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goldfades · 4 months ago

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once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren��t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

#joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #joe shiesty #joey b #jb9 #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #nfl fic #nfl players #nfl imagine

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rogdona · 3 months ago

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#if i had a pouch id b shovin my hands in it like its pockets all the time #art #my art #oc tag #furry #oc joey

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burreauxwrites · 5 months ago

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“TIGER” - (joe burrow x reader)

description: while taking a bath with joe, you made an important discovery. he has stretch marks! (i wrote this after discovering that joe has stretch marks 🥹 he’s so lovely)

word count: 708

warnings: fluff, sharing a bath, joe is kind of touched deprived.

it had been a busy day for both you and joe. you had some work you had to get done, and joe had practice. there really wasn’t anything the both of you wanted more than to enjoy a relaxing bath and chat about your day together.

the both of you liked to call it your “nightly debriefing”. joe would talk about how practice went and any funny moments, while you shared some gossip and what your day was like at work.

joe started the water, running his hands beneath the rapid stream to check it’s temperature for the both of you. one the temperature was what you both desired, he put in the stopper, letting you add the body soap. you opted for a warm vanilla scent, compared to lavender.

the both of you stepped into the tub once the water finished filling it up, sinking into the warm, soapy water. joe looked at you fondly, shuffling over to you a bit.

“y/n, babe,” he asks, looking at you with a slight pleading look, “could you massage my back, please?”

“of course, joey.” you answered, nodding and beckoning joe to come closer and turn around.

when he does, your delicate hands run over his frame, kneading and working out any knots. a soft grin formed onto your lips as you heard him relax; he was always one of the most hardest working people you’ve ever known, and he deserved to have time to be calm and not feel stressed.

as you continue massaging him, you stop, a faint gasp escaping your lips.

joe had stretch marks. the most beautiful ones you’d ever seen, really. all of the lines on his back and shoulders stood out against his skin, soft and uneven, like ripples in sand after a wave. you figured they were from him working out a lot and bulking up quickly.

“what…?” joe questioned, noticing your gasp and the pause in your movement.

“you…you have stretch marks…” you murmured fondly.

joe chuckled, the sound rumbling his body a bit underneath your hands. “yeah, i do. it’s no biggie,” he shrugs, relaxing as you begin massaging him again, “when you gain muscle really quickly, that kind of thing tends to happen.”

you smiled, nodding as a soft hum came from you. your hands drew gentle circles around the scars as you stared at them lovingly. they’re so beautiful. he’s beautiful. you loved every single inch of joe, and the fact that he had stretch marks made him imperfectly perfect.

“they’re cute,” you cooed softly, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss onto his shoulder where the marks were, “they’re like…tiger stripes,” you giggled as you traced over the marks with your finger softly.

“tiger stripes, huh?” joe laughed, partially due to the ticklish sensation of your finger, and your words, “what, so i’m a tiger now?”

“mhm,” you agreed, continuing to pepper his shoulders and back in kisses. you pulled back for a moment, taking a warm look at his skin and making it your mission to commit it to memory, “you’re big, strong, kind of intimidating, and beautiful.”

joe shook his head at your words, sighing as you continued massaging his body. you always praised joe, both for his skills and physical traits. he found it sweet; he could have the most mundane mole or scar, and you treated it like a piece of art.

he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a small moment in relaxation. with a smile, leans back, putting a decent bit of weight on you, but not too much; he didn’t want to crush you.

you could tell he was feeling a bit touch deprived, but you didn’t mind. it was easy for you to tell that he was having a moment where he just wanted to be held. so, you leaned back against the tub, wrapping your arms around him with a smile.

“y/n?” joe asked, opening his eyes as he felt you rest your head onto his shoulder.

you perk up a little, “mhm?” you ask, looking at him warmly.

“i love you.” he sighed.

with a softened gaze, you run a thumb against his scarred skin with admiration and profound care.

“i love you too, tiger.”

#joe burrow #joe burrow fic #bengals #cincinnati bengals #joe brrr #joe burrow x oc #joey b #joey burrow #nfl #joe burrow blurb #blurb

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sandflakedraws · 3 months ago

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what's your favorite drawing you've made?

#joey babbles #fizzie-the-troll #this one.#sandflakedrew #oc #douru #i went thru my douru tag earlier and saw that i don't actually have this one posted in there #i made this one back in .... maybe 2019?? something ?#but it just sits well behind my ribcage #had it as the login screen for my laptop for a few years now and aint got sick of it #undescribed

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dangerbizz · 6 months ago

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Ink Bendy & Ink Ashley

Ink Ashley’s cartoon personality mostly stayed intact but it also made her unaware of the studio’s horrors, believing herself and others to be the cartoons they were supposed to be

The Ink Demon doesn’t care to attack Ashley but largely ignores her antics but once something provokes her — putting her in her hostile state as well — becomes territorial and attacks the source of provoking

She does help Henry on occasion and is largely friendly and not really remembering anything happening during her hostile episodes

They’re gonna kiss

#bendy and the ink machine #batim #bendy and the ink machine oc #batim oc #bendy and the ink machine fanart #batim fanart #bendy oc #bendy fanart #ink demon #ink bendy #ink demon fanart #ink bendy fanart #toon oc #cartoon oc #joey drew studios #original character #oc #oc x canon #dangerbizz

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v6quewrlds · 7 months ago

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can u write a fluffy clingy joe one shot?? maybe building legos or something!! i love ur work!! i hope u have a nice day!!🫶🏾

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: here's a fluffy little palette cleanser <3

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 0.9k.

The scent of cinnamon wafted through the air as you stirred the pot of homemade hot chocolate on the stove. You glanced at the clock; it was already past six in the evening, and the darkness outside pressed against the windows like a heavy blanket.

"Joe," you began as you poured the steaming liquid into two oversized mugs, "I understand you're upset, but maybe you should take this week to recharge. Watch some movies, play some video games, do something that doesn't involve football."

Joe sighed, taking the mug from you with a nod of gratitude. "You're probably right," he admitted. "But it's hard to sit still when all I can think about is what we could be doing to fix things."

You kissed his forehead gently. "You can't control everything, Joey. Sometimes you just have to trust that things will pan out the way they're meant to." You leaned in for a quick peck, then stepped back to pick up your warm mug.

Joe sighed again, his eyes lingering on the TV that was muted in the living room, displaying highlights of the Cavs-Pelicans game. "Fine," he said finally.

You raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"

"Fine," Joe repeated, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Can we build that Lego set we got last Christmas?"

Your eyes lit up. "Seriously?" You had been dying to tackle the intricate, sprawling Star Wars that had remained in its box since Joe's brother, Dan, gifted it for Christmas. "You know I've been waiting for this moment."

Joe nodded with a hint of excitement in his voice. "Yeah, I figured it's time we put it together." He followed you to the living room, where you cleared the coffee table with a dramatic flourish.

You sat down across from each other, the instructions sprawled out between you. You picked up the instructions, your eyes scanning the pages. "Okay, we're building the Death Star," you said with a smile. "Where do we start?"

Joe leaned over, his sarcasm in full swing. "I'm surprised you remember what it is. You're the one who said it looked like a giant space donut when we opened the box."

You playfully rolled your eyes. "Hey, I know my Star Wars!" you protested. "The 4,000-piece count kind of took me by surprise, though."

Joe chuckled, sifting through the pieces. "Alright, space donut expert, let's get to it."

Your eyes were glued to the instructions, the pieces scattered around the two of you like a colorful minefield. A soft laugh filled the room as you held up a tiny Lego stormtrooper, your thumb and forefinger framing it like a photograph. "Look at this little guy," you said, grinning. "He's so cute."

"Cute? He's a symbol of imperial tyranny, babe," Joe retorted with a chuckle, earning a playful shove from you. Despite his initial hesitation, Joe was fully invested in the project. His mind was clear of the team dynamics that had consumed him all week. The Legos demanded his focus, and he gave it willingly.

You took a sip of your now lukewarm cocoa and leaned in closer to examine Joe's progress. "Looks pretty impressive," you said.

Joe glanced up, his cheeks reddening slightly. "It's just Legos," he said, but you could hear the pride in his voice.

"No, it's not just Legos," you replied, setting your mug down. "I love it when you get all focused like this for something other than football. It's cute."

Joe rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. "Cute, huh?"

You nodded. "Yeah, like a big ol' teddy bear."

"Teddy bear?" Joe scoffed, but the playful teasing had lightened his mood. "I'll have you know I'm a very intimidating Lego architect."

You couldn't help but laugh at his defensive tone. "Oh, absolutely," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm quaking in my boots."

Joe smirked and tossed a Lego at you. It bounced off your arm and you feigned injury. "Careful there, Burrow," you said, your voice full of mock pain. "You wouldn't want to hurt the one who's keeping you fed and hydrated."

"Well, you're not helping much with the whole 'keeping me hydrated' part," Joe quipped, nodding towards his nearly empty mug. "I'll need more of that hot cocoa if I'm going to get through this."

You stood up with a smile. "Your wish is my command," you said, practically skipping back to the kitchen. As you brought the pot to a boil again, you watched Joe through the archway. The stress of the season had etched lines into his face, but as he worked on the Death Star, you could see them slowly smoothing out.

When you returned with the freshly filled mug, Joe took a grateful sip and leaned back, eyeing the progress. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I've been so caught up in work that I forgot how much I enjoy just... doing nothing."

You sat back down on the floor, your mug now steaming in your hands. "It's important to have hobbies," you agreed, your voice gentle. "Things that make you happy outside of football."

Joe nodded, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before returning to the Legos. "You're right," he murmured, his voice a mix of acceptance and regret. "I just... I want to win so badly."

You leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "I know you do," you said softly. "And you will. But you'll have to wait a week to do it. For now, just enjoy the quiet."

#&. joey b.#joe burrow #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow x reader #bengals #cincinnati football #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fluff #black!fem!reader #x black fem reader #black!oc #x black reader #black!reader #black reader

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whumpsoda · 11 days ago

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“Care to Remind Me?”

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse, amnesia, memory

———

With knobby, weak knees buckled, Joey took on the much needed task of holding Florence upright, keeping him from falling to the concrete like a rag doll.

Handler Thurman.

Florence could recall himself just a bit, the white uniform, white walls, and white lights blooming against his dark curls. The glimpse was that of a reflection, mirrored in a circle of metal - a dog bowl. He hissed at the sight, tripping over his stumbling legs.

The pet took on his training well, straight faced and stone cold, although visually fearful.

If he could just set his head straight he could do something-

“Dear, are you annoying passersby?”

The voice rigged itself calm and collected, so much so that the rage full temper beneath cracked through, enough to halt each former or current pet in place. A shiver crawled its way from head to toe, each pet but Florence dutifully finding its source.

“I thought you had learned your lesson from the last time, silly.” This owner was different from Florence’s, the facade of kindness there, though the threat still loomed right over. “And I keep giving you second chances, don’t I?”

He chuckled at that, and Joey flinched. Florence couldn’t manage to move, blotted vision plastered on the pet - ‘463, designation domestic - unable to be shifted.

The owner danced onto Joey, the only one able to pay any attention to him. “Dear, I must apologize for the pet. He can be a real dummy sometimes, and doesn’t seem to know how to handle himself.” He tapped gently at the metal railing seperating them. “I sincerely pray he hasn’t ruined your day with himself.”

