

She curled into his side, breathing in his scent as she watched the two of them go back and forth. He was warm, the kind of warmth that seeped into her bones and made her feel safe. The kind she missed in his absence.

"Why don't you tell her to be nice to me?" Joe playfully complained, his hand soothing over her lower back as he pulled her closer.

Both she and Leah feigned identical offense. Even-toned gasps circling him from the two friends. "I like her just the way she is, Joseph," she said with a teasing squint of her eyes. "I'm already nice enough to you. She's here for balance, to keep you humble."

Leah giggled, reaching for her keys. "You got that right," she said, turning to Joe. "But I'll be out of your hair for the weekend. You two can do all the 'balancing' you want." With a knowing wink, she leaned over to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, a challenging glint in her eyes as she whispered, "Don't break him. He's expensive."

She laughed out loud, hugging her best friend tightly before she left. The moment the door clicked shut behind Leah, the air in the room shifted. The playful banter evaporated into a heavy silence filled with unspoken desires. She turned to Joe, her heart racing, and found him watching her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

"I was gonna order some food," she said, breaking the silence as she leaned up to kiss Joe again. He tasted faintly of mint, his stubble delightfully rough against her cheek.

"Sounds good," Joe murmured against her mouth, his hands slipping under her shirt to feel the warmth of her skin against his palms. "I can put my bags away while you order."

She nodded, pulling away to lead him to her bedroom. "What do you feel like eating?" she asked, her legs crossing as she sat on the bed, focusing on the Uber Eats app. The room was bathed in soft light from the floor lamp, the scent of her favorite candle, vanilla and coconut, filling the space.

Joe set his bag down and began unpacking, his eyes lingering on the way her thighs looked bare and exposed against the plush comforter adorning her bed. "Whatever you want," he said distractedly, his words short with desire.

She took the opportunity to watch him as he pulled his hoodie over his head, revealing the tight muscles of his stomach. The white t-shirt he wore underneath was snug, showing off the curves of his biceps. She couldn't help but let her gaze linger on his broad chest, the fabric stretching over the muscle there. She couldn't tell how long she had been staring for when he turned to her with a knowing smile.

"You good?" Joe asked, his eyes meeting hers, a smirk playing on his lips.

She nodded. "Yeah," she managed to say, her voice a little weaker. "Just… deciding."

His eyes focused on hers as he stepped closer to the bed. "Deciding?" He echoed her, his voice low and gravelly with need. "On food or…?"

She felt the heat of his body as he leaned over her, his breath tickling the sensitive skin of her neck. "Or?" she murmured, her hand reaching out to trace the line of his jaw.

He didn't answer. Instead, his mouth found hers in a kiss that was anything but chaste. His hand found its familiar place, his tongue dancing with hers, tasting like the mint of his gum. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let out a sigh, feeling Joe's hands roaming her body, laying her back against the bed. The heat of his touch was like a brand, searing into her skin, leaving her desperate for more.

The solid wall of his chest pressed against hers as Joe's hand slid up the length of her thigh, delicately squeezing the soft skin under his palm. She gasped into his mouth, her hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss grew more urgent, his tongue delving deeper into her mouth, exploring and claiming every inch. His other hand found the hem of her shirt, slowly pushing it upward until it was discarded on the floor.

His head dipped to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she sighed, his touch sending delight down her spine. She felt the brush of his fingertips as he brushed over her bra, and the cool air hit her newly exposed skin. His thumbs traced the edge of the lace before his palms cupped her. She arched her back, pushing herself into his touch, a soft whine escaping her lips.

Joe's eyes were dark with lust as he broke the kiss, looking down at her. Her breath hitched, her thighs parting to accommodate his hips as he settled between her legs. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her collarbone before moving to her chest, his mouth finding one of her nipples. He teased it with his tongue, swirling around the sensitive nub before sucking hard, eliciting a moan from her. She ground down on his thigh, her core pulsing with need.

He chuckled darkly against her skin. "I can feel how bad you want it," he murmured, his hand sliding down her stomach to pull at her shorts. She nodded, unable to form coherent words as his fingers danced over the fabric. Her hands shook as they pulled at the hem of his white shirt, desperate to feel his bare skin.

