#i’ve been constructing this in my drafts for a while

[loubetcha]

when the girl with short brown hair’s more outgoing redhead best friend who looks like her gf gets put into a coma with clouded eyes and brunette girl reflects on things they did together in grief :(

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Part One

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

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 20k

Requested: No | Yes

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

A Few Quick Notes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility

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

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

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

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

Aaron: Ask him if he'll sign my jersey

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everyone ready?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nice hands," he commented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click.

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

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

Her phone buzzed again.

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

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

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

The response was immediate, all three brothers texting simultaneously:

Matt: WHAT 

Aaron: YOU THREW A PASS TO JOE BURROW 

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

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

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

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

* * *

The COVID Protocol Meeting

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead, Y/N.”

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

The director nodded slowly, making notes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Meeting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yea?”

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

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

Her phone buzzed with a text from Lucas.

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

Y/N smiled to herself.

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

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

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

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

* * *

September 2020 - Cincinnati

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

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

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

“Quite the crowd you’ve assembled.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

“Which ones?”

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

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

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

“God help me,” Y/N sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Early November 2020 - Virtual Children's Hospital Visit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

November 22, 2020 – Paul Brown Stadium

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

For a terrible moment, the stadium fell silent.

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

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

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

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

Her phone vibrated on the desk.

Matt: Just saw the injury. Absolutely brutal.

Lucas: You were there on the sideline? Damn.

Aaron: Recovery timeline?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unexpected source.

Joe: Heard you’re documenting the comeback tour.

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

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

The response came quickly:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She should do a lot of things.

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

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 – Rehabilitation Center

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe nodded. “Same time Thursday?”

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

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

She turned. “Yeah?”

“You doing anything for Christmas?”

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

“That’s tough.”

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

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

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

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

Her phone buzzed.

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

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

She closed her laptop firmly.

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

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

* * *

December 24, 2020 – Y/N’s Apartment

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

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

Package delivered for Y/L/N – front desk

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

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

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

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

A small card rested beneath the snow globe.

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

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

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

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

She saved the number before responding.

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

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

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

She hesitated, then added:

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

His reply came quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was thinking about you on Christmas Eve.

* * *

January 2021 – Rehabilitation Center

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

April 2021 - Y/N’s Apartment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe: You watching?

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

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

Joe: Predictions?

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

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

Joe: Smart. But off the record?

She smiled at his persistence.

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

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N: Tell her thanks and hey back.

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

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

Finally, she glanced down.

Joe: Like I said, LSU connections matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything okay?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

2022 Season – January 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

February 2024 – Joe’s Home Gym

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s our quarterback looking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

March 2024 - Bengals Media Suite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron: More importantly, are YOU okay?

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

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

The response was immediate:

Aaron: If you say so, sis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The fans will want—"

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

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

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

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

It was nearly seven when her office phone rang.

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

"It's Joe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Next Day - Bengals Conference Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

March 2024 – NBC Sports Interview Setup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the shift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He meant every word,” Y/N said.

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Local Cafe – 45 Minutes Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

April 2024 – Bengals Facility Media Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N went still. “So what if it is?”

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

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

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

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

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

Joe texted.

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

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

Joe: Perfect. Looking forward to it.

Three simple words.

Looking forward to it.

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

* * *

July 2024 – Training Camp

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

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

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

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

“Don’t jinx it,” she warned.

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

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

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

One night, after most of the building had cleared out, she spotted a familiar figure in the film room. Joe, hoodie on, eyes on the screen.

“Don’t you ever take a break?” she asked from the doorway.

He looked over, offered a tired half-smile. “Not this time of year.”

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him. “Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off.”

Says the woman who’s been here since dawn.” He nodded toward her camera bag.

“Touché.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen.

“You’ve been kind of MIA lately,” Y/N said lightly. “Everything good?”

Joe didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the paused film. “Yeah. Just… camp mode. Lot to lock in.”

She nodded. “If you need a break from all this, I’m around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football.”

That made him smile, just barely. “I’d like that. Maybe next week? When it slows down.”

“Deal.” She stood, grabbing her bag. “Don’t stay too late.”

As she walked back through the dim hallway, she couldn’t shake the quiet knot in her chest. Something was different. Not bad exactly, just… not what it had been. And maybe Sam had been right, that the closer they’d gotten, the more it risked tipping into something unspoken.

Maybe Joe felt that too.

Still, whatever this was between them, it mattered. And if keeping it meant backing off, Y/N could do that.

She had before.

* * *

November 2024 – Late Night

Y/N’s phone lit up with an incoming call, dragging her out of a dead sleep.

Sam (2:47 AM)

She answered immediately. “What happened?”

“You haven’t seen your phone yet?”

“No, I just got in from the flight and crashed.”

Sam exhaled. “Joe’s house got broken into tonight. While we were still in the air.”

Y/N sat up, heart pounding. “Wait, what? He was on the plane.”

“I know. That’s what makes this weirder. Apparently someone showed up at his house and found a shattered window. Cops were called. No one hurt, but it’s all over the internet.”

Y/N blinked. “Who showed up?”

Sam hesitated. “A woman. Ellie James.”

The name hit like ice water.

“She told police she was his employee. But fans already clocked her. She’s a 21-year-old model. Big on Instagram, runway work, a couple of campaigns. TikTok found her instantly.”

"It's blowing up on X right now. Apparently, he's been seeing someone for months. No one had any idea, not even the team."

Y/N was already unlocking her phone.

“‘Break-in at Joe Burrow’s home while team in Texas. No injuries reported.’”

“‘Ellie James identifies herself as “employee” in police report. Fans suspect more.’”

“‘Burrow and Ellie James: timeline of a secret relationship?’”

“They’ve got screenshots, tagged photos, weird little clues going back to July. That’s when people think they started seeing each other. Which—” Sam hesitated. “Kind of lines up, right?”

It did. July was when Joe had started pulling back. When their texts slowed, when their lunches stopped, when the tone of everything between them shifted into something more careful and less open.

Sam continued, “She wasn’t living with him, but she had access. Enough to be there alone. That’s the part everyone’s running with. The whole internet’s treating it like confirmation they’ve been together for months.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“Kayla called an emergency meeting for seven,” Sam added gently. “You’ll be in the room. We’re keeping it quiet for now, no official posts, no statements, but it’s gonna be messy. Just… be ready.”

After the call ended, Y/N scrolled through her phone. Headlines were popping up faster than she could keep track: Model Found Inside Joe Burrow’s House After Security Alarm Trip. Woman Identifies as Employee. Internet Says Otherwise.

Photos from Ellie’s Instagram. Old likes on Joe’s posts. A resurfaced clip from preseason camp that now felt painfully obvious. The puzzle pieces were already being assembled by fans who needed no confirmation to draw conclusions.

Y/N dropped her phone onto the bed and stared into the dark. It all made sense now, why he’d started retreating, why the easy momentum between them had suddenly stalled. While she’d been wondering what changed, he had already been moving toward someone else.

And she hadn’t known. Not once had he mentioned Ellie. Not to her. Not in passing. Not even after everything they’d shared.

She let herself lie back down, though sleep wouldn’t come again. Her chest ached with the kind of heartbreak you can’t rationalize away. Four years of working beside him. Of being trusted. Of feeling like maybe, just maybe, she was something more than just a colleague.

But tonight made it plain. She hadn’t been the one he’d let in. Not to his house, and not to the private parts of his life he kept so fiercely protected.

Y/N blinked up at the ceiling, a tear sliding quietly into her hair. She would go to the meeting in the morning. She would do her job.

But in this quiet hour, there was no protecting herself from the truth.

He had let someone else in.

And it wasn’t her.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility, 7:00 AM

The conference room was already filled when Y/N arrived, PR staff and executives huddled around the table, phones buzzing with alerts, coffee cups scattered like defensive positions. Dark circles under eyes revealed who had been up all night tracking social media fallout. Kayla stood at the head of the table, a slideshow of current headlines projected on the wall behind her.

Y/N took a seat beside Sam, grateful for the friendly face amid the tension. She'd spent the hours since Sam's call cycling through shock, hurt, and professional resolve, finally landing on a numb determination to get through this day with her dignity intact.

"Good, we're all here," Kayla began, silencing the murmurs. "As you're aware, there was an incident at Joe's residence last night while the team was returning from Dallas. The situation has escalated with social media speculation about his relationship with Ellie James, the woman present during the break-in."

Y/N's eyes remained fixed on her notebook as Kayla continued detailing the situation: security footage being reviewed, police statements, media requests flooding in. The office was buzzing with opinions about how to handle the revelation of Joe's apparent secret relationship.

"We need a clear, consistent message," said Marcus from PR. "Confirm the relationship, express appreciation for privacy during this unexpected exposure, pivot back to football."

"We should get ahead of this," another executive agreed. "Have Joe make a brief statement addressing the speculation directly."

"No," Y/N said quietly, then louder when several faces turned toward her. "No. That's exactly what we shouldn't do."

Kayla gestured for her to continue. As Social Media Coordinator, Y/N's perspective on public messaging carried weight, especially regarding Joe, with whom she'd worked closely for years.

"Joe isn't going to want to talk about this," Y/N continued, keeping her voice steady despite the emotional undercurrent. "He's never discussed his personal life publicly before. Not with Olivia, not after their breakup, not ever. We need to let him lead and share what he wants to, if anything."

"But the speculation is already overwhelming," Marcus countered. "The internet's connecting dots, creating narratives—"

"And that's the internet's problem, not ours," Y/N interrupted firmly. "This wasn't a planned reveal. His home was broken into. His privacy was violated. And now we're sitting here discussing how to package his personal life for public consumption?" She shook her head. "He deserves better from us."

A silence fell over the room as her words sank in.

"Y/N's right," Kayla said finally. "Joe's always maintained clear boundaries between his personal and professional life. Our job is to respect and reinforce those boundaries, not erode them further."

"So what do we do?" someone asked.

"We focus on the break-in as a security matter," Y/N suggested. "We acknowledge the incident without commenting on personal details. We prepare for questions but don't volunteer information Joe hasn't chosen to share himself."

The meeting continued with logistics planning, security protocols, media management strategies. Y/N participated with professional focus, offering insights on social media monitoring, content approaches, protective messaging. No one in the room would have guessed from her composed exterior the turmoil beneath the surface, the personal devastation she was carefully compartmentalizing to do her job.

As the meeting concluded, Kayla approached Y/N. "Joe's coming in at ten for a scheduled press briefing about Sunday's game. After this, reporters will obviously try to shift focus. Can you prep him? You've got the best sense of how he'll want to handle this."

Y/N nodded, her stomach twisting at the prospect of facing Joe after last night's revelation. "I'll handle it."

10:15 AM - Press Prep Room

Y/N was reviewing notes when the door opened and Joe walked in. He looked tired but composed, dressed in standard team attire, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. For a moment they simply looked at each other, the air between them heavy with unspoken complications.

"Hey," he said finally.

"Hey," Y/N replied, professional mask firmly in place. "You okay?"

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking a seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed neutrally. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her with that perceptive gaze she'd come to know so well. "What do you think I should do?"

Y/N took a deep breath, pushing aside every personal feeling to focus on what Joe needed professionally right now.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

Joe's expression softened slightly. "That's what I figured you'd say."

"The reporters will try to ask," Y/N continued. "They'll find roundabout ways to bring it up. But you can respond the same way you always have when personal matters arise. Redirect to football. Maintain your boundaries. We're not confirming or commenting on anything you don't want to discuss."

"Thank you," Joe said quietly. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Y/N felt a flash of hurt at the implied gratitude for her professional distance, when all she wanted was to ask why he'd never once mentioned Ellie during their countless lunches, their growing friendship, their shared confidences. But she pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand.

"That's my job," she said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing likely questions and deflection strategies, maintaining a careful professional rapport that revealed nothing of Y/N's inner turmoil or whatever Joe might be feeling about this unexpected exposure of his private life.

As they finished their prep, Joe paused before standing. "You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

The irony of his gratitude for her professional boundaries when she'd spent years carefully hiding how much more she wanted from him was almost too much to bear.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed. "Even you."

Something flickered in Joe's expression, a moment of searching, before he nodded and stood. "Right. Let's get this over with."

Press Conference

Y/N stood in the back of the room as Joe stepped up to the podium, dressed in Bengals gear, posture steady, expression unreadable. The media had been buzzing since early morning, the room packed with local and national reporters, every one of them waiting for a chance to ask the question that had consumed the internet overnight.

Before they could.

Joe adjusted the mic slightly, then spoke with calm clarity.

“I know there’s been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours. Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I’m going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share.”

He paused, letting the silence settle over the room.

“I’m here to talk about football. That’s what I’ll be answering questions about today.”

The room went still. Not stunned, but quieted. Everyone knew exactly what he meant. He wasn’t dodging. He was drawing a line.

Y/N exhaled slowly, a complicated ache settling in her chest. It wasn’t what they’d written together, but it was unmistakably him, measured, respectful, honest. Joe didn’t deny or explain. He simply protected the parts of his life he hadn’t invited anyone into.

A few reporters tried to pivot back toward the story, but Joe held firm, calmly redirecting every question to Sunday’s matchup, his wrist recovery, the team’s progress. He gave them nothing else.

When it ended, he stepped down from the podium and looked once toward the back of the room. His gaze met Y/N’s for half a second. A silent acknowledgment. Then he was gone.

Sam appeared beside her. "That wasn't what we prepped, but it worked."

"Better than what we prepped," Y/N agreed, her professional assessment genuine despite her personal turmoil. "No one's going to push after that."

"And how are you handling it?" Sam asked quietly, concern evident in her voice. "This can't be easy."

Y/N kept her eyes forward, not trusting herself to maintain composure if she looked at her friend. "I'm fine. It's not about me."

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Media Office, Later That Day

Y/N sat at her desk, monitoring media coverage of Joe's press conference. His direct statement had effectively shut down the most invasive questions, though speculation about Ellie James continued across social platforms. She was crafting guidance for the social media team when a knock sounded at her open door.

She looked up to find Joe standing there, changed from his press attire into casual team workout gear.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

Y/N nodded, professional mask firmly in place despite the sudden acceleration of her pulse. "Of course."

Joe closed the door behind him and took a seat across from her desk. For a moment, he just studied her, those observant eyes taking in details in a way that had always made Y/N feel simultaneously seen and exposed.

"I went off script," he finally said.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe nodded, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. "That's what I figured you'd say." He hesitated, then added, "I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning. Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N shrugged, keeping her expression carefully neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Y/N kept her focus on her professional role, refusing to acknowledge the hurt and confusion swirling beneath her composed exterior.

"The coverage should die down in a soon," she said, gesturing to her monitor. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

Joe nodded, but made no move to leave. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, heart suddenly pounding. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe trailed off, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. The word stung despite its truth. "It's really okay, Joe. I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face. "It's complicated. More complicated than what people are assuming."

Y/N felt a flicker of something, not quite hope, but curiosity, before she tamped it down. Whatever was happening between Joe and Ellie James, it wasn't her business unless it affected his public image, which was her professional concern.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

Joe nodded slowly, seeming both grateful and somehow disappointed by her response. "Right. Well, I should let you get back to work."

He stood to leave but paused at the door. "I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon. Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The invitation hit Y/N like a physical force, stirring up the complicated feelings she was trying desperately to compartmentalize. Part of her wanted to accept immediately, hungry for any connection with him. Another part knew that continuing their friendship after last night's revelation would only prolong her heartache.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," she replied, a neutral response that neither accepted nor rejected. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

Something flickered across Joe's face, disappointment, perhaps, before he nodded. "Sure. Just let me know."

After he left, Y/N sat motionless, staring at the door. That conversation had left her more confused than ever. Joe seemed to want to maintain their friendship, perhaps even explain whatever was happening with Ellie, while Y/N was still reeling from discovering the relationship existed at all.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam.

Sam: Just saw QB1 leaving your office. You okay?

Y/N: Fine. Just discussing press conference fallout. Professional stuff.

Sam: Available for wine and venting later if needed. No judgment.

Y/N smiled despite herself, grateful for her friend's support.

Y/N: Might take you up on that.

She turned back to her work, focusing on the tangible aspects of her job rather than the emotional complications. Whatever Joe's relationship with Ellie James was, whatever "complicated" meant in this context, Y/N needed to accept that she had been firmly placed in the "friend" category. And perhaps it was time to accept that and establish some healthier boundaries of her own.

That Evening - Sam's Apartment

"So he just showed up at your office to thank you, then vaguely called his relationship with Model Barbie 'complicated'?" Sam asked, refilling Y/N's wine glass. "What does that even mean?"

Y/N sank deeper into Sam's couch, the professional composure she'd maintained all day finally crumbling in the safety of her friend's apartment. "I have no idea. And I didn't ask."

"Why not?" Sam demanded. "After four years of pining—"

"I don't pine," Y/N interrupted defensively.

"Fine, after four years of 'professionally admiring from an appropriate distance,'" Sam amended with air quotes, "don't you deserve some answers? Especially after how close you two got this year?"

Y/N took a long sip of wine. "What would I even say? 'Hey Joe, why didn't you mention your secret girlfriend during all our lunches and conversations?' Or maybe 'Just wondering why you pulled back right when I thought we were getting closer?'"

"Yes!" Sam exclaimed. "Exactly those questions!"

"That's not who we are," Y/N sighed. "I've spent four years respecting his boundaries, his privacy. I can't suddenly demand explanations about his personal life just because I'm hurt."

"But that's the thing," Sam said gently. "You're not just a colleague anymore. You became friends, real friends. And friends tell each other when they start dating someone."

Y/N stared into her wine glass, confronting the truth in Sam's words. "Maybe we weren't as close as I thought."

"Or maybe there's more to the story," Sam suggested. "He called it 'complicated,' right? That's not exactly 'madly in love.'"

"It doesn't matter," Y/N said firmly. "The point is, I've been holding onto this hope that maybe, someday, he might see me as more than a friend or colleague. But the reality is, when he became single, he didn't turn to me. He found someone else. Someone completely separate from his football life."

"And you think that's what he wants? Separation?"

Y/N nodded slowly. "It makes sense. I represent his professional world, the cameras, the documentation, the public scrutiny. Ellie represents something completely different. Something private."

Sam studied her friend's face. "So what are you going to do?"

"My job," Y/N replied simply. "I'll keep doing my job excellently. And I'll start creating some healthier boundaries for myself." She took another sip of wine. "Including not accepting lunch invitations that will only make it harder to move on."

"And if he persists? If he wants to explain this 'complicated' situation?"

Y/N considered the question, recognizing both the temptation and the potential pain. "Then I'll listen. As his friend. But with no expectations beyond that."

Sam seemed skeptical but supportive. "Just promise me you'll prioritize yourself this time, not just his privacy or comfort."

"I'm trying," Y/N admitted. "Four years of habits are hard to break."

As they continued talking, Y/N's phone buzzed with an incoming text. She hesitated before checking it, already knowing who it would be from.

Joe: Just wanted to check how you're doing. Today couldn't have been easy for you either, managing all the fallout. Thanks again for having my back.

The sincerity of his concern, even amid his own privacy crisis, was quintessential Joe Burrow. Y/N stared at the message, debating whether to respond.

"Him?" Sam asked, watching her face.

Y/N nodded.

"What are you going to say?"

After a moment's consideration, Y/N typed a response that embodied her new resolution: friendly but with clearer boundaries.

Y/N: Just doing my job. Everything will settle down soon. Get some rest, we have a game to win Sunday.

She set her phone aside, ignoring the immediate notification of his reply. Tonight was about processing, about beginning to disentangle her heart from the web of hope and expectation she'd woven around Joe Burrow.

Tomorrow would be about moving forward. Professionally excellent as always, but with a new personal awareness that what she'd spent years hoping for simply wasn't going to happen.

It was time to protect her heart as carefully as she'd always protected Joe's privacy.

* * *

November 2024 - Game Day

The stadium hummed with energy as Y/N moved along the sidelines, camera in hand, documenting pre-game preparations. Despite everything, she found comfort in the familiar routines, the professional focus required to capture the right moments, the technical aspects of her job that left little room for emotional distractions.

She had successfully avoided direct interaction with Joe since their office conversation, managing team social media remotely when possible, delegating player-specific content to her staff when appropriate. The distance was self-protective, a necessary step toward accepting that their relationship would never be what she had hoped.

As players took the field for warm-ups, Y/N kept her camera trained on rookies and highlight plays, deliberately avoiding lingering on the quarterback. She was reviewing footage when a voice spoke behind her.

"Avoiding me?"

Y/N turned to find Joe standing there, helmet in hand, pre-game intensity evident in his posture but a question in his eyes.

"Of course not," she replied smoothly. "Just focusing on the content plan."

Joe studied her, that perceptive gaze seeming to see through her professional excuse. "You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Y/N maintained her composed expression despite the confrontation. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

"Right," Joe said, clearly unconvinced. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game," she interrupted gently. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

A mix of frustration and concern crossed his features. "This conversation isn't over. But you're right about the timing."

As he turned to head back toward the team, Y/N called after him. "Joe?"

He looked back.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that subtle smile she knew so well. "Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

Y/N watched him jog back to the quarterback group, his form perfect, his presence commanding attention without effort. She would always admire that about him—the natural leadership, the focused intensity, the quiet confidence.

But admiration could exist without expectation. Respect without romantic attachment. Professional excellence without personal entanglement.

At least, that's what Y/N was determined to learn.

As the game began, she threw herself into her work, capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating the content that brought fans closer to the action. This was what she excelled at. What she had built her career on. What had earned her respect throughout the organization.

And if her heart ached when the camera caught Joe celebrating a touchdown, when he glanced toward the sideline where she stood, when he gave his post-game interview with that mixture of humility and confidence she'd documented for four years—well, that was her burden to bear.

Her phone buzzed with a text as she was packing up her equipment after the game.

Joe: We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

Y/N stared at the message, her new resolution already being tested. Every instinct urged her to agree immediately, to hope that "complicated" might somehow explain why he'd kept Ellie a secret from her, even as they'd grown closer as friends.

But the reality was painfully clear. Joe had chosen someone else. Someone young and beautiful, someone entirely separate from his football life. Someone he'd wanted to keep private. The "complicated" aspects of his relationship with Ellie didn't change the fundamental truth: he didn't see Y/N the way she saw him.

Y/N: I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

It wasn't technically a lie. She had been planning to visit her brothers sometime soon, and now seemed like the perfect opportunity to gain some distance and perspective.

Joe: If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

She paused, fingers hovering over her keyboard, temptation warring with self-protection.

Y/N: We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Putting her phone away, Y/N finished packing her equipment, her mind already planning her impromptu trip to Louisville. Maybe time with her family, away from the daily orbit around Joe Burrow, would help her find the strength to maintain a friendship with him while accepting the reality of his relationship with Ellie.

Because one truth had become painfully clear: being Joe Burrow's friend, confidant, and trusted colleague was both a privilege and a form of exquisite torture when you were in love with him.

Something had to change. And since she couldn't change her feelings, she would have to change the dynamics of their relationship, for her own sake.

Even if that meant creating distance where she'd once sought closeness.

Part Two

[aleskie]

I SEE YOU | Quinn Hughes x Reader

SUMMARY: Quinn sees you. Always.

Word Count: 993 Warnings: standard hurt-comfort fic

You don’t know what possessed you to pursue a Master’s degree. You want to hit your younger self for thinking she’d be able to handle this. What, just because she graduated a semester early, she suddenly thought a Master’s could be easy? Well, she was wrong. And you were left to deal with her life choices. 

You were on your third draft of your thesis and you predict it was going to take a million more to get it approved. You had gone into today’s meeting confident, thinking you had finally nailed it, only for your advisor to rip into your work. “The structure is there, but your arguments aren’t clear. There are too many ideas that aren’t well-developed or explained.” And then the nail on the coffin. “I still don’t understand the point of this research.”

You’d been passionate about this topic. You thought it was interesting. New. Fresh. It was hard to not have someone see that. It was hard to have your work grilled and picked apart. Their words, though constructive, blurred together as you nodded mindlessly, part of you zoning out of the meeting, your mind already spinning from the endless bulk of changes you’d have to make. 

“You’re a smart one,” your advisor had said, “But this just isn’t cutting it.”

It echoed in your head. This isn’t cutting it. You’re not cutting it. You’re not good enough. You spent the entire drive home replaying the conversation, the sting of rejection and doubt clawing at your insides. You had done your best—why wasn’t that enough? Would it ever be enough?

You’re hanging on by a thread, on the brink of losing it, by the time you get home. The walls of the apartment are a small sanctuary, but it still feels heavy. Everything feels heavy. You open the door, slip your shoes off, and flip on the lights—one of them flickers. Of course. You swallow the sob threatening to escape your throat, but it rises anyway. Hot tears spill down your cheeks. You crumpled against the door, burying your face in your knees.

At least the apartment was empty. Quinn had training—he wouldn't be back for a while. You could break down in peace. Or so you thought—until you heard the soft thud of footsteps approaching.

You look up to see your beautiful boyfriend’s face, brows furrowed and eyes filled with concern. 

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, moving closer to meet you at the door. He joins you on the floor, arms wrapping around you, warm and secure, pulling you close without hesitation. You bury your face into his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—your body wash and his cologne mix together to form a scent that’s distinctly…him. It’s almost enough to soothe the hurt that’s been growing all day.

He holds you tighter, his hand gently drawing circles on your back. “Rough day, huh?”

The rest of the emotions you’ve been bottling up finally spill over, your breath catching as frustration escapes in shaky, stunted sobs. Quinn holds you firmly but gently, soft reassurances falling from his lips. “I’m here, I’ve got you. You’re alright. Just let it out.”

After a while, he stood up effortlessly, scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to the bed. You curl into him, seeking warmth and comfort in the steadiness of his presence. His arms are a protective hiding place, and gradually, your breathing evens out. After what feels like an eternity, you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your face still streaked with tears, a small pout playing on your lips.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I keep trying and I’m doing my best but no one sees it.”

He pulls you in closer, resting his chin on your head as you sling an arm around him. “You have this look on your face when you’re focused,” he says, “You scrunch your nose and bite your lip—pick it apart, actually.” He chuckles. “And you smile so wide and move your hands a lot when you explain your research to me even though you know I won’t understand much of it. You prefer to work in the living room. It doesn’t matter if I’m there watching a game or something else, you stay there and I think it’s because the noise calms you down.”

He moves to look at you, his eyes filled with love. “You like to wear that old UMich hoodie of mine as you write and you always have a bowl of trail mix next to you and you have an iced coffee with three shots of espresso to get you through the long nights.” He places a kiss on your forehead. “I see you. Always will.”

Tears prick at your eyes again. How did you get this lucky? 

“Hey,” he whispers, placing another gentle kiss on your forehead. “Let’s get you into something comfy, yeah?” 

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

“Then we’ll order your favorite takeout,” he continues, “And we can watch as many episodes of that vampire show you love. How’s that sound?”

Another nod. The thought of curling up with him on the couch and watching cheesy TV brings the first bout of peace you’ve felt all day. He places another kiss on your forehead, then leads you to the closet.

Before you know it, you’re wrapped up in one of his oversized hoodies, the fabric smelling like him, and curled up on the couch with Quinn snug behind you. The day’s chaos fades into the background as the dramatic music and over-the-top dialogue of your favorite show fills the room. His chest is pressed firmly against your back, his arms securely around you, and every now and then, he presses soft kisses into your hair. Wrapped in his arms, feeling his quiet, steady love surround you—it feels like nothing else exists. 

Right now, everything is perfect.

And that’s enough.

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Tangled lives: Chapter Eight

Law x reader (she/her)

Chapter eight of Tangled lives

Words (for this chapter): 2.1k

Notes: A shorter one. Kind of a filler, just to connect things and show the aftermath of the previous chapter.

Oh, and by the way, I always listen to music when I write (unless it's a quick rough draft I jot down in my phone notes). I’ve been thinking about sharing it for a while, and finally got around to making a separate Spotify account. I didn’t want to use my personal one since I have IRL friends and acquaintances there, and I'd rather they didn’t know about my writing.