In the air hung an expectancy of a response from Florence, one Joey couldn’t give, some sort of thank you but it’s fine. It took nearly all of Florence’s strength to simply turn his crackled, splitting skull. Sweat dipped over his lips, curling down his drenched, silent face. He did his best to try a smile.

The owner - Florence still blanked on his name even with the blaring white - looked just as Florence had remembered. He stood on the porch of a restaurant, hair gelled back with more gray than he recalled, but still in dapper attire. He looked eerily like Mr. Franklin, and that only nudged Florence closer to the edge.

The owner’s face flattened for a second, just as Florence’s, head cocking. Mutual recognition. And for just a flicker, his cold, creeping gaze slipped to Florence’s arm.

His barcode was long gone - stripped of his skin like they stripped him of himself - but the owner glanced at it like he’d find something there. It was covered with a bracelet like always, and it didn’t even matter if it was because there was nothing there but a tiny fucking scar, but even so Florence yanked his arm from the owner’s assualting gaze.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise, Mr…,” the owner trailed off, licking his lips expectantly, before continuing. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’ve forgotten your name. Care to remind me?”

For once, Florence couldn’t speak.

He knew.

Florence paused, hesitating to say something, anything, with nothing managing to fly past his throat. He wiped the trickle of moisture -tears or sweat - from his cheek, sucking in a trembling breath.

Lip twitching, his smile faltered. “H-,” he swallowed, gulping down disgust. “Handler Thurman.”

The owner clapped his hands in amusement. “Ah, yes. I remember now!” He exclaimed, resting his chin back into his hand, clearly entertained by the fact that he’d somehow come across his pets old handler-turned-pet. What owner wouldn’t be? “My pretty boy’s handler.”

Laughing, sickly and gross, Florence more than easily slipped back into the handler persona, with a tint of hesitancy lingering. “T- that’s me.” He said, smiling strange as he licked his lips, running his fingers back through his sweat stained curls.

“What a pleasant coincidence.” The owner scratched at his silver slick beard. Squinting, he looked Florence up and down for a long, strung out second. “I certainly don’t mean to pry, but might something be wrong? You simply don’t look well.”

“‘M just sick.” Florence said, with stumbling lips.

His eyebrow pricked up at that, and Florence’s throat winded. “While out and about? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Florence went to respond, but was cut off almost immediately. “Ah, excuse me for my intrusion, it’s really none of my business. I simply like to look out for other pet enthusiasts like myself.”

Swallowing, Florence nodded. “Thank you, sir. You really shouldn’t worry about me, we were, uh, heading home anyways.” His grip on Joey’s sweat drenched hand firmed. Her gaze hadn’t lifted from her feet in minutes, bangs shielding her face completely.

“Y’know,” the owner continued, chin getting comfortable in the palm of his hand, “I did hear a couple fanciful rumors of a handler Thurman being fired from WRU.” His eyes thinned.

“R- really?” Florence laughed, the beat of his heart filling his ears.

“Oh, yes. It was a good while ago, but I even heard some stories in which the handler ended up a pet!” The owner slipped a chuckle, hearty and matched by Florence. “Very fanciful rumors, of course. People just love to gossip, don’t they?”

“Oh, definitely.”

He clicked his tongue. “Very funny to think of, though, isn’t it?”

“E- extremely.” Oh, they were fucked.

If he could just keep up the facade for a little longer, just long enough to end the conversation, maybe they wouldn’t be fucking done for.

The owner waved him off, and the fog of fear peaked away. “Ah, well I’ve kept you for much too long now. I would feel simply terrible if I kept you from your rest any longer, now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Letting slip a short chuckle, he motioned for his pet to follow. “C’mon, pretty boy, our food is getting cold.”

“Y- yes, sir.” The pet, with flickering vision, scrambled to make his way off his knees and back to his master. His owner clutched him by the back, a threatening hold that said I own you. Florence flinched as he watched the two depart past the wall, feeling the phantom touch of his own master.

The air was ever so tense, even as the owner and pet clicked away, departing.

Joey didn’t say a word, and neither did he.

She knew. He knew.

Handler Thurman.

The wall he was holding started to blur, and as he stepped back as if to run his foot caught on a crack of sidewalk almost tripping his jelly like legs as he whimpered a cry from the sore of his body, and his head was all woozy and so were his flailing limbs.

Handler Thurman.

For little flashes of seconds everything was white, and so were his knuckles as he squeezed anything he could grab, and he felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same fucking time, and he couldn’t fucking see anymore because everything was white and he was-

Handler Joseph Thurman.

Releasing a crackling shriek, Florence’s brain burnt on like the flick of a switch, flickering from a constant, throbbing ache to as if a fucking bomb had just gone off in his head.

He could sort of sense as his knees hit the ground, and the quivering grip of his hands holding himself tightly. He could sort of let the blistering heat of the sidewalk plaster his forehead as he keeled over, letting it burn him, still wailing. He could sort of feel the split of his throat as he screeched, curling around his vocal cords in a choking manner.

Not being able to clearly sense anything was horrifying enough, but the blinding white that held him - suffocated him - was a million times worse.

And it wasn’t all white. There were little glimpses of times before him and times after, all twisted together to form a sputtering mess, faces, places, sounds and scenes all rushing through him at once. There were so many people dancing around the white, so much blood and laughter and fear and tears.

His jaw turned and strained as he giggled, but it wasn’t really him, buzzing like a horn in his white filled brain.

Please, handler Thurman, please I didn’t mean to I don’t want to I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ll do anything, please! I’m trying to be good, so good, please…!

The pets gaze soon curled into something softer, the woman with his face but much less disgusting. Her touch was sweet, too sweet to be for him but his still.

C’mon, Joe, eat your veggies, they’re good for you. Momma will eat them with you, okay?

And soon enough she was another woman entirely.

You’re pretty handsome for a pet guy, y’know. Most of you guys’re weirdos, but you seem pretty normal. You could say I like normalcy in a guy.

He felt the shock even through the white, sending him further reeling, cracking and hot in his neck, splitting through the images.

Now that’s your first lesson, good boys don’t bite. Got that?

He nodded, desperate in that time but not another, sobbing through the scald of his face. And then his head was cracked to the floor, a hand choking and his own sending a slap another’s way.

Hey-! Ow, fuck! Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to hit? Leave me- alone, Joe! Get offa me!

The face of the little boy - chubby cheeks and squished features - contorted, elongating and growing into that of a man’s.

Alright dummy, get over here and take a kneel. Oh, don’t give me that scared look ‘065, you know it pisses me off.

The man only got older, graying hair and a gruff beard, except with a growling, rumbling voice.

You are a real idiot. Get up, dog. I don’t care if you’re hurtin’, I need another cig.

Even with so much to feel he couldn’t feel anything real, only the numb of the memories twisted with the emotion of so many different times, so many different lives he had lived.

The pricking, searing pain of his own hands grabbing at chunks of his own hair wasn’t enough to cover that of his head. Hey- s- stop, Florence, I’m calling-, stop, said a voice drowned out by all the others, the ones flooding his senses and making it practically impossible to feel.

And just like the fiery way it started, the ordeal flickered out like a light. His breathing settled, hiccups scattered between. His shaking continued, a violent tremble. His limbs curled into his abdomen, stuck in position and unable to move.

The memories swiftly found their place in his mind, each slipping into their respective spot.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump @toads-and-gremlins

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

#Whump #whumpblr #whump writing #my writing #bbu #box boy universe #box boy whump #Florence oc #Joey oc #amnesia #amnesia whump #memory whump #Institutionalized slavery #Conditioning #conditioned whumpee #pet whimp #Past abuse

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honeydippedfiction · 6 days ago

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I just know the first time Joe made Angel really lose it was while he had her folded in mating press. I'm talking brain mushed, pussy soaked, squirting for the first time, voice hoarse. And Joe is ferallll about it - 🐯

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Warnings: Suggestive/Spicy Scenes, (Graphic depictions of consensual sex, oral sex, squirting, mating press). MDNI🔞

WC: 3.3k

A/N: god they freaky

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It starts with distance.

Two weeks apart, and it might as well have been a lifetime.

Angel had flown home for a long-overdue family reunion—sun-soaked afternoons spent dodging nosy relatives, navigating folding chairs and spades games, and fielding the same question over and over again: “And where’s that boyfriend of yours, the quarterback?” Every time she answered, her smile dipped a little, heart tugging just slightly.

Joe had wanted to come. He tried. Looked at flights, rearranged his schedule twice, even called his coach hoping to work around the mandatory spring workouts and media junkets. But LSU football had its own orbit, and this time, it didn’t make room for her.

So they made do.

It became routine—midnight check-ins and grainy FaceTime calls lit by lamplight. He’d be shirtless in bed, chain glinting against his collarbone, voice low and teasing. She’d be wrapped in a silk robe, hair tied up, skin glowing from her nighttime routine, legs curled up on her childhood bed like she wasn’t slowly unraveling for him on camera.

“Tell me what you’d do if I were there,” he whispered one night, voice all gravel and heat.

Angel didn’t hesitate. She bit her lip, slid her hand slowly up her bare thigh, her voice soft but wicked. “I’d ride you, real slow. Just enough to keep you desperate.” She angled the camera downward, just enough to tease, just enough to let him ache.

Joe groaned, shifting in bed, the muscles in his arm flexing as he wrapped a hand around himself. “You tryna kill me, baby?”

“No,” she murmured, letting the strap of her robe slide off her shoulder. “Just reminding you what’s waiting for you.”

They flirted like that almost every night—pushing each other to the brink and then pulling back just enough to keep the longing sharp. It was all heat and suggestion, until both of them were left breathless, skin buzzing from a lover’s absence that was starting to feel unbearable.

By the time she flew back, something heavy and electric had built between them.

The sun was barely setting over LSU’s campus the day she returned, and spring break had turned everything into a blur of loud music and too-little clothing. Someone was throwing a courtyard party—a DJ, drinks, half the football team and more than enough bikini-clad students dancing like summer had already arrived.

Angel didn’t dress to be subtle.

She stepped into the courtyard like a storm: skin kissed by her hometown sun, bikini black and strappy, barely covering anything at all. Her curls were still damp from her shower, and her smile? Dangerous. Calculated.

She knew exactly what she was doing when she walked in.

Joe was already there, leaning against the edge of the makeshift bar with a red Solo cup in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His friends were talking, laughing, slapping each other on the back—but he wasn’t listening. Not really.

Not when he caught sight of her.

His whole body stilled, eyes locked on hers like she was the only real thing in the world. And for a second, neither of them moved—just stared, devoured. Every breath, every memory, every missed moment crashing into that one silent look.

Angel was the first to smile. She sauntered over slowly, hips swaying, the way she knew drove him crazy.

Joe watches the way her hips sway when she walks over like she owns the damn place, like she’s not the same girl who had him gasping her name through the phone just nights ago. Her skin’s glowing, her lips glossy, and her eyes say come get me then when she leans in for a hug that lingers too long.

“Hi, stranger,” she said lightly, fingers brushing his bare arm.

“Missed me?” she murmurs, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw.

“You have no idea,” he growls, already hard beneath his swim trunks.