She sat up, moving to straddle him, and pulled his shirt over his head. The sight of him, all muscle and summer-tanned skin, took her breath away. She ran her hands over the expanse of his chest, her nails scraping gently against his skin, watching as his pupils dilated and his breath hitched. She leaned down, kissing a line from his collarbone, up the column of his throat, to his lips again. The tip of his cock nudged her through his shorts, and she could feel him twitch beneath her.

They kissed with an urgency that had been building for weeks, their breaths mingling as they explored each other's mouths. "What kind of condoms do you prefer?" She asked between kisses. "Durex, Trojan, Skyn?" Her voice faltered as his hands traveled down to cup her ass, his fingers digging into her flesh. "I have a few sizes, just in case." Her back arched into him, a silent admission of his effect on her.

He rolled his hips against hers, his hands sliding down to her thighs, pushing her shorts down her legs. "Magnum?" she murmured against his lips, unable to hide the laugh in her voice.

Joe smirked. "Is that what you think?"

She shrugged, her voice thick with lust. "I like to be prepared."

Joe chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin. "You're something else, you know that?" He leaned back on his elbows, his abdomen contracting with the movement.

She reached over the side of the bed, her hand rummaging in the drawer of the nightstand. She pulled out a single condom, the gold wrapper glinting in the soft light. "Take your shorts off," she whispered as she sank down the bed. Her eyes held his gaze, her hands smoothing over his skin as he complied. The bulge in his boxers grew, and she licked her lips in anticipation. He groaned out as she kissed down his stomach, her mouth hovering just above the waistband of his boxers.

With a bite of her bottom lip, she tugged the condom from its wrapper. She took him in hand, stroking him gently before rolling the condom down his shaft. His cock was thick and hard, the latex stretching over his length. He watched her, his eyes dark with passion, as she straddled him again.

"God, c'mere," he growled, his voice thick with need. She complied, moving over him, her breasts brushing against his chest, the friction making them both gasp. He reached up to cup her face, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones as he kissed her hard, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting her. She could feel his length, the head of his cock nudging at her, begging for more.

Joe shifted their position with ease, his hands firm on her hips as he flipped her onto her back. He kissed her with a fierce hunger, his tongue plunging deep, as if he was trying to devour her whole. His fingers found her center, stroking it gently, and she gasped, her legs spreading wider to give him better access. The anticipation was driving her crazy, her body thrumming with need.

With a wicked grin, Joe reached for the lube she had left on the nightstand, flicking the cap open with a practiced ease. He slicked his fingers, watching her reaction as he slid one inside her. She moaned, her eyes fluttering closed as he moved it in and out, stretching her. She felt the blunt tip of his cock press against her, and she took a deep, shaky breath, ready for the moment she had been fantasizing about for so long.

"I need you," she murmured, her voice a desperate whisper against his lips. He leaned back, pulling at the waistband of her panties, sliding them down her legs. He took his time, the intensity of his gaze making her squirm with excitement. With one final tug, they were gone, leaving her bottom half fully exposed to him.

Joe took a moment to appreciate the sight of her, his eyes raking over her body with a hunger that made her feel powerful. He lined himself up with her opening, his cock nudging against her folds. She reached down, her hand guiding him in, feeling the tip of his cock push against her wetness.

He groaned, his eyes closing tight as he sank into her, inch by delicious inch. The pressure was incredible, stretching her in a way that made her toes curl. "Oh, fuck," she whispered, her head falling back against the pillow.

She felt filled to the brim with Joe, his cock pushing into her, filling her up, the sensation overwhelming. She tightened her grip on the bedspread, her eyes locked on his as he watched her face contort with pleasure. He took his time, savoring the moment, his movements slow and deliberate. Her eyes fluttered closed, her hips rising to meet his, urging him deeper.

When he was fully sheathed in her, Joe paused, his muscles tense with restraint. "You okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

She nodded, her eyes still closed, her breathing ragged. "More than okay," she replied, her voice a low purr. "Just… don't stop."

Joe leaned in to kiss her again, his hips moving in a steady rhythm that made her moan. Each stroke was long and deep, filling her completely before pulling almost all the way out, leaving her gasping for more. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by their muffled groans and sighs.