So if you’re interested, here it is (if you have songs in mind that would fit, let me know!):

Spotify playlist for this fic

🫶 @chillerkiller @deputy-azor, @henritherogue, @theprincesss5, @hopelesslover06 @forest-haven🫶

You believed that after that unexpected closeness, even with that uncomfortable ending of the night, things would improve between you and Law. It felt like a turning point, the kind of moment that would bring you closer, strengthening the fragile bond you shared. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from him, one that made you think maybe, just maybe, he was finally starting to open up, to trust you more. 

The fact that he had wanted to kiss you only fueled the flames of hope, making it impossible to ignore the possibility that there was something more serious between you.

But you couldn’t have been more wrong.

His classic cool demeanor, which frequently appeared to be a wall he had constructed around himself, was now more severe and impenetrable than ever. 

You could feel the shift the moment you woke up. There was no warmth in his eyes when you exchanged your first glance of the day, no trace of the connection from the night before. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

You tried to approach him, offering a casual remark about his drinking, but he barely acknowledged you.

“Don’t read too much into it,” he said, his tone distant as he shuffled papers at the table, his focus on the medical textbook in front of him rather than you.

The words stung more than you cared to admit. You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t—” you started, but he cut you off.

“It was just the alcohol talking and doing,” he stated firmly, his voice betraying no emotion. “Forget about it.”

And that was it. No explanation, no mention of the softness he’d shown. It was as if the vulnerable version of Law you’d seen had been locked away, buried so deeply that even he refused to recognize its existence.

You stood there, processing what had happened. His words were akin to a frigid wind, which pushed you further away and shattered any confidence you had that things would be different between you now. You watched him return to his work, his attention entirely on the textbook, as if you were no longer there.

So, you walked away, your heart heavy with a sense of betrayal, but you didn’t show it. 

You couldn’t. He didn’t want you to.

Your mind kept replaying his words, the ones he said so carelessly the morning after. Don’t read too much into it. Could it really have been nothing more than that? Why did you keep hoping things would change? Was it purely your own wishful thinking that had you stuck here, holding onto a fleeting moment of closeness?

The days that followed were colder. He kept his distance, throwing himself into work with even more intensity than usually. He buried himself in research, notes, and medical journals—anything to avoid you and your judgmental stares. He kept himself so shut off, so unreachable, it was impossible to even find a way in.

When you spoke to him, his answers were clipped. If he caught you looking at him, his eyes would flick away almost immediately, his jaw tightening as if he were physically restraining himself from engaging.

You tried not to take it personally, but it was so frustrating, the way he seemed to act like nothing had happened, erasing the memory of the night as if it were some inconvenient slip of control.

You did everything to bring things back to what they were before that night. To pretend it never happened. The least you could do was salvage whatever was left of what you used to have, whatever thread of connection you could still grasp onto. You searched your brain for any topic he would answer to with more than a few sentences.

Sora. That brought you together in the first place. Picking up one of the strips, you skimmed through the panels, mentally preparing your thoughts. When he walked into the room later, you held it up with a grin.

“Hey, I read this one,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual. “I didn’t expect Sora to get out of that trap so easily. You think it was a—”

Law barely glanced at you as he walked past, his expression flat. “I’m busy.” And just like that, he was in his room.

You stared after him, the comic still in your hand, your chest tightening with frustration. What had happened to the easy, comfortable way you used to talk to each other? What had happened to the person who used to sit with you for hours debating over Sora and everything else? He had been right there, and now he felt so far away.

Still, you didn’t give up. Despite the bitter distance between you and Law, you refused to simply let things be. A part of you, stubborn and desperate, clung to the hope that there was a way back to how things used to be. You needed to find the right way to break through the wall he’d built around himself. 

Once again.

A few days later, you tried again, this time resorting to sheer absurdity. While he was reviewing some notes in the kitchen, you approached him, a determined smile plastered on your face. You thought of something—something absurd, something you knew would grab his attention, even if it was solely to mock you.

“So, I’ve been feeling a bit weird lately…”

You paused dramatically, observing for any sign of interest. His pen moved in steady lines across his paper, but you didn’t give up yet.

“Do you think it’s possible to, like, get a fever from eating too much spicy food?”

There it was. A statement so ridiculous that you were sure it would at least provoke some kind of response. You waited, expecting the characteristic deadpan look, or maybe a sigh and an eye roll. Anything that indicated he was acknowledging your presence.

His pen didn’t stop moving, the scratching sound filling the space between your words. You stared at him, half-expecting him to ignore you completely, to brush you off and leave you standing there looking foolish. But, to your surprise, after what felt like an eternity, Law finally turned his head just enough to peek at you. His brow furrowed slightly, as if struggling to comprehend your words, before he sighed and gave his usual dry response.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he uttered, resuming his task. “You’re fine. Just drink some water and stop eating that stuff.”

You blinked, your mouth opening. That was it? No quip, no sarcastic remark?

After a few seconds of silence, Law gave a tiny, absent nod in your direction. It was so trivial and devoid of any genuine connection that it almost bore the resemblance of a nonresponse. It was the kind of movement you would make if you were too busy to care about the person speaking to you.

And that was it. He shifted his attention back to his work, the conversation over before it even really began.

You stood there feeling like an idiot. You had tried. You had tried so hard, throwing yourself out there in the most laughable way possible, only to be met with this same unfeeling indifference.

You turned to leave the kitchen, your steps slow, heavy, with everything left unsaid. But just before you crossed the threshold, something made you pause. You didn’t look back, but you waited, just long enough to wonder if he might stop you. If he might glance up, catch your eye, and say your name in that softer way he used to. Even a sigh, a shift in his chair, the scrape of a mug—anything would’ve been enough.

Anything to show he still saw you. That you still mattered.  Something to remind you that, despite everything, you hadn’t lost him entirely.

But the longer you waited, the more you realized that you were clinging to something that wasn’t there. He wasn’t going to give you that. Not now. Not anymore.

After one particularly tense day, you couldn’t take it anymore. The silence had stretched on long enough, and you felt a restless ache in your chest that no number of distractions could ease. You had to face him, had to confront him.

You knocked on his door, the sound almost too loud in the quiet apartment, and didn’t wait for an invitation before stepping inside.

“We need to talk,” you stated simply.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and his shoulders stiffened at the sight of you. “If it’s about that night—”

“It is about that night and those days after,” you interrupted, cutting him off before he could retreat. Your voice was sharper than you intended, but you couldn’t hold back. You had to get it all out now, or it would eat you alive. “Why are you acting like it didn’t happen? Like you didn’t mean any of it?”

He flinched slightly at your words, as if he were trying to sort out what you were saying, but his gaze remained fixed on the desk in front of him, refusing to meet yours. 

“Because it didn’t mean anything,” he said, his voice quiet, emotionless. “I was drunk. That’s all it was.”

“You don’t believe that,” you replied, the words barely escaping your lips. Your heart raced, and the need to make him see reason, to make him understand what you were feeling, drove you closer to him. “I know you don’t.”

Finally, he looked up, his eyes meeting yours, but they were hard, almost cold. And yet, behind the hardness, something else slipped through. Something vulnerable. Then it was gone, quickly hidden behind the harsh tone he used. 

“It’s better this way. For both of us.”

You shook your head, the bitterness in your throat threatening to choke you. 

“Better for you, maybe,” you shot back, the frustration boiling over. “But not for me. You don’t get to just open up like that, become my... friend, and then slam the door shut again. I—” You stopped yourself, your voice breaking as a lump formed in your throat. “I deserve better than that.”

His expression wavered. For a moment, something in his gaze changed, like the walls he kept so carefully constructed were starting to give. You thought he might soften, that he might finally let something real break through.

But then he looked away. With a slow shake of his head, he shut it all down. The barrier returned, as if he’d pulled a door closed between you. His face settled into something calm and unreadable, and the version of him you’d almost reached was gone.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he spoke, his words hollow, detached. “I’m sorry. Let’s go back to being roommates.”

The sharpness of his words echoed in your ears, and you couldn’t help but feel that the final barrier between you two had solidified. 

“I don’t expect anything from you. I just—” you trailed off, the words slipping away as you realized there was nothing left to say. He’d already made his feelings clear.

And like that, the distance between you felt greater than ever.

It wasn’t even the words—no, it was more than that. It was the tone, the way he had spoken to you, so cold and distant, so different from the Law you come to know. The one who had leaned on you, who had shared bits of his life with you, who had let down his guard even if it was only for a very short moment

You stared at him, your throat tight, willing him to say something to show that he hadn’t completely cut you off. 

But there was nothing. 

With a wounded heart, you walked out of the room.

So you gave him what he seemed to want. You pulled back, and moved back to strictly roommate territory.

But beneath the surface, the anger still simmered, tangled with something far more stubborn—care. 

You still cared. In spite of everything.

No matter how hard you tried to reason it away, to shut it down or bury it deep inside of you, you couldn’t stop missing him. And that was the cruelest part—because he was still there. Right in front of you. Sharing the same space, breathing the same air. But not in the way you needed. Not in the way that counted.

You missed his dry humor and the way it would catch you off guard and pull a laugh out of you when you least expected it. You missed his sharp comments that used to spark lighthearted arguments. And you missed those intense, late-night ramblings that could last for hours.

You missed all of it. And even more than that, you missed the way it used to feel. When it still felt like you mattered to him.

And worst of all? You still wanted more.

next chapter

[puck-luck]

new beginnings | august 19 - 25 (+ epilogue)

hey! whoever thought this day would come! before the chapter, i just wanted to say some thank yous to you all. i am so grateful to each person who has read this series! it was such an undertaking, being over 300K and all, but we did it! we're at the end! i would not have been able to do this without y'all's support and love for characters like honey, bea, the litchton townies, and our boys (who kind of took on a life of their own throughout this story). i want to give a special shoutout to the person who first submitted this idea of tz going feral for a small town girl. you started something that has literally changed my life– before this, i had never completed a book. i would always get bored towards the end and let it die. but now, we've finished it! i'll also give a special shoutout to all the people who helped me out while reading this– looking at pics on pinterest, reading the rough drafts, even just talking about it with me... your influence helped me immensely. i will specifically mention two: cappy and mattias anon, who have left comment after comment and put up with my texts that make everything about stg. they are the real troopers.

i will not wax any more poetics. here it is: the final chapter (+ epilogue) of stg!

85:90 – TREVOR

“Trevvy, baby,” Honey whispers. She traces his nose with a featherlight touch until Trevor wakes. She’s laying in bed next to him, wearing the t-shirt Bea made of him, and Trevor turns into her chest.

It’s so warm there. Trevor groans as the soreness from yesterday seeps back into his bones. He didn’t know that farming would be so much hard work. He’s more sore than he was after his first NTDP practice, which is saying something. 

“I can’t believe I thought I’d be a construction worker if I wasn’t in hockey,” Trevor complains into the space between Honey’s boobs.

She hums and cards her fingers through his hair, planting a kiss on the crown of his head. “I know, baby. You’re built to play hockey and be pretty, not carry heavy things and use your hands.”

Trevor frowns. “I’m okay at using my hands,” he whines. She loves to insult him, even though she’s been known to fall apart on his fingers. He pushes his fingers past Honey’s waistband and goes to prove his point.

“Trevor, we don’t have time,” Honey chastises. 

“Honey,” Trevor patronizes. “We’re not even doing anything today. All we have to do is go to the fruit stand. We have time for me to finger you.”

“You slept ‘til lunch,” Honey says. “I want to get up, I’ve been so bored.”

“I’ll fix it,” Trevor tells her. He kisses her chest, then realizes that he’s kissing the picture of himself on her chest, and pulls back. He picks himself up and moves.

“You just realize that you kissed yourself?” Honey asks.

Trevor looks at her out of the side of his eyes before laying a kiss on the curve of her jaw. “Don’t be mean,” he says.

“Just teasing you, needy boy,” Honey replies. 

She rolls onto her back as Trevor pushes her into the mattress and traps her. His kisses become more consistent, landing in time with her pulse. Trevor won’t even pretend like he’s not the needy boy she claims. “We’ve only got a week, Honey,” Trevor says. “Not even. I wanna fuck you every day to make up for all the time I’ll be away.”

Honey sighs. “Don’t remind me, T.”

“‘ll make you forget,” Trevor mumbles, biting into Honey’s neck and lathing his tongue over the smooth skin. 

“Make me lunch after, too?” Honey asks.

“Mhm,” Trevor agrees. He snaps the band of Honey’s shorts against her hip. “I hate these shorts. We should burn them.”

Honey frowns and wiggles underneath Trevor. “I love them. They’re my favorite.”

“They’re Thomas’ old boxers,” Trevor replies. He pushes them down Honey’s legs, baring her lower half. Once the boxers are around her ankles, Trevor removes them and tosses them far, far away. “Don’t think I didn’t pick that up when you told me they belonged to an old boyfriend. You’ve only had one other than me and I hate him.”

“They’re comfortable and they’re barely even his,” Honey fights back. “I’ve had them for six years. They were brand new when I borrowed them.”

“‘Borrowed,’” Trevor parrots back. “Forever?”

“A fitting price to pay,” Honey says. “You jealous I’m wearing another man’s boxers?”

“Yes,” Trevor admits earnestly. “I want you to wear my boxers to sleep.”

“What will you wear?”

“Nothing.”

Honey snorts. “Lucky me.”

Trevor circles her clit with the pads of his fingers, moving methodically. He breathes in deep, nose nestled in Honey’s neck. “You smell good.”

Honey sighs lightly, humming out a thanks. She lifts her leg and wraps it over Trevor’s hip.

He replaces his fingertips with his thumb and continues circling, swiping the pad of his middle finger through her slick. Her chest rises and falls against his and Honey’s arms circle Trevor’s shoulders. He smiles into her skin and changes the angle of his hand. The heel of his palm covers her swollen bundle of nerves and his first knuckle disappears into her core, suddenly surrounded by warmth and her tight walls.

The sun is shining into Honey’s room, which casts a nice light on her body. Trevor just wishes that she wasn’t wearing a shirt with his face on it. His t-shirt self is staring at him and it’s making him uncomfortable. 

“You need to take your shirt off,” Trevor says.

“No,” Honey drawls. “So unfair. You already told me to take my shorts off because you didn’t like those. You can’t make me take my shirt off because you don’t like it either. Plus, you said that you’d be the naked one, not me.”

“We should both be naked.”

“We can both get naked after you make me come,” Honey bargains. She nudges Trevor’s chin and kisses his lips when he lifts his face. She pecks again and grins. “I’ll spit in your mouth, if you want.”

Trevor flinches back, shocked to his core. “What?” he demands. 

Honey cackles, throwing her head back into the pillow. “Gotcha. You really fell for that.”

“Fuck off,” Trevor groans. “I didn’t know you were that kinky, Honey.” He fits his finger all the way inside of her and curls it, tickling the gummy walls that squeeze him so well.

She clicks her tongue. “There are a lot of things I like that you don’t know about.”

That piques Trevor’s interest. “Tell me,” he says. 

“Not today,” Honey laughs. “I’ve got to keep some secrets to keep you on your toes.”

Trevor whines. “Not fair.”

“I’m thinking I’ll reveal them to you when you’re all the way in Anaheim and I’m still here,” Honey continues. Her hands run down Trevor’s back, then back up his spine. 

He shivers and brings his ring finger to her entrance, taking his time as he fucks into her hole. The two digits flex and twist inside of her, trying to coax the secrets from her mouth now rather than later. 

“That way you’ll get so frustrated over not being able to touch me,” Honey says. “And you’ll regret being so far away, won’t you?”

“When I play in Raleigh, I am going to keep you up all night,” Trevor threatens in a low voice.

“That’s assuming I come,” Honey tells him.

That’s what she said. Trevor lifts his head and eyes his girlfriend.

She hits his shoulder. “Do not fucking say that’s what she said right now, I know you want to.”

Trevor chuckles and lazily connects his lips with Honey’s instead. His fingers scissor inside of her, stretching her entrance until he can push a third past the rim. 

They make out as the minutes tick by. Honey isn’t as concerned with being “late” anymore, it seems. Trevor was right; they’re not doing anything today. He doesn’t know what she was talking about– the fruit stand will be open until the sun goes down. 

Joan told him all about her schedule while they worked on the farm yesterday. She sets up the stand when the store opens at 7, then she packs up once the sun sets. It’s a long day for her, but she gets her best sales on Mondays because of the stand, so she doesn’t mind. Plus, she gets to catch up with people in town and lounge, reading books or completing sudokus while her husband continues to work at the farm. It’s practically a day off work, in Joan’s eyes.

She truly put Trevor to work. He was there for about three hours, picking blackberries and grapes off the vines, lugging cantaloupes from their place resting against the ground to the back of Joan’s wagon that she’d offered to Trevor. He plucked limes, lemons, and peaches from their respective trees. He refused to touch the strawberry plants, lest he saw Honey last night, so Joan had worked on that section of the farm. She’d also picked pears. 

It was nice to hang out on the farm and get to know the lady. She tried to give him some money for his work, but Trevor had waved her off. She’d let him and Earl take that ugly couch from her back porch for free. It was a fair trade. 

Now, the couch sits above Earl’s garage. He’d been surprisingly nimble and strong for an old man. Trevor had gotten winded walking up the stairs before Earl did, but he was on the back end of the couch, so most of the weight was on him anyway. Gravity, and all that. Trevor refuses to be beaten by an old man. 

When he’d complained about being winded while Earl was breathing evenly, Honey had laughed and scratched his back. She told him not to worry, that Earl had lots of experience with manual labor– forty years of it at least– and Trevor shouldn’t feel put out that he was more out of shape than an elderly man. He realized only after that Honey didn’t know why he was hanging out with Earl, but she didn’t ask. If she had, he would’ve told her that he was helping at the hardware store. The lie probably wouldn’t have been believable. Trevor doesn’t even know if the hardware store is open on the weekends– it probably isn’t. Nothing is.

His bicep aches a bit as his fingers work inside of Honey. Her tongue is dainty as it licks into Trevor’s mouth, then retreats, teasing him. He’s still sore, but he’s determined to make Honey come on his fingers. Her hips have started moving against his palm, grinding on his fingers. Trevor lets her.

“Look at you, taking what you need,” Trevor says. He bites his bottom lip and rakes his eyes over Honey’s figure. She’s still in his shirt, so he can’t see the flesh on her chest, but he can see the way her tits heave under the fabric. He can see the way her nipples protrude and rub against the cotton. His eyes land on her neck, watching the column flex and bob as she gasps and speeds up, frantically fucking herself on his fingers. 

A spark passes behind Trevor’s eyes. 

She likes it when I touch her there, Trevor remembers. He hasn’t touched Honey’s neck while they were fucking… ever? Has he? No specific moments come to mind.

She might want to withhold her kinks from him until he’s far away, too far away to touch her– which he knows she’s doing so that she can hear him whine and lament being so far away, because she wants to hear him ramble on about missing her– but Trevor knows this one. 

His fingers squeeze Honey’s waist, pressing into the soft skin before leaving it. His hand traces up her front sensually. Finally, Trevor curls his fingers around her throat. 

Honey’s resulting hum is high-pitched, but confused. Her eyelids lift in a flash, pupils fixing on Trevor’s face, and he would be concerned if not for the frenzied movement that is starting to send an ache through his wrist. 

���I know you like that,” Trevor whispers. He noses Honey’s cheek. “I remember the sound you made when I first kissed you and put my hand right here.” He moves his entire hand quickly, like a pinch, squeezing Honey’s neck for a second then letting go. “I bet you like getting all breathless, huh?”

Honey takes a huge breath in through her nose, head rolling back and revealing all of her throat to Trevor.

A smile crosses his face. “That’s my girl,” Trevor coos. “Come, baby.” He tightens his grip for a few seconds longer, watching Honey tremble. “Come all over my fingers and then we can start our day.”

“Tighter,” Honey breathes out. “Not for too long.”

“Okay,” Trevor agrees, his voice practically inaudible. He obeys, his fingertips curling into her windpipe. The rush of accomplishment doesn’t pass through Trevor because he completes the action of choking Honey, but rather because of the way she relaxes into the touch and lets it happen. Her eyes close again and her face is impassive and serene, mouth open in a quiet moan. That is a huge win for Trevor. When she bears down on his fingers and they overlap each other uncomfortably, Trevor feels the same rush he gets after he scores an OT goal. Honey probably wouldn’t appreciate a celly from him after she finishes coming, but the instinct is there. Trevor loosens his grip on her neck and lets her go, kissing the places where his fingertips were.

Honey snuggles into his side when he draws his fingers, covered in her come, out of her body. The moment is nice and comfortable, but only for a second before Trevor wipes his fingers on his own face adorning her shirt.

“Trevor,” Honey scoffs, rolling away from him and sitting on the edge of the bed. She holds the hem of her shirt away from her body and looks down at it. “You ruined your pretty face, Princess Diana.”

“I think you like that shirt more than you like me,” Trevor tells her.

“Hmm, probably.” Honey stands and walks to her laundry hamper, pulling the shirt over her head like she’s unwrapping a present.

Trevor faux-gasps. “You’re supposed to say, ‘No, Trevor, I love you so much more.’”

“And you are supposed to refrain from wiping cum on my clothes.” Honey plants her hands on her hips. 

Trevor makes himself comfortable on the bed and lays a hand on his stomach, the other cradling the back of his head. He licks his lips. She’s nakey.

Honey rolls her eyes. “This is the problem with you wanting me to be naked all the time,” she scolds. “We will never get anything done.”

“We could get a few things done, I bet,” Trevor replies, snickering when he says it.

Honey doesn’t even crack a smile. She’s back to business. “Would you put some big boy clothes on and wash your hands while I shower?” she asks. “Then you can make me that lunch that you promised.”

Trevor pouts, his bottom lip jutting out as far as he can push it. 

Honey shakes her head fondly and turns away, entering the bathroom and closing the door behind her. 

Trevor lounges in bed for an extra two minutes before swinging his legs forward and getting up. He dresses himself in some short Ducks-branded shorts and a plain black t-shirt. Instead of barging into Honey’s bathroom and and washing his hands there– after peeking behind her shower curtain, of course– Trevor goes downstairs and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. It’s then that he opens her fridge and surveys the options there. There’s plenty for him to cook with, but he’s not confident he’ll prepare any of it particularly well. He’s been known to burn things. Jamie used to get on him about that all the time when they lived together. It’s actually why they climbed onto the roof to eat dinner the first time, so that they could escape the burning smell in the kitchen from Trevor’s charred chicken dinner.

He settles on quesadillas. Honey has chicken that he can throw in a tortilla with cheese, plus some peppers that he can cut up and throw in the saucepan if she doesn’t want to eat them raw. It’ll be a nice meal. 

Trevor burns the first quesadilla. It isn’t a surprise. He’ll eat that one. Honestly, Trevor doesn’t mind the burnt food. He’s gotten used to eating overcooked food.

Honey leaves the shower as he’s finishing up her quesadilla and throwing it on a plate. She comes downstairs and hugs him, standing behind him and gliding her hands underneath his shirt to touch his stomach. 

“Do you want me to sauté these peppers?” Trevor asks.

Honey raises her head and pops up on her tiptoes, looking over his shoulder at the pile of sliced peppers on a plate. “No,” she decides. She pecks the back of Trevor’s neck. “I’ll get some ranch.”

Trevor automatically feels colder when she removes herself from his personal space to grab a half-used bottle of ranch from her fridge. He moves each plate to Honey’s coffee table, taking two trips so he doesn’t accidentally drop any food on the floor. 

Honey sits on the couch, pulling a blanket around her shoulders and crossing her legs. Trevor sits next to her and they start to eat their lunch together. Honey doesn’t have a TV in her living room– come to think of it, Trevor doesn’t think she has a TV at all. He’s never watched television in this house. Anyway– if Honey did have a TV, he’d put something on in the background. Instead, he listens to the rustle of the wind in the trees and the chirping of the birds.

You can’t hear the traffic from Honey’s house. You can’t even hear her neighbors, not that there are any close enough to walk over and ask for a cup of sugar. They’d have to drive. 

“Do you like being alone?” Trevor asks. The question is blunt as it falls from his mouth and Trevor realizes that it sounds rude. He doesn’t mean to say it like that and goes to apologize.

Honey shrugs. “Yeah,” she says. 

“Why?” He’s surprised she didn’t give him a second look for how his first question came out, so Trevor makes a concentrated effort to make this one sound more curious.

She waves a green pepper slice in the air. “It’s nice. I’m not really, like, alone. You know that. I’ve got my friends from Litchton, I’ve got Bea, I’ve got myself, I’m good.”

“I don’t know if I could do it,” Trevor says.

“Being alone?” Honey clarifies. “Hm. I think you could. You just haven’t had the experience with it. I struggled a lot my first few months in Litchton. So did Bea. We were used to a huge city. Charlotte has almost a million people and Litchton has two thousand. Until I moved here, I’d never been in a community that small. Even Myers Park had… 3,500 kids, I think.”

“Myers Park?”

“My high school.” Honey pops the rest of the pepper in her mouth and chews after dipping it in ranch. “I think you’re just used to a big city, babe. It’s, what, 25 miles from Anaheim to LA?”

“Yeah, close enough,” Trevor replies. “26.”

Honey glares at him for a moment. “‘Close enough,’” she mocks. “I was right on the money. Anyway, LA has millions of people and so many things to do. You’re used to that. I think you adapted well to living in Litchton this summer, but you also had six friends here. If it had just been you and– who’s your Bea?”

Trevor shrugs. “Jack, probably. We’re not as close as you two, but he and I are probably the closest.”

Honey laughs. “Okay, imagine you and Jack move to Litchton, just you two. I’m not even here. It’s just you and Jack.” She picks up another pepper. “What do you do?”

“I kill myself within a week,” Trevor deadpans. 

Honey squints at him, pursing her lips judgmentally.

Trevor leans into her space, draping himself over her lap. “I’m kidding,” he tells her. “But I still don’t know if I’d be able to do it.”

Honey brushes his hair out with her fingers. “I guess not. You’re too extroverted. My LA boy.”

“You still hate that I live in California?” Trevor teases.

Honey hums, affirming that she does while she nods. 

“I’ll convince you to like it when you visit.”

“If I visit,” Honey replies. “The hatred for Cali runs deep in my bones, Trevor.”

Trevor rolls his eyes and sits up again, polishing off the rest of his quesadilla. He always eats faster than Honey does. “Are we going to the fruit stand now?”

“Yurr,” Honey confirms. She holds up her quesadilla. “Can I take this in your car?”

Trevor nods. He goes upstairs to grab his keys, wallet, and Honey’s bag. While he was gone, Honey had moved all of their dishes to the sink. 

“I’ll do them later,” she tells Trevor when she joins him by the door.

The drive into town is quiet. Trevor’s hair is getting too long. Honey likes when the windows are down, so they’re down, but the wind is whipping his hair into his face and distracting Trevor from the road. He needs to schedule a hair appointment when he goes back to Bedford to hang out with his family before preseason starts.

They walk hand in hand to the fruit stand. There’s some commotion near the church, which is just visible from the grocery store, and Trevor watches the scene from the corner of his eye. There is a large group of people mingling at the steps of the front entrance– the entrance that Bea never uses, since the parking lot is behind the church, so they just enter through the back door. The front of the church is much more regal than the back. Picturesque.

Honey shops around, handing Trevor piece of fruit after piece of fruit. He bags them all, until the strap over his shoulder is heavy and the mesh fabric is bursting. Trevor tells Honey that they can’t fit anymore, which she frowns at, but concedes. She gives one last longing look at the blackberry cartons before they go to pay Joan.

Joan makes small talk with the duo, telling Honey about how hard Trevor worked the previous day and how helpful it was. 

“I wish I could bring him on every week,” Joan says. “Normally, my husband helps me, but he was able to start prepping the fields for our winter vegetables. We’re seeding tomorrow.”

“It’s a shame he had the idea so late in the summer,” Honey replies.

“I’m sore as can be, Joan,” Trevor complains. “I don’t know if I could do it every week.”