Joe set his cup down without taking his eyes off her. “You wore that for me?”

Angel arched a brow, smirking. “Maybe. You like?”

His jaw flexed. “You’re tryna get me arrested.”

“Then take me somewhere private before you commit a felony,” she said, low and sweet, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He didn’t need more convincing.

They stayed just long enough not to be rude. A couple drinks, some small talk, a slow dance where Joe’s hands stayed glued to her waist, fingers pressing into skin like he couldn’t believe she was real again. She laughed, leaned into him, whispered a few unholy things that made his eyes darken instantly.

And then they were gone.

Back at his apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before Joe was on her—kissing her like a man possessed, lifting her with strong hands under her thighs, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

“You wore that just to fuck with me,” he growls against her neck.

“Maybe,” she breathes, nails dragging down his back. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He’s manhandling her bikini top off, walking her backward toward the bedroom as she tugs at his waistband.

“I missed you,” she gasped against his mouth.

He didn’t slow down. “Missed you too, baby. Been losing my fucking mind.”

She giggled, breath hitching as he dropped her onto the bed and peeled her bikini off like it personally offended him. “You had FaceTime.”

“Not the same,” he growled, crawling up her body, eyes drinking her in like he hadn’t seen her in years. “Couldn’t touch you. Couldn’t feel you shaking under me. Couldn't make you cum the way I need to.”

She whimpered, threading her fingers into his hair. “Then do it. Show me.”

And oh, he would.

That night wouldn’t just be sex. It would be everything—weeks of pent-up tension, all the teasing, the longing, the whispered late-night fantasies exploding into something raw, primal, and consuming.

It was the moment before the storm. The inhale before the quake.

Because Joe wasn’t just going to make love to her.

He was going to ruin her.

Σ>―🧡→

It started like it always did—the soft brush of lips against hers, the low rumble in his chest when she opened for him, the warm slide of his tongue that made her toes curl. She loved the way he kissed, like it was a slow build, like he had to savor every second, every sound, every taste. She loved that his mouth was hungry, but also patient, that he’d take his time, but still manage to make her heart race in a way she’d never felt before.

This kiss was no different—except that it was. There was a hunger in him she hadn’t experienced in a while, not since the days they were still exploring each other, when everything was new and all they wanted was to spend every second pressed together.

Angel was already breathless when he finally pulled away, but before she could complain, his mouth trailed down her jaw, to her neck, to the hollow of her collarbone, and then lower.

She arched off the bed as he licked a slow stripe up the center of her body, his hands skimming up her sides, the rough pads of his thumbs flicking over her nipples. He teased her like that, just barely touching, until she was gasping, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

“Joe—”

“Shh.” He lowered his mouth, circling one nipple with his tongue before sucking lightly. She bucked, her hips rocking against his stomach, seeking friction. He chuckled against her skin, moving to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment.

When she whined, tugging at his hair, he finally relented, kissing down her stomach, hands sliding down to her hips. He gripped her tightly, thumbs digging into the crease of her thigh, and lowered his mouth to her cunt.

His tongue slipped between her folds, and she cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other twisting in his hair.

“Fuck, Angel,” he murmured, licking up her slit again, parting her, drinking her in. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About how wet you get for me, how sweet you taste.”

She gasped as his tongue flicked over her clit, slow and teasing, his eyes locked on her face. He watched her, like he was memorizing every reaction, every little thing that made her shiver or moan or writhe on the bed. He swirled his tongue around her clit, then closed his lips around it, sucking lightly.

“Joe!” She jerked, her hips canting up to meet him.

He smiled against her. “So sensitive.”

“Please—”

He didn't let up, using his mouth like he was starving, like he needed to devour her whole. It was so good, so perfect, and yet—

“Need you inside me,” she gasped, tugging on his hair. “Now, please.”

He made a sound low in his throat, but obeyed, surging up her body to take her mouth in a deep, filthy kiss. She could taste herself on him, and it made her head spin, made her cunt throb.

He reached down, gripping his cock and lining himself up. She was already so wet, so ready, and when he pressed into her, she could have cried from the sheer relief of it. He stretched her so perfectly, filled her so completely, and when he was buried to the hilt, she let out a ragged breath.

He didn’t give her time to adjust, just pulled out and slammed back in, making her cry out. She wrapped her legs around him, her ankles locking at the small of his back as he pounded into her. It wasn’t like the gentle, sweet lovemaking they’d been doing before she left. No, this was pure, unadulterated fucking, and she was here for it.

“Fuck,” she moaned, meeting his thrusts, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Just like that.”

“You feel so good.” He dropped his forehead to hers, his breath hot on her lips. “Been dreaming about this pussy. Need you so much.”

“Take me,” she whispered, kissing him hard. “Make me yours.”

He groaned into her mouth, his thrusts getting harder, deeper.

She felt the coil in her belly tighten with every thrust, her breathing ragged as he fucked her just right.

“Fuck—this pussy missed me?” he groaned, eyes rolling back.

“Yes—fuck yes—” She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

He pulled back and thrust again, harder this time, the bed creaking under them.

He found a rhythm, a pace that was relentless, deep, every thrust perfectly angled to hit that spot inside her that made her sob. One of his hands slid up to her throat, not squeezing, not choking, just holding—his thumb brushing over her jaw like he owned her.

“You like that, baby? Feel me right here?” Joe groaned, his hand pushing on her lower stomach over the bulge there.

She nodded, gasping, her eyes rolling back. “Y-yes. Fuck, harder—”

And he gave it to her.

Hips snapping into hers, the sound of skin on skin slapping off the walls, her moans growing louder, messier, more desperate. Her nails raked down his back, her thighs locked around his hips, clinging to him like she was about to fall apart.

And she was.

The coil inside her snapped, her body shaking as the orgasm tore through her. She cried out his name, her cunt clenching around his cock as he kept pounding into her, drawing out her pleasure, making her feel every ounce of it.

She was still shaking when he buried himself inside her, groaning her name against her neck as he came. She held onto him, her legs still wrapped around him, as he shuddered above her.

Angel whined as she felt Joe slip out of her, his cock still rock hard. “Baby–”

She didn’t even get the chance to finish.

He kissed her, a deep, searching kiss, before he pulled back to look at her. His eyes were dark, intense. Hungry. And then he moved down her body, kissing his way down her chest, over her stomach, to the apex of her thighs.

He hadn't even touched her yet, and her heart was already racing.

“But I'm not done with you yet. Gonna take my time with you,” he said, his voice low.

She gasped as he licked a broad stripe over her cunt, still sensitive from her orgasm.

“Joe!”

“I know you can cum again, Angel. I know you can be a good girl for me.”

And with that, he lowered his mouth to her and began to eat her out, slow and methodical, his tongue working her clit, his fingers slipping inside her. She was still sensitive, and within seconds she was writhing, her hips bucking against him. But he held her down, his arm across her hips, his fingers pressing inside her as his tongue circled her clit. She gasped, her fingers twisting in his hair, and when she came, she cried out his name again, her body shuddering.

She didn't even have time to catch her breath before Joe moved up her body again, his cock hard again and pressing against her entrance. Joe’s on her, hands gripping her thighs, folding her effortlessly into the deepest angle, her legs pressed to her chest, body pinned beneath his. He kissed her as he pushed into her, and she moaned against his mouth. He was so deep, so thick, and even though she'd just cum twice, she wanted, no she needed more. She needed all of him.

When he was fully sheathed inside her, he pulled back, looking down at her. His curls fell over his forehead, his eyes intense as he gazed down at her.

“You take me so good, baby,” he rasped. “Always so perfect.”

She whimpered as he started to move, thrusting deep and hard, the new angle making her eyes roll back.

“Oh—fuck—” she gasped.

“Yeah, that's it. Take it.” He kissed her again, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She kissed him back, her hands gripping his biceps, her legs wrapped around him. He broke the kiss, looking down at her again, his gaze intense. “You're gonna cum for me again, baby. One more time.”

“Yes—yes—”

His grip on her hips tightened, and he slammed into her again, again, again. No mercy, no hesitation.

Just filthy, hard thrusts that made the bed rock against the wall. She screamed, her hands scrambling for something, anything to hold on to, but there was nothing—nothing but his body, his cock driving into her like he was trying to brand her with every thrust.

Her third orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave, and she came all over his cock again, soaking him. Her body trembled under his, but still, still, he didn’t let up. His body pressed into hers, hands braced on her legs keeping them pinned to her chest, his cock buried deeper than ever before, driving into her, dragging along her walls, making her sob and shake.

The angle was brutal. Relentless. She’d never felt like this before—full, owned, like she was completely at his mercy.

And Joe? Joe was gone. Whispering filthy things in her ear, hissing her name through clenched teeth, praising her for being such a good girl. He was watching her, gaze locked on hers, as she unraveled completely, as her body broke apart under his.

It was too much. It wasn't enough. It was perfect, it was terrifying.

She could feel the sweat dripping down her spine, her hair plastered to her forehead, her entire body shaking. She couldn’t stop cumming, couldn’t stop clenching, couldn’t stop begging for more. And he was relentless, never letting up, never slowing down, never giving her a second to breathe.

She was shaking, her whole body trembling as he kissed her, his fingers working her clit, her cunt still pulsing around his cock.

Angel gasped, eyes wide, mouth open. Her whole body froze.

“Joey—!” She squealed, trying to push at his chest. “Wait—wait. Can’t—something’s wrong—”

Her breath caught, her eyes rolled, and her whole body began to shudder.

And Joe felt it, too—that tightening, the frantic pull, the way Angel’s walls clamped around his cock like her body was begging him to fuck it loose.

Joe groaned. Loud. Wrecked.

Ferally turned on.

“Yeah?” Joe grunted, voice low, rough. His hips snapped harder now, more urgent, more demanding. “You gonna give it to me, baby? Come on. Let it go. Show me.”

And Angel did. Just like that. She came completely undone.

Angel shattered beneath him. Her legs trembling, her back arching off the bed.

An almost wounded cry spilled from her lips, and for a split second, Joe thought he'd done something wrong, thought he'd hurt her or pushed her too far, but then—

Then, she squirted for the very first time.

It caught her by surprise, her body overwhelmed by too much, too fast, her hands weakly pushing at his chest.

But her eyes—

Her eyes said, Don't stop. Don't ever stop.

Joe lost whatever control he had left.

"Oh fuck—Angel—" He snarled, his voice more animal than man as he held her hips down, watching in pure disbelief and raw, unfiltered awe as her pussy gushed around his cock. "Oh, fuck—baby—"

His hand dove between them, fingers finding her clit and rubbing tight, fast circles over the sensitive bud.

“Look at you making a fucking mess baby.” Joe panted, his voice wrecked. “Angel—baby—fuck. You didn’t even know what you could do—”

“I—” Angel sobbed, her hips jerking beneath him. “Oh fuck—oh fuck, please—I—”

“Yeah.” Joe groaned again, pressing down on her clit as he slammed into her, making her squirt again, harder this time. The slick gushed out of her, soaking his cock and dripping onto the sheets, making a fucking mess, but Joe couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. “That’s it, baby. Let it go. Look at what I do to you. Mine.”

He fucked her through it, through every single wave, pounding into her soaked pussy, growling every single time her walls tightened around his cock.