"Talk to me, baby, tell me how it feels," Joe murmured into her ear, his breath hot against her neck as he began to pick up the pace. His hand roamed over her thigh, pulling it up to wrap around his waist as he pushed into her harder.

"So good," she managed to gasp out, her eyes fluttering open to meet his. The intensity in his gaze sent waves of pleasure through her. "Joe, oh, Joe…"

He took her words as an encouragement, his pace increasing, his strokes growing more forceful. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet him, urging him deeper.

Their kisses grew sloppier, more desperate, as their bodies moved in tandem. The slick sound of Joe's skin smacking against hers grew louder, mixing with the quiet whimpers escaping from her throat. She could feel her orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her belly.

"Need your hands, Joey," she breathed out, her voice a mix of desperation and pleasure. She was so close, so fucking close, and Joe's cock was hitting all the right spots, but she needed more. She needed his touch on her clit, the sweet friction that would send her soaring over the edge.

Joe's eyes widened, his own need reflecting back at her, and he nodded. He reached down, his hand sliding over her stomach to the juncture of her thighs. His middle and ring fingers found her clit, the touch sending an electric current through her body. She arched up, her mouth opening in a silent cry as he began to rub in gentle circles.

"Mmhmm, like that," she moaned, her eyes fluttering closed as Joe's skilled fingers worked her clit. The pleasure was building, each stroke pushing her closer to the precipice. Her body was tightening around him, her muscles clenching as she neared the peak. "Fuck, Joe, I'm so close."

Joe's breath was hot and heavy against her neck as he whispered, "Come for me, baby." His thrusts grew more urgent, his strokes inside her deep and sure. The pressure on her clit increased, the circles tighter, and she could feel the orgasm begin to crash over her.

"Oh god," she moaned, her hips bucking up to meet him, her muscles clenching around his cock. The waves of pleasure crashed into her, her body convulsing as she came hard. Joe's grip on her thigh tightened as she shuddered beneath him, pushing him over the edge.

He buried his head in the crook of her neck, his breaths hot and uneven as he pumped into her, her orgasm milking him until he couldn't hold back anymore. With a final groan, Joe's body went rigid, his hips stuttering as he filled the condom with his release.

She felt the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through her body as Joe collapsed onto her, his weight a comforting warmth. They laid there for a moment, panting, their hearts racing in sync. "So good," she murmured against his ear, her hands stroking his back, feeling the dampness of his skin.

He kissed the side of her neck, his breathing gradually evening out. "You're fuckin' amazing," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Joe dreaded bye weeks. They were supposed to be a time to relax and recover from the grind of the NFL season, but they usually just left him feeling restless and out of place. He thrived on routine, and without practice or games to structure his days, he usually found himself aimlessly bored; itching to get back to the field.

This season’s bye week was different. For once, Joe had something to look forward to other than endless hours of film study and tedious brand meetings. He’d be spending it with her.

The drive from Cincinnati to Cleveland had been surprisingly therapeutic, the rolling hills and the changing colors of fall providing a picturesque backdrop to Joe's thoughts. He couldn't wait to see her, to bask in the warmth of her presence that always seemed to wash away the stress of his football-centered life. When he finally pulled into the apartment complex, he was beyond restless. A week of almost uninterrupted time together was a rare treat, and he had every intention of making the most of it.

It took all of one day for the two of them to slip into a good rhythm. The mornings were filled with the scent of brewing coffee and the hum of her getting ready for work at the hospital. Joe would linger in bed, watching her through half-closed eyes, admiring the way she moved with purpose and grace. He would attempt to convince her to stay home, to no avail, and eventually drag himself out of bed to drive her and Leah to the hospital for their shifts.

The rest of the daylight was his, to conquer the tasks he'd brought from Cincinnati, get a workout or two in at a local private gym, or explore the city on his own.

By the time the sun set, he was driving back to the hospital, eager to pick her up and hear about her day. Dinner plans involved the PDF meal prep instructions she insisted that he send over from his personal chef. Cooking with her was oddly relaxing, despite his usual preference for takeout or having someone else handle the kitchen. She took the lead, allowing him to chop and prep under her direction. The occasional touch of her hand on his, guiding him, or the way she would laugh at his insistence to follow a recipe-to-T filled him with a longing to feel this way more often.