“Well, we’ll see how you feel on Sunday. Would you like to come help me out again? I’d appreciate it.” Joan has a soft smile on her face while she waits for Trevor to respond. He almost feels bad, but there’s no reason for him to. He can’t help that his time is up and he has to decline.

“We’re actually headed out this Saturday,” Trevor says. “So this is the last time you’ll see me for a while.”

Joan’s smile fades. “Well, isn’t that a shame. We’ve enjoyed having you in Litchton this summer, Trevor.”

Trevor’s heart thumps. That’s so nice– Joan expressing that the people in Litchton have accepted him as one of their own and liked having him here. “I’ll be back when I can.”

“No one who comes to Litchton can go very far for very long,” Joan confirms. “I tried when I was y’all’s age, but we all come back eventually.”

“Mr. California,” Honey adds jokingly.

Trevor’s retort disappears when he’s distracted by a cheer near the church. He turns his head, as do the other two, and they watch as a bride and groom burst through the door. The crowd raises their hands and whoops as they descend the steps and the groom dips his bride, kissing her.

Joan chuckles. “The new Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt Hensley,” she says. “Aren’t they just darlin’? Lila’s dress is gorgeous.”

“I didn’t know their wedding was on a Monday,” Honey says. “I guess that makes sense. Didn’t Wyatt’s parents have to come from Texas?”

“Oklahoma,” Joan corrects.

Trevor is still watching the happy couple. The woman looks like Honey. Well, they have the same hair.

“So close,” Honey sighs. “I’m always one off today. Alright– I’ll see you next week, Joan.” She bumps Trevor’s arm. “You gonna say goodbye?”

“We should do that,” Trevor tells her, staring as Wyatt and Lila parade through the group of people towards a car parked on the street.

Honey follows his gaze. “Do what?” she asks.

“Get married,” Trevor explains. The silence that follows is jarring. He turns to Honey to find her staring at him, expression nothing short of aghast. “What?”

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, shaking her head. “Say goodbye to Joan, baby.”

“Oh, yeah,” Trevor says. He looks at Joan and holds his hand out for her to shake. “It was nice to meet you, Joan. Thank you for all the fruit all summer.”

“Thank you for all of the entertainment,” Joan replies. “I’m disappointed I won’t see how this conversation plays out. Have a safe trip home, Trevor.”

“Bye, Joan.” He moves Honey’s bag to his other shoulder and takes her hand. They start to walk toward the car. “So that’s a no to getting married?” he asks after they’ve walked a few hundred feet.

Honey takes another deep breath and holds it briefly before exhaling loudly. “We met three months ago, Trevor. We are not getting married anytime soon.”

Trevor frowns. “Darn.” 

Honey scoffs, starting to laugh. “God, you’re weird. This is why I’m always telling you to think before you speak.”

Trevor exaggerates an eye roll, starting to laugh to himself. It really was a crazy thing to say. “So you don’t want to marry me?” he demands, pretending to be upset. “So you hate me.”

Honey laughs louder. “Stop,” she tells him. “We are not having this conversation now. Plus, we’re too young to get married. Maybe if you were a military guy and I was a ‘ring-by-spring’ girl, we could talk about that, but I’m not getting married for at least four more years. How ‘bout you see if you can stand me that long before you ask again?”

Trevor grumbles under his breath, but really, he’s pleased. Four years, and then he can propose? No problem– with the way hockey season passes, the years will go by in a flash. He’s pretty certain they’ll make it.

86:90 – HONEY

They’re two hours from closing time when Honey decides that she can no longer ignore Bea’s attitude. The girl seems to be in a funk and Honey has a feeling that she knows why. Bea hasn’t been willing to listen to Honey’s opinion before now, but things could be different now that she’s moping around like a wet cat. 

Her attitude isn’t actually all that bad. Aside from not wanting to do any actual work and showing up two hours late, Bea’s been mostly normal. The only difference is that she’s quiet and lazier than usual. 

Honey finds her laying on the beanbag chairs in the cozier section of their store. There’s no one in the Nook right now and Ada is sitting behind the cash register, doing a crossword. Honey is free to lay with Bea until they hear the twinkle of the bell attached to the front door. 

“What’s wrong?” Honey asks. She sits on the bag next to Bea, looking down at the girl.

Bea shifts her eyes to the side, not bothering to move her head to look at Honey. “You know what’s wrong,” she answers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Honey reaches over and fixes Bea’s shirt sleeve.

The girl throws her arm over her face and hides in the crook of her elbow. “I don’t know.”

Honey nods to herself and slides down the beanbag chair until she’s reclining. Her head rests against the bottom shelf of the bookcase and her feet are planted against the ground, knees toward the sky. She reaches her hand above her head and pulls a random book from the shelves, setting it against her thighs and opening it. She reads 38 pages of the historical fiction novel, set in 1580s England, before Bea speaks again.

“I feel like a stupid moron-idiot,” Bea nearly growls. The ‘t’ on ‘idiot’ is sharp coming from her mouth. She throws her arms down by her sides and Honey has to press her lips together to prevent a laugh from escaping. Bea looks like she just got petrificus totalus’ed. “I don’t like it here!”

“Okay, well, you’re not a stupid moron-idiot,” Honey tells her. “I’d say so if you were.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bea snaps. She narrows her eyes at Honey in annoyance. She sighs. “It’s just like… what the hell am I doing, you know?”

Honey prompts Bea to go on with a single hummed note. She closes the book she was reading.

Bea lifts her hands and talks with them while she explains– or tries to. “I don’t, like, ugh. Obviously, I know this isn’t– but I feel like…” she pauses, her fingers curling into half-formed fists. She whines in the back of her throat, frustrated. “This is so fucking stupid. I can’t even fucking explain myself.”

“Watch your language,” Honey murmurs, throwing a look over at Ada. The old woman hasn’t looked up yet, but if Bea continues to lean into this frustration, she’ll only start to swear more often and at a higher volume. 

Bea covers her face with flat palms and scrubs them up and down her skin. “I have never been the person to care, you know? Yeah, I go out with people, I have my fun, I have my friends, but I don’t ca-a-are,” she exaggerates the last word and shakes her hands out in front of her in time with it. Honey imagines she’s holding Christmas bells and has to stifle another giggle. 

This is serious. Not the time for an intrusive imagination.

“And now I’m out here caring! What is with that?” Bea exclaims.

“Well, I think it’s a good sign,” Honey says. “At least we know you have the capacity for romantic feelings now.”

Bea huffs indignantly. “We’ve always known that,” she sneers.

“Having a crush and actually loving someone are two different things,” Honey points out.

“Fuck off,” Bea replies.

Honey allows herself to giggle this time and shrugs. “I don’t know, Bea. I mean, it’s the first time you’ve felt like this. Do you really want to give it up?”

“No, I’m not sure, Honey, and that’s the fucking problem!”

The words explode out of Bea’s mouth and Honey physically draws her head back in surprise. “Wow,” she says.

Bea covers her face again. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. I’m just…”

“Frustrated,” Honey supplies. Bea shakes her head. “Confused?”

“Annoyed,” Bea corrects. She rolls her eyes, most likely at herself, and goes boneless on the beanbag. “I am practically at war with myself and it’s making me angry. So I would say that I’m more annoyed than frustrated or confused.”

“What are you fighting over?” Honey asks.

“I need to break up with him but I don’t want to break up with him,” Bea states. “That’s literally it.”

“Okay, so don’t break up with him if you don’t want to,” Honey says. “You guys can work through it. Quinn would be ecstatic to be all domestic and partner-y with you outside of the summer.”

Bea groans out loud. “I know,” she drawls. “But you don’t get it. I don’t expect you to, and I can’t explain it well, but I need to break up with him.”

“Why?”

“He’s not in my future,” Bea says. 

Honey blinks. It’s a simple and cryptic statement. Since when could Bea tell the future?

“It’s not fortune-telling, it’s logic,” Bea continues once she sees the look on Honey’s face. “I don’t see this ending positively if we continue dating outside of Litchton. He’ll go to hockey, I’ll stay here, our communication will diminish because he’s busy, I’ll get touchy and bitchy because I want attention, and then it all blows up and we break up and it’s a thousand times worse than ending it here.”

“How do you know that will happen?” Honey asks. “It sounds like a bunch of what-ifs to me.”

“I’m not emotionally mature enough for a relationship where my boyfriend ignores me eight or nine months of the year and then is all over me for the other three. The whiplash will be insane. If he played in Raleigh, or we lived closer to Vancouver, it would be different.”

It once again hits Honey that Bea has thought this through and won’t change her mind. She says everything so resolutely and has an answer for each of Honey’s remarks. Honey’s words can’t penetrate the iron armor of Bea’s decision and Bea’s explanations can’t seem to wade through the foggy confusion in Honey’s mind. They’re so different.

“I don’t know,” Bea resigns with a shrug. “Our lives are so different and he’s so far away. I think it would have been nice, and Quinn is damn near perfect, but my future isn’t with Quinn.” She shakes her head, breathing a laugh out of her nose in a self-deprecating way. “Is your future with Trevor?”

“Yes,” Honey decides. She means it.

Bea blinks and recoils in surprise, much like Honey did when Bea raised her voice. “Your future is with Trevor,” she repeats. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Honey replies. She thinks about how he genuinely suggested getting married yesterday, which was absurd, but didn’t feel wrong. When she was with Thomas, she knew that there was going to be someone after him. He wasn’t the end-all, be-all. Her gut is telling her that there’s nothing after Trevor. “Yeah. He’s– yes. My future is with Trevor.”

Bea looks at Honey until a prickle of discomfort starts to rise on Honey’s neck. She breathes out in relief when Bea looks away. She couldn’t read the look in Bea’s eyes, which increased the discomfort tenfold. Honey did not like what she saw. 

And she doesn’t think Bea’s eventual reaction matches the stare.

“Good for you,” Bea says. Her words seem shallow, brimming with surface-level congratulations. The layer of joy for Honey seems very thin. Honey doubts it’s because Bea disagrees with Honey’s decision. She thinks it’s because Bea still doesn’t know how to feel about her own.

The bell rings and Honey hears Ada greet a customer. She doesn’t want to leave Bea like this, but one of them has to work, and Bea doesn’t seem up for it. Honey understands that feeling better now.

She takes Bea’s hand and squeezes it tightly, then lets go. 

The encounter with her best friend stays on her mind long after they’ve closed the store. She invites Bea to come back to her place for dinner, which the girl accepts, but then they end up talking a little bit more and not making dinner at all. 

It’s hard to talk about this. Bea tries to explain her stance a little bit more, but she can’t find the words and Honey finds it harder and harder to read her mind with each suggestion that Bea turns down. Honey is doing her best to fill in the gaps, but for the first time in their lives, she and Bea are not even close to being on the same page. Usually, they can find some middle ground. This time, Honey feels like they’re throwing paper airplanes at each other over a canyon.

Bea leaves her house without eating dinner, after standing up and shaking out her body in an almost-violent wave that has Honey furrowing her eyebrows. “It seems like this is going against every instinct you have,” Honey wants to say, but Bea says “It’s now or never” and leaves before Honey can get the words out. 

Overall, it hasn’t been a great day. She feels drained right alongside Bea, trying to share the load as best she can without fully understanding Bea’s plight. It’s terrible.

So when Trevor shows up at Honey’s door half an hour after Bea leaves, his presence is a welcome distraction from the weight on her shoulders.

There’s still weight. Of course there is. The difference is that this replacement weight is physical– Honey is being crushed under the weight of her boyfriend as she tries to read her book in the dying summer light. She wants to finish this one before she goes back and borrows the one she started this afternoon while sitting with Bea. Honey isn’t usually one for period pieces– that’s Bea’s thing– but this one seemed cool.

Trevor might be sleeping, for all Honey knows. She’s twirling a strand of his hair around her fingers, other hand holding her book in the air, and Trevor is breathing evenly in her ear. His mouth is pressed against her jaw and their legs are intertwined. His arms are wrapped around her middle, hips squarely in line with hers. 

He’d sat on the counter while Honey made her own dinner, refusing his offer to cook for her since she already has a bad taste in her mouth from Bea’s problems. He had stolen some of her food off of the plate while she ate, talking all about how, today, he and the guys had to break down the makeshift rink they built for the summer. He and Quinn had done most of the work building the rink and he and Quinn had done most of the work tearing it down. The most Luke, Jack, and Cole did was stack the wood for a bonfire. Trevor knows that Earl won’t take it back.

His impression of the elderly man had been surprisingly spot-on. “Boy, you better not’a come up in here tryin’ to return old wood,” Trevor had mocked in a thick southern accent. “I’m not a bank! I don’t give out loans.”

Trevor had done the dishes this time after Honey was finished eating. She’d reclined on the couch while he did so, head resting on the throw pillow propped against the arm of the couch, and cracked her book open.

When Trevor joined her, he’d crawled under her arms and kissed her lips before tucking his head to the side. That’s how they got to where they are now. Honey only has about fifty pages left of her book, but she has a feeling she won’t make it to the end. Her boyfriend, in the last five pages or so that she’s read, has started nuzzling her neck. 

“You’re distracting me,” Honey says. She turns to the next page, then back because she realized that she skimmed the last paragraph and didn’t actually read it. It’s further proof that Trevor is taking her attention away from the book in her hands.

“I’m bored,” Trevor mumbles against Honey’s skin. “Let’s make out.”

Honey pretends to think about it for a minute, humming and looking up to the ceiling. 

Trevor does his best to convince her, kissing and licking up her neck until he makes it to her lips. “Puh-lease,” he begs in a sarcastic voice, pouting at Honey. He looks like a puppy asking for human food and Honey laughs.

She sets her bookmark between the pages and closes the book, stretching to place it on the coffee table. Trevor doesn’t let her move much. Honey cocks her head to the side, matching Trevor’s pout. She cradles his face.

Trevor’s pout breaks into a smile and he leans forward, catching her bottom lip and claiming it. The kiss starts soft and insistent, barely demanding anything from Honey at all. Between kisses, he touches her sides and sends sparks up her body. Her lips part and Trevor’s tongue explores Honey’s mouth. She breaks from him and laughs when he tries to roll his ‘R’ like he’s in Spanish class, but inside her mouth. He must have thought it would make a fun movement of their tongues, but Honey has to push him away for all of five minutes while she catches her breath.

He can’t kiss her again for another ten without more giggles spewing from Honey’s body. 

Trevor nips at Honey’s bottom lip playfully, then her own teeth tug gently on his lower lip in return. 

Honey is pliant beneath Trevor, the kiss both intimate and lazy and filthy and plundering. She could stay in his arms, pressed into the cushions of her comfy couch and lost in the drugging sweetness of his kisses, forever. The rest of the world fell away when she was kissing him, until Honey’s front door swings open and hits the wall next to it.

The couple separates, although Trevor is still laying on top of Honey. He lifts himself up just enough to look over the back of the couch, at the person attached to the pair of stomping feet approaching them. Honey doesn’t have to look to know who it is. She recognizes Bea’s footsteps well.

“Get out,” Bea announces in a grave, serious, and stern voice.

She really did it, then, Honey thinks to herself, equal parts impressed and sad for Bea. It’s no wonder she doesn’t want Trevor here, especially not on top of Honey and making out with her like a bad reminder.

Honey places her hands on Trevor’s chest and starts to push him off, but has to shift her focus when Trevor starts to fight back, like he always does.

“What stick got shoved up your ass today?” Trevor snaps. 

“Get out,” Bea repeats.

“Trevor,” Honey jumps in, tapping his collarbone insistently.

Trevor eyes fall, not so far as to find Honey, but just to Bea’s midsection. “What is that?” he asks. “You brought a toy with you? Is that the stupid cow that Quinn wouldn’t let Jack cuddle when he found it earlier?”

Honey grinds her teeth together and covers Trevor’s mouth with both of her hands. “Shut up,” she hisses. 

His words have done enough damage. Bea pulls the coffee table out of the way and steps up to the couch, whacking Trevor with Moo-Moo and the flat of her other hand over and over, trying to make solid contact with his twisting body. He’s laughing, because clearly he thinks this is a joke, but Honey doesn’t find it funny at all. Neither does Bea, whose eyes are red, puffy and seething with ire and a fresh layer of mist.

“I hate you,” she tells him with absolute conviction. “You have absolutely no empathy for anyone ever and if you paid attention for more than two seconds, you’d realize that today is not the day to be a cunt to me, Trevor!”

“You’re fucking insane,” Trevor responds, curling up into a ball and hiding behind Honey as she sits up.

Honey catches Bea’s hands and holds them tightly. “Stop,” Honey says. “Stop. I know you’re upset, but stop it.”

“He started it,” Bea deflects tearfully.

“Baby, you told him to get out instead of asking him to leave,” Honey replies, tilting her head knowingly at Bea.

The girl’s bottom lip wobbles and her chest starts to lurch. “I don’t want him here,” she says through gulping breaths. “I need you to stay with me. Alone.”

Trevor has noticed Bea’s state and reacts with the appropriate awkwardness. “Shit,” he acknowledges. 

Bea squeezes her eyes shut and sobs, curling in on herself.

Honey stands and wraps her in a hug, one arm wrapped around Bea’s ribcage and other hand cradling the back of her head. Bea cries into her shoulder, arms locked around Honey’s body. She’s still clutching Moo-Moo’s ear between her fingers, a nervous habit that Honey hasn’t seen since they were in their tweens. 

“Trev, sweetheart, you should go,” Honey says softly. “Please.”

He rises from the couch and touches the base of Honey’s spine. “Sorry, Bea,” he tries. Honey can see that he wants to pat her on the arm, but she shakes her head and he refrains. “I hope you’re okay.”

It’s a really awkward goodbye from Trevor, understandably so, and Honey feels terrible as Bea continues to cry. Honey gets her upstairs and into her bed, which they’ve shared for plenty of Honey’s freakouts, but it feels so much different this time.

Honey positions Moo-Moo so that he’s right under Bea’s nose and his fur is touching her lips. She brushes Bea’s hair out of her face and wipes a little bit of the mascara off of her eyelids. “I’m sorry you had to do this,” Honey whispers. “It sucks.”

Bea hiccups. “It’s for the best,” she manages shakily. “I’d be ten times worse if this happened after… everything I tried to explain earlier.”

Long distance, Quinn’s laser-focus on hockey, Bea’s self-admitted need for attention, the way all of those things will compound until they hate each other and breakup in a much bigger blowout. Those are the bits Honey understood. It’s how Bea got from one point to the other, with all of those assumptions, that Honey didn’t quite get. 

“He thought I would change my mind because you and Trevor are staying together,” Bea adds in a miserable voice. 

Honey feels a flare of anger rise up in her throat. They’ve experienced this before– people always assume that she and Bea do the same thing, together, all the time. They’re best friends, but they’re not clones of each other. It’s their shared pet peeve– which doesn’t actually disprove the statement that they’re the same.

“He said he’d buy me an apartment in Vancouver.” A fresh round of sobs leaves Bea and she wipes them on the top of Moo-Moo’s head. “It’s like– I can’t uproot my life just for him,” she says desperately, as if she has to explain it to Honey. She feels the same way Bea does. Moving across the country with her boyfriend of three months (unofficially) would be a mistake. “He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it.”

Honey closes her eyes and touches her forehead to Bea’s. 

“I explained it to him at the beginning of the summer and he agreed,” Bea reminds herself more than Honey. “And I can’t, I can’t–”

“I know,” Honey murmurs. “Shh, it’s okay.”

Bea heaves in Honey’s arms and soaks her spare pillow with tears. Honey watches her, stroking her cheek and her arm and wiping her running nose with tissue after tissue. It’s hard. Bea used to do the same thing for her, countless times over, and Honey feels dreadful. Bea shouldn’t ever look like this or feel like this. Honey would do anything to change it.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats.

Bea takes a shaky breath, then another. “It felt like he didn’t understand me,” Bea explains in a far-away voice with a mournful frown. “I thought he knew.”

“Oh, sweet girl,” Honey sighs. “He was just hoping something would change.”

“Then he didn’t listen when I told him nothing would,” Bea sniffs. She averts her gaze from Honey’s eyes, down to the space between them. She sniffs again. “Is that Puppy?”

Honey looks down. Her monkey is between them, left on the middle of the bed when Trevor made a scene of returning him to his rightful owner. He did not return the Ducks shirt that magically appeared in her dresser drawer in Charlotte. “Yeah.”

Bea scrunches her face in confusion and breathes out either a laugh or a fresh set of tears– but she’s cried dry, so nothing appears. “Did he become sentient and walk here?” she implores, disbelieving. 

Honey almost laughs in relief at the change in subject. She knows Bea well enough to know that she’s deflecting and moving on because she doesn’t want to cry over her breakup anymore. They’ll come back to it another day, when she’s processed it a bit more. “Trevor and I went to see my parents.”

Bea is silent, mouth open in pure betrayal. “What the hell else have you been keeping from me?” she wails dramatically. “Are you moving to Cali?”

“No,” Honey exclaims. She laughs out loud. “I am not moving to California.”

“Good, ‘cause the West Coast is not the best coast,” Bea asserts stubbornly. 

“Have you eaten?” Honey asks.

Bea’s expression immediately turns into a scowl. She hates when Honey asks that, taking it as a personal attack and an insinuation that she can’t take care of herself. “No.”

At least she’s honest. “Stay right there,” Honey says. “I’m going to go make you something quick. You need to eat.” She kicks off the covers and shoves her feet into her slippers, padding across the floor.

“Make me a water bottle too,” Bea bosses in a grumble. “I feel like a raisin.”

She’ll be okay. Honey is sure of it. Even if Bea isn’t, Honey will be around.

87:90 – TREVOR

i’m sorry i attacked u. that was mean. can i come over later to apologize for real? Bea asks through text message. 

Trevor can’t shake the image of Bea crying in Honey’s arms from his mind. He still feels guilty about how he had provoked her and completely misread the room. It’s their thing, making fun of each other and being each other’s number one hater. Trevor hadn’t known that Bea would be so touchy yesterday.

Honey is coming over at 7 to help me pack

i know. i’ll drive her there and u can drive her to work toma

You won’t stay over?

Bea doesn’t respond to that one– not for another few hours. She texts once Trevor is finishing up his last load of laundry. He’s choosing which clothes he’ll keep out for the next few days when his phone vibrates.

i’ll explain later.

It’s a resolute answer that confuses Trevor. He moves his laundry into a massive pile on his bed so that he actually gets it done before he goes to bed, then leaves the room. He’ll do it when Honey gets here. He wants to prolong their time together, so he’ll fold and she’ll pack. She likes organizational things like that. Three weeks ago, the same day she accidentally called him her boyfriend, Trevor watched Honey take all of her books off of her bookshelves and reorder them accordingly. He doesn’t know her system. He does know, however, that she was very content with the repetitive action. There was a little smile on her face the whole time.

Trevor walks downstairs and finds the main level empty. He goes down the next flight and finds the boys. None of them have even started to pack, which is annoying because they still have to clean the rental house on Friday. At this rate, it’ll fall to Trevor to clean because all the guys are trying to locate their things. Cole will be trying to save his clothes from being stolen by the Hughes brothers, who just scoop up all the laundry as if it’s theirs. Trevor supposes that’s what happens when they share the Michigan house– he wouldn’t be surprised if the spare bedroom had been turned into a joint-closet in the time since he’s visited.

Luke and Cole are playing ping-pong and yelling at each other. Jack and Quinn are laying across the two couches, each with a book in their hand. Trevor almost wants to tease them for coexisting so peacefully, but he plops down on the recliner instead. He snatches the remote and turns the TV on, enduring Quinn’s side eye as he disturbs the quiet surrounding the seating area. 

“The girls are coming over in a bit,” Trevor announces to the group. 

He doesn’t miss how Jack’s eyes lift towards Quinn. Or how Quinn shifts on the couch. Or how the ping pong ball goes clattering to the floor and Cole sings, “Another point for me.”

“Honey’s going to help me pack,” Trevor adds. “You guys should really start packing, too.”

“Don’t be a killjoy, Z. We’ll get to it,” Jack says. “We’re enjoying the time we have left.”

Trevor pauses, gawking at the irony of the words. “You’re the one who didn’t want to come here in the first place,” he points out.

Jack just shrugs and flicks to the next page in his book. He adjusts the baseball cap on his head. “I changed my mind.”

“So you want to come back next year?” Trevor asks.

Jack curls his lip. “No. Not for the whole summer. I’d like to spend my free time in the house I own, thanks.” He reaches his leg toward the other sofa blindly and kicks Quinn. “Right, Q-Ball?”

“Yeah,” Quinn says shortly.

Trevor hasn’t heard his voice sound as curt as this in a long time. He leaves it alone, turning back to face the television and focusing on the episode of The Office that seemed to magically appear, as if this TV has memorized Jack’s watching habits. 

Luke and Cole sit on the big couch after their game of ping-pong ends. Luke puts his arms over the back of it, stretching his long limbs out over Quinn’s shoulders. Cole kicks his feet up on the coffee table and laughs at most of the jokes coming from the television over the next two episodes.

The day passed by quickly with all the laundry Trevor did. It doesn’t surprise him when he hears the front door open in the distance and two pairs of footsteps crossing the floor above them. 

“Hello?” Honey calls, stopping halfway down the basement steps and waving. “Nobody greets their guests at the door anymore?”

Trevor’s face splits with a smile and he laughs. He stands and walks toward Honey. Cole immediately takes his seat in the recliner.

“Hey, baby,” Trevor says. He climbs the first few steps and kisses Honey briefly. “You ready to pack up some laundry?”

“Is it ready to pack or is it in a pile on your bed?” Honey responds.

Trevor doesn’t answer, just looking at Honey knowingly.

She rolls her eyes and pats his chest firmly. “You’re the worst. I’ll go start folding while you talk to Bea.” Honey looks around Trevor’s body. “You okay, Q?”

Quinn hums. Trevor catches the tail end of a shrug when he looks in the boy’s direction. 

“Ask me how I am,” Cole chirps.

Honey’s thoughtful bite of her lower lip after Quinn’s response disappears after Cole’s input. She chuckles. “How are you, Cole?”

“Never better,” Cole brags. “Just won another game of ping-pong against the big guy.”

“By two points,” Luke jumps in. “It wasn’t that impressive. We were neck-in-neck for ages.”

“Well, you’ll get him next time, Lukey. Good job, Cole.” Honey slides her hand into Trevor’s. “C’mon, Trev. We’ve got chores to do.”

“Will you guys be here for long?” Jack asks. “Tell Bea to come down.”

“She has stuff to do tonight,” Honey lies. She tries to keep her face impassive, but Trevor knows that Bea never has anything to do unless she’s hanging out with Quinn. 

The fact that Quinn hasn’t moved at all from the couch since Bea got here is suspicious. 

Oh my God, they broke up, Trevor realizes suddenly. Oh my God. He stares at Quinn. The dark circles under his eyes make sense now.

“Come on, Trev.” Honey tugs his hand and leads him upstairs. Trevor is still looking at Quinn, scrutinizing him until Honey drags Trevor out of sight.

“What happened?” Trevor asks. He pads after Honey, entering the kitchen.

“Talk to Bea,” Honey replies. She brings a hand to Trevor’s jaw and kisses him softly on the lips. “I have to go do the laundry you left for me while you do. You’re a terrible boyfriend.”

“I’m not,” Trevor whines. “I wanted to fold them together.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Honey tells him, only a slight air of sarcasm in her voice. “But you have to make up with Bea. I’ll meet you upstairs when you’re done. It shouldn’t take long.”

Trevor doesn’t dare sigh out loud, not when Bea or Honey could hear him. He agreed to this, but the thing is, Bea doesn’t need to apologize to him. It wasn’t a big deal. Now that Trevor thinks she and Quinn broke up, he thinks that he should be apologizing. Not that he will. Unless he feels like it in the moment.

He turns away from the stairs and looks for Bea, scanning the room. She’s nowhere to be found. Surely Honey would’ve brought him in here because this is where Bea is. Maybe she chickened out and couldn’t stand to be in the house, so she left.

“Over here,” she says, lifting her arm into the air. She’s laying on the couch in the living room, the one that they rarely ever use. 