“Fuck—fuck—” he rasped, his forehead pressed against hers, his eyes locked on her face. “Angel, baby, I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“You can—” she gasped, still squirming, still writhing. “Please, Joey. Please—”

He fucked her harder, his hand tightening on her hip, the other braced next to her head. He was going to cum, he knew he was, and when he did—

When he did, it was with a snarled curse, his cock pulsing inside her as he emptied himself, filling her with thick ropes of cum. He groaned through his teeth, his forehead still pressed against hers, body shaking as he kept thrusting, slow now. Drawing out every pulse, every spurt, every drop.

Angel moaned at the feeling, warm and full and messy. She could feel his cum leaking out of her as he pulled out, but he didn't go far, just dropped his weight on her, burying his face in her neck, kissing her there before he rolled them over so she was on top, straddling his waist.

She could feel him, softening inside her now, and she shuddered, her body still sensitive, still twitching. She could feel the mess between them, feel his cum and her slick still leaking from her. Joe's hands smoothed up and down her back, gentle now, soothing.

“That was—” She swallowed, still trying to catch her breath. “Wow.”

He chuckled, pulling her down to kiss him. His mouth was warm, comforting, and she kissed him back, slow and sweet.

“Mmm,” he mumbled against her lips. “Perfect.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, resting her forehead against his. “Perfect.”

He kissed her again before she could pull back, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

“Love you,” he murmured, his voice soft, his eyes closed.

“I love you, too,” she said, and she could feel his smile against her cheek.

They stayed like that for a while, both breathing heavily, before he finally pulled out and laid her beside him. He pulled her into his arms, her back to his chest, and kissed the back of her neck.

“Welcome home,” he whispered.

She smiled, snuggling closer to him. “It’s good to be back.”

JB9 Taglist: @lilfreakjez, @dasia21, @superanastasia1981, @gg-trini, @wickedfun9, @irishmanwhore, @danielle143, @kayyybay, @destinyg237

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starsinthesky5 · 24 days ago

Text

you are in love: fast times and fast nights || joe burrow x reader

description: covering the events of F1 Miami and the Met Gala

a/n: a little standalone smau fic for the series to hold you over while I work on the second part of the grammys/honors fic! p.s. there is no faceclaim for this series. i choose photos based on the aesthetic i am going for. there is a mix of photos & some writing in this one!

universe: you are in love

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv

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📍miami, florida

liked by: joeyb_9, sydneysweeney, f1, taylorswift, sabrinacarpenter, lahjay10_, y/bsf_21, jenfinch_12 and others

tagged: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, f1, joeandthejuicemiami

y/n_y/ln: you were drivin' the getaway car, we were flyin', but we'd never get far

comments:

joeyb_9: didn't know i owned a juice bar in miami

——— y/n_y/ln: i knew the guy behind the counter looked a little too familiar 🤨

joeyb_9: proving once again i am the best photographer

——— y/n_y/ln: i'm about to kick you off the bed 🧍‍♀️

fan393: JOE AND THE JUICE MENTIONNN. excellent choice y/n

y/bsf_21: baddie baddie shot o'clock 🥂

——— y/n_y/ln: going from playing beer pong in your parents basement at 2 am to drinking espresso martinis in miami. look at us go

fan42: this reputation aesthetic on the feed is eating SO hard

y/bsf_21: thanks @joeyb_9 for returning her to her original lover aka ME

——— joeyb_9: hate to break it to you but...

—————— y/bsf21: is this your version of a hey girly text

sabrinacarpenter: cuties 😘

joeybfanpage: joe in that last pic just barley touching her ankle because he needs to feel her 🥲 boy is GONEEEE

fan2020: patiently waiting for more album crumbs 🍽️

y/nforlife: wait…“we were flyin’, but we’d never get far”??? IS THIS A LYRIC??? new album coded.

f1: paddock royalty 🏎️🏁

fan2: can the season start already i need to see her wag fits so bad

——— fan39: we say this, but watch her pull up in his hoodie and plain black leggings

sydneysweeney: loved seeing you this weekend <3

——— y/n_y/ln: missed you so much

fan22029: this gave me a will to live thanks queen 😍😍😍😍

loverofbridges: every time y/n posts, a queen on pinterest somewhere gets her wings. QUEEN of aesthetics

tatemcrae: glowing.

——— y/n_y/ln: sports car was on loop this weekend

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📍f1 miami

liked by: y/n_y/ln, alomen, samhubbard, ryland_1, quinn_ski, bengals, NFL, killatrav, ybsf_21

tagged: alomen

joeyb_9: Traded playbooks for pit stops in custom @alomen

comments:

alomen: fast times 🏎️

y/n_y/ln: you look like you're wearing my silk pajamas

——— joeyb_9: thanks i know i look good 😁

—————— y/n_y/ln: joe i swear if you don't stop

samhubbard: i blinked and joe turned into a damn model

lahjay_10: what the helly is u wearing

NFL: fastest hands in the league meets fastest wheels off the field

bengals: cartier glasses i ain’t even peak at you

quinn_ski: you know damn well you don’t even like going fast grandpa

——— y/n_y/ln: get him for me quinn 🙂‍↕️

—————— quinn_ski: i gotchuuuuu. why have a porsche if you're not going at least 90 on the highway in it

————————— joeyb_9: unlike you two, i would prefer to live to see the day we build a civilization on mars

fan91: y/n is the luckiest woman on the planet because ?? you're telling me she wakes up to this everyday

fan8282: joe and his wristbands. a lovestory

rulethejungle5: my qb at an F1 race wearing pink silk pajamas. what a time to be alive

fan249.2: 😍😍😍😍😍

y/n_collective: i spy a reputation wristband 👀

fan4857: hot 🤤 (said respectfully because i love y/n)

fan535_: i love seeing him and y/n go at it in the comments LMFAOO

——— fan221: old married couple energy radiating off the screen every time 💘

fan8182: his hair HIS HAIR

y/nlover: i know she freaked when she realized he was growing it out again

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y/n_y/ln via instagram stories

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joeyb_9 via instagram stories

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📍ZZ's Miami

liked by: tmz, y/ncollective, rulethejungle5, jenfinch_12, enews, and 1.3 million others

tagged: y/n_y/ln

gridback_news: She’s back in the fast lane.

Superstar singer-songwriter Y/N Y/LN was spotted last night leaving dinner with friends at hotspot ZZ’s Club in Miami’s Design District. The Grammy winner kept it effortlessly cool in a black long-sleeve leather jacket, black top, and denim shorts, paired with her classic red bottom heeled boots & her 'J' necklace. Styled to perfection, Y/N looked relaxed but radiant as she laughed with friends and slipped into a waiting black SUV around 11:40 p.m.

👀 While out with the girls, sources confirm her boyfriend Joe Burrow wasn’t far—insiders say the NFL quarterback and music icon have been in Miami for a few days ahead of this weekend’s F1 Grand Prix, where they’re expected to attend several events together. It’s Y/N's first time at the Miami GP, and fans are already buzzing about a potential grid walk moment with the couple.

💿 As for what’s next? Whispers around the industry suggest that Y/N has a new single set to drop this Friday, marking her first official release since her double single drop the night of the Grammys. Insiders close to her team say the announcement could come as early as tomorrow morning, with a special rollout to follow.

The insider adds that a major source of her peace and confidence lately has been her relationship with Joe. “They’ve found a really strong rhythm together. He’s her safe place. He gives her space to create but never makes her feel like she’s doing it alone,” they say. “He’s been there for the highs, the low moments, the all-nighters in the studio. He knows this song by heart. It's one of his favorites,”. Y/N is reportedly “happier than ever” and “incredibly proud” of what’s coming. One source tells us, “This song is the one that changed everything. She’s telling her story exactly how she wants to,”.

Keep it here for the latest updates on the queen of cryptic captions and slow burns. 🖤🏁

-- comments have been disabled by the user --

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y/n_y/ln via instagram stories & via twitter

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💿 now playing: call it what you want (y/n)

liked by: joeyb_9, ryland_1, taylorswift, sabrinacarpenter, oliviarodrigo, enews, jackantonoff, y/bsf_21, jenfinch_12 and others

tagged: joeyb_9, jackantonoff

y/n_y/ln: lost film: late november.

my world fell apart more than once. quietly, sometimes publicly. and for a long time, i thought i’d never feel safe in it again. this song came from the version of me who was learning how to rebuild—slowly, softly, and with someone by my side who never once asked me to be anything but myself.

“call it what you want” is about finding peace in the wreckage. it’s about the moment you realize you don’t need to prove your love to anyone. it’s not about grand gestures or fairytales—it’s about trust. about someone who builds a fire when the world goes cold. someone who walks toward you, every time. someone who sees you at your worst and doesn’t flinch.

i wrote this in the quiet. no pressure. no expectations. just a girl in love, healing. just a girl who finally let herself feel safe.

this one means more than i can say. it’s yours now 🤍

comments:

joeyb_9: you did more than one thing right. proud of you always 🤍

fan209: the first photo :(

——— fan665: the SECOND photo :( babiesssss

jackantonoff: this one gutted me. you’re magic. honored to be part of it

fan29: WHY IS A CHAIR ON FIRE LMFAOOOO

——— y/ncollective: is this the fire joe built for her im rotfl 😭

taylorswift: this is so beautiful. watching you step into this chapter has been the greatest joy. love you

fan38: THE BICEP PHOTO? look at the way she's latched on that's HER man y'all

fan22: i want whatever this is

fan000: she had bangs...and we DIDNT GET TO SEE THEM? OH WHEN I CATCH HER EX

——— fan8: and when we lock him in a cage like joe goldberg.

fan9: joe took half of these and i'm saying this with no proof but like i just know

sabrinacarpenter: this made me CRY. you’ve never sounded more like you 🥹🖤

oliviarodrigo: my baby’s fit like a daydream?? you’re insane for that line omg

y/bsf_21: ah, the grown out blonde highlights and bangs era. my favorite.

ryland_1: joe's gonna be unbearable after this. man’s floating rn 😭

quinn_ski: she really said “here’s my entire heart” and walked away. elite drop ma'am

enews: this one is already making history 💿🔥

gridback_news: starry eyes sparkin’ up my darkest night? we’re never recovering

fan383: you’ve survived so much and came out of it with a love like this. you deserve it all 🫶

tourupdatez: she said “he doesn’t own me, he knows me” and i fell to my knees in the middle of the dog food aisle

trevortherevver: 🙌

fan2020: this is the first time in history a qb has been the muse for a lyrical masterpiece. joey b you icon

fan39: “loves me like i’m brand new??? how do i recover from that???

——— fan221: we simply don't

joe&y/nupdates: she made vulnerability sound like a love letter. i’m so proud of her i’m sobbing

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liked by: tmz, y/ncollective, joe&y/nupdates, jenfinch_12, enews, and 1.2 million others

tagged: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9

gridback_news: Spotted: music’s reigning sweetheart and her superstar QB boyfriend trading touchdowns for home runs in the city that never sleeps 🗽❤️

Pop powerhouse Y/N Y/LN and NFL golden boy Joe Burrow were seen getting cozy at the Yankees vs. Reds game last night in New York City—proving that even when they’re technically behind enemy lines, their loyalty (and love) runs deep.