At night, she would attempt to get some studying in while Joe answered his emails, warm, full, and happy. The need for sleep would overtake him before her, and he'd end up sprawled across the bed. His head resting snuggly against her sternum, her free hand softly scratching at his scalp. The sound of his deep, contented breaths soon lulling her to sleep as well.

This morning played out as it typically did. Joe was up early, making himself useful, brewing coffee and assembling her lunch box, while she slipped into her scrubs, packing her bag for the day, and applying touches of makeup here and there. The apartment was bathed in the soft glow of dawn, the air filled with the scent of freshly brewed beans and the distant sound of the city coming alive.

"You know what we need?" She said, zipping up her bag on the couch. "A real coffee table."

Leah hummed out her agreement from the kitchen, where she was busy packing her lunch. "Definitely," she chimed in. Their "coffee table" was a stack of medical school textbooks balancing a metal tray courtesy of the UH Cleveland Medical Center cafeteria. It was functional but not exactly a real piece of furniture.

"I could get you one from Ikea," Joe said, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of a mission. "I've got the day to myself. Might as well do something useful."

Her eyes widened. "Babe, no. I can't ask you to do that. You're here to relax."

"Are you really refusing free labor?" Leah called out from the kitchen, a laugh in her voice. "When are we gonna have a chance to get one? If we’re not at the hospital, we’re studying or volunteering. Joe’s not doing much except for a couple of workouts and emails today anyway, right, Joe?"

Joe nodded faithfully, an overgrown curl bouncing with the movement. "Yeah, I've got nothing but time. You guys pick a table out and I’ll go get it."

She looked at him, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile she couldn’t quite hold back. "You do know that the nearest Ikea is in Columbus, right?"

Joe shrugged, handing her the packed lunch box with a kiss to her forehead. "It’s only two hours away, babe." Seeing the hesitation in her eyes, he added, "Let me do this for you. I really don’t mind."

Relenting with a sigh, she opened her laptop and navigated to the Ikea website. She clicked through the pages of sleek designs and minimalist furniture as Leah hovered over her shoulder. They settled on a simple table that they both thought would complement their living room.

"Alright," Joe said, clapping his hands together. "I'll drop you guys off and head down to Columbus. Send me the name of the table."

She rattled off the name and specifications of the coffee table they had chosen, and Joe typed them into his phone.

The day passed in a blur of activity and quiet moments. She and Leah accompanied their attendings on rounds and completed their first-year gruntwork. Meanwhile, Joe embarked on his solo trip to Columbus, reporting on his success to her through a series of photos and texts. By the time he arrived back in Cleveland, the sun was setting, painting the sky with oranges and pinks.

Her shift was almost over when she received a text from Joe.

Just got off the highway. Be there soon.

She couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement at the thought of the surprise waiting for her. She and Leah had spent the day trying not to think about the coffee table, focusing on their patients and notes, but the anticipation had been bubbling beneath the surface all day.

When Joe finally pulled into the apartment complex, the car's headlights bouncing off the pavement, she and Leah exited first. They watched him unload the flat-packed furniture with surprising ease, his muscles flexing under his shirt as he maneuvered the heavy box. Leah nudged her best friend, whispering, "You’re drooling.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn't deny the warmth spreading through her chest. She loved Joe's willingness to go the extra mile, especially when it came to making her little apartment feel more like a home.

They brought the box into the living room and spread the contents onto the floor. Almost immediately, his eyes sharpened in focused intensity as he studied the instructions. She sat down on the floor with him, sipping a cup of tea, watching his concentration.

"Okay, so the first thing we need to do is assemble the legs," Joe said, holding up a bundle of wooden pieces.

She leaned over, her eyes scanning the instructions. "Are you sure? It looks like we should start with the tabletop."

“Babe," Joe said, pointing to a diagram. "It says legs first."

"But that doesn’t make sense," she protested, her finger hovering over a different step. "The legs won’t even stand without the base."

Joe raised an eyebrow, a hint of challenge in his gaze. "Baby, trust me. I've put together Ikea furniture before."