Trevor rounds the couch and finds Bea laying there in a tank top and jean shorts, very reminiscent of Honey’s style. He supposes it makes sense– she probably stayed the night with Honey last night. Her hair is up in a bun, also like Honey. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bea echos. She rolls partially off of the sofa and reaches for her bag in a half-assed way, waving her arm four times before snagging one of the handles and pulling it into her space. “I brought you a treat.”

Trevor sits on the ottoman near the fireplace. “Oh, yeah? What kind of treat?”

“Peanut butter chocolate chip cookies.” Bea pulls a tupperware out of the bag and underhand-tosses it to Trevor. “I need the container back when you guys leave. It’s from the Nook.”

“I’ll wash it tonight and give it to Honey so she can bring it back to work tomorrow,” Trevor says. “You didn’t have to make me cookies.”

“Well, I’m bad at apologies, so I wanted to make a gesture,” Bea says. 

Trevor feels sheepish all of a sudden. “You don’t have to apologize either,” he tells her with a grimace. “I didn’t realize you were having a bad day and I probably shouldn’t have poked the bear.”

Bea talks over him as he stumbles through the last part of his statement. “I do have to apologize. It seems like you’re going to be around for a long time, Trevor, and I don’t want us to be at odds.” 

A blossom of pride blooms in Trevor’s chest when Bea admits to him being around for a long time– absolutely he’ll be around for a long time. His relationship with Honey won’t be ending anytime soon. 

“It wasn’t cool of me to hit you and yell at you,” Bea continues. “You definitely weren’t nice, but I wasn’t any better.”

“That’s kind of what we do, though,” Trevor says. “Bicker.”

“Not like that.” Bea shakes her head. “I should’ve had more control over myself, so I’m sorry. I know you didn’t really mean to make a bad day worse.”

“What happened?” Trevor asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Bea takes a deep breath and looks away from Trevor. She stares at the ceiling and a thick silence settles between them. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Bea glares at him out of the side of her eye. That’s back to normal. “Obviously I’m going to tell you Trevor, but I am once again asking you to wait two seconds.”

Trevor looks at his fingernails and picks at his cuticles. “It’s been two seconds,” he grumbles. 

“You are so lucky that Honey is patient with you, I would be swinging on you in a second if I was her,” Bea argues back.

“Right back at’cha,” Trevor bites.

Bea pauses. She eyes him, then looks back to the ceiling. “We broke up,” Bea says with a shrug. “It didn’t go like I wanted it to. It didn’t go like Quinn wanted it to. It was a bad day.”

Trevor doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

Bea looks at him, an incredulous squint adorning her face. Then, she snorts and laughs. “Okay,” she says. “Don’t go getting all sappy on me, Trevor.”

“Breakups suck,” Trevor says with a shrug. He’s not being sappy. He’s relating to Bea.

“I might’ve yelled at you for your shit empathy yesterday, but you really don’t have to do all that,” Bea snickers. “I don’t really want you to feel for me, Trevor. I’m happy with our relationship as is. You fight with me like Cece and Trix do.”

“Are you saying I’m a girl?” Trevor asks, making a joke of her sentence. It’s pretty nice, actually, to be compared to one of Bea’s siblings. It makes sense, considering how they fight. It’s how Trevor fights with Griffin and Ava.

Bea taps her chin and purses her lips. “Well, if the glass slipper fits.”

Trevor makes a face at Bea and stands up. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am.” She sticks her tongue out at Trevor and sits up, grabbing her bag and hoisting herself off of the comfy furniture. 

“Are you leaving?” Trevor asks when Bea follows him to the steps, toward the front of the house.

“Yep,” Bea confirms. “I can’t very well… stay the night, or anything.” She laughs self-deprecatingly and shifts her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though. We’re supposed to get dinner altogether. Did Honey tell you that yet?”

“No,” Trevor says.

“Well, we are. Tell the boys. We’re going to Mexico and having tacos and margs.” Bea opens the door and slips through. “Have fun with Honey.”

Trevor nods and heads upstairs, walking down the hallway into his bedroom. When he pushes the door open, the pile of laundry on his bed has shrunk drastically, thanks to Honey’s dutiful work. 

“How many loads did you do?” Honey asks as soon as he walks inside. 

“Like three,” Trevor says. “Three and a half.”

“I can’t believe you brought that many clothes for one summer,” Honey says. “I don’t know if I have enough clothes for three and a half loads. Maybe if I was doing my delicates and whites and colors separate.”

Trevor hums and takes his spot next to Honey. When she bends forward to grab another shirt to fold, he slaps her ass playfully. She stole a pair of his boxers, to Trevor’s delight. 

Honey rolls her eyes. “Can we get your laundry done before you start getting distracted by my body?”

Trevor scrunches up his face and pretends to cry, wrapping his arms around Honey’s shoulders and burying his face in her hair. 

“Stop being dramatic,” Honey chastizes. “Pick up a shirt and fold it or I’m going to make you do this all by yourself.”

Trevor is quick to get a move on after that. He fully believes Honey will make him do the chores all by himself. It’s not that he’s incapable, but he wants to do it together. It’s embarrassing how much Trevor likes the idea of folding laundry together, like they share a house and do their laundry together. Maybe next summer they will. Trevor could move in with Honey if she lets him. If she says no, Earl offered the apartment above his garage on Sunday, which might be the closest Trevor will ever come to hearing Earl outright tell Trevor that he likes him. 

He’s two for two. Both Earl and Honey did everything they could to remain grumpy and detached when it comes to Trevor, and look at how that changed. He’s just impressively charismatic.

When Honey asks what Trevor is smiling about, and he repeats his thoughts to her, she snaps a t-shirt at his thigh. 

She loves him. Definitely.

88:90 – HONEY

“Would you get us another round, Luce?” Honey asks, looking up at the dark-haired girl who has worked at Mexico since her family bought the building in her childhood. She clasps her hands together in praying fashion. “Then we’ll be done. I promise.”

“Scout’s honor, Luce,” Bea vows with a big smile. 

“You guys have already been overserved,” Lucía replies with a frown. “You know I don’t care, but my dad worries.”

“Quinn is driving,” Bea says. “Don’t worry. Tell Carlos that he doesn’t have to worry about us and that his Mole Poblano is perfect. He should never change the recipe.”

Lucía laughs. “Yeah, he’ll love that. You know how to work the system. So we’ve got beers for the boys now? Or are y’all still pounding margs like the girls?”

“I’m stickin’ with a marg, dude,” Cole declares. He runs his tongue over the salt rim and smacks his lips, smiling widely at their waitress. 

The Hughes boys decide to switch it up to a beer, as does Trevor. A nice, refreshing beer with a little lime doesn’t seem bad to Honey right now, but she’ll probably have to drink beer at the surprise party. Earl was in charge of the drinks and swore he’d buy enough for everyone they invited, but Honey isn’t certain he knows just how much beer the town can drink during a party. Luckily, Sarah is bringing her trailer-bar in case Earl underestimates things. At least there will be one experienced drinker and party-planner in Trevor’s backyard.

Bea orders another strawberry margarita, Cole orders a normal lime one, and Honey orders a mango-flavored marg, but her mind is elsewhere. The ladies swore on Tuesday that they have planned enough parties in their time to set this one up without Honey’s supervision. 

There are so many things that could go wrong. The alcohol was supposed to take the edge off. Honey wishes she was at the house and she’d left the dinner to Bea. That was the original plan, before the breakup happened on Tuesday. Now, Bea isn’t really that comfortable without Honey acting as a buffer between her and the boys. There’s definitely an awkwardness between her and Quinn, although they’re both trying to ignore it. Honey has seen Quinn watching Bea. Bea isn’t oblivious, either.

Other than the glances between Bea and Quinn, the dinner has been pretty good. The boys seem to believe that it’s their last hoo-rah together and they’re making the most of it. When she’s not worried about how things are going at the rental house, Honey is laughing at Jack’s stupid jokes or at the other boys’ comebacks and quips.

‘One more round’ turns into two before they leave. It’s normal for a Mexico trip to end in a few more drinks than expected, especially as the weekend approaches. By the time they’re walking out the door, the sun has started setting, and Sarah has texted Honey that everyone is ready for them to come back.

She and Bea are holding in their excitement well on the drive back to the house, sharing looks with each other and trying not to spill the secret at the last second.

“What the hell,” Quinn wonders under his breath, sounding confused as he pulls into the driveway and sees that there are more than a few cars parked in front of the house. 

The crowd of people in front of the house should be a dead giveaway to what’s going on. There are tons of familiar faces in the crowd, an impressive group considering Honey only had this idea on Tuesday morning while the ladies were in their knitting circle. 

Bea is bouncing in her seat, jumping out of the car as Quinn puts it into park. Honey exits after her and grins, hoping to find excitement and surprise on her friends’ faces. 

“Surprise!” shouts the crowd around the front of the house. 

“Welcome to your going away party!” Vera adds. She’s right at the front of the crowd with the other ladies, holding gift bags with the boys’ hockey numbers on them. “Come and get your presents.”

They’re all sufficiently buzzed, but Honey is glad to see that they can all pass a sobriety test; the boys don’t stumble or stagger at all on their way towards their respective present-presenter.

It’s really cute how Cole hugs Vera and Trevor accepts a kiss on the cheek from Scarlett. Luke hugs Gillian with one arm and looks over her shoulder at Emma-Kate while he does, sending her a playfully inquisitive look that Honey assumes has to do with the gift. Quinn accepts his bag from Sacha and Jack thanks Rosalind for his. It’s sweet– the ladies had dropped their current projects to create something for each boy, having only two days to craft a knitted item. She knows what each of them are and it’s a wonder that the ladies’ hands aren’t sore and laden with blisters and calluses. 

Vera knitted a sweater for Cole, her favorite of the boys. She asked Honey to see what colors Cole’s hockey team is, so she ended up knitting a navy sweater with red cuffs and a red hem to try and stay on theme as best she could. It was so precious.

Trevor got a sweater too, although his is a cable-knit conglomeration of all of the leftover half-skeins Scarlett has amassed over the past year. The colors change without warning and don’t follow a specific pattern, but Trevor is delighted with it. Honey snorts when he pulls it on over his clothes then and there. Of course he does, even though the temperature is in the high 70s. It’s warm and he’s out here wearing a sweater– maybe if they’re still out partying at two in the morning, it’ll pay off. 

The Hughes boys got beanies, since half of the pictures that came up when Honey looked them up for the ladies featured them walking through hockey arenas in suits and knitted toques. Quinn’s is dark green with a blue brim and Honey notices his tiny, quirked smile as he examines it. He hugs Sacha and thanks her again before tucking the hat into the pocket of his shorts.

Jack and Luke’s beanies nearly match, since each lady except Scarlett tried to match each boys’ team colors. They’re both black and white, although Jack’s is striped and Luke’s is a solid black with a firetruck red rim. There’s a patch on the brim of Luke’s that he seems particularly amused by. It’s black with white letters and a red heart– Honey can’t read what it says– but Emma-Kate is snickering to herself with her tongue poking between her teeth. It must have been her idea. Luke’s eyes tilt up to look up at her and he chuckles, shaking his head. Jack pulls his beanie on, just like Trevor did with his sweater, and Luke places his back in the gift bag. 

The party lingers in the front for a little while longer, with the boys talking to people in the crowd as Honey and Bea (and Earl) walk around the house into the backyard. It looks gorgeous– there are ladders leaning against the side of the house, which Honey assumed were used to hang the fairy lights that are twinkling along the balcony of the house. There are also poles sticking up in the yard, right at the edge of the concrete pad that the boys used as their rink, which allow fairy lights to freefall against the sky like a canopy of stars. 

Honey is glad that she dressed up today in her black, ribbed tank top and long, red boho skirt. There’s music playing through a speaker that Sarah brought with her and Honey wants to dance. The cicadas are out and singing along with the music, trying to screech over the lyrics. 

Bea also dressed up. She’s wearing a white bodysuit that ties in the back with a ruffly, dandelion-colored gingham skirt. She did her hair during her lunch break at the Nook, curling the strands into loose waves that make her look like she belongs on the beach. They need to get a picture.

Earl is stoking the bonfire in the pit that the boys made at the beginning of the summer, so the girls bother him to take their photo for a couple of minutes before he relents. They pose under the lights and hug each other, giggling when Bea turns her head and smushes her lips into Honey’s cheek. 

It’s then that the boys manage to migrate into the backyard. While other guests are heading towards the snack and drink table, or the bonfire, the guys are barreling into Honey and Bea’s photos. Jack grabs Bea’s waist and throws her over his shoulder, sticking his tongue out at the camera. Earl snaps a picture as Bea shrieks and laughs.

After minutes of wrangling, and convincing the boys to really smile, they get a couple of decent pictures together. Luke’s arm is thrown over Honey’s shoulder and Trevor’s arm is around her waist, holding her so tightly that their hips are touching.

Earl eventually gives up and hands the phone back to Bea, saying he’s not a photographer and he expects to be paid if they want any more pictures. Honey thinks he just wants to get back to the fire, which is every man’s happy place, it seems. There’s definitely a dichotomy here. So many of the men and husbands that came along to this party are mingling around the fire with their beer bottles in hand, while the women are all around. It makes Honey laugh, to be honest.

Trevor sticks by her side the whole night. Honey tells him that he can go hang out with Cole or dance around with Jack, but Trevor wraps his index finger around her pinkie and takes a sip from his beer instead. 

They talk with the ladies and with Joan, then with the guys from the Scruffy’s band. Honey challenges Andrew, the bass player, to a game of pool in the basement of the rental house. She still doesn’t win against him– maybe 2025 will be the year that she finally hustles Andrew. Arn, the lead singer of the band, takes her place and promises to “show her how it’s done,” which makes Honey roll her eyes and “hardy-har” at him. She and Trevor go back outside and join Bea around the bonfire.

The party started pretty late for most residents of Litchton. Honey and Bea didn’t meet up with the guys until after the Nook closed for the night, then they’d had about four drinks over two-ish hours, and then they came to the party. A lot of the older people from town, like Ada, have left the going away party with a final well-wish and a wave. Ada even offered to open the store tomorrow morning, so that Bea doesn’t have to leave early if she doesn’t want to. Bea had laughed and said she wouldn’t say no to that, but that she’ll have to make up for all the late starts during the school year.

They started with maybe fifty people, and that’s a generous estimate, but now they’re down to twenty or so. Sarah and Ethan are packing up the trailer bar for the night, but there’s plenty of beer leftover. Tyler ran out to go relieve the babysitter, while Jessie wanted to hang around a bit and talk to some of her old high school acquaintances that Honey has gotten to know over the years. Those four have probably been the oldest people at the party in the last half-hour.

Luke and Emma-Kate are chatting under the covered porch, feet in the hot tub. Jack and Cole are on the dance floor with a couple of Emma-Kate’s NC State friends. Honey doesn’t know how she convinced them to take a road trip to bumfuck western North Carolina during the first week of classes, but she has a feeling that the cute hockey stars might’ve played a factor. 

Both Bea and Quinn are seated around the fire with the townies. Lucía and her older brother Diego made it to the party and are sitting between Bea and Quinn, talking to the person to their side. Diego has a blunt between his fingers and keeps throwing looks at Griffin and his cop-buddy Joshua, who are also sitting around the fire. Diego is arching his eyebrow like The Rock towards the pair every couple minutes and making Griffin laugh to the point that he can’t even look in Diego’s direction anymore.

“You okay, sweet girl?” Honey asks, touching Bea’s shoulder. She’s staring into the fire and lifting her eyes to survey the group every once in a while or to look at Luce when they’re having a conversation.  

Bea puckers her lips at Honey and blows her a kiss. “Yeah, I’m good.” She pouts at Honey and continues to explain, “Coming down from the buzz, so I’m like hungover and drunk at the same time. I think I prefer morning hangovers. It’s also sad that the guys are leaving.” 

Trevor chuckles next to Bea and places his hand on the back of her folding chair. “You’re missing me already?”

Bea rolls her eyes. She knocks her head against his hand. “Not you, you take away my Honey time.”

“Here, Hon, you can have my chair,” Griffin offers, standing up and bringing the chair over to where they’re standing. 

“No, Griff, I’m okay standing and you had it first,” Honey says, waving him off. She doesn’t really want to sit, especially not if she’s taking Griffin’s chair. She’s just checking with Bea, and then she and Trevor are going to dance. Honey’s phone is connected to the speaker now, so all of her favorite music is playing. 

Griffin shakes his head and plants the chair next to Bea. “I’m going to grab another beer and use the bathroom anyway, don’t worry about it.”

“Griffin,” Bea sing-songs. “I know you’re trying to be gentlemanly–”

At that, Trevor’s hand slides around Honey’s hip possessively. 

“–but stop trying to force your chivalry on my best friend,” Bea finishes. A grin passes over her face after she ends her sentence.

Griffin laughs. He taps Bea’s forehead and she bites at Griffin’s finger when he pulls away. He leaves the circle and Bea shoots the hairband around her wrist at his retreating back.

Honey catches Quinn watching them, but he averts his eyes quickly when he sees that Honey is watching him. 

She feels like her stomach is sinking into the dirt. Honey tilts her head to the side, taking in Quinn’s shrunken posture, and sighs.

Trevor sinks into the chair Griffin left behind and pulls Honey onto his lap. She goes willingly, but leans forward and rests her elbows on the arm of Bea’s chair. 

“Are you going to talk to him?” Honey asks under her breath. “You’re both miserable.”

“I can’t,” Bea deflects in a low voice, matching Honey’s tone. She looks at Quinn and looks away just as quickly, biting the inside of her cheek.

Honey presses her lips together and blinks at Bea.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bea complains, rolling her shoulder up and grimacing in blatant discomfort. “I feel bad, but it’s not…”

“Bea, you have to talk to him,” Honey tells her gently. “He’s not gone yet and you love him.”

Bea looks at her hands and rubs her thumb over the lines on her palm.

“He loves you,” Honey prods. She touches Bea’s elbow. “Finish the summer on a good note.”

“We’re broken up,” Bea reiterates to Honey, an unnecessary reminder of something Honey knows all too well. She was there with Bea before and after it happened. She knows.

“And that’s fine,” Honey says. “But neither of you want to be. You can’t just ignore him.”

Bea takes a deep breath and peeks at Quinn. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispers, still gazing in his direction. 

As if Quinn can feel the eyes on him, Honey sees him glance up and make eye contact with Bea. The corners of his lips turn up slightly in a reassuring smile before he looks away. 

She does the same. 

Honey tucks a lock of hair behind Bea’s ear. “You can do this.”

Trevor’s hands squeeze Honey’s hips and she gets the hint– he’s a little needy for attention. He managed to wait until the end of her and Bea’s conversation, which she’s happy about. It’s the bare minimum, and yet Trevor is impatient and bounces between one thing and another within minutes. He’s so sweet, and he gets rather restless quickly.

She wants to dance anyway. It’s time. Honey stands and pats Bea’s shoulder before she and Trevor approach the makeshift dance floor. She holds his hand and leads him there.

“You’re really good at crisis management,” Trevor says, turning Honey around so that they’re face to face. He puts his hands on her hips and holds her close. 

“I’ve had lots of practice,” Honey replies. She twines her arms around Trevor’s neck and knocks her nose against his. “Five years of it.”

Trevor hums and frowns, leaning in and stealing Honey’s lips a few times. “I hate remembering that,” he drawls. He pecks her lips again. “But you are very good at it. I like that you take care of people so well.”

Honey feels her cheeks go red and she shakes her head, looking over his shoulder at Jack and his brunette. 

Trevor kisses over Honey’s neck and her shoulder. They sway to the music, staying close and breathing in time with each other. 

Honey rests her temple against Trevor’s cheek. She laughs and corrects him when his hands fall from her hips to her ass. She can feel him smiling in a cheeky way after she tells him to move his hands back to a respectable place, although he obeys in an instant. 

A few minutes later, Trevor taps Honey’s waist with his thumb. “They’re dancing.”

Honey is confused for a minute, then her eyebrows lift towards her hairline. “Bea and Quinn?”

“Mhm,” Trevor hums. He spins them around in place so that Honey can creepily watch Bea and Quinn dancing behind them. 

Bea’s got a hand on Quinn’s shoulder, her other hand held in his out to her right side. They’ve got a relaxed-ballroom dance stance instead of the closer hold that Trevor and Honey have on each other. Quinn’s hand is on Bea’s waist and they seem to be talking, albeit in stilted conversation, as they move. 

Quinn’s fingers are tense, partially lifted off of Bea’s waist, like he’s not sure if he can touch her. They relax when Bea steps closer and lets her forearm rest on his bicep, faces close enough that they can probably feel each others’ breath. They look… happy to be like this, but hesitant.

Honey understands why Bea is so choked up every time she has to be near Quinn. After all, Honey doesn’t want Trevor to leave, but it’s inevitable. The same is true for Bea and Quinn. The summer and their time in Litchton was always going to end. Distance is a just a cruel snip of fate.

Honey gulps as they turn, catching the look in Bea’s glassy eyes, fastened on Quinn’s face. She’s biting her lower lip while she studies him. It’s like Quinn is telling her something, but she can’t hear him without remembering what it’s like to kiss him. She’s tormented by how much she likes him and taunted by the fact that it could never work.

Honey loses them in her sight as she and Trevor spin on the floor. Honey takes a sharp inhale and blinks, coming back to herself. 

“I don’t want to miss you in the fall,” Honey says suddenly, as if jolted awake. 

“What?” Trevor asks, thoroughly confused.

“When Bea and Quinn broke up, she said it made the most sense? I don’t think it makes sense for us,” Honey stammers, shaking her head. 

“What are you talking about?” Trevor asks.

Of course he’s confused, since they already decided that they’d be staying together after Trevor leaves, but Honey has to say what’s on her mind regardless. She distantly recognizes the song that has started to play– “A year from now, we’ll all be gone…”

“I never wanted to see Thomas again after we broke up, but I never want to be without you,” Honey says. “We can’t break up.”

“Honey, we’re not breaking up,” Trevor agrees. 

She understands what he meant now– when he came to the Nook for the first time, Trevor told her that he liked her name because it was like he got to call her something special, something sweet. It rubbed her the wrong way then, but hearing his tender tone now makes Honey want to weep. Her name only sounds right, like this, when he says it. “I’m in this. You’re stuck with me. God help you.”

His sincere words break a dam in Honey’s ribs, causing her to giggle. “You’re not going to make me beg?” She jabs back, grateful that he didn’t take her hurried words in a more serious, concerned, worried way. 

Trevor leans down to mouth over her pulse point. “Oh, every day of your life. Know how much you like it, gotta keep my girlfriend happy,” he mumbles along her skin. 

Honey lets out a contented sigh. She hugs Trevor closer. “Knew you were good for something.”

“That’s why you decided to keep me around, hm?” Trevor teases with a smile at the curve of her jaw. “The sex?”

“One of the reasons,” Honey teases back.

“Yeah? What are the others?” Trevor asks. He’s goading her into giving him compliments, but Honey is more than willing to comply.

Honey pulls him up to meet her lips. “I love you,” she says after the kiss.

Trevor grins, his chipped tooth that Honey is so fond of catching her eye. “I love you, too,” he replies and kisses her again.

“Holy shit, what did you two just say?” Cole demands suddenly from next to them. He’s dancing with Emma-Kate’s redheaded friend, to whom he bids goodbye with a squeeze of her hand and a wink. He turns back to Honey and Trevor. “When did this happen?”

“When did what happen,” Trevor asks, narrowing his eyes at Cole.

“The I Love You,” Cole explains, nodding between them pointedly. “Was that the first time?”

Honey blinks. She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve been betting on it for weeks,” Cole says. “If that’s the first time you’ve said I Love You, then Jack loses the bet and Quinn wins.”

Trevor scoffs. “That’s kind of funny. I wondered what those numbers on the back of the whiteboard were for.”

Honey’s jaw drops. The numbers that she noticed last week… they hadn’t meant anything to Honey, just doodles of something she assumed was hockey related. Now she gets it— it was their over/under on their relationship.

“He knows when we said I Love You for the first time,” Honey snaps incredulously, sucking her teeth. She looks out on the floor to find Jack. “He was in the room when I yelled about it to Bea.”

“Oh, cheater,” Cole complains, throwing a glance at Jack as well. He catches their gaze, then quickly pulls his brunette towards the hot tub with Luke and Emma-Kate. “That’s not fair. I thought you’d wait until the end of this year. Damn.” He whacks himself on the head gently. “I should’ve known, after all the sex dreams you had, Z. You said it first, didn’t you?”

Trevor is quick to change the subject. “So do we get a share of the money since you were betting on us?”

Honey turns to Trevor, on a completely separate page. “You had sex dreams about me?”

Trevor flushes red. 

“Oh yeah,” Cole laughs. “Why do you think he wanted to fuck you so bad on the boat on the Fourth of July?”

Honey cackles, throwing her head back. She smushes Trevor’s cheeks between her thumb and forefinger. “You’re such a boy. Sex dreams…”

Trevor groans in the back of his throat and takes Honey’s hand. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Honey laughs again at his bizarre slang. Even though it’s a relatively common phrase, she somehow never expected to hear Trevor say it.

They go upstairs to his room, deserting the party and getting ready for bed. Trevor does his best to keep his hands on Honey as they change into their pajamas, brush their teeth, wash their faces, and climb into bed. Honey left her phone downstairs to keep playing the music, but she’s sure Bea will grab it when the party wraps up. She can still hear the music playing and some people chatting outside, their voices floating up over Trevor’s balcony and seeping through the sliding glass door, muffled to something intelligible.

They lay there, Honey pulled halfway onto Trevor’s chest so that she can listen to his heartbeat, for a while before dozing off. Honey almost falls asleep in Trevor’s arms, hearing him drone on and on about something that she stopped listening to a long time ago, when Quinn opens Trevor’s door without knocking. He’s lucky that they’re not in a compromising position. Honey is lucky that he’s not catching them in a compromising position– that would be humiliating.

“Honey,” Quinn says breathlessly. He stares at her and runs his fingers through his hair.

Honey sits up from where she was tucked against Trevor’s body. “What?” She asks. She's never seen Quinn like this, all flushed and frantic.

“It’s Bea, I don't know what to do,” Quinn tells her, tugging at his t-shirt anxiously. “Can you come?”

The fact that Honey is just in one of Trevor's big shirts and her panties doesn’t matter anymore. She has left Trevor’s side in a flash and goes down the hall ahead of Quinn, throwing his bedroom door open and not caring that it bangs off the wall. Bea is sitting in Quinn’s bed, wrapped in the sheets, face buried in her hands. 

“What happened?” Honey behests in a sharp voice, talking to Quinn while approaching the bed and brushing Bea’s hair with her fingers. 

“Just–” Quinn starts, but Bea’s voice leaks through the cracks of her fingers and Honey tunes the man out automatically, wanting to hear Bea’s side.

“It’s just not fair,” Bea whimpers. “How can it be like this and it still won’t work?”

“It can work,” Quinn insists. “Bea, I told you, we don’t have to–”

Bea’s shoulders start to shake and Honey wraps her arms around her. She narrows her eyes at Quinn. “You’re upsetting her,” she says. “You knew what you were getting into from the jump.”

“But I–” Quinn argues.

“No,” Honey states. She flashes him a look. “Quinn.”

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” he says in a softer voice, directing his words at Bea. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

Bea lifts her head and eyes Quinn. It takes a moment, but she nods. 

“Are you sure?” Honey asks, wiping a tear off of Bea’s cheek. 

“We have to talk,” Bea says. “We… we have to talk.”

Honey nods slowly. “Okay,” she says tentatively. “Let’s go to Trev’s room.”

Still wrapped in Quinn’s sheet, they walk down the hall and go into Trevor’s bathroom. Honey gives Bea the shirt that she was wearing so that she can cover up, then goes back into Trevor’s room to grab a new one. She returns to Bea only seconds later and locks the bathroom door behind them.

“What happened?” Honey asks again after sitting in complete silence on the ledge of the jacuzzi for five minutes.