The couple arrived hand-in-hand, both dressed in sleek, head-to-toe black with lowkey nods to Cincinnati—Y/N sporting a worn-in Reds cap over loose waves, and Joe in a vintage Reds bomber with her initials stitched inside the collar (yes, fans zoomed in). We’re told they kept a low profile in a private box, but still managed to steal the show with their trademark blend of lowkey affection and total “main character” energy.

According to eyewitnesses, Y/N was seen leaning her head on Joe’s shoulder between innings, and at one point, the two were caught sharing a kiss behind Joe’s cap when they thought no one was looking. Spoiler alert: we were. 🧢💋

The sighting comes hot on the heels of Y/N’s emotional new single “Call It What You Want”, which dropped last week and has already been dubbed “her most vulnerable work yet.” The timing hasn’t gone unnoticed by fans, many of whom believe the song is a love letter to Joe, with lyrics that reference “building a fire to keep her warm” and wearing his initial “on a chain ‘round her neck”—which, yes, she was also wearing at the game. The 'J' necklace remains undefeated.

And if you think this is the peak of their Big Apple love tour, think again. Word on the street is that the couple is gearing up for their first joint Met Gala appearance this Monday. With Joe making his Met debut and Y/N returning after a two-year hiatus, insiders say the pair have been working closely with major fashion houses for looks that are tailored to them, while also telling a story only they can read 👀✨

Until then, we’ll be over here watching the game footage like it’s a rom-com.

#YN #JoeBurrow #MetGalaRumors #NYCspottings #Reds #Yankees

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📍the mark hotel, new york city

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versace: Power, polish, and pure Versace.

Y/N wears a custom silk corset gown from the Atelier, structured elegance with signature edge. Paired with opera-length leather gloves, a statement necklace, and the kind of attitude only a true muse can carry.

#VersaceWoman #VersaceAtelier #VersaceAtTheMet

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[VOGUE ON THE MET STEPS — TRANSCRIPT]

Interviewer: Emma Chamberlain

Guests: Y/N Y/LN and Joe Burrow

EMMA: [smiling wide] Ohhh my god, you look insane. Stop. I’m obsessed. Welcome back to the Met, Y/N!

Y/N: [laughs, smoothing her gown] Thank you, Emma! It’s so surreal to be back. I’m kind of trying not to fall on these stairs right now because I forgot how many there were and overestimated the comfort of these heels, but otherwise—I’m great.

EMMA: Totally relate with you, my feet are legit killing me right now [laughs, watches Joe come up the steps] Oh, but at least you have a knight in shining armor to carry you up the stairs! Look who you brought with you! Mr. Joe Burrow himself—welcome to your first Met Gala!

JOE: [grinning, pressing a quick kiss to Y/N's cheek] Thanks, Emma. I’ve been hearing about this for a long while. It’s definitely living up to the hype for sure.

EMMA: You two are matching on the lowest of keys I see. I don’t want to freak out but, Y/N, your eyeshadow and center stone of your necklace are literally the exact color of his suit. Who planned that?

Y/N: [laughs, shooting a look at Joe] It may or may not have been my idea. I told him, “If I’m putting myself through fittings and five-hour glam, you’re coordinating with me in some way,”.

JOE: [nods solemnly] She told me I didn’t have a choice.

Y/N: [teasing] And yet you loved it. He saw the final look and was like, “Wait…I look good,”.

JOE: [shrugs] I mean—she’s not wrong.

EMMA: I love it. Your looks feel very intentional. There’s a softness, but there’s edge, too—what’s the vibe?

Y/N: We wanted something simple and classic, but also uniquely us. It’s all storytelling, but nobody really knows the tale yet. I’ve been kinda calling it the "calm after the storm,".

EMMA: Ooh, I like that. That feels…metaphorical. Is this look...Reputation coded?

Y/N: [smiles coyly] Maybe. You’ll have to wait and see.

EMMA: Speaking of Reputation—Call It What You Want dropped Friday. The internet exploded, like seriously. People are saying it’s your softest and most honest song yet. How does it feel having it out in the world?

Y/N: I’m honestly overwhelmed—in the best way. This era is different. It’s not about spectacle, it’s about what’s real. I wrote this whole project during a time when I was trying to figure out who I am without all the noise. The love, the stillness, the safety I’ve found…I think people are starting to feel that.

EMMA: [glancing at Joe] I feel like I’m looking at part of the inspiration.

Y/N: [glances at Joe too, eyes soft] Yeah. He’s a big part of it. This one song in particular—it’s the heartbeat of the album. It wouldn’t exist without him.

JOE: [clears throat, trying not to smile too hard] I’m just happy to be here.

EMMA: He’s so chill but the entire internet is screaming every time you two breathe in the same vicinity. Do you read the comments?

Y/N: [laughs] Sometimes. I saw someone call us “the most unproblematic it couple” and I was like…wow. That’s the dream.

EMMA: Well, you two look incredible. Have the best night inside, and please give us more music breadcrumbs soon. The people are starving.

Y/N: [grinning] They won’t have to wait long. Let’s just say…I have a few more tricks up my sleeve!

JOE: [smirking] She never stops.

EMMA: And we love her for it!

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tagged: versace, metmuseum

y/n_y/ln: i once believed love would be black & white 🖤🤍 thank you for an unforgettable night @metmuseum

comments:

joeyb_9: that’s my girl.

——— y/n_y/ln: always yours 🖤

joeybnation: joe really showed up in the comments like "yeah i know she’s THAT girl"

y/ncollective: i need this look in motion. in 4k. in my dreams.

fan9_92: the queen of the met gala is BACK bitches ANDDDDD she brought her king

huntershafer: we’re not calling this a look anymore. it’s a moment.

y/nlover: HOT. HOTTT 💘

luxurylaw: it’s the drama. the silhouette. the restraint. flawless styling.

taylorswift: the lyric…the look…the power.

——— y/n_y/ln: love you forever 🤍

fan473: OH MY GOD?????? HELLO

donatella_versace: bellissima! my muse forever. you wore it like it was made just for you, because it was. 🤍

fan202: is that caption...more lyrics. Y/N. honey.

fan221: watching the stream and seeing joe lead her up the steps and making sure she doesn't trip is so 🥲

sabrinacarpenter: you ATE this up and left nothing but corset bones y/n_y/ln: and leather gloves xx

y/bsf_21: never letting you live this down btw. i need a warning next time you serve like that.

vogue: a vision in structured silk 👑 met gala royalty.

teehiggins: 🔥👑

lahjay10_: nah this is the move idc idc. lookin' fly yet again 🔥

——— y/n_y/ln: this is why you're my favorite ❤️

—————— teehiggins: yo? i was gone for 2 seconds and you forgot 'bout me?

jjetas2: she said 90s supermodel villain and she meant it

——— y/n_y/ln: the brief was “make them regret breaking up with you in 2017”

theestallion: bitch. i had to zoom in 3x just to process all that glamour.

versace: Pure goddess. The Atelier lives for moments like this.

——— y/n_y/ln: honored to be part of the house 🤍🖤

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📍met museum

💿 now playing: met gala (gunna)

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tagged: gucci, metmuseum, getty images

joeyb_9: Met Gala 2025

comments:

y/n_y/ln: great caption joe🧍🏻‍♀️

——— joeyb_9: you were showering okay i was on my own for this one

quinn_ski: bro you look like you just closed a million-dollar deal and walked straight onto the carpet

——— joeyb_9: had to match her energy

y/n_y/ln: 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 you look goooooodddd

y/ncollective: HAIR? CHAIN? oh I KNOW she is losing her mind right now. well done joseph

samhubbard: tell me you’re in love without telling me you’re in love 😭

——— fan383: nah cause the way he was looking at her the whole time 😭😭😭

fan721: my qb at the met? are pigs flying? did aaron rodgers retire yet?

y/bsf_21: i was NOT ready for met gala boyfriend reveal oh my goddd

fan2383: that soft smile in the first pic? yeah. y/n's goner.

killatrav: 🔥

gucci: 💙

jjetas2: clean as hell sheist. except for them damn shoes

——— lahjay_10: boy you had one job. you was supposed to yank em off his feet

max_w11: joey franchise in gucci??? give the people what they want!!

teehiggins clean. boy is CLEAN.

vogue: a quarterback in custom gucci. a moment.

bengals4ever: this man is in his soft era and i’m here for it. he never would've went to the met if it wasn't for her

joe&y/nupdates: y/n liking this in 0.2 seconds is killing me 😭

rulethejungle5: another new side quest

burrowsource: she was whispering in his ear half the night. he’s GONE.

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joeyb_9 via instagram stories

y/n_y/ln via instagram stories.

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📍casa cipriani, new york city

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gridback_news: Joe Burrow and Y/N seen leaving the Cartier Jewelry afterparty at Casa Cipriani in NYC last night, and let’s just say, love was louder than the flashbulbs ⚡️

Y/N turned heads in a cream-toned two-piece embroidered with delicate florals, cinched at the waist, and showing just enough skin with a subtle side cutout. She paired the look with a vintage baby blue clutch (some fans ID’d it as archival Prada), her go-to strappy white heels, and soft curls pinned into a low, romantic twist. A Custom Cartier bracelet shimmered on her wrist—rumor has it, a recent gift from Joe.

Joe kept it clean and classic in all-black. A relaxed short-sleeve button-down, tailored slacks, and loafers (a nice change for him)—topping the look with a vintage gold Rolex and subtle chain. And of course, his real accessory? The way he never let go of her hand.

According to one insider, the pair arrived fashionably late (no word as to why 😉), entering through a private side entrance and heading straight to a tucked-away lounge space where they sipped martinis and people-watched from a velvet sofa. “They were whispering, laughing, completely in their own little world,” a source told Gridback. “She adjusted his chain at one point, and he leaned in to kiss her shoulder. It was so soft and natural, not performative at all, even though everyone had their eyes on them. Those two, they were only looking at each other.”

Another partygoer caught them slow-dancing to a surprise jazz set in the back bar room, Joe’s hands resting low on her hips as she tilted her head back and laughed like a little kid at something he whispered in her ear. One blurry but beloved fan-taken clip already has over 1M views with the caption, “This is what love looks like.”

Sources inside also say the night was nothing short of a lovefest for these two. Think sweet kisses in shadowy corners, lingering touches under the dim lights, and whispered words that no bass drop could drown out. Unfazed by the flashbulbs and chaos around them, the lovebirds stayed locked in their own world 💘

🕊️✨ Couple goals, but make it Cartier-certified.