"Your janky ass is gonna mess up my future coffee table if you keep going off-book," she teased, swiping the instructions from his hand.

Joe grinned, not at all deterred. "You love it when I improvise."

Their playful banter grew more intense as they worked, each insisting they knew better. The instructions lay forgotten between them, as they tried to piece the table together through sheer force of will.

"Burrow, please don’t fuck this up," she said, trying to keep a straight face as Joe held a wooden peg between his teeth, his hands occupied by trying to align the legs.

"I know what I’m doing," he shot back, his voice muffled by the mouthful of furniture.

She ignored him, squinting at the instructions she had rescued. "It says, 'insert peg A into slot B, then secure with screw C.'"

"I've got pegs and slots," Joe said, holding up two wooden pieces. "But where's screw C?"

She looked down at the instructions again. "It's right here." She reached for a tiny screw in a sea of plastic bags, her hand lifting to remove the wooden peg from between his teeth with a chuckle. "Here."

Joe took the screw with a grin, forgetting about the headache of the furniture for a moment. The words, "God, I love your bossy ass," slipped from his lips before he could catch them.

Her eyes snapped up to his, surprise and delight swirling in her gaze. Without a moment’s worth of hesitation, she replied, "I love your stubborn ass."

The room grew quiet, the tension palpable. They stared at each other, the weight of their words hanging in the air. The warmth of the moment washed over Joe, a feeling he hadn’t anticipated feeling so deeply. He felt his heart swell with affection, his chest tightening as the reality of what they’d just confessed hit him.

She cupped the side of his face, her thumb brushing over his bottom lip, leaving a gentle caress. "You really do, huh?" He asked, pupils dilating slightly as his eyes searched hers.

"Yeah," she said, voice soft. "I really do."

The air grew thick with unspoken words and unexplored feelings. Joe set the screw down and took her hand, pulling her closer until she was straddling his lap, the coffee table pieces forgotten around them. Her arms settled over his shoulders, fingers finding the softness of his hair. He caressed her waist, pulling her into him. The kiss was tender, a gentle acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering between them for months.

"Say it again," he whispered against her lips, his voice soft with wonder.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes sparkling with affection. "I love you, Joe Burrow."

Joe's eyes searched hers, the intensity of his gaze making her heart flutter. "And I love you."

"You guys just managed to squeak out a win tonight. I know Joe has emphasized having, quote: 'no room for excuses' all season. But there isn't much time to dwell on the mistakes when you're in the middle of a playoffs run. So, how will you make sure that he stays focused on the next game, instead of dwelling on the imperfections of this one?" The reporter's voice was sharp, cutting through the buzz of the press room as Zac Taylor took a sip of his water.

Zac leaned into the podium, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Well, you know, Joe's a perfectionist. That's what makes him so great at what he does. But I'm not too worried about his focus, he knows better than anyone what's at stake. His girlfriend will be in town the next few days. I'm sure she'll keep him grounded."

The room went silent for a beat, and then the air was ablaze with the clicking of keyboards and murmurs of surprise. Her heart skipped a beat as she watched the livestream on her phone, her hand tightening around it. She was sitting in the back of her Uber, her eyes darting up to the driver who chuckled at the head coach's words. "Grounded? Busy's more like it," the middle-aged man commented. When she asked him if it was alright to listen to the post-game press conferences, he had been more than enthusiastic. Now, she wished she had just waited until she was in the comfort of Joe's home.

Her phone buzzed with notifications, and she knew that the dam had broken. She had seen it before with other athletes and their significant others, the sudden rush of interest that could either elevate or destroy reputations. It was the price of his fame, but she hadn't been prepared for it to be her reality. Not like this. The Uber pulled up to the house, and she took a deep breath, trying to compose herself before walking through the door.

Joe's brother, Dan, was the first to reach out to her from his family. "Well, looks like the cat's out of the bag," his text read, followed by a series of laughing emojis and a screen recording of Zac's slip-up. She couldn't help but chuckle despite her nerves. She replied with a simple "Yeah, guess so."

As she stepped out of the car, she saw Joe's text light up her screen. "Zac sends his apologies. You okay?" He was always considerate, even in the midst of his own chaos. She took a moment to gather her thoughts before responding. "Yeah, tell him thanks a lot." Her thumb hovered over the screen for a beat before he read her mind, "We'll talk when I get home. Don't worry about it."