Bea takes a deep breath and scrubs her hands over her face. “Breakup sex,” she explains. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“But you wanted to,” Honey checks. “It wasn’t, like–”

Bea’s eyes grow wide. “God, no! No, Quinn wouldn’t do that. It was consensual for both of us and it was good sex, just sad, and I was overwhelmed afterward.”

Honey pinches her lips together, evaluating Bea. After a beat, she says, “You told him.”

Bea chews on a hangnail and avoids Honey’s eyes.

“Bea, look at me,” Honey says, then waits for her to do so. “You told him that you love him.”

Bea holds eye contact, then surveys the tile floor of the bathroom. Her voice is quiet when she speaks. “I shouldn’t have.”

Honey takes in a breath. “Bea…”

“Do you want to look into therapists with me tomorrow?” Bea asks, laughing lightly. She’s still got a sheen of tears in her eyes, but her question is genuine.

Honey lets a silence fall between them again, holding eye contact with Bea. She doesn’t know what to think, really. Honey thinks that Bea should go for it with Quinn, since they both care so much and are so happy when they’re together. They should see if they can make it. It’s the unknown and the chance that something could go wrong that Bea is afraid of, and Honey gets that. She feels the same way, but Bea is so dedicated to the things she cares about. If she wanted to commit to Quinn, they would make it, and if they don’t, at least they tried.

“I’ll see if Dr. Harris does online appointments,” Honey eventually agrees, referring to the therapist she used to see in Charlotte after Thomas leaked her nudes to the public. “We need to get these commitment issues in check, Bea. I want you to be happy. I want you to be able to be with Quinn, if that’s what you want.”

Bea’s smile is rueful. “That won’t happen,” Bea repeats for the umpteenth time. “If the Quinn thing wasn’t over before, it definitely is now. Crying after your ex-boyfriend just came inside you isn’t a very appealing thing.”

Honey covers her face. She’s at a loss for words. “Alright.”

Bea lets out a chuckle, but it trails off. “I don’t know what I’m going to say to him tomorrow.”

“Try not to have breakup sex again,” Honey suggests.

“Well, yes,” Bea agrees. “That… that probably wasn’t one of my better ideas. He’s just– I mean, you know how you kept thinking that you wanted Trevor, and then took it back, and the cycle kept repeating? Right at the beginning of the summer?”

Honey cringes. That seems so stupid, now. She was overthinking so much and it made her so anxious. “Yeah.”

“I just can’t stay away from Q,” Bea sighs. She forms the words slowly in her mouth. “I… love him.”

“I know,” Honey affirms. She offers a small smile at Bea, which the girl returns. “I’m here for you.”

“Wanna have a sleepover?” Bea asks, sounding almost like when they were children trying to scheme their parents into letting them spend more time together.

“Do we have to choreograph a dance to convince Trevor?” Honey teases.

“I think if you bat your eyelashes at him, he’ll agree.” Bea smiles and wipes her eyes one final time, some enthusiasm returning to her body.

Honey huffs out a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promises, standing and leaving the bathroom to ask Trevor for a sleepover.

Like Bea said, batting her eyelashes worked– plus a pouted bottom lip and a giggly “please.” All three of them sleep in Trevor’s king-sized bed that night, which might be the funniest thing Honey and Bea have ever done.

89:90 – TREVOR

Trevor’s final task of the day is to clean out the fridge. They split the house up into different areas for cleaning, although Jack is going to do the final run-though since he’s the neatest of all of them. Cole cleaned his room and the basement, Luke cleaned the bunk-bed room and the living room and balconies, Jack took his room and the hallways and stairwells and did a sweep of the outside, and Quinn had to do his room and the bathrooms. Trevor was left with his room, the kitchen, and the dining room. It was fair enough. 

Looking into the fridge, though, Trevor is intimidated by his final task. It’s no secret that the boys love to eat. They’re all in their early 20s, with Quinn finally turning 25 just next month and entering those frightening mid-20s where his frontal lobe will fully develop. Luke is a moose, the youngest of them and yet able to put away the most food, but the state of the fridge reflects all of their hunger and diet. 

Even though they’re leaving tomorrow, the fridge is still stuffed with food. There’s eggs and greek yogurt and a bunch of different kinds of cheese. They’ve got two gallons of milk on one of the shelves, one unopened and one half-drunk, which they’ve been throwing in protein shakes and fruity smoothies all summer. There are a couple of BlenderBottles near the milk, storing drinks that the guys never quite finished, and Trevor wilts at the idea of cleaning them out, not knowing how long they’ve been in there. 

Quinn has a bunch of uneaten meals he prepped last weekend, with quinoa and brown rise and whatever kind of meat he threw into the bowl that day. There’s chicken and turkey stuffed away in massive ziplock bags for the guys to take out and throw onto a sandwich or into a wrap whenever they feel like. There’s a tupperware of lean ground beef from when Luke made tacos a few days ago, which he’s been slowly picking at. They have stacks of boxes of cold cuts for sandwiches, none of which they’ll be able to finish. It’s a waste. Trevor realizes that they should’ve started thinking about how much food they have last week– and trying to eat it all until there’s nothing left by the end of the week– but they didn’t. Plus, they’ve got all the leftover food from the party last night, and a bunch of loose cans and bottles of beer on the next shelf, taking up space.

The boxes for veggies and fruits are no better. Quinn bought a bunch of vegetables for his salads and bowls– carrots, celery, cucumber, peppers, spinach, kale, lettuce, avocado… it’s a nightmare. Trevor doesn’t even know how they all fit into the bin. The next one with their fruit for smoothies is no better, packed to the brim, and there’s a thing of hummus sitting atop the carton of blueberries. It doesn’t belong there, but Trevor guesses that there was just no room anywhere else.

The shelves on the doors house a bunch of items that he can probably leave in the rental house for the owners to decide their fate. It’s a bunch of sauces, vingaigrettes and salad dressings, a jar of pickles and a couple of jars of jam, ketchup, mustard, and mayo. In a plastic cup, they’ve got a bunch of packets of soy sauce that came with the Chinese food they ordered months ago, and Trevor isn’t even sure you’re supposed to refrigerate soy sauce packets. He’s pretty sure those could’ve stayed in the pantry.

He wishes he could throw the meat and the fruit in the freezer, although that would only keep it fresh for so long, but the freezer is equally stuffed with items. Trevor won’t mess with any of that– the owners can eat the frozen pizzas or the frozen chicken and he doesn’t have to worry about that. It might be nice to come back to a relatively full freezer, knowing that you won’t have to go and buy more stuff anytime soon. Plus, the frozen food won’t go bad. It’ll be fine.

He kind of wishes that Honey had told him about the surprise party, although he loved how surprising it was. He wore his sweater from Scarlett this morning until it got too hot to wear in the August heat. If he’d known, he could’ve asked her to tell the people to use the items in their fridge. He’s sure that the ladies could’ve whipped something up with the random and nutritious items in their kitchen. At their base, the food doesn’t make for “party food,” but Trevor has faith in the ladies. They’ve attended decades of church potlucks and homecomings and can make something out of nothing, like grandmother magic. 

Ugh. But now he has to clean.

His only consolation is that Honey and Bea are coming over for dinner tonight, so they’ll be able to put away two more servings of food than if it was just the boys in the house. Unfortunately, Bea won’t be able to help Trevor toss food in the trash since she’s supposed to have a big conversation with Quinn– they’re still not going to stay together when the boys leave, to Trevor’s knowledge– but Honey will be around to help. He gets to spend more time with his girlfriend doing domestic things. This must be where the phrase ‘domestic bliss’ comes from.

He’s not looking forward to the months that he’ll endure without seeing Honey in person. His game schedule came out a little while ago, back in July, and he’s been trying to pinpoint which games Honey might want to come to. At the very earliest, he could see her at the end of October, when he plays in Jersey for the first time this season. He thinks that she, and Bea if she wants to come, might get a kick out of seeing Trevor and Jack and Luke on the ice together. Quinn comes to California in the first week of November, so maybe she’d want to come to that. She could come to Montréal with him in early December to face off with Cole, but Trevor doesn’t know if Honey has a passport. He needs to ask before he gets tickets for her. He’ll definitely see her over Christmas, since he promised to see her parents again over the holidays, and he’d love to spend New Year’s together. The Devils play in California on the last day of the year, so they could spend that time together. At the very latest, Trevor will see her January 12th when he plays in Raleigh for the first time this season.

If it takes that long to see Honey, they would spend about five months apart. Trevor detests that. He sees what his teammates mean now when they talk about how it’s hard to be apart from their girlfriends and wives and families.

They play the Canes again in March, but in Anaheim. Trevor will certainly ask Honey to come out for that one. Who knows, she might become a die-hard Canes fan now that she has a reason to pay attention to hockey. Her parents are big NC State fans, having both gone there– and wanting their daughter to continue the tradition– so the family has a stake in Raleigh. If Honey doesn’t learn to love the Ducks for her boyfriend, because of her hatred of California, then she ought to become a fan of her hometown team. 

Who knows? Maybe, a couple of years down the line, if Honey isn’t willing to move to California with Trevor… he’ll try to broker a deal with the Canes and get a trade. He’ll be a free agent again in 2026. Anything is possible.

Trevor closes the fridge and takes a lap around the kitchen. Once he makes it back in front of the refrigerator, there’s nothing left to do but open the doors. 

He takes another lap.

He rolls his neck back, trying to crack it the next time he makes it in front of the fridge. He jumps up and down and stretches his body, focusing on his arms and shoulders. Trevor isn’t exactly sure why he’s so intimidated by the idea of cleaning out this fridge, but he is. He lets out three quick, harsh breaths, and sets his hands on the door handles.

“Why are you so weird?”

Trevor jumps, his shoulders flying up towards his earlobes. “Jesus,” he curses. “You can’t fucking sneak up on me like that, Bea.”

She’s got a perturbed look on her face, looking at him judgmentally. Her hair is in two messy braids on either side of her face, sunglasses sat atop her head and keeping her flyaways out of her face. She squints at him. The judgment is whatever, but Trevor is more concerned with the fact that she’s alone.

“Where’s my girlfriend?” he asks.

“Our girlfriend,” Bea corrects snarkily.

“You’re not dating her,” Trevor sneers. He goes a bit farther than he’s supposed to without thinking. “You’re not dating anyone.”

Bea rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “She’s upstairs, talking to Quinn before I go up there and talk to him myself.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh,’” Bea mocks. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning out the fridge,” Trevor answers her. 

Bea makes a face. “Why?”

“Because we leave tomorrow?” Trevor sasses in the same tone.

“Don’t get rid of this shit,” Bea tells him. “I’ll take the milk and bring it to the Nook for our shitty coffee maker. Ada will take your ripe fruit, or Honey will. I’ll put the deli meat in the fridge at the Nook too, I forget to make lunch all the time and I always need to improvise with the nothingness we have. Sarah will take the rest of the unopened cheese so she can pair it with wines at tastings. Earl will take just about all of the meat you have.”

She says it so simply and Trevor stares at her. 

Bea starts to laugh. “You didn’t think about the people around you? Did you think you’d be able to throw all of this food away and get away with it? Honey would’ve killed you for wasting so much.”

Trevor scowls and looks away from the girl, focusing his attention on the refrigerator again. 

“Come on, Trevor, don’t be a pouty baby,” Bea giggles. “At least you don’t have to be the shame of Litchton, throwing away all of your groceries like the spoiled, rich, professional athlete you are.”

“You’re kind of a bitch,” Trevor tells her. 

Bea shrugs. “I don’t have to take the food if you don’t want me to.”

His scowl turns into a glower. “You can’t take it back now.”

Bea smirks to herself and watches as Trevor opens the fridge and starts to sort through all of the old protein shakes and fruit smoothies that need to be removed. Trevor sees her perk up in the corner of his eye and she steps forward, reaching past him and grabbing a slender aluminum can and sets it on the counter. “You might want to keep that for yourself.” She’s got a stupid little smile on her face.

Trevor shoos her away and snatches the bottle back, moving it to the counter on the other side of the fridge. He sneaks a peek at it when Bea has dropped onto the couch in the living room and thrown her feet up on the freshly-cleaned table. He rolls his eyes– it’s the can of Reddi-Whip Cole bought last week after Vera gave him a peach cobbler for his help with inventory on Tuesday. Bea thinks she’s hilarious.

“He’s ready for you,” Honey’s voice says, floating down the hallway. Bea jumps up from the couch and goes down the hall, seeming to stop in front of Honey so that she can add, “Don’t have breakup sex with him again.”

Trevor snorts and closes the fridge door on his head as best he can to hide his laughter. Honey nudges his knee forward until it buckles once she nears Trevor, a reproachful frown on her face. “Don’t laugh at her. Things are hard.”

That’s what she said. Trevor sucks on his teeth and makes eye contact with Honey, trying not to laugh even more. 

She moves like she’s about to bop him in the balls, so Trevor instinctively covers his junk with his hands and distances himself from Honey. She scoffs a laugh and takes his spot in front of the fridge. “What are we making for dinner?”

Trevor takes it as an invitation and plasters himself to Honey’s back, pressing his soft cock against her behind. “I dunno,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I know what dessert is, though.”

Honey makes a surprised sound that comes out more like a squawk, mouth dropping open and body squirming in Trevor’s arms. “You horny motherfucker,” she rebukes.

Trevor tightens his grip and laughs under his breath, weaseling his way closer to Honey and kissing her neck. “It’ll be fun. C’mon, sweet girl, I leave tomorrow. I need to have you in my bed after dinner.”

She rolls her eyes but goes lax in Trevor’s grip. “Well, when you put it that way,” she concedes sarcastically. Her hand comes up to Trevor’s hair, scratching his scalp, and he hums into her pulse point, leaving peck after peck on the beating vein. “Let’s get this fridge fixed and make some dinner, then we can do… something sweet.”

Trevor is too busy hearing the consent from Honey to fuck all night to hear the lightbulb going off above her head. He’s smiling into her shoulder.

Honey is good at organizing– Trevor has said it before, but he has to repeat it now. She manages the refrigerator so well, creating sections for each person that will receive the food. Honey says that she’ll borrow Earl’s truck tomorrow and his big cooler to store the food, trucking a load to the Nook while the boys pack the cars. She promises that she’ll be back by the time Trevor leaves, not that he’d leave without putting off the goodbye as long as he can. 

He really has to leave by 11, since that’s when checkout is, but Trevor might have to get lunch with Honey if Cole allows him to. He’s flying out of D.C. pretty late, around 9 o’clock, and it’s about a six and a half hour drive. Surely he’d be okay with grabbing lunch. It’ll be tight, but they can make it with time to spare. In his heart, Trevor knows that lunch is unlikely, but he’s trying to convince himself that it can work logistically. 

Honey gives him all of the used dishes to clean while she handles the food, until there’s nothing left for Trevor to do but help. Even then, she hands him leftovers to dig into and finish off before she trusts him with sorting items in her system. Trevor doesn’t mind– he’s not as bottomless as Luke, but he can put away a good chunk of a buffet.

Bea and Quinn join Honey and Trevor downstairs as they finish sorting food. Trevor manages to read the room this time and he shares a look with Honey. There’s a thick tension between Bea and Quinn, but they’re shouldering their way through it. Trevor catches both of them casually touching each other as the foursome moves around the kitchen to prepare dinner. There’s a hand on the small of Bea’s back to squeeze behind her and a hand on Quinn’s bicep when Bea leans past him to grab a knife from the block to chop up a cucumber for the salad. They must’ve come to some conclusion– or a middle-ground that worked better for them than the original breakup on Tuesday.

The boys wander into the kitchen at different intervals. By the time dinner is served, they’re all cramped together in the tiny space and chatting like this isn’t the last time they’ll have a night like this for… who knows how long.

It’s bittersweet. While Trevor is having the time of his life eating pounds and pounds of food with his best friends, his girlfriend, and Bea, he’s also anxious to go upstairs. Honey is in no rush to leave the table. 

They sit there for hours, long after the food has gone cold. They continue eating this whole time and manage to get rid of a lot of the food Trevor was stressing about. Honey holds his hand on top of the table and strokes the back of his fingers with her thumb. 

The guys and Bea leave Honey and Trevor to clean up the kitchen again after cooking and eating– “The kitchen was your realm, dude, why should we have to clean up your shit?” was their argument– and they go downstairs to watch a movie in the basement. 

Honey sits on the counter and kicks her feet, watching Trevor dry the dishes and put them away. When he’s done, and about to grab a beer from their supply, Honey beckons Trevor over. “C’mere, Trev,” she requests, leaning forward to kiss him when he steps between her legs. Her hands fist in the hem of his shirt, tugging. “You should take this off.”

Trevor’s stomach swoops. “Yeah?” He lets his hand trail along the neckline Honey’s tank top, caressing the soft skin of her breasts. 

“I had a funny idea,” Honey divulges sneakily. 

“Mm, that sounds fun,” Trevor hums. He slides his left hand down to palm Honey’s tit and gives it a squeeze.

She laughs. “I didn’t even tell you what it is yet,” she says.

“All I know is that you want me to take my shirt off and we’re kissing,” Trevor says. “No matter what your idea is, it’ll be fun.”

Honey mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘horndog’ before taking things into her own hands and pulling Trevor’s shirt up and over his head. Her hands brush over his bare skin, fingers dancing along the tattoo on his ribs before her thumb brushes his nipple. One of her hands leaves him, but Trevor is shivering from the gentle touch on his chest.

Her tongue is flat against his and Trevor moans before there’s a hissing sound and something cool touches Trevor’s stomach.

He pulls back from Honey and looks down, starting to laugh breathlessly when he sees the dollop of whipped cream on his sternum. “That is a funny idea,” Trevor says. “But I think you already had your chance to cover me in whipped cream.”

“So long ago,” Honey points out. She juts out her bottom lip and blinks innocently at Trevor. “You don’t want me to put a little cream on the tip of your dick and lick it off?”

Trevor is bombarded by an image of Honey on her knees, cheeks hollowed and lips wrapped around his cock. He struggles to wade through it and make it back to reality. “That’s… after my turn,” he stammers.

Honey pouts deepens, but Trevor will not fall for this. When Honey first licked whipped cream off of his body on Cole’s dare, the images of that plagued Trevor for days. He thought of all the ways he could get her back and now that he has the chance, he wants to make it even. He takes the can of whip from her hand and takes the appendage with his other, helping Honey off the counter and leading her upstairs.

“Get strippin’, Charlotte,” Trevor jokingly commands once he has his bedroom door locked behind them. He leans back against the wood and sprays a mouthful of whipped cream onto his tongue, swallowing the sweet treat as he watches her bite her tongue and drag her tank top up her body. She pops the button of her daisy dukes and lets them drop to the floor, stepping out of them and marching over to Trevor.

She kisses him against the door, her fingertips digging into his waistband like they did all of those weeks ago. “Don’t call me that,” she tells him after kissing him stupid. 

Trevor’s head is hazy from the movement of her lips, so he nods an agreement before she even finishes talking. 

Honey walks backward, pulling Trevor forward by the fabric around his abdomen, and kisses him over and over. 

Trevor can smell vanilla, Honey’s signature scent, on her skin and can almost taste cherries on her lips. He shakes the can of whipped cream absently, his palm splayed over the tattoo above Honey’s behind. He should cover that in whipped cream. 

It’s tempting, but he has something else he’d rather cover in the delicate white dessert. Her nipple piercings have been healed for years, and she once licked this stuff off of his nipples, and he wants to repay the favor. It’s his first order of business, actually. 

He goes down with Honey when she settles onto the bed, laying on her back. Trevor parts her lips with his tongue and nibbles on her bottom lip, making sure there’s not a part of her mouth that he hasn’t explored before he pulls away and tries to decide what pattern he wants to draw on Honey’s body.

He must take too long, since Honey opens her mouth and resumes her normal sassy, borderline bratty bossiness. “Maybe we should do my idea first, since you can’t seem to think of anyth–”

Trevor leans over her and sprays a mouthful of whip onto her tongue. “Quiet, you.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Honey replies, a little muffled. She swallows and licks some whip off of her upper lip. 

Trevor takes to decorating her body before she can tell him to hurry up again. He draws two arches over her breasts, then laughs to himself and connects the arches to make a heart, the base of which reaches her belly button. He draws two eyes on the heart– two dollops of the white substance on her nipples– and a curved line that is the heart’s smile. He adds two little legs to the heart and sprays a line above Honey’s waistband, creating a ground for the heart to stand on. 

Honey watches him with a tiny smile on her face, fond and sweet. “You’re a goof,” she eventually says when Trevor places the can on his nightstand. 

“I’m an artist,” Trevor corrects. He carefully makes his way on top of Honey, trying not to ruin his masterpiece before he can lick it away. He decides to start with the heart’s smile, sucking up the treat there as a precursor to the more erotic zones he decided to cover. 

Honey laughs when he moves to the heart’s legs, bracketing the pudge on her stomach that he likes to rest his head on so much when she sits on the couch and reads a book. “That tickles,” she tells Trevor. 

He digs his fingers into her sides at that, making her squirm and giggle. All the while, he continues licking the cream away.

His tongue trails along her hips, dangerously close to her pussy, cleaning up the line that he placed there. Honey’s breath gets a bit deeper when he laps at her skin so far south, yet too north for her liking. He can tell that she’s feeling it, understanding how sexy it was when she did this to him at the beginning of the summer, just because of the way her squirming morphs into something more subtle and needy. 

He ignores the twitch of her hips upward, just placing a hand on her hip and holding her down with gentle pressure. He goes back up to the body of the heart, kissing just below Honey’s belly button before licking up the left side of the heart. He goes up her torso, around her boobs, forcing himself not to indulge in the dots on her tits just yet, and back down to where he started. 

Slowly, achingly slow, Trevor kisses the middle of Honey’s stomach, up the line between her boobs, and to her clavicle. His thumbs rise from her waist and hip to her ribs, pressing into the thin skin mere millimeters from the curves of her breasts. 

“Gonna fuck you after I finish cleaning you up,” Trevor tells her. 

“Hm, you’d better,” Honey muses. “Feels like I’m about to explode, Trev.”

“Imagine how I felt after you left me hanging,” Trevor teases. 

“You rubbed yourself raw, didn’t you?” Honey asks.

Trevor laughs and nips at her neck. “Mean.”

“But true?”

“Mean,” Trevor repeats.

“Definitely true.”

He doesn’t respond, although she’s on the right track. If the boys hadn’t been on stakeout after the dare, he probably would’ve jerked it until his dick fell off. That’s how hot it was when she dropped to her knees and made her way up his body. Instead of answering Honey, Trevor hovers with his mouth just above one of her nipples. He flicks his tongue and takes off the top of the dollop of whipped cream, avoiding contact with Honey’s peaks. He does the same thing to the other, waiting to hear Honey open her mouth to tell him what to do before he covers her nipple with his mouth and damn near bites down, sucking and licking all the whipped cream off of her sensitive skin until there’s nothing but sweetened saliva cooling against her piercings. Even after cleaning both of her nipples off until they’re pristine again, Trevor alternates between them, showering them with attention and hearing Honey grow louder and louder each time he bites down.

“Trev, get your cock inside me,” Honey requests, twirling his hair around her fingers and stroking his neck. She stifles a snort, although Trevor hears it anyway. “Put your cream inside me.”

Trevor muffles his own laughter in her neck. “Good one,” he tells Honey sarcastically. “Very sexy.”

Honey giggles and scratches her nails down Trevor’s back. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“Totally.” Trevor nods in an overexaggerated way. He throws himself down on the bed next to Honey, laying on his back and lifting his hips to pull his sweats and underwear down. 

Honey rolls onto her side and pushes herself up onto her elbows, kissing the side of Trevor’s face before throwing her leg over his lap and straddling him. 

“Ooh,” Trevor muses, bringing his hands to Honey’s behind and palming her asscheeks. “You gonna ride me?”

“Just for the first round,” Honey replies. “Then I’m laying down and you get to do all the work.”

Trevor’s retort fails to sound from his mouth when Honey rolls her hips against his, her wet folds molding around the length of Trevor’s cock. His eyes probably grow bigger from the spark that ignites in his belly when her entrance drags along the ridges of his shaft. 

“You look pretty like this,” Honey compliments. She plants her hands on his stomach and grinds down again. “Under me.”

“You look prettier under me,” Trevor one-ups her, digging his fingers into her ass and spreading the cheeks. He bucks his hips up and makes sure his cockhead brushes her swollen clit. “But I love how you look on top.”

“You like seeing my boobs bounce.”

Trevor grins, showing his teeth to Honey. 

She laughs and hovers above him, wrapping a hand around Trevor’s cock and lining him up with her core. She lowers herself, biting her bottom lip and letting out a sigh as she fills herself. 

Trevor loves the weight of her body settling against him. It makes him feel even more surrounded by Honey, even more under her thumb. When she’s on top of him, the gravity of their position makes him feel so much better. Her insides are hot and gummy and Trevor can feel her slick pooling around his base once she starts to move. 

Her eye contact is insane, making Trevor squirm against the mattress. Her eyes almost affect him more than the grip her pussy has on his cock– evaluating Trevor, scrutinizing him, watching his every move. Trevor’s heartbeat only increases as she rocks her hips and milks the precum from his member. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Trevor mumbles.

Honey lets a sweet smile pass over her face and she tilts her head. “Aren’t you a sweetheart,” she says, pinching his sides gently before leaning forward to kiss him. 

Trevor’s hands travel from her ass to her waist, her back, and her tits. He moves her hair out of her face and touches her jaw as she sucks on his bottom lip. 

“I love you,” Honey breathes into Trevor’s mouth. 

A blurt of precum travels up Trevor’s cock and leaks into Honey’s insides. He has a physical reaction to her words– he’s so down bad, but God, he wouldn’t change anything. “I love you too.”

“I’m sad you have to go,” Honey says.

“I wish I could stay with you all the time,” Trevor replies. 

“I’m glad you came.”

Trevor groans when she clenches down on his length and starts to bounce faster. “Fuck,” he grits out. “That’s what she said.”

Honey closes her eyes and rests her forehead against Trevor’s. “If I weren’t so close to coming, I’d be so mad at you for ruining this moment.”

Trevor chuckles and lifts his chin so that their lips align. He thrusts his hips up in time with Honey’s movements, trying to match her rhythm as best he can. He soaks up the sounds that Honey makes, muffled and longing for more. She’s so tight and Trevor can feel how badly she wants him to fill her up.

He doesn’t make her wait long– once her tongue fills his mouth rather than his tongue entering hers, Trevor feels his balls tighten and he can’t hold back any longer. His cum spurts from his slit, cock twitching inside Honey as his pleasure explodes inside of her. 

Honey’s hips slow and she perches atop him. Her thumb sweeps across his lower lip, cleaning it of her saliva. She smirks at Trevor and removes herself from his lap, laying against the pillows and reaching for the can of whipped cream on the nightstand. 

Trevor watches her with curious, but confused eyes. She didn’t come yet. What is she doing? He picks up his head in surprise when she turns the can of whip on herself, spraying a bit of the cream onto her pubic mound.

Honey sets the can aside and grins at Trevor, proud of herself for her idea. “Dessert?” she asks.

Trevor laughs out loud and rolls onto his stomach, between her legs, and presses a kiss to her clit before licking all of the whipped cream away. He’ll get to the other kind shortly.

90:90 – HONEY

Honey sits on the edge of the tailgate of Earl’s truck, legs swinging beneath her. The polaroids in her pocket are a dead weight, burning a hole against her side. She’s nervous to give them to Trevor, so she decided to wait until the last minute, which is approaching any second. She’s just waiting for the boys to return from their final sweep of the house, making sure they didn’t forget to pack anything, which Honey is sure they did. There’s got to be something in that massive house that one of the boys forgot. 

Bea sits next to her. She twiddles her thumbs. They’ve already done the food-drops that Honey promised yesterday, stuffing fridges full of the boys’ food. They had to use both of their bodyweights to close the fridge in the Nook, since it was filled to the brim. 