#YN #JoeBurrow #MetGalaAP #NYCspottings #Cartier

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tagged: joeyb_9, y/bsf_21, y/bsf2

y/n_y/ln: holding onto the memories so they can hold onto me 🎞️

comments under this post have been limited:

joeyb_9: holding onto you very tightly

——— y/n_y/ln: oh but I thought you had small hands 🤨

—————— joeyb_9: ...you and me both know that's not true

————————— y/bsf_21: am i interrupting something 🧍🏼‍♀️

————————— y/n_y/ln: joseph lee burrow.

y/bsf_21: you’re so unserious for dropping this and not warning me. you were in your main character with a disposable camera era and i support it fully 🎞️📸

tatemcrae: what camera is this because i NEED

——— y/n_y/ln: olympus om-d e-m10 series <3

jackantonoff: film hits different when it’s curated by a lovesick poet. i said what i said.

sabrinacarpenter: the first pic sent me into cardiac arrest. your grip on the aesthetic girlies is UNREAL.

jenfinch_12: 🤍🤍🤍

lahjay_10: thx for giving me more ammo to tease joe with

——— y/n_y/ln: this is my actual job

oliviarodrigo: love love love this

ryland_1: come to athens soonnnn

——— y/n_y/ln: duhhh. who else is gonna help you & quinn win beer pong against joe, trevor, & max

bengals: 🧡

y/bsf2: the way you’re glowing. like you know he’s obsessed with you or something 😌

——— joeyb_9 because i am obsessed with her

—————— y/bsf_21 : god joe you're such a simp 😪

————————— y/bsf2 : and we love him for it

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y/n_y/ln via instagram close friends stories

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joeyb_9 via instagram stories

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--The End--

263 notes · View notes

aghostnamedcalamity · 1 month ago

Text

When the girl you asked out at the cafe you work at turns out to be a lot.

I guess you can say it’s complicated.

#they’re dynamic is a little Lola/Bugs from the looney tunes show specifically #except Joey is not as serious as bugs pretends to be there #lackadaisy #lackadaisy oc #lackadaisy joey #My Art #Joey

256 notes · View notes

goldfades · 4 months ago

Text

who else decodes you? / who's gonna know you, if not me? / and who's gonna hold you like me? / no-fucking-body / so tell me, who else is gonna know me? | joe burrow⁹ (part one)

part two!!!!!

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had been inseparable since LSU, with him promising you everything—a dream home and a life together. everything felt perfect during your golden days, but as time passed, things shifted, and the cracks began to show in your once-perfect relationship

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst... just straight up angst. asshole-y joe, lots of fighting, reader being a trophy wife, just real sad things im sorry i wrote this yall. NO happy ending in this part, part 2 will have a happy ending dw guys!!!

You met Joe Burrow before the world did.

Before the Heisman, before the draft, before his name carried weight outside of Athens, Ohio. Before the sleek suits, the Cartier glasses, the endless debates about whether he was the next great quarterback of his generation. Before all of that, he was just Joe. Your Joe.

The one who texted you goodnight from his twin bed in his childhood home, the one who took you to McDonald’s after late-night practices because that’s all he could afford. The one who kissed you in the front seat of his beat-up truck, hands a little rough from lifting weights but gentle when they held your face.

You were there for it all.

Through the transfer to LSU, when he was just a backup with something to prove. Through the championship season, where he turned into a legend overnight. Through the draft, when you held his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, waiting for the moment his name would be called. Through the move to Cincinnati, where you learned the ins and outs of being an NFL girlfriend—then an NFL wife in everything but title.

You never needed the ring to prove your place beside him. Not at first.

Because when you love someone for that long, when you’ve been there since day one, you assume you’ll be there forever. You assume that one day, when the time is right, you’ll walk down the aisle and he’ll be standing at the end of it. That the same boy who once promised you the world in a whisper under Louisiana stars would eventually make good on it.

But love isn’t always enough.

And timing? Timing has a cruel way of making a fool out of you.

Before the waiting, before the uncertainty—there was LSU.

The golden days.

The kind of love people wrote songs about, the kind that burned so bright it felt untouchable, invincible. You and Joe had been through the trenches of college life together—cheap dates, sleepless nights, long drives in his old truck where he talked about the future like it was already written in the stars.

Joe had always been a planner. He didn’t just dream—he mapped things out, broke them down into plays, like a game he knew he would win. And in every version of the future he spoke about, you were in it.

“I’m gonna make it,” he told you one night, lying in the back of his truck, staring at the Baton Rouge sky like it held all his answers. The air was thick with humidity, cicadas singing in the distance, but neither of you cared. You were twenty, wildly in love, and the world hadn’t touched you yet. “I don’t care how long it takes, or how many people doubt me—I’m making it to the league.”

You smiled, running a hand through his hair. “I never doubted that.”

Joe turned then, propped himself up on an elbow, his sharp, determined eyes softening as he looked at you. “And when I do, I’m gonna give you everything.”

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration.

Not just any ring—a rock. One that would catch the light from across the room, the kind that would make strangers do a double take. Not just any house—your dream home, the one you’d always wanted but never thought possible.

You had told him, once, in passing, the kind of house you loved. You were scrolling on your phone, lying with your feet in his lap, showing him a picture of a home that looked straight out of a magazine.

“That,” you had said, tapping the screen. “That’s the dream.”

White exterior, big windows—floor-to-ceiling in the living room, so the sunlight would pour in every morning. A wrap-around porch, because you always loved the idea of sitting outside with a glass of wine on summer nights. A kitchen with the biggest island imaginable, because you loved to cook, even if Joe barely trusted himself to make toast. A cozy sunroom, filled with mismatched chairs and overflowing bookshelves. A clawfoot bathtub in the master bath, where you could soak for hours after a long day.

Joe had barely glanced at the picture before he said, “Done.”

You laughed. “Joe, that house is like… five million dollars.”

“So?” He had smirked, cocky and confident in that way only he could pull off. “Give me a couple years.”

You shook your head, amused, but deep down, you believed him. You believed him because when Joe Burrow set his mind to something, it happened.

And when you asked, jokingly, what kind of dog he wanted, he just scoffed.

“Dogs? No. We’re gonna have like, eight cats.”

You snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He stretched out, hands behind his head, already painting the picture in his mind. “They’ll have dumb names, too. Like, I don’t know… Fettuccine. Or Tuxedo. Or—oh—Larry.”

“Larry?”

“Yeah. Larry’s gonna be the ringleader.”

You shook your head, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joe just grinned, pulling you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You love me.”

And you did. God, you did.

You loved him through the highs—the Heisman win, the national championship, the night he got drafted when you held his face in your hands and told him this is it, baby. This is everything you worked for.

You loved him through the lows—when he tore his ACL his rookie year and sat in silence for hours, devastated, gripping your hand so tight it went numb. When the pressure of the league weighed heavy on him and he retreated inward, needing space, needing you to be his anchor without him ever having to say it.

You loved him because he was Joe.

Because he was the boy who once whispered about forever under Louisiana stars, who promised you a rock, a dream house, and eight cats named Larry and Fettuccine.

Because you believed, back then, that promises were made to be kept.

It started small.

A casual comment, barely even a question, when you were knee-deep in cardboard boxes in your new Cincinnati apartment. You’d been together for years by then, had already lived together in Baton Rouge, but this—this felt different. More permanent. He was the face of a franchise now, the golden boy of an entire city. And you? You were the woman who had been by his side through it all.

So when you held up a framed photo—one of the two of you from his LSU days, his arm wrapped around you, both of you grinning like you had the whole world ahead of you—you said it without thinking.

“Guess we’ll need some wedding pictures to put up soon, huh?”

It was light, teasing, the same way you’d joked about it a hundred times before. But this time, Joe didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.

He just exhaled through his nose, set down the box he was carrying, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m still adjusting to all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the apartment, the city, the new life he was stepping into. “Let’s just… settle in first.”

You told yourself it made sense.

Joe had always been slow to process change. He liked routine, predictability. He had just gone from college quarterback to the number-one draft pick, from playing in front of thousands to playing in front of millions. If he needed time, you’d give it to him.

And so you did.

You poured yourself into the role of supportive girlfriend, the unwavering presence behind the scenes. You went to every game, wore his jersey, kept your social media lowkey even when the WAGs of the league started reaching out. You made sure home felt like a safe haven for him—a place where he wasn’t Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, but just Joe.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two.

And still, nothing.

You tried to be patient. You tried not to compare. But it was impossible not to notice when guys who had been in the league half as long as Joe were proposing to their girlfriends. When you went to team events and saw wives flashing diamond rings, their hands resting on their husbands’ arms like they belonged there. When your own friends started getting married, settling down, building the life you always thought you and Joe were working toward.

You weren’t the kind of girl who begged for a ring. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t why you loved him. But you also weren’t stupid.

So, one night, after a Bengals win, when it was just the two of you curled up on the couch—Joe half-asleep, his head resting on your thigh—you ran your fingers through his hair and asked,

“Do you ever think about it?”

His eyes cracked open slightly. “Think about what?”

“Marriage.”

The word hung in the air between you, heavy in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Joe didn’t sit up, didn’t tense. But he also didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming lightly against your leg.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think about it.”

That was it. No elaboration. No follow-up.

And maybe it was the years of knowing him, of reading between the lines of what he didn’t say, but something about his tone sent a cold prickle down your spine.

You swallowed. “And?”

Joe sighed, shifting so he was looking up at you fully. His face was tired, drawn, the way it always was after a game.

“I love you,” he said first, because Joe always led with love, even when he was about to disappoint you. “I just don’t know if I’m… ready for all that.”

All that. Like marriage was some heavy, unbearable thing. Like it was a burden, instead of the only thing you’d ever wanted with him.

But you didn’t push. You never pushed.

You just nodded, kissed his forehead, and told yourself that he just needed more time.

You’d already given him years. What was a little longer?

For every golden memory, there was a night that ended with you crying into your pillow, your chest aching from the weight of words left unheard.

And Joe was never the type to yell.

That was the problem.

You could scream, slam cabinets, cry until your eyes were swollen, beg him to just say something—but Joe would sit there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance. Silent. Stone-faced. Like he was waiting for a storm to pass rather than standing in the middle of it with you.

And when he was done listening, when he decided he had nothing to say, he’d just walk away.

No slammed doors. No cruel words. Just an exhale through his nose and the slow, deliberate sound of his footsteps leaving the room.

Then came the silence.

Hours, sometimes days, where he wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge the way you curled up on your side of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself because if he wouldn’t hold you, you had to do it yourself.

It always started the same way.

Joe had never been a selfish person—at least, not intentionally. He loved you, worshipped you in his own quiet way. But he was also a man who had spent his entire life being taken care of.

First by his parents. Then by his coaches. Then by you.

At first, it hadn’t bothered you. You wanted to take care of him, because loving Joe Burrow meant making sure he ate real meals instead of surviving off protein shakes and granola bars. It meant picking up after him when he left his clothes on the floor, washing his jerseys so they always smelled like fresh detergent instead of sweat, keeping your home together while he threw every ounce of himself into football.

But over time, something shifted.

The gestures that had once been acts of love started to feel expected. You would spend hours cooking his favorite meal, only for him to eat in front of the TV without so much as a thank you. You’d clean up after him like clockwork, while he’d scroll through his phone, oblivious to the way you were moving around him like a ghost. You handled the small things—the groceries, the laundry, the appointments—so he never had to think about them. And the worst part? He didn’t think about them.

He didn’t think about how exhausting it was to pour so much of yourself into another person and get nothing in return.

One night, after a long day where you’d cooked, cleaned, and ran errands while Joe came home from practice, showered, and immediately planted himself on the couch, something in you snapped.

You had been standing in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes, while Joe sat in the living room, watching game film, oblivious to the way your hands were trembling from frustration.

“Joe,” you called, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hummed, eyes still on the screen.

You turned off the faucet, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Do you even see me anymore?”