Joe arrived just as his parents came through the front door. Jimmy and Robin were similarly in town for the game, but their presence was less newsworthy than hers. The four of them greeted each other with the kind of relief that comes after a nail-biter of a match. Inside, the living room was a warm cocoon of familiarity, a stark contrast to the impersonal press room where the Bengals' PR team was forced to shut down any attempts at confirming Joe's relationship status, per his request.

"Cat's outta the bag, kid," Jimmy laughed deeply, a comforting side hug enveloping her. "You're a champ, though. You two'll handle it."

"I'm sure Joe already has a million and one solutions for handling this," Robin said with a knowing smile, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "But if you need anything, anything at all, just let us know."

She managed a smile, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach. "Thanks, I'll be okay," she replied, her voice sounding more assured than she felt.

After his parents left for their room, Joe turned to her with a concerned expression. "I'm sorry, I know we both wanted to keep this private for as long as we could." His voice was gentle, the blue eyes she had come to love looking into hers for reassurance. Her arms wrapped around his waist, hands gently rubbing his back as she leaned her head against his chest.

"It's okay," she murmured, taking a deep breath in of his scent. "It had to come out eventually."

Joe sighed, stroking over her hair. "I just don't want it to mess with your career. Or your peace of mind." He gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking up again. "I signed up for this life, not you. It's not fair to throw you into this mess."

She pulled away slightly, looking up at him. "I know what I'm signing up for, Joe. We've talked about this." She paused. "As long as you're okay with it, and we can keep some parts of us just for us, I think I can handle it."

Joe nodded, his gaze searching hers. "You're sure?"

She took a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm sure."

The moment showed itself weeks later in Kansas City. She was a nervous wreck, the Arrowhead stands were a sea of red and black, the Chiefs' colors, but there was a noticeable splatter of Bengals' orange and black jerseys. Amongst them, she stood out in her Burrow jersey, her hair in loose waves that fell over her shoulders, her makeup intentionally flawless.

Her heart hammered in her chest as the national anthem played, a mix of excitement and dread swirling in her gut. This was it. The hard launch. She'd been preparing for this moment since Joe had asked her to be with him at the game. He'd been adamant that she be part of the victory, should they win.

When the confetti came floating down from the sky, signaling the Bengals' victory, she felt a wave of relief wash over her. The game had been a nail-biter, and she had been on the edge of her seat for the entire four quarters. The families of the players were being ushered down to the field, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come.

She spotted Joe, surrounded by his teammates, a look of pure elation etched on his face. He saw her and broke away from the celebration, his stride long and purposeful as he approached her. She couldn't help but feel like all eyes were on them, even as the cameras were still swarming the players and coaches.

She stepped aside as he greeted his family first, the love and pride on their faces palpable even amidst the deafening roar of the stadium. Then his eyes focused on her. He wrapped her in a tight embrace, whispering words of gratitude and love into her ear. The warmth of his body and the words spilling from his lips brought a smile to her face. This was their moment, the one she had agreed to share with him, despite the impending storm of media attention.

The cameras clicked and whirred, a cacophony of flashes piercing the air. She felt a tremor of fear as Joe leaned down to kiss her, his lips pressing gently against hers. It was a declaration, a public affirmation of their relationship, and she knew it would be the image plastered across social media in a few short minutes.

"Leah has another year of residency, right?" Joe asked through a mouthful of popcorn as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

She looked up from her laptop, where she was typing away at her Google Calendar. "Yeah, why?" she replied, curiosity lacing her voice.

"Has she started looking for a new roommate yet?" Joe's question was casual, but the way he chewed his popcorn betrayed a hint of nervousness.

She paused, a frown furrowing her brows. "Why would Leah be looking for a new roommate?" She knew him well enough to recognize when he was trying to ease into a conversation he didn't quite know how to start.

Joe swallowed hard. "Well, I just figured, you know, with your residency ending soon, you'd be moving in with me."

She stared at him, the silence in the room thickening like the humidity before a storm. "Moving in with you?" she echoed, her voice a mix of surprise and confusion. "Joe, we've never talked about that."