The boys have packed up both of the cars. The Hughes boys are taking the big car to Charlotte and flying out from that airport, checking their many bags and landing in Detroit sometime this afternoon. Cole and Trevor are driving to D.C. tonight, where Cole will fly out, and then Trevor will drive the rest of the way to his hometown in New York tomorrow. He’ll spend about a week there, hanging out with his family, before he heads back to Anaheim. 

They stayed up late last night, talking and making out until two in the morning. Honey just didn’t want the night to end, since it meant that Trevor would be leaving when they wake up. They showered together this morning, having one last round before Trevor goes. He’s a horndog, but Honey is just as bad. She’s about to be without her boyfriend consistently for nine months and now that she’s got sex back– and she’s enjoying it very much– it’s not fun to give up. 

The front door opens and Jack leads the way out. He has a plastic bag in hand, which holds a bit of leftover laundry. Honey bets he’s going to try and stuff it in his backpack, which really can’t fit anything else without the seams ripping. Cole has a pair of rollerskates draped over the back his neck, the laces acting like a loose scarf. 

Honey swallows hard, feeling a lump in her throat grow. It was so nice to have them here this summer. She got really close to each of the boys and she’s sad to see them go, devastated that a summer like this probably won’t ever happen again for them. Of course, Trevor plans to come back next year, but the Hughes boys will stay in Michigan and Cole might do the same. She hopes that he will come to visit, but Honey knows that Quinn won’t unless he and Bea get back together, and if Quinn won’t, then the other brothers won’t visit. It’s sad. 

Bea hops down from the tailgate and Honey follows suit. The air is heavy as the boys approach.

“So this is it,” Cole says. He’s smiling, but there’s a twinge of sadness written into the smile. He reaches for Bea and pulls her into a hug, then pulls Honey into the mix. He squeezes them tight, an arm wrapped around each of their shoulders while the girls hug his waist. “You guys are the best. If you ever want to visit Montréal…”

Honey pulls away and tweaks Cole’s cheek. “Thanks, Coley. You’re always welcome back, you know. If hockey doesn’t work out for you, I think Vera would hire you on the spot, even if Earl thinks you’re too little to work in hardware.”

Cole puffs out his chest and kisses Bea’s cheek before she reluctantly lets go of him. “Earl would be lucky to have a spring chicken like me on board.” He grows more serious. “But really,” he says. “This was a great summer. I’m glad we met you both. I don’t think we would’ve made it a month without you.”

“I don’t think you could’ve made it a week,” Honey replies and squeezes his hand one more time before he heads over to Trevor’s car, opening the trunk without all of the bags spilling out and tucking his skates away.

Luke comes up to Honey next, bending down to encircle his arms around her waist and tuck his face into the crook of her neck while he hugs her. “You have to come see us when we’re in Raleigh,” Luke says, his voice bordering on distress. 

Honey pets through Luke’s hair, relishing in the way the curls feel against her fingers. “Just send me a text and I’ll be on my way,” Honey promises. 

Luke tightens his arms around Honey’s waist. “I never had a big sister, but if I did, I think she’d be a lot like you.”

Honey just about bursts into tears on the spot. “Oh, Lukey,” she simpers miserably before hiding her face in his shoulder. “I would have loved to have a little brother like you.”

Luke exhales shakily and pulls back. He sniffs like he’s welling up, but there isn’t any mist in his eyes, unlike Honey, who is nearly spilling over. He kisses the top of Honey’s head and pats her shoulder with a clumsy hand before Jack switches places with him.

His goodbye hug is energetic, sweeping Honey off of her feet and spinning her around. “Stop crying,” he tells her. “It’s not like we’re dying. You’ll see us again, especially if you keep this idiot around.” He jerks his head in Trevor’s direction and grins widely at Honey. 

“Hey,” Trevor complains just for the principle of being annoyed, since Honey can tell there is no heat behind it. 

She chuckles and fixes Jack’s baseball cap. “I expect you’ll be texting me?”

“Every time I miss you,” Jack replies. 

“So as soon as you get in the car,” Honey teases. She tucks a strand of hair behind Jack’s ear and presses a loud smooch on his cheek. “I’ll miss you too, J.”

“We play the Canes like four times before January,” Jack says. “Once before Thanksgiving and once after Christmas. You’ll be in town for both, right?”

“‘Course I will. I never go anywhere,” Honey says. “Send me some tickets so I don’t have to pay for them and I’ll go to the game for you guys.”

“Cheap-ass,” Jack accuses. He pulls Honey in a second time and rocks back and forth on his feet, swinging them from side to side. “Thanks for being my buddy this summer.”

“You guys are all thanking me and Bea like we did anything at all,” Honey says with a crooked smile. “All we were was nice to you.”

“You didn’t have to be,” Jack tells her. He squishes her cheek. “But you were. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

“Text me when you land in Michigan.” Honey offers her pinkie to Jack and he takes it with his. He kisses the tip of his thumb and tells Honey to do the same. She complies, then she lets him go. 

It seems like she and Bea have the same idea, leaving their respective boys for their last goodbye. Trevor and Bea go around the side of the truck, talking quietly, and Quinn leans against the end of the tailgate with Honey. 

They stand in silence for a few moments, aware of each others’ presence but not feeling any pressure to speak– until Quinn does.

“I’m jealous that you guys have chosen to stay together,” Quinn says quietly.

Honey sighs and takes Quinn’s right hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry that y’all aren’t.”

Quinn inhales and presses his lips together. He looks down at the ground and scuffs his shoe against the gravel in the driveway. He forces a smile onto his face and lifts Honey’s hand in his to kiss the back of it. 

Honey takes one arm and wraps it around Quinn’s waist, resting her head on his shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger, Quinn,” Honey murmurs.

Quinn nods. “Love you, Honey.”

“Love you too, Quinn. You’re a really great guy. I’m glad you were Bea’s first boyfriend.” Honey pats his side and distances herself from him. “Have a safe drive.”

“Next summer, you guys should come to Michigan,” Quinn offers. “We’d love to show you our town, since you showed us yours. You can stay as long as Ada will let you.”

Honey nods. “I’ll let you know closer to that date,” Honey informs him. “But I’m sure that would be nice. You have my number. Like I told Jack, you can text or call any time you want.”

“Not sure if Bea would like that,” Quinn responds with a shrug. “But I’ll keep it in mind. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Honey chuckles. “I know too much about you to never see you again.”

Quinn has a funny look on his face, somewhere between bemused and sorrowful. He nods and pulls Honey in for a long hug, nose pressed against her hair. They stay like that until Trevor breaks it up. 

“Alright, alright,” he says with a haughty, macho tone. “Break it up. Get off my girlfriend, Hughes.” He pulls them apart with play force.

Bea stands behind him, laughing quietly. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s definitely been crying. She’s a sensitive girl, which Honey loves about her. 

Quinn notices almost immediately and goes to her, taking Bea’s hand. “Let’s get this over with,” Honey hears Quinn say. It makes Bea huff out a little laugh and they go to the side of the truck again, where Bea just was with Trevor.

Trevor touches Honey’s waist and pulls her close, their lower halves touching. “I love you,” he says earnestly. He peppers kisses over Honey’s face until she’s giggling and trying to get away from him. 

She squeals and puts her hand between their faces. “Stop,” she laughs. “I love you too. It won’t be too long before we see each other, you know. I don’t think you’ll make it a month without asking me to fly out because you miss me.”

“I’m going to injure myself on purpose so I can come back here and have you take care of me,” Trevor jokes.

Honey slaps his shoulder. “Don’t joke about that, I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says. “It would make me sad.”

Trevor’s smile softens. “Well, I wouldn’t want to make you sad.” He looks at Honey for an extra beat, then cradles her face in his hands and kisses her gently.

It’s really sweet. They’ve never really kissed like this, soft, chaste, and savoring it. Honey fists the fabric of Trevor’s t-shirt in her hands, focusing on his taste and how he moves. Yeah, they probably will see each other in a month, but she will probably forget how he kisses by then. It’ll be like new when she goes to California– ugh, she has to go to California of all places to see her boyfriend because he has an intense job– and Honey can’t wait.

When his hand goes to her butt and gropes her asscheek, she breaks their kiss. 

“Come on, one last feel,” Trevor requests. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face because he knows that Honey will let him. 

“I have something better for you, you freak,” Honey tells him. She shoves her hand into her pocket and curls her fingers around the polaroids, fishing them out and pushing the stack into Trevor’s chest. 

He’s excited at the prospect of getting a gift, delight written on his face. He covers Honey’s hand, which covers the polaroids, and takes a peek at the first picture in the stack. His mouth automatically drops open and his face goes slack. He stares at the picture, looks at Honey, and doubles back down on the picture.

Honey feels a creeping shiver pass between her shoulderblades, whispering doubt into the back of her mind. You’ve given these pictures to him and it’s the start of the end, the voice purrs. Honey pushes it back, watching Trevor’s reaction instead. He’s terrible at hiding things on his face and Honey believes that if he’s going to abuse the boudoir pictures she just gave him, she’ll be able to see it in his expression.

“Holy shit, Hon,” Trevor says. He shoves the pictures back into her hands. “I can’t take these. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

It’s not the reaction Honey expected. She furrows her eyebrows together and asks genuinely, “Do you not… like them?”

Trevor’s eyes are wide. “No, God, no, you look so good and I like them, like, a lot, but because of what happened with Thomas–”

“Oh,” Honey says. “It’s– I wanted to show you that I trust you,” she explains. She pushes the pictures back at him. “I made them for you, I want you to have them.”

“I don’t,” Trevor struggles to say what he means, it seems. He looks at the pictures again, unable to help it, and lifts his eyes to the sky. He hides the pictures against his chest. “I don’t need them, if that’s what you think.”

“No.” Honey puts her hands on Trevor’s lovehandles and kisses him. “I want you to take them. They’re yours. Please take them.”

Trevor grinds his teeth, but weighs her words in his mind. After a moment, he shoves the pictures in his shorts pocket and wraps his arms around her shoulders. “You’re so special to me, Honey.”

“You’re overwhelming,” Honey replies, unable to find a word to describe how she feels about Trevor except for ‘overwhelming.’ He is. It’s not a bad thing, not at all. Honey adores Trevor.

Trevor’s mouth touches Honey’s forehead and stays there. She burrows her nose against his clavicle and breathes in deep. 

Trevor’s car horn sounds twice by Cole’s hand.

Trevor takes a deep breath and sighs. “I have to go,” he whispers.

Honey loosens her grip around his middle and kisses him one more time. “I’ll see you soon.”

It feels momentous when Trevor lets go of her and steps away. She’s not crying, but she feels like she could start any second. 

Bea joins Honey at the top of the driveway. Trevor’s car leads, honking far too jubilantly for the sadness weaving between Honey and Bea’s bodies like a cat brushing against their legs. The Hughes boys’ car follows after, and then they’re gone. Honey still feels their presence like a ghost, even as she and Bea push up the tailgate of Earl’s truck and head out themselves.

EPILOGUE – TREVOR

He thinks about her all the time. California is warm, but Trevor finds himself wearing Scarlett’s mismatched sweater more days than he doesn’t. It’s comfortable, and for a while, it smells like Litchton. He sits on his ugly couch, the one that Colangelo and McTavish make fun of, and watches the sunset through the windows of his house. It becomes a familiar routine. It’s usually too late to call Honey once he gets back from games since she’s three hours ahead, so Trevor finds other ways to express the things he wants to say to her. He’d text them, but that’s too brazen– he wants to speak to Honey and then let the words disappear forever. 

So, he sends letters. Out of sight, out of mind– once the letter leaves Trevor’s hand and makes its way into his mail carrier’s bag, the words are gone. It’s intimate and Honey has told Trevor many times over how much she likes receiving his letters, so much more than if she received the same thoughts over the phone. She always sends something back in a colorful envelope and Trevor traces her handwriting when he really misses her. 

With her permission, he’d included her in his summer dump on Instagram. He saw a few comments wondering who she and the other girl were, “the other girl” being Bea, but he never saw anything mean. He’d have exhausted all of his resources to hunt down any cyberbully who decided to take out their own insecurity on his girlfriend. He’d reported back his findings dutifully, telling Honey that everyone thought she was so pretty and out of his league. Honey had agreed.

Trevor had dutifully reported on summer dumps two other times: when Jack included the picture that Earl took of them at the going away party, Bea slung over his shoulder, and when Quinn quietly included a picture of Bea asleep on the couch in the basement, her hand wrapped loosely around his first two fingers. Her face was mostly obscured, but Trevor wasn’t sure if he should say something or not, so he’d asked Honey. Her face had gotten stormy– which was pretty cute, if Trevor is allowed to say that– but the picture had stayed up. Trevor is sure Honey and Bea handled it and he has a feeling that Bea might’ve felt a semblance of nostalgia when he’d screenshotted and sent the photo to her when she asked. They’re still broken up and not talking, but Trevor doesn’t know how long they can hold out. Honey says that Bea misses Quinn badly, but she’s still too stubborn to do anything. Trevor knows that Quinn is too stubborn to go against Bea’s wishes.

About a month into the season, Trevor wears the sweater to a game. Honey still hasn’t made it out to visit yet and Trevor is getting restless. He has a great game– greater than great– so it’s no surprise that he’s pulled for media after he showers and gets dressed, pulling the sweater on once again. 

Aly, the rinkside reporter, pulls him aside for a more one-on-one chat. Trevor expects that it’ll get clipped and thrown on the Ducks’ socials. They get all the way through the interview before she asks about his fashion choice. “This sweater is clearly handmade, so chic,” she adds on the side. “Where did you get it?”

“A friend made it for me,” Trevor replies. “This summer. It was a going away present, actually.”

“Well, it was a real good luck charm here tonight. You got your first career hat trick– do you think this luck will continue for you for the rest of the season?”

Trevor nods, only half-listening. He just caught a whiff of bonfire from the sweater, a scent memory that is accompanied by the creaking trees that shaded his balcony from wandering eyes. They didn’t make enough use of it. “I hope so,” he tells Aly. 

“It’s a wonderful start, given the rut you fell into last season after your injury. What are you doing differently?”

Trevor tries not to balk at the blatant mention of his broken ankle, the Jamie trade, and his struggles to come back from those events. He rubs his right eye with a closed fist and forces a tight smile on his face, speaking more honestly than he normally allows himself to. “I told my girlfriend that every goal I score this season is for her, so I have to score a lot. Keep me on her mind, you know?”

Aly chuckles. “You’ve got to find motivation somewhere,” she says good-naturedly. “Thanks, Trevor.”

“Yeah, thanks, Aly,” he replies. He walks back into the locker room, ready to grab his bag and his keys and book it out of the arena so that he can crash on his bed, when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He slips it out, catching his favorite contact name on the screen. He can hear the eye roll as if she’s talking to him, right next to his ear.

🍯:

Don’t fucking bring me into thisI don’t want crowds of famous Trevor Zegras’ hockey groupies in Litchton when you come back next summer

Then, a few minutes later:

Nice sweater ;)

THANK YOU FOR READING!!! I LOVE YOU!!!! XO, ANDY P.S. See you in Beaquinn's book ;)

[abbotjack]

hey syd, how do you find the motivation to write?

you’ve blessed up with so many back to back hits and i can’t even finish my own drafts 😅

Ahhh, thank you so much for this message—it genuinely means a lot. I wish I could say the process is romantic or graceful, like “I light a candle and the words arrive fully formed,” but the truth is messier. So here’s a long, detailed, probably-too-honest breakdown of what actually keeps me writing!

1. Music as Architecture: Scoring the Scene Before It Exists

I don’t begin with plot. I begin with sound.

Music is the first language of my writing process. Before dialogue, before imagery, even before character voices settle into clarity, I reach for music—not as inspiration, but as foundation. The emotional resonance of a piece doesn’t come from what’s written first. It comes from what’s felt—and for me, that feeling is almost always coaxed into being by sound.

I build playlists with intention. They’re not background noise; they are, in effect, blueprints. Emotional schematics. Each playlist becomes a kind of private score to the story I’m trying to tell. Some are curated around character dynamics—slow-burn tension, fractured intimacy, long-restrained grief—while others are arranged around the arc of a chapter, a specific moment of revelation, or the rhythm of a confrontation that’s been building for pages.

One I return to frequently is my playlist titled romance coded songs for daydreaming. This collection isn’t simply romantic. It’s devotional. Every track pulses with ache, ambiguity, restraint, or surrender. Some are quiet, constructed in whispers and unresolved chords. Others swell—full-bodied and orchestral, like they were made to echo under dialogue. When I select a track for a scene, I’m not choosing something that sounds good—I’m choosing something that understands what the characters aren’t saying.

For example, while drafting a scene in which two characters finally acknowledge the emotional undercurrent they’ve spent chapters avoiding, I played “Youth” by Daughter on loop. The song's structure—soft beginnings, the build of vulnerability, the percussive collapse—mirrored the emotional terrain I needed the scene to follow. I structured paragraphs according to tempo. I paid attention to the way a sentence would feel if it mirrored the minor-key drop in the second verse. There was no outline for that moment—just the music, and the emotional proximity it allowed.

This is also how I build character tone. Jack Abbot, for instance, exists in a soundscape of restraint. His musical profile is sparse but deliberate. If a song has too many layers, it doesn’t fit him. He’s percussion and silence. He’s a baritone voice that almost breaks but never quite does. His playlist includes Nick Cave, Rhye, Radiohead, and Wye Oak. All of it low-register. All of it waiting.

Contrast that with someone like Robby, whose emotional landscape is much more open. His playlist includes acoustic guitar, brighter chords, vocal warmth. Writing him requires a different tempo entirely. The music doesn’t just help me define them—it helps me understand how they would inhabit the same silence differently. How Jack holds a pause versus how Robby lets one go.

Music is also what allows me to keep emotional continuity across chapters, especially when writing nonlinear drafts. If I leave a scene mid-emotion, I don’t always re-read it to find my way back in. I re-listen. Because tone can’t always be rebuilt from language alone. It needs something more primal—more bodily. The right song can take me back to the exact moment where I left a heartbeat hanging.

In many ways, music becomes a form of narrative foreshadowing. I will sometimes build a playlist that reflects where the story is going emotionally before I know the plot itself. This keeps the work honest. If the writing starts to deviate from the emotional logic of the music, I know I’ve veered too far. I follow the sound back to the truth of the characters.

Music also helps me write with silence. It teaches me how to use negative space, how to withhold, how to let a moment breathe. It’s the difference between telling the reader what happens, and letting them feel it arrive.

Writing without music, for me, would be like shooting a film without sound design. You could still see the action—but you’d lose the atmosphere, the friction, the undertow.

So I don’t start with plot. I start by listening. Because long before I can write a scene that feels right, I have to hear it.

2. Pinterest as Visual Architecture: Designing Mood, Movement, and Authority Before the First Line Is Written

I don’t use Pinterest as a wishful archive or a vague 'vibe check'—I use it as a method of composition. Visual curation, for me, is not decorative. It is foundational. Each board is a map of the world I’m building—not just aesthetically, but narratively. I approach Pinterest the way a director would approach a set designer or a cinematographer: what does this space communicate before the character even speaks? What are the silent cues? What does the light do in this corner? Where does the weight live?

When I began writing Irregularities, I knew immediately that the physical world needed to feel sharp. Unforgiving. As precise as the main character’s walk, and as deliberate as the silence she carries. So I built a Pinterest board that wasn’t just about hospitals—it was about posture, texture, and implied dominance. I titled the sub-board “Administrative Quiet"

Let’s walk through how that board became the scene.

The excerpt begins:

Hospitals don’t go quiet. Not really...

This sentence was written after pinning a photo of a long, fluorescent-lit hallway—no patients in sight, just two glass doors and a printer humming in the corner. The stillness wasn’t peaceful. It was artificial. Held. You could feel the machinery beneath it. I pinned images of empty waiting rooms at 7:00 AM, beige walls and clipped blinds, ceiling panels lit with a blue-cast flicker. These weren’t emotionally neutral images—they were controlled. Sanitized. And that control shaped the language. That’s why I wrote, “the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed.” That image didn’t come from thin air—it came from a visual impression of effortful order, translated into prose.

Now the wardrobe:

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so...

These lines are not just about clothing—they are about a constructed silhouette. I collected visual references of professional women in muted palettes—navy, ivory, charcoal—clothes that didn’t distract, but restrained. I noted how the lapel of a wool coat holds shape, how it creases with shoulder pressure on public transit. One image I pinned showed a woman in a government building, coat folded over her arm, face out of frame. What struck me wasn’t her expression—it was the control of her body language. No movement wasted. Everything designed to convey competency, not comfort.

This is what Pinterest offers: the vocabulary of nonverbal narrative. The reader doesn’t need to be told that this character has command. They can see it—in the lanyard clipped at the sternum, in the pen nested into the coil of the ledger notebook. These are visual indicators of someone whose presence is already telling the story.

The bag she carries? Not a briefcase. Not a tote. A leather bag, weighed down. I found images of field auditors and corporate compliance officers. What they carried was always functional. Heavy. Slung across the body like they were going into quiet battle. One particularly striking image was a government agent seated with their bag propped beside them, the weight pulling it slightly off-balance.

That image informed the line:

“...weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.”

Because that’s what her role demands: control not only of space, but of systems. Pinterest allowed me to see that system before writing it.

Even the typography in the line—

“Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.”

—was sourced. I pinned dozens of ID badge photos: hospital badges, federal agency badges, corporate visitor tags. Nearly all of them used a specific visual code: sans serif fonts, barcode beneath, matte finish. No frills. No decoration. Just clarity. That clarity carried over into the tone. The badge doesn’t say anything emotional, but it communicates status. The reader understands who she is by the way the badge is described, not because the badge tells them.

The final image that tied the board together—and became the spine of the entire scene—was one of a woman standing alone at a reception desk, her hand resting lightly on the counter, eyes not visible. The posture said everything: I don’t need to announce myself. You already know why I’m here. That photograph became the emotional thesis of the audit character. It became the justification for this line:

“You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package.”

That sentence came from studying how power moves silently. Pinterest didn’t just provide aesthetics. It gave me an understanding of what not to write. She doesn’t have to be cruel. She doesn’t have to be loud. She’s effective because she doesn’t overperform.

This is how Pinterest operates in my process: as visual dramaturgy. It gives me the syntax of a room before a character steps into it. It teaches me how to build authority without exposition. It reveals the emotional texture of materials and shows me how those textures affect posture, sound, breath.

By the time I sat down to write the passage, I already knew what kind of pen she’d use. I knew where the weight of her coat would shift on her arm as she walked. I knew what the receptionist would feel, even if he said nothing. Because I had already seen it all—in images, arranged not by color, but by function.

Writing begins long before the first sentence. For me, it begins in images. And Pinterest gives me the scaffolding I need to make the emotional structure of a scene visibly inevitable.

3. Women’s & Gender Studies as Emotional Infrastructure: Writing Through the Lens of Power, Silence, and Embodiment

My Women’s & Gender Studies minor is not a separate thread from my writing—it is the framework that holds the emotional weight of my stories. The way I write intimacy, the way I construct silence between characters, the way I describe bodies without flattening them into objects of narrative convenience—all of that stems from the work I’ve done studying gender, sexuality, emotional labor, and power dynamics across disciplines.

In many ways, WGS gave me the vocabulary to write what I already felt. It gave shape to my instincts. It gave structure to the things I knew were meaningful but didn’t yet know how to articulate—especially in scenes where meaning isn’t built through plot, but through closeness, discomfort, observation, and restraint. It taught me that you don’t always need to narrate the explosion. You can write the tension in the room before the match is lit—and that can be just as devastating.

One of the most formative experiences I’ve had in this program came through a seminar on Love and LGBTQ+ Literature, where we read Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body. That novel changed the way I think about character voice, emotional intimacy, and the unspoken power of desire.

The narrator of Written on the Body is never gendered. You don’t know who they are in terms of identity markers—only that they are grieving, longing, remembering. What Winterson does is strip away everything the reader might use as shorthand. You can’t rely on gender to code meaning. You can’t default to assumptions about power. Instead, you have to engage with the emotional architecture itself: how the narrator touches, how they hesitate, what they remember and what they can’t forgive.

There’s a moment in the book where the narrator writes:

“Why is the measure of love loss?”

That line, more than almost any I’ve ever read, defines what I try to capture in my work. Not just love as presence, but love as aftermath. As damage. As absence. It’s the question that haunts every emotionally repressed character I write. Jack Abbot doesn’t confess easily. He doesn’t live in declarations. He lives in restraint, in the tremble under control. And when I write him, I’m thinking not about what he says—but what he avoids. What he notices and doesn’t act on. What he would rather bury than admit. Those choices are not arbitrary. They are gendered. They are socialized. And they are shaped by a framework of masculinity that I’ve spent years studying critically.

WGS taught me that emotion is never neutral. That every expression of feeling—especially in professional, clinical, or institutional settings—is shaped by larger systems of power. When a woman hesitates before raising her voice in a hospital hallway, that’s not just personal—it’s systemic. When a man over-explains something he’s already decided, that’s not just characterization—it’s training. My education in WGS allows me to embed these dynamics into my writing without ever needing to spell them out. I let them live in the dialogue. In the blocking. In the interruptions.

It also taught me how to write the body—not as spectacle, but as memory. As site. As language. In trauma-informed narratives, I think constantly about the concept of embodiment: how a character holds their own history, how they experience space, how they control or surrender their physical presence depending on who is watching. A scar isn’t just a scar. A hand held too long isn’t just affection—it’s permission, or protest, or confession. These small gestures carry the weight of entire emotional arcs.

In scenes like the trauma bay in Irregularities, where the power dynamic is unstable but unspoken, I write through the lens of perception and structural tension. Jack doesn’t order her to follow him—he invites her in a tone sharp enough to double as a challenge. And she accepts, not because she’s obedient, but because she understands that to hold power in a space like his, she has to first observe it on its own terms. That’s the heart of feminist narrative structure: the refusal to flatten power into domination, and the insistence on showing how it moves—quietly, relationally, through invitation and resistance.

She’s not trained for trauma. Her authority isn’t built for blood. But she enters the space with something equally dangerous: institutional clarity. Audit folder to chest. Posture rigid but controlled. She doesn’t flinch—not when the man flatlines, not when Jack cracks the chest open, not when the room shudders beneath its own adrenaline. This is not the traditional arc of a woman proving she’s strong enough to be “one of the boys.” It’s not about toughness. It’s about refusing to be displaced. Staying. Watching. Speaking when it matters.

And when she does speak, it’s surgical: “If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer, you might want to narrate it for the notes.” That’s not sarcasm. That’s labor. That’s a woman doing the intellectual work of keeping systems accountable even when the system is breaking in real time. It’s not framed as a dramatic triumph. It’s woven into the room’s rhythm. That is what my WGS education gave me: the ability to stage systemic critique as lived experience, not speechmaking.

The tension between them is not romance—not yet. It’s structural. Gendered. Bureaucratic. He saves lives. She tracks what it costs. He performs heroism beneath policy; she protects the institution by demanding transparency. But the beauty of that scene isn’t in their conflict—it’s in the recognition. The moment he stops seeing her as an enemy and starts seeing her as a witness. A woman who does not flinch when power becomes visceral. A woman who wants the truth not to punish him, but to understand the logic beneath the violation.

That’s WGS on the page. Not a lecture. Not a slogan. But a moment of shared exhaustion between a man with blood on his sleeves and a woman with ink-stained hands—both fighting to keep a system alive in different ways. And neither of them willing to back down.

WGS also gives me access to the emotional language of refusal. Not every love story is a yes. Some are a near-miss. A repetition. A delay. Some characters don’t change, not because they are underdeveloped, but because they were never taught how. Writing that kind of character—especially a man—is often seen as a risk. But in WGS spaces, I learned to see that as realism. As tragedy. As the cost of structural silence.

And then there’s this: WGS trained me to read literature with historical precision and emotional context. I don’t read romance without thinking about labor. I don’t write desire without considering who’s allowed to want out loud and who isn’t. When I craft a scene between two people who are falling apart in slow motion, it’s not just about heartbreak. It’s about who is allowed to grieve and how. That framing changes everything.