That got his attention. His head lifted slightly, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Do you see me?” you repeated, voice shaking now. “Or am I just here? Like some… unpaid assistant who cooks your meals and cleans your shit and waits around for you to remember I exist?”

Joe blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. Frustration. A bubbling anger that had been simmering for months. “I do everything for you. And I never ask for anything in return. But you don’t even appreciate it, Joe. You don’t see it. You don’t see me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus, babe. I—look, I didn’t ask you to do all that.”

Your heart sank.

There it was. The knife, twisted so deep you almost doubled over from the pain of it.

You swallowed, eyes stinging. “You shouldn’t have to ask for basic effort.”

Joe exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from the couch. “I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

And then, just like always, he walked away.

The silence stretched for days.

No matter how loud you got, how many tears you shed, it never mattered.

Because Joe didn’t scream.

Joe shut down.

The restaurant was dimly lit, the kind of place where the wine was poured before you even asked and the waiters moved so seamlessly you barely noticed them. It was a Bengals event—one of those exclusive, high-end dinners meant to bring players and their partners together, a little PR, a little networking, all wrapped in the illusion of luxury. Normally, you didn’t mind them.

But tonight? Tonight, Joe was off.

He had been for weeks. Ever since the injury, ever since he had to watch his team play without him, it was like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to budge. You had tried, God, you had tried—to comfort him, to give him space, to be exactly what he needed. But no matter what you did, it felt wrong.

He barely talked. Barely looked at you. And when he did, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t place.

Resentment?

Disappointment?

You didn’t know.

So you sat at the table, plastering on a smile, sipping your wine, pretending everything was fine as the conversation buzzed around you. Ja’Marr and his girlfriend, a few of the other guys, their partners. The usual crowd.

The joke started innocent enough.

“You’re literally the dream NFL WAG,” Ja’Marr’s girlfriend said, laughing as she leaned over toward you. “Like, you do everything for him. Cook, clean, go to every game. You’re basically the gold standard.”

The table chuckled.

You laughed, too, but there was something hollow about it. It wasn’t that the statement was wrong. It was just that… for the past few months, being Joe’s girlfriend hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt like an uphill battle, like loving him was a test you were always on the verge of failing.

But before you could say anything, Joe scoffed.

Loudly.

The kind of sound that cut through the easy, playful atmosphere and made everyone shift in their seats.

You turned to him, confused, but Joe wasn’t looking at you. His jaw was clenched, his grip tight around the base of his glass.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, sharp, edged with something you couldn’t name.

The table went quiet.

Your stomach sank.

“Joe,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm, but he pulled away, shaking his head.

“I need air.”

And just like that, he was on his feet, pushing back his chair, striding toward the exit without another word.

You barely hesitated before following.

The moment you stepped outside, the cold air hit you like a slap. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few blacked-out SUVs and a couple of lingering staff members. Joe was already a few steps ahead, his hands on his hips, breathing hard like he was trying to keep himself together.

You didn’t care. You weren’t going to let this go.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, heels clicking against the pavement as you caught up to him.

Joe exhaled sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“No. No.” You grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t get to humiliate me in front of everyone and then walk away like nothing happened.”

Joe turned then, eyes flashing with something you had never seen before. Rage.

“You think I don’t know?” His voice was louder now, cutting through the night air, his face twisted in frustration. “You think I don’t fucking see the way you take care of everything? How perfect you are? How much you do for me?”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t the first time you’d fought, not even close. But this was different.

This was Joe shouting.

He never shouted.

“You think I don’t know how much you’ve sacrificed? How much you’ve had to deal with while I sit on the fucking sidelines, watching my team play without me?” His hands were in his hair now, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You think I don’t feel like a goddamn failure every second of every day? That I don’t fucking hate myself for it?”

Your chest tightened. “Joe—”

“I get it, okay?” His voice was hoarse, his breathing heavy. “I get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve any of this.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

Then, finally, you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I never said that.”

Joe looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you saw it.

The exhaustion. The fear. The guilt.

And underneath it all, something else. Something raw and painful and impossible to ignore.

“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, shaking his head, stepping back. “Not tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. “Joe.”

But he was already turning away.

Already leaving.

And for the first time, you didn’t go after him.

Time, though, has a funny way of making fools out of people.

Because a little longer turned into another year. And another.

And soon, you weren’t just the girlfriend who had been with Joe since before the fame. You were the girlfriend who was still waiting. The one people whispered about at games, in comment sections, in DMs you tried not to read.

Why hasn’t he proposed yet? If he wanted to marry her, he would’ve by now. She’s been with him forever. That’s kinda embarrassing.

You weren’t stupid. You heard the whispers. You ignored them, brushed them off, laughed about them with Joe like they didn’t sting.

But deep down, they did.

And then, one night, you cracked.

It wasn’t planned. You weren’t trying to pick a fight. You were just lying in bed beside Joe, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when an engagement post popped up on your feed. Another NFL couple. Another ring. Another reminder.

You set your phone down. Turned toward Joe, who was staring at the ceiling like he always did when he couldn’t sleep.

“Joe,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, eyes still fixed upward.

“Are you ever going to marry me?”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t bitter. Just quiet. Tired.

Joe closed his eyes. Let out a slow breath. And in that moment, you already knew the answer.

Not yet. Not now. I need more time.

The same thing he’d been saying for years.

But this time, you weren’t sure you could keep waiting.

It didn’t happen in one moment. It wasn’t a clean break, a single conversation where you both sat down, acknowledged the inevitable, and walked away like two people who had outgrown each other.

No, it was ugly. It was heartbreaking. It was loud.

It started in the living room, the place that had once been your sanctuary. The place where you curled up on the couch together after long days, where you laid your head on his lap while he absentmindedly played with your hair, where he kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But tonight, it was a battleground.

You stood near the coffee table, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to keep from falling apart, while Joe paced in front of the fireplace, his hands tangled in his hair. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his entire body radiating frustration. But under it—under the anger, the exhaustion—was something else.

Defeat.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Joe muttered, voice low but strained, like it physically hurt him to say it out loud.

Your stomach twisted. “Doing what?”

“This!” He gestured between the two of you, his voice louder now, raw with emotion. “The fighting, the tension, the constant feeling that no matter what I do, I’m letting you down.”

You flinched, because that wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t letting you down—he was shutting you out. Pushing you away, piece by piece, until you barely recognized the man standing in front of you.

And yet, despite it all, you still wanted to fight.

You needed to fight.

“Joe, you haven’t even tried—”

His laugh was hollow, sharp. “Tried? Are you kidding me?” He shook his head, running a frustrated hand down his face. “I have been trying for months. Trying to be what you need, trying to hold this shit together while I feel like I’m losing everything.”

Your throat tightened. “I never asked you to hold it together alone.”

He looked at you then, and the pain in his eyes nearly brought you to your knees.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “And that’s the worst fucking part.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, you saw it—the breaking point. The moment where all the fights, all the silences, all the nights spent lying in the same bed but feeling miles apart had led to.

This was it.

You swallowed, hard. “Joe… don’t do this.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to be what you need anymore.”

“I don’t need you to be anything—I just need you to try,” you choked out, hot tears spilling over your cheeks.

“I am trying!” His voice cracked, his hands gripping his hair like he was barely holding himself together. “But I’m not enough for you! And I don’t think I ever will be!”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Your breath hitched, and for a second, everything blurred—your vision, your thoughts, reality itself. Because how could he say that? How could he look at you, after everything, and think he wasn’t enough?

He had always been enough.

He had been everything.

Your chest heaved, your heart splintering, but you forced yourself to take a step forward, reaching for him like you had so many times before.

But this time, Joe stepped back.

Like touching you would break him completely.

Like it already had.

A sob ripped through your throat. “Joe, please—”

His eyes were glassy now, his own tears threatening to fall. But his face was set, his hands shaking at his sides.

“This isn’t working anymore.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through you like a blade.

And just like that, the world tilted.

You had imagined a lot of worst-case scenarios over the past few months—imagined nights where he would sleep on the couch, imagined him needing time apart, even imagined him telling you he wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

But this?

This was never supposed to happen.

He was supposed to fight.

He was supposed to love you enough to stay.

But instead, Joe exhaled shakily, like this was killing him too, and took another step back.

Like he had already made his decision.

Like he was already gone.

And then, through the unbearable tightness in your throat, through the tears blurring your vision, you said the only thing you could.

“What about everything you promised me?”

His face broke. Just for a second.

And then, softer than you’d ever heard him, he whispered, “I meant every word.”

And still, he turned away. Still, he walked to the door, grabbed his keys, and hesitated for only a second before pulling it open.

And you stood there, frozen in time, watching as the love of your life—the boy who once promised you forever under Louisiana stars—walked out of your life like he had never meant to stay.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was deafening.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Your legs gave out before you even realized you were falling. You collapsed onto the couch, hands clutching your chest as if that would somehow stop the pain, as if pressing hard enough could keep your heart from shattering.

But it did.

Piece by piece. And Joe?

Joe was gone.

Joe wasn’t sure when it started.

The feeling had been creeping up on him for months—slow at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, something he could ignore if he kept moving, if he kept winning.

But then he got hurt.

And suddenly, there was nowhere to run.

No game to prepare for, no film to study, no Sunday nights under the lights where he could lose himself in the only thing that had ever made him feel like enough.

He had always known you were out of his league. Everyone did.

You were a force—bright and untouchable, the kind of woman who could walk into a room and have everyone wrapped around your finger without even trying. You were loved in ways Joe had never been. Not because of what you did, not because of your talent or your career, but just because of who you were.

And Joe?

Joe was… Joe.

He had worked for everything. Clawed his way to the top, gritted his teeth through every setback, played with a chip on his shoulder so sharp it could cut. He had spent his entire life proving people wrong, showing them he was worth it, and still, sometimes it felt like it wasn’t enough.

But not with you. At least, not at first.

At first, you had looked at him like he was someone special—not because of football, not because he was Joe Burrow, but because he was yours. And for a while, that had been enough.

But then the marriage thing came up.

Then the quiet expectation that he was supposed to take the next step, that he was supposed to be ready.

And fuck, he wanted to be.

He wanted to put a ring on your finger, wanted to build a life with you, wanted to buy you the house you dreamed about and fill it with all the stupid cats he promised you back at LSU.

But the more you pushed, the more it felt like he was already failing.

You deserved the world, and he—he wasn’t sure he knew how to give it to you. You had grown up with love. Joe had grown up with pressure.

Your family adored you, your friends would kill for you, strangers on the internet called you an angel, and the worst part? They were right.

You were perfect. You were kind, and patient, and you gave so much of yourself without ever asking for anything in return—until, eventually, you did.

Until you started looking at him like you needed something more.

And maybe that’s when it started.

The resentment. The guilt.

The way he began shutting down because every time he looked at you, he saw someone who had given him everything, and all he could do was hold it in his hands and wonder when he was going to drop it.

So he pulled away.

And then he got injured. And then it got worse.

Because for the first time in his life, Joe had nothing to offer.

Football was gone. He was stuck on the sidelines, watching his teammates play without him, watching the world move forward while he stood still. And every time he came home, there you were—beautiful and untouchable and looking at him with so much love, and God, it made him want to rip his fucking hair out.

Because you weren’t supposed to love him like that.

Not when he was like this. Not when he felt like nothing.

And so, he made himself nothing to you.