Joe looked taken aback, his hand pausing mid-air with a piece of popcorn. "You mean, you didn't… I just assumed, with us being in a serious relationship and all…" His voice trailed off as he searched for the right words.

She felt a twinge of annoyance. "Joe, assuming is not the same as asking," she said firmly, closing her laptop. She stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know I have connections in Cleveland. It's where I planned on starting my career after my residency."

Joe's eyes widened, his grip on the popcorn bowl tightening. "You never mentioned that," he said, his voice low and defensive.

"Because you never asked," she laughed incredulously, shaking her head. "You can't just assume I'll drop everything and move in with you. I have a life and a career, too."

Joe's face fell, the weight of her words sinking in. "I didn't mean it like that, babe," he said, setting the bowl down and approaching her. "I just thought, with us being together…"

She raised a hand to stop him. "You thought, you assumed. That's not how this works, Joe," she said, her voice steady. "We need to communicate, especially about big decisions like this." She took a deep breath, trying to keep the frustration from bubbling over.

Joe's shoulders rose with tension. "Well, I'm asking now," he said, his voice tight. "Move in with me."

She sighed, her eyes searching his. "Joey, It's not that simple," she replied, her voice softer. "I've worked hard for this. I have plans, honey. I don't want to just uproot everything because you expect me to follow you around."

"Follow me around? Babe, I don't expect that," Joe said, his voice rising slightly. "I just thought we could be together more, especially since you're going to be done with your crazy hours at the hospital. You could focus on studying for your Boards without worrying about rent and all that."

Her eyes narrowed. "I can handle paying rent, Joe," she said, her voice even. "I don't need you to take care of me. That's not what I want out of this."

Joe took a step back, his expression a mix of surprise and hurt. "I never said you couldn't handle it," he retorted. "I just thought it would be easier for you."

She felt the tension in the room thicken, the air charged with unspoken words. "Easier for me, or easier for you?" she asked, her voice measured.

Joe's eyes searched hers, trying to gauge her emotions. "What does that mean? You think I want you to be dependent on me?"

Her voice remained calm. "I don't know. Do you?"

"No? Why would I want you to be dependent on me?" Joe said, throwing his hands up in the air. "I just want us to be together, babe. We've been together for almost three years. I thought we were on the same page."

She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their words. "Joe," she sighed, touching his arm. "I love you, but my career is important to me. I can't just leave it all behind because it's more convenient for you."

Joe's gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping. "I know," he mumbled. "It's just that… I don't know, I guess I've been thinking about it for a while. When I'm on the road, all I want is for you to be there, waiting for me in our home. It's selfish, I know. But it's hard being apart like this."

Her heart softened at the vulnerability in his voice. She stepped closer to him, placing her hand on his cheek. "Joey," she said gently. "Why didn't you just open with that?"

Joe looked up, his eyes searching hers. "I didn't know how to," he admitted. "It's just, you're all I think about. I just want to come home to you every night."

She felt a pang of guilt. "Joe," she said softly, "I feel the same way, but that doesn't mean we should rush into something this big."

"Then, what do you need from me?" Joe asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts before responding. "I need you to understand that this is my career we're talking about. I've spent years working up to this moment," she said, her thumb gently brushing against his chin. "I don't want to lose the part of me that's worked so hard to get here."

Joe nodded slowly. "Okay."

She studied him, looking for any signs of anger or frustration, but all she saw was the raw, honest love that had brought them this far. She took a deep breath, feeling the tension in the room begin to ease. "I don't need you to fix everything," she whispered. "Don't try to pay off my loans or buy me a new car. I want us to build together, on equal terms."

Joe nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Okay," he said again, his voice stronger this time. "I get it. I just… I don't want to lose you."

Her heart swelled with affection. "You won't, baby," she assured him, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Do you want to ask me again?" she asked, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Joe took a deep breath, his eyes searching hers. "Will you move in with me?" he asked, his voice sincere.

She felt a warmth spread through her chest. She knew Joe was trying, really trying, to understand her perspective. She took a moment before responding. "I would love to."

#&. cassie writes.#&. joe x doctor!reader: fics.#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x black!reader

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