So yes—my WGS minor is academic. But it’s also intimate. It’s present in the cadence of a hospital hallway scene. It’s in the way a woman adjusts her sleeve before speaking. It’s in how Jack Abbot lingers outside the door, hand resting on the frame, saying nothing. And it’s in the way a reader feels something tighten in their chest when that silence is finally broken.

4. How to Read Literature Like a Professor as Narrative Blueprint: Grief, Space, and the Unsaid in The House She Left You

Thomas C. Foster’s How to Read Literature Like a Professor is not just a guide for decoding fiction—it’s a manual for building resonance. When I write, especially something as emotionally dense and grief-stricken as The House She Left You, I’m not just writing characters or scenes. I’m constructing a layered system of symbols, silences, spaces, and ruptures that mean more than they say. Foster’s framework reminds me that meaning is never linear. It’s recursive. It echoes in what’s withheld.

In this story, I’m writing about two people who survived the same woman in different ways—one as a sister, one as a lover—and now find themselves circling each other inside the shell she left behind. Every scene is built with symbolic architecture, and much of that draws directly from the interpretive tools Foster provides.

Let’s begin with the house.

Foster’s chapter “Geography Matters” teaches us that setting is never neutral. A house isn’t just a house—it’s a body, a history, a character. The house in The House She Left You is not shelter. It’s aftermath. It’s her, even in death. The hallway still smells like her. The bedroom is sealed like a wound. The silence in the walls is heavy with memory, with guilt, with rot. This isn’t just description—it’s narrative geography. The house itself is a haunted organ, and Pope, when he slips through the door without knocking, becomes not an intruder but a ghost. He’s not entering a space. He’s re-entering a story.

That brings me to Foster’s chapter “Every Trip is a Quest.” Movement in fiction—whether across a state or down a hallway—always means more than logistics. When the narrator walks the length of the hall at 2:37 a.m., barefoot, every step is a spiritual return to what she’s refused to touch. The house knows it. She knows it. She approaches her sister’s old bedroom the way you approach a grave you’ve tried not to visit. She knows Pope is inside before she sees him—not because it’s predictable, but because the logic of grief demands it. Her movement is the quest: not for Pope, not even for closure—but for language, for some way to name what was never said while her sister was alive.

That silence is its own language. Foster’s “Nice to Eat with You: Acts of Communion” reminds us that shared rituals—eating, drinking, sitting together in the dark—are not neutral acts. They’re symbolic ones. In this story, Pope offers her a glass of water in a kitchen where everything is decaying. He asks her if she wants him to stay in a house that smells like her sister’s ghost. These aren’t practical questions. They’re ritualized tests of trust. Communion, in this context, doesn’t mean food. It means presence. Will you let me stay? Will you let me see the parts of you your sister never let anyone touch?

Foster’s “Marked for Greatness” also lingers in my mind. In that chapter, he discusses how physical scars, limps, and bodily damage often symbolize internal wounds. In my story, those marks aren’t visible—but they live in language. In the sister’s needle track marks. In the narrator’s clenched jaw, her white-knuckled grip on a sink, her inability to look Pope in the eyes. These are not merely emotional reactions—they are traumatic inscriptions. The body remembers. The house remembers. The hallway remembers. She sleeps in sweat and silence because grief is not just loss—it’s infestation.

And then, perhaps most importantly, Foster’s “It’s All About Sex…” and “…Except Sex” chapters remind us that eroticism in literature is never just about pleasure. It’s about power, memory, transference, guilt. In The House She Left You, the sex is not tender. It’s not clean. It’s not a reward. It’s something far more difficult: inheritance. What happens when the man your sister destroyed is the same man who knows what she did to you? What happens when the body you’ve always wanted is tied, irrevocably, to the person you’ve always hated most?

The physicality in that final scene is ritualized grief. Pope is not just taking her apart—he’s answering a need that has never been allowed to speak. It’s confession. It’s transference. It’s everything the sister stole. Foster’s frameworks let me write that scene with full awareness that this is not about seduction. This is about grief. About legacy. About what happens when the thing you’ve always wanted finally wants you back—but not in time to save anything.

So much of what I learned from Foster is that meaning can live in the quiet. In the spacing between lines. In who speaks, and who doesn’t. Pope’s silence is an act of control. The narrator’s refusal to cry is an act of survival. When she finally says “I wanted you anyway,” it lands not as scandal but as resurrection—the first truth spoken without her sister watching.

This is how I use Foster: not to write symbols for their own sake, but to embed emotional weight in every image. A door left open. A bed made. A woman on her knees, not in submission, but in reclamation.

5. Hyperfixation as Creative Engine: When the Scene Flatlines and You Keep Writing Through It

When I wrote the trauma bay flatline scene in Built for Battle, Never for Me, I didn’t stop to outline. I didn’t think about structure. I didn’t care how long it would take or how much it would wreck me.

I just kept writing. Because the scene had already begun bleeding in my hands—and the only thing I knew how to do was keep going.

That’s what hyperfixation is for me. It’s not a creative process. It’s a response to emotional triage. It’s how I write scenes where someone’s chest caves under compressions, where a man who once said “I’ll stay” walks back into the story with a wedding ring he didn’t have when he left.

I couldn’t write that scene from a distance. I had to be inside it. Inside the monitor scream. Inside the gloves. Inside the moment he realizes the woman coding on the gurney is the same one he stopped texting back.

The pacing in that scene—seconds tracked like breaths, dialogue stripped down to bone—isn’t calculated. It’s instinct. I knew the time stamps before I knew the resolution. I knew the flatline would come. I knew Jack wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t yell—he would just press harder. Because that’s the only thing he knows how to do. When love fails, he reverts to protocol. To trauma code. To hands.

Every line in that sequence is written like the body remembers—short, clipped, then suddenly flooding. That’s how grief moves. That’s how adrenaline hides pain. And when you’re hyperfixated, you don’t step away from the scene to ask what it means. You stay. You fold his gloves into your own hands. You sit in the corner of the CT hallway with blood on your sleeves and try to make the sentence “I’ll wait this time” sound like penance and not delusion.

I didn’t write that scene over a week. I wrote it in one breathless session—because the story wouldn’t let me out. Because I couldn’t sleep knowing Jack Abbot had felt her pulse disappear beneath his hands. And I couldn’t stop until I got her back.

Hyperfixation lets me hold tension for 10,000 words without blinking. It lets me write time like it’s elastic. One second becomes three pages. One gesture—his hand brushing her temple—becomes an entire act of repentance. This isn’t indulgent. It’s necessary. That’s how you earn the moment when she wakes up. That’s how you make the ring visible. That’s how you write heartbreak that feels like a new kind of CPR—violent, slow, necessary.

I couldn’t have written that moment—“You didn’t change your emergency contact?”—if I wasn’t submerged. If I hadn’t been tracing Jack’s guilt like it was a second spine. That line doesn’t come from plot. It comes from the hours spent wondering what does it mean to be someone’s backup when they’ve stopped showing up?

Hyperfixation doesn’t just keep me writing—it keeps the emotional stakes coherent across collapse. I don’t have to look back to remember what Jack said the last time they saw each other. I feel it in the rhythm of his silence now. I don’t need to check whether she moved on. I know she didn’t—because the way she reacts to that ring is the climax, not the aftermath.

And Jack?

He doesn’t fall apart when he sees her blood. He falls apart when she asks, “You’re married?” and he says, “Not yet.”

That’s what hyperfixation allows me to write: not the tragedy of death, but the tragedy of timing. Of the people we almost had. The lives we could’ve lived if we’d just stayed one more day. One more night. One more breath.

So no—I don’t write this way because it’s healthy. I write this way because it’s the only way that moment ever gets told.

Because love didn’t save her.

Because Jack couldn’t.

Because I had to.

And that’s really what it comes down to—I write how I feel, and I feel everything all the way down. Whether it starts with a song, a picture, a classroom conversation, or a scene that won’t stop clawing at me until I type it—everything I create is layered. Lived-in. Edited like a film and written like a wound. These aren’t just stories—they’re places I’ve had to survive to get out of. And I think that’s the point. I don’t believe in waiting for inspiration. I believe in building it from the ground up: sound first, image next, theory underneath, obsession layered in, and then finally—emotion made clean enough to bleed on the page. That’s how I write. That’s why I write. And if it hurts a little to read? Good. It means it found your pulse.

Please hear me when I say this: your unfinished drafts are not failures. They’re blueprints. Grief maps. Training grounds. Some scenes are meant to be sketches. Some characters live in fragments for a while before they’re ready to speak. But that doesn’t mean your voice is missing—it means it’s gathering. You don’t need to write fast. You don’t need to finish everything you start. You just need to stay close enough to the stories that matter to you that, when they’re ready—you’re the one who gets to bring them to life. And you will.

[ohwellp]

Hello everyone! This is my first time writing a story, be warned that it is NOT FINISHED. This is just what i have right now of what is going to be a very long story and maybe eventually a book. I was hoping to get some feedback from those in the fandom, those who write and those who read. Constructive criticism is encouraged and simply saying something is bad will be ignored. I appreciate actual advice. This is the introduction to the story, very rough draft, will end up heavily edited. THANK YOU FOR READING! <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence. Right on cue, like clockwork, ever since I’ve moved here, as soon as it strikes midnight. The town falls quiet, save for the chirps of crickets and occasional dog bark. Everyone in town falls asleep simultaneously. Except me.

For some unknown reason, I'm not affected. Maybe it's related to my bouts of insomnia I've had only once I entered town. Sleep has never found me easily, but here even less so. This is why I'm up right now instead of peacefully snuggled into the warm duvets of my queen sized bed. I watch as the clock ticks by the seconds, the minutes.

12:01.

12:02.

12:03.

12:04.

12:05.

Just like the odd silence, a void purple fog rolls into town from the outskirts. I’m not sure where it comes from or why it appears, the same as everyone falling asleep. It’s confusing and yet intriguing at the same time. I’ve always been curious by nature. Not much happened in the city that I hadn’t seen before. This, however? Definitely new.

Always at 5 past midnight. Night after night, it hasn’t changed since I moved here. Without fail, not a second too late or a second too soon. I’ve seen it happen time and time again yet it remains a mystery to me.

Always followed by him. A tall brooding figure. At first I wasn’t sure what he was. Human? A creature? A monster? Or something entirely different? I haven’t got a clue. But what I do know is that “he” isn’t normal. I’ve taken the liberty to assume it’s a male. His figure is masculine even if I can’t see his face. If I’m wrong I’d apologize, but it’s not like I’ll ever speak to him anyway.

I’ve nicknamed him Ghost. It seems to fit him. Always emerging from the fog in the silence, not a noise from him, as if a vacuum sucked up all sound from the small town. He always leaves around 3 a.m. No sooner, no later.

Always. I’m not sure what it is with time and punctuation, but he’s always spot on. Maybe it’s some weird instinct he has. Hopefully I’ll find out by studying him.

Over the short month that I've lived here, I've grown used to his arrival. He never enters any houses, just roams the barren streets, looking at seemingly nothing, his purpose unknown. Efforts to converse with neighbors are quickly thwarted by confused and judging looks. They’re clueless to his presence or the way sleep takes them at the same time, that or they choose to be ignorant.

I, however, cannot.

I moved here from my life in the city, hoping to find some peace in a more solitude lifestyle. The night here, despite the silence, has become my home,but the gnawing urge to find more about this mysterious figure claws at the back of my mind. My cat, Nub, named for her amputated front right leg, spends her time at night either curled in my lap while I work on my laptop, or when the time comes, staring at Ghost. Often, I'll be up late either from my insomnia or from projects I have to finish, typing away on my screen to adjust the designs I've meticulously created for my clients.

Occasionally, I’ll glance up from my spot in the nook on the window sill of my room and I'll see him, wandering the streets, stoic. He’s always dressed the same: Deep brown bomber jacket over top a black hoodie that hides his muscles under the layers,Navy blue jeans worn from use and muddy tan Merrel Moabs. His face is covered by a black fleece balaclava with the upper portion of a human skull connected to it. The faded ivory color contrasts the darkness that surrounds him. He’s tall too. Hard to tell from afar, but I'd guess about 6'- 6'5.

From my knowledge, he seems to be dressed in military type clothing, possibly special ops. I remember seeing similar getups on soldiers who fought this crazy russian guy, can’t remember his name much, Morkov? No, maybe Makav?

Whatever, he was, he disappeared. But the tv showed the soldiers who fought him; although there wasn’t much screen time since they clearly didn’t want to be recorded for obvious reasons, one of their comrades had been KIA. Though the disgusting rat reporters didn’t seem to care much, they managed to catch a glimpse of the soldier's tag on his vest. Mactavish.

I couldn’t resist searching it up, I was bored. Couldn’t find a full name but I did find out the poor lad had been from Scotland. He had given his life to his team and to the safety of everyone.

I’m snapped from my thoughts when I hear Nub squeak at me, turning my eyes to the clock. Time went by quickly, I started work at about 9:00. I’d only been sitting here for what felt like an hour at most, engrossed in my designs. Yet the hour and minute hand stood vertical.

12:00.

I sigh and shake my head with a small smile as I get up from my spot. She has a habit of wanting to eat a late night snack right before he appears. I think she’s taken a liking to the mysterious man, always watching him from the comfort of her cat tree by the window. He’s never acknowledged our presence either; then again, neither of us have gone outside.

I hoist myself to my feet and pad to the kitchen, grey sweats hang from my hips and my lilac hoodie blankets me as I open a cupboard. Spotting the can of catfood, I grab and pop it open, dumping it into a small blue dish before setting it down, Nub immediately digs in, as if worried she’d miss her favorite show. I make myself a cup of coffee, the whirr of the Keurig fills the silence and then the familiar smell of roasted coffee grounds, caramel, my favorite. I plop a few ice cubes in and follow Nub to the window, her orange tabby coat vibrant in the dim lighting. I have to admit, it’s cool watching him appear.

I glance at the clock, seeing the minute hand tick.

12:05.

I sip my coffee, the warm liquid providing comfort as we watch the fog roll in, then Him. I chuckle to myself.

“Right on time, big boy.” Nub lets out a happy chirp, pleased her favorite entertainment has arrived once more. We sit there for a few moments, watching his usual routine, and then it happens. Nub jumps down from her cat tree and paws at the front door. I cock my head to the side at her.

“There’s no way you actually have the audacity to want outside NOW,” a hint of exasperation in my tone. I look back to the figure wandering the streets, my own curiosity growing. I know I moved here for a more peaceful life but…. My gaze moves back to Nub.

“You’re a bad influence.” I move toward the door; my mug in my left hand, warming my palm, my right hand hovering over the brass handle.

“I can’t believe I'm doing this. We better not get killed.”

‘Click.’

The handle turns and I crack the door, peering my head out. My gaze lands on Ghost, a few houses down, staring at some flowering shrubs. He hasn’t seemed to notice us yet which is good I suppose.

‘Meow.’ Nub pushes past the door, making a cringe worthy loud meow as she prances out toward the sidewalk, her own beady eyes fixated on him.

“No! Nub! You dumb little shit, get back here!” I yell in a hushed voice, eyes locking onto her as I set my mug down on my side table, rushing out the door, forgetting shoes as I hone in on my fuzzball. I dart after her, scooping her up in my arms as she reaches the neighbors yard, cradling her as I scold her.

“You dumbass! Have I taught you nothing?”

My lips curled into a frown at her, seeing her innocent furry face and letting out a sigh.

“Never mind, you’re lucky you’re cute-” My voice halts, feeling my arm hair stand on end. My hindbrain firing off danger signals as I feel the gaze. My eyes dart to the figure standing 20 feet away from me, locking onto the deep brown irises that gaze right back. I feel my heart starting to race. Shit. I forgot about him.

Ghost stares right back, silent as ever, the balaclava giving away not a hint of emotion. His eyes seem to be studying me. It feels as if time stops until Nub squirms out of my arms, jumping across the distance and to his feet. Rubbing against his legs and purring as she finally makes contact with the man she’s been watching for a month, her tail curling behind her, letting out a high pitched and girly squeak.

My heart drops in fear, expecting him to react negatively; my mind flashing with images of her getting stepped on, thrown, strangled by this entity. I’m snapped out of my thoughts by a deep rumble, a chuckle, smooth like whiskey. The emotions behind it are masked, but Nub seems to preen at the noise, continuing to purr and rub against his legs as she puts on her cutest act. The realization hits me. This little shit is tryna woo him.

I turn my attention to him, he’s no longer looking at me. This man–? entity? Creature–i? Is focused on Nub; he reaches down and I tense, preparing for the worst. Instead of harming her, he scratches the top of her head with a gloved hand and a gentleness I wasn’t expecting from such an intimidating being.

Nub continues to rub against him–seemingly ecstatic from his attention until he gives in and picks her up, cradling her in his arms; she immediately takes advantage of her new height and gently headbuts his masked chin.

I’m stunned. I wasn’t expecting him to pet her, more or less treat her with such care; my tension eases a bit as I witness the tenderness in his actions, though I stay wary. He may be nice to her for the moment, but he’s still a stranger that's intertwined with this strange town and I haven’t seen his reaction toward a human yet.

As if sensing my thoughts, he finally looks back at me, his emotions still hidden. I feel my breath hitch, caught in my throat, my muscles preparing for an attack. His shoes thud on the ground with each slow step he takes as he starts his approach. My mind races with ways to distract him to reach my home; Nub is clearly fine on her own.

He stops just two feet away from me, his form towers over mine, dwarfing me in comparison, my eyes widen now that I see him up close. He emanates danger; his presence suffocating. The voice that comes from him is rough, heavy, filled with pre-warning by default.

“I believe this belongs to you.”

His thick British accent shocks me, catching me off guard as he holds Nub in his muscular arms. I’m at a loss for words, trying to process how he can sound so….Normal. His unique appearance and the situation in which he appears are so bizarre, but he seems so human.

I finally manage to find my voice, though my brain hasn’t quite caught up as I stumble over my words.

“I- you’re- she-” I suck air in and shake my head slightly, snapping out of my daze. Pull yourself together,you’re embarrassing yourself.

“Yes. She’s mine….she’s very curious.” My gaze holds his, feeling like I’m being scrutinized.

“Quite the dangerous quality. Especially when out late at night.” His tone laced with amusement and implied questions as his stare bores into my soul, searching.

I scramble for an answer. Why was I out here with Nub. The reasoning seems stupid now in hindsight.

“Ah- well uhm, we’re usually up late and she likes to watch you and wanted out this time.” I hurry through an explanation, feeling my cheeks heat up in embarrassment; Nub mewls in agreement.

His eyes narrow through the holes in his mask, judging. There's a flicker of curiosity in his chocolate orbs as he speaks.

“How…are you awake?” His question is blunt and reminds me that I'm the only person who doesn’t fall asleep at 12:00.

“Oh- I- uh-” My mind blanks as I fight for some semblance of competence. How am I awake? I had never thought about it too much before. Yeah it crossed my mind but I didn’t dwell on it because it never seemed too important.

“...I suppose…I’m not all that sure,” I cringe at how hesitant I sound. God, I’m pathetic. “I never really questioned it….not like it changed anything for me.” My eyes focus back on him, trying to gauge his reaction. He lets out a small grunt in return before speaking.

“My fog tends to knock everyone out, not you though. You’re the first to resist it.” He steps closer, leaning in as he examines me. His voice gruff, almost annoyed at his own confusion. I suddenly feel like an amoeba underneath a microscope, my every move being accounted for. I can smell him now, he’s so close. Sandalwood and gunpowder.

[dogmandotcom]

I’ve rewritten this post like 3 times and at this point I think I just need to post it to get it out of my drafts lol. Anyway! I’ve seen quite a few posts over the last few months that I feel are misrepresenting and making assumptions about the type of physical therianthropy I experience so I wanted to share my own thoughts about it. I’m talking specifically about the philosophy and experience that gets simplified as ‘I am a nonhuman animal therefore my body is nonhuman’. 

I’ve seen a few posts now talking about this as if it’s a copycat version or less serious form of physical nonhumanity when compared to, for example, clinical zoanthropy or holothere identities and like. First of all I don’t think it’s useful to compare these things to each other in the first place since they’re all pretty different experiences of physical nonhumanity. Secondly ‘I am a nonhuman animal therefore my body is nonhuman’ is actually something I take very seriously and when I say ‘I am physically a dog’ I mean it. 

I don’t look like a theriform dog and my body also functions differently to that of a theriform dog, but I do still view my body as fully canine. My own experience of physical nonhumanity started with the desire to examine and challenge the social constructs of both humanity and of species classification and where I fit into all of that as a non-theriform canine. My gender transition also involved a similar process of changing the ways I viewed gender and sex as classification systems, and changing the way I view my own body and the relationship I have with it as a dog was a massive step in my transspecies transition too. Back in 2020 when I first started exploring the idea of being a physically nonhuman therian it really wasn’t a standard or established way to talk about therianthropy in any of the community spaces I was active in (and it still isn’t in many of them!). My goal when I first started exploring these ideas was to challenge the ways therians were (and still are!) expected to have to constantly acknowledge that our bodies are physically human when I didn’t feel that way about myself. I’m definitely not the first or only nonhuman to have thought about this but for me personally it was a conclusion I reached about my own relationship with my body by myself that was based on my experiences exploring sex and gender as a trans guy. ‘I’m nonhuman therefore my body is nonhuman’ isn’t just words that mean nothing in the same way that ‘I’m physically a man because I identify as a man’ isn’t just words that mean nothing - I’m a man because I reject the ways gender and sex have historically been socially constructed to exclude me from manhood and I’m a dog because I reject the idea that I have to view my body as physically human. My first public posts about being a physically identifying therian and having a canine body are dated to 3 months before the coining of the term endel and I think the community discussions that led to the term endel being coined were actually part of what made me feel comfortable enough to be open about my own physical nonhumanity. 

I’m sure not every physical therian with the same philosophy as me will feel as strongly about this as I do but they also shouldn’t have to for their identity to be respected as it’s own thing and not a less serious version of something else. I do wonder if some of the conflict and misunderstanding I’ve seen is coming from the fact that ‘physically nonhuman’ is a phrase in the English language with a number of different meanings and interpretations while a lot of other nonhuman and alterhuman terms are created and defined specifically for the communities they represent. I understand why folks who’s physical nonhumanity involves them having the appearance, physical organs and dna of theriform animals want their own separate community spaces but if I’m not ‘physically nonhuman’ because my body and organs don’t look or function the same as a theriform dog then the only alternative is to insist that I’m physically human which, as I have stated above, I am not. On tumblr I normally use the transspecies and therian tags instead of ‘physical nonhuman’ because it’s more in line with the intended audience for my posts, but I still have the right to describe myself as physically canine because that’s what I am.

[vincentbriggs]

Hi! I’ve been sewing historical gowns for about 15 years. My parents ended up getting really into historical dancing after we went to a few events together. Our next event is 1810s-1820s, an era which I’m not that familiar with. Previously, we’ve been able to find decent garments for my dad while I make the dresses for me and my mom. I’d like to make something for my dad for this event, especially as there were some problems with the jacket he found. I’m a little uncertain about the canvas-usually I can just throw in a quick close-fitting coutil or twill interlining and some steel and call it a day. Do you have any advice about the structural components? Also, do you have any advice about fitting someone quite short (5 feet 6 inches) with a waist 2 inches larger than his chest? I’m not as familiar with that alteration, particularly in a jacket, and I’d really like this to be nice and make him feel good. Photos of us in 1860s/1920s included if it helps. Thanks for all the great posts!

Hello! I am definitely the wrong person to ask about this, since I have done zero 1810's-20's things. The only early 19th century tailoring I've done is that 1830's patchwork dressing gown, which I'm sure I didn't put together in the "correct" way, since I'm more comfortable with 18th century construction. And I also had to do a lot of things weirdly because the patchwork was so bulky and bumpy.

I am pretty familiar with the 1780's and 90's, but there was such a huge shift in tailoring around the turn of the century that I don't think that would help much at all with Regency/Romantic era stuff.

There are some patterns in The Cut of Men's Clothes, but that book doesn't have much of anything on the actual construction. For an introduction to canvas & all those other tailoring supplies I highly recommend this video.

I'm also not very experienced in fitting clothing on other people, despite being an alterations tailor. It's been years since I've drafted or sewn anything for someone else, and at work I just sew what the salesmen have pinned and marked.

@rowzien makes a lot of 1820's stuff though, so perhaps he can suggest some resources!

[starhvney]

Hey star! I really want to get into writing, but ive never been the best at it. Do you have any tips?

hi anon! good question! ^^

since i’ve started writing, i realized that it’s a skill similar to drawing, so you have to stay consistent if you want to see improvement. if you want to improve, i recommend writing as often as you can, even if it takes you out of your comfort zone or you’re not super happy or impressed with the result. also, just like drawing, it can be really hard to write without research and references! don’t be afraid to stop and reference online sources or your books for inspiration.

here’s my method/some extra tips for writing and editing!

1 ☆ have a general plan of how you want your story to go. i make a bullet point list of every event and/or dialogue i’d like to include. this makes it easier to stay on track and keep writing when i get stuck on a certain part.

2 ☆ when i write i like to listen to ambience music that matches the scenario, so for horror i’ll listen to suspenseful music and sad scenes i’ll listen to sad music. if i write for mcd i’ll even listen to medieval ambience videos lol (if you want some recommendations lmk!)

3 ☆ dont worry too much about it being perfect as you write. a rough draft is a rough draft for a reason. still, sometimes when i’m finished with a paragraph i read it over, and reference to synonyms and replacement words from google or pinterest to do a quick edit. (i also have a pinterest board of references i use, so if you’re interested in that, lmk as well)

4 ☆ if you’re having trouble or you’re stuck on how to construct a sentence, take a break and reference how an author you like writes. if you can, taking a few laps around your room/house while imagining how you want to continue helps a lot.

5 ☆ after you’re done, take a few moments to look away from your work, watch a video or episode and then come back to it with fresh eyes. if you have a friend, ask them to read over your work and suggest edits if they want. reference back to replacement words once again, and add extra details if the story seems to have moved too quickly. sometimes i repeat myself over and over in the same sentence, and i have to completely reconstructed a paragraph hahahha

i believe in you!! good writing takes work, but i believe everyone can be a writer, and everyone can be an artist. keep at it, and if you need support or more advice feel free to dm me! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

[generation-of-vipers]

I do not like the things I produce, but should it have come from another persons mind; i’d have thought better of the product.

just something I’ve come to realise as of recent— probably a little late, considering I’ve just turned 17 as of January and something like that seems so obvious. Between the 24 (and counting) drafts I have on here and the unfinished musings littering my journal— to the countless illusions of human form I draw these days that remain faceless— I have come to realise how my own self perception and insecurity in who I am simply as a person (beyond the creations I bare) has horribly and grotesquely limited me. I suppose I’ve always had the shadow of the idea lingering in the back of my head— like a brand to a window on a stormy night in my hyperbolic childhood bedroom, it scared me and I didn’t want to face it because I was unsure of what it truly was. But recently, I decided to address the whisper of contempt lingering every time I create. As I write this, I am rather dizzy with fatigue as I am coming off of having been ill— and the contemptuous voice is as loud as ever. It questions the validity of what I say, the verbosity, the lack of structure I seem to convince myself my writings have. Whenever I’ve spoken of my ‘perfectionism’ in the past, the bitter words that linger like a bad smell were truly what I meant. I overexplain and I overthink, I criticise myself to the point of the extreme and I feel as if I severely lack the capacity to be kind and appreciate what I write on here. Whenever I get compliments, I do appreciate them and they do soothe the feeling of inadequacy my mind loves to pump into me. But sometimes, it’s hard for me to believe them. I’ve been told that I’m well spoken and that I am intelligent— I’ve been told I’m emotionally mature and that I’ve got a brain ‘beyond my years���. All of that shit feels stupid to me. Don’t get me wrong— I find people who take the time out of their day to compliment me on the way I express myself or speak to be very lovely and I will always be grateful for the praise I’ve received as I’m sure there’s someone on the same level— If not levels above— me who doesn’t get half of the praise I do. But that’s the problem. I, in laymen’s terms and without over saturating a small feeling I have, feel undeserving of the praise I receive. Not because it’s objectively poor— but because I did it. But because it was me that those words were placed so carefully next to eachother like bricks to construct a house of personally-formulated-esotericism-laden ideology. I feel embarrassed that it took me so long, but I’m glad I did. I guess I can look at my work differently now— even if I struggle with that. But when I sit there and think about some of my favourite literature and think ‘and what if it had been me to say that?’ in reference to some of my favourite lines in literature— and I realise ‘it wouldn’t be as good in my eyes because it would have been me to spew the words’, it puts into perspective for me, just how little respect I have for my own intelligence and work. Which, yeah, is lowkey pathetic that I have a lacking repertoire with myself— but at least now I’ve acknowledged it. This kinda ties back into my post about acceptance— I just have to accept this part of me, and then I can improve on the things I’ve been neglecting because of my entire ‘why bother, it’s my work’ attitude, you know?

forgive me if this post seems a little bit loose-ended. I’m sick at the moment and as of writing this, a little dizzy. But I had this epiphany recently in my fever-struck 2am delusion all the while I struggled to breathe because of my blocked nose 😛😛 I literally wrote it down in the dark on a piece of paper on the nightstand by my bed lol I just wanted to talk a little into the void about it. Thank you for reading.