He let the silence stretch between you, let the fights spiral into something he couldn’t control, let the guilt eat him alive until the only option left was to let you go.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he didn’t love you.

But because he loved you too much to keep being a disappointment.

Because you were everything. And he was just him.

Joe barely remembered the drive to Ja’Marr’s house.

The roads were dark and wet from rain, the city quiet in the way it only got after midnight, and yet everything inside him was loud. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were white, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts, like his body was still trying to catch up to what had just happened.

He had left.

He had actually left.

The second Ja’Marr opened the door, his easygoing expression dropped. “Shit.”

Joe must have looked as bad as he felt.

Ja’Marr didn’t ask questions, didn’t crack a joke or act like this was nothing. He just stepped aside, letting Joe in without a word.

Joe walked past him, straight to the couch, sinking down like his body couldn’t hold him up anymore. His hands were still shaking. He stared at them, trying to steady his breath, but the more he tried to push it down, the worse it got.

He felt like he was imploding.

Ja’Marr sat across from him, elbows on his knees. “You good?”

Joe huffed out something that was supposed to be a laugh but came out broken.

“No,” he admitted.

And then, just like that, the weight of it all came crashing down.

He broke.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, Joe let himself feel it.

His shoulders caved, his head fell into his hands, and before he could stop himself, a sob tore through his chest. It wasn’t quiet, wasn’t controlled—it was raw, guttural, the kind of grief that sat heavy in his ribcage and made him feel like he was drowning.

Ja’Marr swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Damn, man.”

Joe couldn’t respond. He could barely breathe.

Because he had spent so long trying to convince himself this was the right thing—that letting you go was necessary, that it was better for you, that one day you’d understand—but now, sitting on his best friend’s couch, in a house that wasn’t his, without you, it hit him.

You weren’t in the next room.

You weren’t waiting for him to come back.

You weren’t his anymore.

And for the first time since he met you, since you were just a girl in his corner, since he was just a college quarterback with a dream—he was alone.

—

The house was silent.

The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but hollow.

You stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, staring at the front door as if it would swing open at any second, as if Joe would walk back in, apologize, say he didn’t mean it.

But the house stayed empty.

You should’ve done something—gone to bed, taken a shower, moved—but you couldn’t.

Your body felt detached, like you were floating just outside of yourself, watching as the reality of what had happened settled into your bones.

He was gone.

You sucked in a shaky breath, your eyes darting around the room, landing on all the pieces of him he had left behind. His hoodie draped over the back of the couch. His sneakers kicked off near the door. The blanket you always fought over, still crumpled where he had last used it.

Your throat tightened.

It felt wrong.

How was it possible that someone could just leave, and yet everything still looked the same? How was it possible that the world hadn’t just stopped?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulling it into your chest, clutching it so tightly your fingers ached. It still smelled like him—like his cologne, like home, like everything you were supposed to have forever.

A sharp, broken sob tore through you.

Your legs gave out.

You sank onto the floor, your body curling in on itself, gasping for air between sobs that didn’t seem to end.

You had imagined a million worst-case scenarios for your relationship, but you had never imagined this.

A fight, maybe. A bad one.

A few nights apart, maybe even a week.

But not this.

Not a house that suddenly felt too big, too cold, too wrong without him in it.

Not a silence that felt like it would swallow you whole.

Not an ending that you weren’t ready for.

Not Joe—your Joe—leaving, and not coming back.

Joe didn’t tell his parents right away.

He had gone weeks pretending it wasn’t real, pushing it down, acting like if he ignored it long enough, it wouldn’t hurt. Like the breakup was just another fight, another rough patch, and any second now, you’d come home.

But then spring rolled around, and he found himself back in Athens for a few days, sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, pushing food around his plate while his mom chatted about some wedding she had gone to.

He barely heard her—until she said your name.

“I just know she’ll look so beautiful at her own wedding one day,” Robin said, smiling like the thought made her happy. “Did she ever decide on a dress style? I remember she showed me a few options the last time we talked.”

Joe’s fork clattered against the plate.

His parents looked up.

The room suddenly felt too small. The walls too close. The weight in his chest unbearable.

“She’s not picking a dress,” he said flatly.

His mom’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

Joe exhaled sharply, staring at the table. His throat felt tight, his hands fisting in his lap. “We broke up.”

Silence.

Not the kind he was used to. Not the easy kind.

His dad was the first to speak. “When?”

“A while ago.” His voice was hoarse, his jaw tight.

Robin looked like he had just slapped her across the face. “Joe… what?”

She sounded hurt.

Like he had broken her heart, too.

“You didn’t tell us?”

Joe swallowed. “I didn’t know how.”

His mom was still frozen in shock. “But—why? What happened?”

Joe should have had an answer. He should have been able to give them some logical, concrete reason why the only real love he had ever known had just… ended.

But there wasn’t one. Not really.

So he just shook his head. “I wasn’t enough for her.”

His dad exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Joe—”

Robin’s eyes filled with tears, and that—that was what finally did it. That was the moment it hit him, the moment the denial shattered and left nothing but cold, brutal truth in its place.

You were gone.

Not just for a few days.

Not just waiting for him to fix it.

You were gone.

Joe scraped his chair back so suddenly it screeched against the floor.

“I gotta go,” he muttered, standing up, hands shaking.

“Joe—”

“I just—I gotta go.”

And then he was out the door, out of the house, into his car, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

His vision blurred. His chest caved in.

He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to hold it together.

It didn’t work.

That was the moment Joe decided he needed a distraction.

A new game plan. A new something—because if he let himself sit in this pain, if he let himself really feel it, it might consume him completely.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He threw himself into excess.

He spent money like it was nothing, like it was oxygen, like keeping the spending going would somehow fill the empty space inside of him. New cars, new watches, expensive nights out where the bill was triple what it needed to be. If someone wanted a round of shots? Joe was covering it. If his guys wanted to go to Miami for the weekend? No problem.

And the women.

That was the easiest distraction of all.

They were everywhere—at the clubs, at the restaurants, at the parties where he never used to go but suddenly needed to be. They touched him like they wanted him, smiled at him like he was the most important man in the room. And for a few hours at a time, he let them.

He let them run their hands over his chest, let them whisper in his ear, let them follow him back to hotel rooms or his new penthouse in the city.

He let them treat him like he was whole.

But then morning would come, and the illusion would shatter.

Every single time, he’d wake up next to someone who wasn’t you.

Someone whose perfume didn’t smell like yours. Someone whose touch didn’t feel like home. Someone who would roll over, press lazy kisses to his skin, and call him baby in a way that made his stomach twist.

Because you used to call him that.

And now you never would again.

It was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to be freeing, making up for lost time, for all the years he had spent as the devoted boyfriend, the one-woman man, the guy who turned down numbers and shut down flirting because he only wanted you.

But none of it worked.

None of it made him feel better.

Because at the end of the day, he was still Joe.

And you were still gone.

It took one of his teammates pulling him aside one night to finally say what he couldn’t.

“Bro,” Sam said, hand on Joe’s shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Joe blinked, pulling his attention away from whatever girl had been whispering in his ear at the bar. “What?”

Sam gave him a look. “You’re not this guy.”

Joe let out a sharp laugh. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Joe didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

But he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

So he just exhaled, forced a smirk, and lifted his drink. “Don’t worry about me, man.”

But Sam was worried.

And deep down, Joe knew why.

Because no matter how many nights he spent surrounded by people, no matter how much money he threw at the problem, no matter how many women climbed into his bed—

The only thing he ever felt anymore was hollow.

The day you packed your bags and left Cincinnati, you didn’t cry.

You had done enough of that.

Your best friend had offered—begged, really—for you to come stay with her in Columbus, and after weeks of waking up in a house that no longer felt like a home, you finally said yes.

It wasn’t running away.

It was survival.

Joe had been your world for so long that, without him, you weren’t sure where to stand. Your entire adult life had revolved around him—his schedule, his dreams, his highs, his lows. You had built a life inside of his. And now, that life was gone.

So, for the first time in years, you weren’t trying to be somebody’s something. You weren’t trying to be the perfect girlfriend, the supportive WAG, the woman who held it all together.

You were just trying to be you.

Whoever that was.

—

Columbus was different.

It wasn’t Cincinnati, where every street corner reminded you of Joe. Where the grocery store held memories of early-morning runs before his games. Where your favorite restaurant was the place he took you after he signed his first big contract. Where you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a billboard with his face plastered on it, a cruel reminder that he was still Joe Burrow, still untouchable, still larger than life—just not yours anymore.

Columbus was quiet. A fresh start.

Your best friend had a cozy apartment near downtown, and the first night you arrived, she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She just ordered takeout, opened a bottle of wine, and let you sit in silence.

That first week, you didn’t do much.

You slept too much, or not at all. Some nights, you laid awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Joe was doing the same. Other nights, exhaustion won, and you crashed so hard you barely dreamed.

The dreams were the worst.

Because in them, he was still yours.

You still woke up to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, still felt the weight of his arm draped over your waist, still heard his voice murmuring morning, baby in that slow, sleep-rough tone he always had.

But then morning would come, and none of it was real.

So, you started over.

You got a cat.

It wasn’t planned—you had just gone to the shelter one afternoon, thinking you’d look, thinking maybe it would distract you for a few minutes. But then you saw her.

Small. A little scrappy. White with a black spot over her eye, looking at you like she had already decided you belonged to her.

The name came easily.

“Larry,” you told the adoption worker, lips twitching into something like a smile. “Her name is Larry.”

Joe would’ve laughed at that.

Joe would’ve—

No.

This wasn’t about Joe.

Larry was yours.

So you took her home, bought her the stupidest, most ridiculous toys you could find, and let her curl up on your chest at night, purring so loudly it drowned out the silence.

You learned how to French braid.

You had never bothered before—your hair had always been something he liked, something he ran his fingers through when he was half-asleep on the couch. But now? Now, you spent hours watching tutorials, standing in front of the mirror, fingers twisting and looping until, finally, you got it right.

It was small, stupid even. But it was something just for you.

You started reading.

At first, it was just a way to pass the time—something to do instead of scrolling through Instagram, instead of wondering what he was doing. But then you fell into it, deep. You found yourself curled up on the couch for hours, lost in stories, letting yourself escape into other people’s lives.

Romance novels were hard at first. Because love still felt like a wound, like something sharp and raw and too close to home.

But one day, months after the breakup, you found yourself reading a love story and not feeling like your chest was caving in.

That was progress.

You cooked for yourself.

You had always cooked for Joe—his favorites, his comfort foods, the meals he requested after long practices. But now, you cooked what you wanted. You tried new recipes, bought ingredients you had never used before, made dishes with no one else’s preferences in mind.

It was weird, at first.

But then, one night, you sat at the table, eating something just for you, and it didn’t feel lonely.

It felt… peaceful.

You went on long walks, alone, with no one to check in with. You bought flowers for yourself. You started journaling, writing down things you had never let yourself think too hard about.

You let yourself exist.

And one day—on a random, unremarkable afternoon—you realized something. It had been weeks since you last thought of him.

Not that he was gone.

Not that it didn’t still hurt, sometimes, in quiet moments when you weren’t expecting it.

But for the first time, in a long, long time—

You felt like you. Without him.

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