[nanowrimo]

How Finding the Right Writing Community Can Support You as a Writer

Every year, we’re lucky to have great sponsors for our nonprofit events. Novlr, a 2023 NaNoWriMo sponsor, is the world’s first writer-owned creative writing platform, built by writers, for writers. Today, professional writer and Novlr Community Lead Pamela Koehne-Drube shares some of the benefits a writing community can provide:

I’ve been a storyteller since I first learned to speak and a writer since I first held a pen. The writing journey is an emotional roller coaster, and no single day is ever the same. 

There are moments of delight, like when a scene I’ve struggled with finally comes together, or the satisfaction of building a character who comes to life on the page. There’s the sense of accomplishment when my first draft is finished and I get to read my completed story, and the nerves of putting those same words in front of readers for the very first time.

There are lots of silent rooms, the soft tapping of keys, or the scribble of a pen. Sometimes the isolation gets too much, and that’s when I grapple with writer’s block, wrestle with stubborn plot holes, or have to slog through edits I’m just not in the mood for.

In my years as a working writer, the most important thing I’ve learned is that while only I can do the writing, I don’t have to go on the journey alone. A writing community can make all the difference in keeping me motivated. 

What is a writing community?

Writing communities are as diverse as the writers who are part of them. Every writer will have a different need from their community, but what they do share is giving writers the opportunity to interact, share knowledge, and provide mutual support.

Some communities come ready-made. NaNoWriMo is a prime example, where diverse writers all rally together to achieve a common goal and support each other along the way. It has been one of my biggest encouragements over the years. And at Novlr, we’ve built an entire writing workspace around the idea of community, not only offering a virtual space for writers to come together and share their wins, struggles, ideas, and techniques but also giving our writer-owners a real say and influence in how our platform grows and develops.

Why are writing communities important?

Writing communities are a lifeline for many of us, offering a nurturing environment where we can learn, grow, and find kinship. Whether it's seeking feedback, gaining inspiration, or just breaking the isolation often associated with writing, they play an invaluable role in any writer's journey.

Encouragement

Sometimes, as a writer, all you need is someone telling you you’re doing a good job. Positive affirmations and encouragement can make all the difference, not only to your confidence but also to motivate you to stick with it. Being able to share ideas, troubleshoot plot holes, and celebrate even the small victories with people who get it is the perfect motivation.

Accountability

Being part of a writing community that openly shares its goals and commitments is a surefire way to motivate you to follow through. Again, NaNoWriMo is a perfect example of this; announcing your intention to the world and to the wider NaNo community makes your 50,000-word draft more than just an idea you have. It makes it real.

This accountability works for smaller goals too. Just sharing them with people makes them a tangible thing to work toward, keeping you accountable and on track to achieve your writing goals.

Become a better writer

Writing groups offer the perfect opportunity to get real-time feedback on your work and expose yourself to diverse and unique perspectives from fellow writers. Not only can they learn from you and your experiences, but you can learn from theirs by championing supportive and constructive criticism.

Rediscover the joy of writing!

There’s something truly special about the collective joy and camaraderie of sharing your writing journey. Writing groups help foster friendships where you can celebrate your shared successes. The challenges of writing become less daunting and more like puzzles to be solved together, and if you involve group activities, like writing prompts or collaborative projects, the process of writing becomes much more vibrant and enjoyable. 

What types of writing communities are there?

Writing events

Writing events foster writing communities where each member shares a single goal or focus. NaNoWriMo is, of course, the biggest and most well-known goal-focused event in the creative writing space. I have lifelong writing pals I’ve met over NaNoWriMo, and we still regularly get together for critiques. Last year, I even did a 24-hour novel challenge where we took the NaNo goal of 50,000 words but tried to fit it into a single 24-hour period. It was one of the toughest writing challenges I’ve ever done, but the community that came from it is amazing.

Similarly, online communities, like our Discord, that host regular writing sprints, often attract goal-focused individuals who enjoy the thrill of time-bound writing challenges. 

In-person writing groups

In-person writing groups meet at a dedicated time and place, like a local coffee shop, library, or someone's home. I host a writing group at my local pub on one of their quieter afternoons, and there’s a handful of us who get together, exchange ideas, play writing games, provide real-time feedback, and just generally share our work in the spirit of improving our craft. 

The value of personal contact can't be underestimated, as it does allow for more nuanced discussions about works in progress and provides a structure that many writers, myself included, find beneficial.

Critique groups

Critique groups, as the name suggests, focus primarily on providing constructive feedback on members' work. These groups are all about sharing drafts and receiving detailed criticism about your writing — anything from accuracy to style and accessibility.

Peer critiques can offer a variety of perspectives on your writing. It’s a great way to find plot holes, character inconsistencies, or stylistic improvements that you might have overlooked early on. Furthermore, by critiquing others' work, you learn to sharpen your own editing skills and gain fresh insights into the writing process.

Writing retreats

Writing retreats are designed to provide writers with a break from their everyday environment and immerse them in a space dedicated to their writing. These retreats can range from weekend getaways to month-long residencies and are often situated in inspiring locations, from country houses to beachfront cabins.

The tranquil and focused atmosphere of a retreat is designed to spark creativity and reduce distractions, allowing writers to concentrate solely on their craft.

Online writing communities

Not everyone lives near other writers or is comfortable seeking out strangers in person. Online writing communities offer a digital space for writers to interact and learn from each other, extending the possibility of collaboration regardless of geographical location.

Platforms like Reddit, Discord, and the NaNoWriMo forums are popular for hosting vibrant writing communities, providing a dynamically interactive space that keeps writers connected, inspired, and motivated in their writing journey, even if they can’t be with other writers in person.

Social media

Social media channels offer various ways for writers to connect, exchange ideas, and foster communities. On Twitter and Tumblr, writers can follow trending hashtags like #writingcommunity, #amwriting, #writeblr, #writingtips, or #NaNoWriMo to engage in conversations, share inspiration, or get advice. TikTok has also recently emerged as another hub for writers, with the #BookTok and #WritingTok trends really taking off. 

To sum up

Writing communities come in many forms and serve different purposes, but each offers unique benefits to support and enrich your writing journey. They provide the encouragement, accountability, feedback, and camaraderie needed to navigate the often solitary path of writing. It may be your journey, but you don’t have to take it alone.

As you seek to join or create a writing community, consider what you want from the experience and explore various options that align with your needs, preferences, and schedule. Remember, writing doesn't have to be a lonely endeavour. In the company of fellow writers, the journey becomes a shared experience, making the process less daunting and far more rewarding. Happy writing!

Novlr is free to use. However, for those who need the extra bits, there’s a 40% discount on Novlr Pro for 12 months for NaNoWriMo writers. Simply add the NANO23 coupon code when subscribing at Novlr.org. Offer expires December 31st, 2023.

Pamela Koehne-Drube is all about building creative writing communities where imagination thrives and writers achieve their goals. As a professional ghostwriter and editor, Pamela has first-hand experience in the book trade, from supporting fledgeling writers all the way through to working with the Big Five publishers. She’s an expert on all things writing. In her role as Writer Development & Community Lead at Novlr, you'll find her organising challenges and chatting about writing in Novlr’s Discord and building a repository of amazing writing, editing, publishing, and marketing resources for the Reading Room.

Top photo by Hannah Busing on Unsplash.

[crooked-wasteland]

The Existential Separation of Heaven and Hell

The first question to ask is why are the settings of Heaven and Hell? 

It is why this is a rewrite or fanfiction and not being drafted as its own fantasy world devoid from the lineage of Hazbin Hotel. While Medrano’s version could have been set anywhere, separate of questions about God and religion, mine cannot. In fact, the entire story hinges on this dichotomy of cultural perception and history through the lens of theology. 

But more than being a critique of religion as a construct, it is a tomb in which a part of myself is buried. I’ve spoken briefly about my background in religion. My relationship with religion is the focus of the design, as is the state of Hell being a meaningless continuation of current life being the embodiment of my experience walking away from all the gods. Because I didn’t lose faith in my God as it were, I realized God has always ever been an apathetic observer to life itself. It made me see God himself as being morally bankrupt. 

The idea that he would help me pass a test but allow an entire family to die in a freak accident. That God was more concerned with two lovers—pure in their devotion—not presenting themselves before him for approval, than he was with children being beaten, tortured, or killed by their own parents. That it was more important that I hated people who loved differently than it was to hate those who wish harm to others. 

I didn’t see contradiction in that God; I saw a chaotic continuity. It wasn’t something made of love, but a creature drenched in apathy. My nihilism wasn’t born from a void left by an absent God; it was born from the void I saw inside Him. 

And that is a fundamental part of this story: My truth that God himself is an empty throne. He may sit upon it; he may not, but the outcomes are ever the same in his absence and his presence. 

Meanwhile, the origination of Hell as a human continuation of existence cut off from any god is to challenge you, regardless of your personal beliefs, to enter a world where nothing you do matters because you are cut off from that divinity. You are no longer required to keep striving for anything, no longer forced to seek sovereign approval. To confront you with that radical freedom to live purely free without consequence and be whoever you want to be. 

Will you become violent, cruel, debased?  When given no authoritarian consequences for your actions are you suddenly a demon, or are you simply you? 

I am of the firm belief that when faced with that ledge, what Camus would call “Absurd Freedom”, they quickly look away. There is an existential anxiety attached to that place, what Kierkegaard called “Angst”. Kierkegaard wrote, “Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.” The feeling of this concept is like standing on an edge over which you see nothing but darkness below. Would you have the fortitude to leap—or do you believe you would simply sink; becoming undone by freedom. For all the misery you have lived through to this point, regardless of whether it is great or comparatively small, is your sense of self so brittle that, without the threat of punishment, it crumbles? And if it crumbles—was it ever truly yours, or merely something you were assigned? 

My position is akin to a Kierkegaardian ‘leap of faith’, but not toward a god. Rather, a leap toward the human spirit. My world asserts that, no, most of us would not suddenly abandon our humanity just because the divine scaffolding has vanished. In fact, I believe many wouldn’t even confront it – they would simply continue, propelled by inertia. 

This state of drifting inertia, of surviving without living, is not new. Many have written about it from varied perspectives: 

Albert Camus – What he calls a “refusal to revolt” or assert one’s own existence; continuing to live while pretending you don’t have to choose how to do so. Soren Kierkegaard – What he called the “aesthetic life”.  Living for a beauty defined by wanton pleasure, detached irony, and distraction is a refusal to confront the radical freedom of choice in the name of silencing the anxiety it brings. Friedrich Nietzsche – What he named “herd morality”: the values we’ve constructed out of fear of the unknown, the resentment of the other, or for a convenient comfort rather than our own initiative built from will. What many erroneously see as a disavowal of social responsibility is actually Nietzsche’s attempt at demanding personal responsibility for our social beliefs. Simone de Beauvoir – What she called “Bad Faith” or the rejection of personal responsibility by pretending the systems we live in weren’t chosen. Her philosophy asserts that there is nothing wrong with living inside these systems, but it is a wicked lie to say we couldn’t choose something else. Michel Foucault – What he metaphorically called the “Panopticon Prison” or the state of internalized discipline and self-regulation for the benefit of institutional control. Carl Jung – What he would call the “Unintegrated Shadow”. Jung, though a psychologist and not a philosopher, is included because his theories reflect the same “institutionalization” of the Self—one that begins within us and which many live their entire lives denying responsibility of. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel – His philosophies compliment the rest by his mere definition of a “self”; not simply a thing, but a process in the same constant motion as the Solar System. You don’t exist on your own—you become who you are by being seen, challenged, and understood by others. His theory is hard to explain plainly, but think of it like this: You can’t understand a bird by looking at a feather. You have to see how that feather works with the wind and the anatomy of the bird’s hollow bones, and the motion of flight. The same is true of people—truth isn’t in the pieces; it’s in the synthesis. And that synthesis doesn’t have a clean ending; it can continue infinitely unless it is intentionally stopped short.  His definition of inertia, then, is the willful refusal to engage with the process.  Martin Heidegger – What he would call “Inauthenticity”, much like de Beauvoir’s Bad Faith, is a passive avoidance of one’s own truth. But where her philosophy focused on awareness of the self, he fixated on the awareness of time. Our pursuit of comfort and safety in the present is simply a means of ignoring that the inevitability of death gives urgency to life. We will die no matter what but living without agency is to act like we shall live forever. 

This is what defines the state of Hell. Not just what it is (a continuation of life without access to any god) but also why (to confront the material reality of the human condition we are living in). My Heaven and my Hell are a challenge unto you to radically accept the raw reality of life through fantasy. To travel through the valleys of the shadow of death without a god and without comfort and see how far you can go. See if you can create divinity rather than hide beneath it. 

[fayetape]

Flame by Fayetape - Chapter 3: Ballad

Finnick Odair x Reader

Word count: 1056

CW: Suggestions prostitut10n, angst, death themes.

Summary of series: Reader and Finnick met when they were very young. They experience the horrors of Panem together as they grow up. Throughout the years they fight for a shoot needing. Whatever that might look like… Angst/Fluff/Smut/Series/Minimal use of Y/N

Authors note: Heyyy all sorry for the little break! I’ve been so busy with school and work. But I’m back! This has been sitting in my drafts for a minute, ooooppps(?) As always, open to kind and constructive criticism! Enjoy!

It would be weeks before he came back to district four. When he finally did, he was incredibly happy to see her. She was the first person he ran to as soon as he got some freedom. He hugged her so tight she thought he might suffocate her half to death. He was finally home. For a short while, things felt like they were falling back into normalcy. This fleeting sense left the more time she would spend with Finnick. He was a lot quieter. He would engage in conversations, but would keep them short. Still, they stayed together, even if it was in silence. Finnick grew cockier as the months went on. Spouting off arrogant comments towards the people of district four and whoever he came across. She found his new attitude insensitive and hurtful, yet she stayed with him. She tried to understand what it would feel like to be the winner of the games. Of course it would change a person. There would be moments where the Finnick she knew would come out. Only when things were quiet and the world felt still would he act like his sweet and playful self. Over time his usual demeanors became rare. Still, they would date for two whole years. What ended the relationship was his frequent trips to the capitol. He wouldn’t speak much on it except for boasting about fancy parties and art exhibits that he had the luxury of attending. She would listen, but the paranoia in her head eventually got to be too much. She was convinced he was cheating on her. He would often come back with mysterious bruises on his neck that he would brush off as an accident. Finnick always got snappy anytime these marks were brought up. How could she think anything else but cheating? They were both young and immature. After many intense arguments, and sleepless nights, the couple broke up and never spoke again. The field would be empty of the two of them forever.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

It was her last reaping day ever. If she could make it past today, she would finally be able to rest. These days she didn’t see much of Finnick, which certainly eased her nerves. She dated other boys and broke up with them. When she and Finnick would inevitably cross paths, they would both avoid eye contact. When he would come by her job at the local market she would pretend not to know him and make the usual casual small talk like she would with every customer, just a little less enthusiastically. She tried her best to keep her gaze from falling to the counter and suppress the awkward shake in her voice. He would do the same, sometimes catching himself starting to stare into her eyes. She would ignore his attempts at contact, he wouldn’t try again. Every reaping day she thought of him and every reaping day he was nowhere to be found. Even on her last reaping, he was gone. I guess she couldn’t expect much else. They hadn’t been friends for years. Maybe after today she could finally start to find some sense of peace. Escape from the haunting thoughts of what Finnick experienced or what could have been, escape from her own fear. Freedom. Ready to put the reapings behind her. Her mom laid out a dress for her like she did every year. This year's dress was a burnt orange color. The girl was still anxious, there was still a chance she could get reaped, in fact it was higher than ever. But she made it this far. She headed off to the town with a nervous determination to survive this last blood draw. The scene is nothing more than it always is. Crying families, scared first-years, intimidating peacekeepers lined up and a stage. It was boring at this point. She would still find it horrifying even if she had played this game for a hundred years. The system was cruel, but she could dissociate from it enough. A mic screams and buzzes as it connects to the speakers. The same woman who comes by every year in her ridiculous outfits entered the stage. The chatter and distress of the crowd became tense and silent.

“Welcome everyone to the seventy-first annual reapings”

Her tone was joyful in a way that sounded sardonic. She spoke on the previous games and her “wonderful excitement” for the next games. The usual dialogue of brain-dead capitol celebrities.

“Without further ado, we shall now announce the female tribute for this year’s Hunger Games,” She smiled.

The girl’s heart raced. Just have to get through this one more time. One more time.

“Y/N L/N! Come up on stage dear!”

The crowd went silent. She looked around. Many looked relieved for themselves or staring in a state of shock. She felt like she was going to pass out. Her head went foggy and her mind went blank. Fingers turned cold and face went pale. She wondered if there was a consequence for passing out. Would they drag her limp body up on stage? Would they punish her? Her thoughts were quickly interrupted.

“Don’t be shy! Come up here, love!”

Shaking, she walked towards the stage. The world was spinning. Was it? Or was she? Her senses sharpened. She could hear the subtle squeak of the wood beneath her feet as she stepped up on stage. Eyes wide, she looked around the crowd for someone to help her, but no one did.

“And the male tribute is…” the woman announced, “Clement Almas!”

A twelve year old boy. She had always seen him while working at the market. A few years back she had snuck a couple pieces of caramel candy into his shopping bag before she got in trouble for it. The boy lived with his grandmother with his parents nowhere to be found. It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair. There was some rumbling of the crowd and some muffled announcements before she was whisked away by the peacekeepers. They gave her about three minutes to say goodbye to her mother before she was thrown on a train and taken to the capitol. Nothing and everything all at once raced through her head. She felt so overwhelmingly empty. The train rumbled and shrieked. This was the end of her life.

[subzeroparade]

How much do you write in one sitting? How much of it stays, how much of an effort do you have to make it pretty? Does it comes naturally? I've never been able to write up until very recently and I find myself constantly baffled by what I am able to write, but it takes such a conscious effort not to make it garbage, and I never know how much of it is palatable and not just idiotically purple for no reason. Do you deal with those thoughts? I'm asking because I admire how you write, just, so much.

Hi anon, I have no idea if this post on my own writing process helped you - I hope it did - but please do not doubt that it takes such a conscious effort not to make it garbage is a universal truth, and I get it. Writing is a craft, same as all creative arts. Anyone can dabble in it - and should, it’s part of being human - but honing your skill requires conscious (and sometimes frustrating) effort. To answer your questions:

How much do you write in one sitting?

Depends on the deadline I’ve given myself. I can plan to sit down for some light edits and churn up a few thousand words, but also vice-versa. I might say fuck it and cull half those words after, because they’re weak enough to be edited out entirely. I might write a poor excuse for a paragraph one day, but tease a whole, worthwhile scene from it the next. So: it depends. Quality over quantity. After furiously writing and editing, I recommend going away for a while - like, a week. When you come back you’ll find your perspective on what does and doesn’t hold up has probably changed. 

How much of it stays, how much of an effort do you have to make it pretty? Does it come naturally?

See above. Also I assume by pretty you mean good, compelling, readable. Rarely anything from the first draft is exactly intact when I publish - much of it has been reworked. Occasionally I have a moment of epiphany, so a sentence written in Draft 1 remains unchanged - because it does everything it needs to do - but they are few and far between, and I can pick them out for you myself from memory. One of the greatest lessons I learned (ironically from a fine arts prof but it 100% applies to writing) is that nothing in your first pass is too precious to destroy and redo, so don’t get attached.  As for whether it comes naturally, I think two things come naturally: 1) the desire to write (you are compelled to, or not, that's all. unfortunately the discipline to sit down and do it does not come naturally - for me, anyway). 2) the particular cadence of your voice, and so certain particularities in your prose. People who've heard me speak irl know that I have cadence and speech patterns that tend to match my writing. It's hard to undo that, so it's something to think about leaning into, and working to your benefit.

Do you deal with these thoughts (the question of how much is palatable and not just idiotically purple for no reason).

I did and still do, though less. I’d also argue that these thoughts, if channelled in a constructively critical way, are extremely useful. You should be asking yourself Is this good? Have I considered turning left instead of right at this plot point, and what would that mean for the story? Do I really need this turn of phrase? If I read this out loud does it transmit meaning, or does it sound like senseless decorative blather? You should have a roster of these questions ready (again, if your aim is to take a fine-tooth comb to your work and get better). I still cringe at shit I’ve written recently and think about paring down where I can, or rephrasing until it makes the impact I want it to. 

The best way to get perspective on this is to (wait for it) read. Read a lot. Read stuff that is beyond you, outside your preferred genre, both contemporary and not. Variety - consuming a vast amount of good work - is how you hone your critical eye. If you want to get better, look for things that will challenge you, and by extension inspire you. You don’t necessarily have to read only prize-winners or peruse literary mags for recs (though full disclosure, that’s what I do) but you might want to consider the roster of authors you turn to when you need to make stylistic adjustments, or are simply starved for inspo. For example: if I’m finding my output a little too monotonous, I will pick up someone hypnotic like Joyce Carol Oates, or baroque as Angela Carter. If my voice is getting a little “idiotically purple” - which it can - and I just need to fucking describe something and calm down, then it’s Hemingway (I hate him but he's really useful, sorry), or someone contemporary like Mark Haddon. What these authors have in common is they’ve all written something that feels like it has blown the back of my head out (wow sorry again that follows a Hemingway reference), and that’s the high I am always chasing when I am reading, be it for study or pleasure, because I want to hurt/love my own reader in that same way.   

Tldr; it takes work, it can be frustrating, but don’t stop. Don’t doubt yourself but do question your work, vigorously; have at it with the pleasure of knowing it can always be better, and it will be. Hope this helps :’)

[hoshibatake]

FREEDOM – Virtuality and Ideals/Chapter 5

Previous chapter

<An evening one week later. In the real world, Trickstudio>

Subaru: Oh. Anzu��s here! Otsukaresama¹～

Subaru: Come over here. Come laze around with us☆

Subaru: ...Huh? Work first, fun later? Oh, right. We were supposed to have a review meeting about FREEDOM.

Hokuto: Don’t tell me that you forgot.

Subaru: I remembered, but when I saw Anzu, I got so happy it slipped my mind♪

Mao: I’m glad to see her too, but isn’t that getting a bit too excited?

Mao: We’ve been seeing quite a lot of her since we started hanging out in Trickstudio regularly, don’t you think?

Subaru: You just don’t get it, Sari～. Any time you see someone you love a who~le lot is a time to be happy.

Subaru: Anzu, what’s up? ...Oh, you wanna hear about FREEDOM’s current status while we wait for Ukki～?

Hokuto: We can tell you that, but you have administrator privileges, so can’t you just check the data directly?

Hokuto: ...Fumu. You want us to be able to build freely without any worries, so you only log in when there’s an error?

Subaru: You don’t need to hold yourself back, though. You’re welcome at any time☆

Subaru: But thanks for being considerate, anyway. The current status, huh…?

Subaru: Oh, right. Our four avatars finally formed a unit～♪

Subaru: Out of their own initiative, of course. We’re Trickstar, after all☆

Hokuto: Yes. Putting the surrounding circumstances aside for a moment, I can’t help but be impressed at the realism.

Mao: Yeah, and their actions since they formed a unit have been reminiscent of ours as well. Subaru and Hokuto’s avatars have been jumping the gun, holding live performances in all sorts of places…

Mao: ...but my and Makoto’s avatars have been putting effort into city building and helping out citizens, instead of focusing purely on idol activities.

Mao: It kinda reminds me of the time when we just formed Trickstar♪

<Flashback. Five days earlier, in the information room>

Makoto: (FREEDOM is our first job of the fiscal year, so the agency must have high expectations too.)

Makoto: (In order to get good results, we first need to focus on building the city. This is my strong suit, so I’ve gotta give it my all!)

Makoto: (I’m following the plan I drafted using my experience with previous simulation games I’ve played…)

Makoto: (...but it’s pretty hard to balance it with those idol activities. A lot of things don’t turn out like I want them to.)

Makoto: (The fact that it’s not just about city building is what makes this game so interesting, but it also complicates things, so I’m having a hard time.)

Makoto: (I feel like I’m doing exactly what I should be doing, but the results don’t reflect that. Hrm…)

Makoto: (An online strategy guide would… not exist yet. Of course it wouldn’t. The game isn’t out yet, after all.)

Makoto: (I could still give looking it up on our internal network a shot. Although I really doubt I’ll find anything♪)

Makoto: (...Huh? I got a hit.)

Makoto: (“City Building Plans ‘FREEDOM’. Documentation for internal use.” ...Some of this information wasn’t in the documents we were given.)

Makoto: (Actually, it seems like I’ve stumbled upon some pretty significant information?)

Makoto: (…)

Makoto: (“Choosing idols and having them freely construct a city, using the software we developed in cooperation with this game company.”)

Makoto: (“If they are successful, that virtual city will then be built in reality”...)

Makoto: I already thought that it was strange that this job only consisted of playing a game. So that’s the plan.

Makoto: The reason why they’re letting us build this city however we want is still a mystery to me, but I never thought our city would become real…

Makoto: Actually, that’s a huge issue!

Makoto: The four of us have just been building our own versions of an ideal city, but it would by no means be an ideal city in reality!

Makoto: It’s overrun by dinosaurs and full of factories, with the occasional zombie outbreak and a theme park that’s without power most of the time. We can’t let them build that in real life!

Makoto: There’s a high chance that they would just cancel the whole thing, but I don’t want to let our first job of the year end in failure either.

Makoto: I’ll just have to correct our course, and turn it into a city we can be proud of…!

<Several days later. The dormitory, Makoto’s room>

Makoto: (…)

Makoto: (...Oof. How many all-nighters have I pulled now? I’ve lost count.)

Makoto: (By overhauling the factory area, I’ve increased the factories’ energy consumption, but now they’re less destructive to the environment.)

Makoto: (And I tore down all of the city in order to fix the infrastructure. I’ve widened the roads and improved traffic flow…)

Makoto: (I’ve built more parks, improving the citizens’ living conditions. The ambiance in the city should be much better now, but…)

Makoto: (It’s nowhere near ideal. There’s just not enough time.)

Makoto: (I feel like the career system... or rather, the idol activities that are being organized because of it are getting in the way of the development of the city.)

Makoto: (When they’re called upon, the avatars automatically start prioritizing idol activities.)

Makoto: (Their training takes up a lot of time, and when people gather for concerts, they end up leaving a big mess in the city...)

Makoto: …

Makoto: Maybe I should make the avatar ‘me’ leave Trickstar.

Makoto: I feel like their idol activities wouldn’t really change, even if ‘I’ wasn’t there. I’m sure ‘I’ would have more to contribute in terms of city building.

Makoto: The others might be a little disappointed, but I feel like this is the better option…

Makoto: But my eyelids feel so heavy… I can’t……

TL notes:

This is a standard expression used when greeting someone who has been working.

Translated by me, proofread by Altea (@icaruswasthesun on Twitter)

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