#thed.i.l.fchroniclesasks

[honeydippedfiction]

what was Joe and Angel’s first time having sex together like?

It started like every other night they’d spent together that week—casual, familiar, and humming with the kind of slow-burning electricity that neither of them wanted to name out loud. Not yet. They were still figuring each other out, still moving through that sweet, fragile phase where every touch was a question, every glance a test of restraint. But the pull between them had been undeniable from the start, growing heavier and hotter with each passing day.

Outside Angel’s apartment window, the cicadas screamed against the heavy Baton Rouge air. The late-September heat hung thick and unmoving, pressing against the glass like breath. The ceiling fan turned lazily above them, pushing around pockets of warm air that clung to their skin, already damp from the lingering humidity.

Joe lay stretched out on her worn navy couch, one long leg bent at the knee, the other draped over the side. He was dressed in black joggers and a white tank that clung to the sharp lines of his chest and shoulders. One arm rested behind his head, showing off the subtle flex of his bicep, while the other rested possessively on Angel’s hip. She was curled up sideways against his chest, her bare legs draped across his lap, head nestled just beneath his jaw, fingertips lightly tracing the curve of his ribs like she couldn’t not touch him.

They were supposed to be watching Goodfellas. Joe had insisted it was one of his all-time favorites—“a classic, babe, trust me”—but after the first ten minutes, the movie might as well have been white noise. Neither of them had the attention span for mob hits and voiceovers when the tension between them had its own gravity.

“You’ve been staring at me for like five minutes,” Angel murmured, not looking up, though the sly curve of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

Joe tilted his head down, brushing his nose along her temple before answering with a lazy, self-satisfied smile. “I wasn’t staring. I was… admiring.”

“Mmhmm.” She scoffed and propped her chin on his chest, her curls brushing against his collarbone. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“I mean,” he said, voice low and teasing as he twirled one of her curls around his finger, “you make it pretty damn hard not to. Especially when you’re wearing my shirt and those little ass shorts like that’s not gonna do things to me.”

Angel arched an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “You’re the one who left them in my drawer.”

“I’m the one suffering for it now,” Joe muttered, eyes sweeping over her legs before locking onto her face again. “Swear to God, they get shorter every time you wear ‘em.”

Angel’s grin spread slow and wicked. “You like them?”

Joe leaned in slightly, his hand drifting down to rest at the curve where her thigh met her hip. “I like you in them. But they’re not gonna survive the night if you keep sitting on me like this.”

Her breath caught—just the faintest hitch—but she didn’t move. If anything, she leaned into him more, tilting her hips so she could press herself deliberately against the growing heat in his joggers. The fabric between them did little to hide how hard he already was.

Joe’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he gripped her waist more firmly, trying and failing to keep his cool. “Angel…”

There was warning in his voice—low and gravelly—but there was need, too. It vibrated in the silence between them like a plucked string.

“Yeah?” she whispered, blinking up at him with mock innocence.

“You gotta stop,” he said, every word thick with restraint, “or I’m gonna forget how to be a gentleman.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then slowly back up again, fire flickering in her eyes. “What if I don’t want you to be?”

And that—that broke him.

The kiss that followed wasn’t soft. It was slow at first, deliberate, but the tension underneath made it sharp and consuming. Joe kissed her like he’d been starving and she was the first taste he’d been allowed. His hand slid under her shirt, fingers splaying wide across her bare back as he pulled her impossibly closer. Angel climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss, straddling his thighs, grinding down just enough to make him groan into her mouth.

He kissed her like he’d earned this—like he’d waited, like he’d wanted her for so long and was finally allowed to stop pretending he didn’t.

Angel kissed him back with just as much hunger, her hands pushing beneath his tank to feel the heat of his skin, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading down his abdomen. When her nails lightly scraped along the waistband of his joggers, Joe shuddered. His grip on her hips tightened as he pulled her more firmly against him.

“Jesus,” he whispered into her mouth, breath ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled against his lips. “You’ll survive.”

Things escalated quickly, the air between them thick with breathless laughter and low moans. At some point the movie was still playing, but neither of them noticed. The couch shifted beneath their weight as their movements became more urgent, messier. Joe’s hands slid beneath her thighs, fingers digging in as he stood with her wrapped around his waist, her legs locked behind him. Angel gasped and clutched his shoulders, heart thudding in her chest as he carried her down the short hall to her bedroom like she weighed nothing.

He didn’t even try to flick the lights on. The amber glow of her bedside lamp was all they needed.

Angel hit the bed with a soft thud, her curls spilling across the pillow, shirt askew. Joe hovered above her, his tank now clinging to his sweat-slicked chest, his lips swollen from kissing her like he couldn’t help himself.

He looked down at her, wild-eyed, flushed, and breathing hard—and knew there was no going back.

And neither of them wanted to.

Angel’s back hit the bed with a soft thud, the mattress dipping beneath her weight as the quiet squeak of springs filled the space between their breathless kisses. Her curls fanned out on the pillow, and for the first time that night, she looked up at him—completely laid out, completely still—like she was letting herself be seen.

Joe followed her down, bracing himself on one arm, his body hovering just above hers. He didn’t rush. Instead, he kissed his way down her neck with aching slowness, his lips lingering at the hollow of her throat, over the place where her pulse thundered. Every brush of his mouth was grounding, steadying, like he was trying to ease them both into this moment before it got away from them.

Angel reached for the hem of her shirt, and Joe helped her lift it over her head. His breath hitched the second it left her body.

The glow from her bedside lamp spilled across her bare skin, casting her in soft gold and shadow. Her brown skin gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat, her chest rising and falling quickly, nipples peaked from the cool air and tension. She wasn’t doing anything but being, and still, Joe felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just stared.

“Joe?” she asked, voice quiet but uncertain.

His eyes flicked up to hers, wide with wonder. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, the words coming out like a breathless confession. There was no teasing in his voice this time—just reverence, plain and raw.

Her lips parted, a soft smile tugging at the corners. She ducked her head a little, caught between shyness and pride. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not.” He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “I mean it. Angel, you don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”

That made her smile wider, and she reached up to run her fingers through his hair, pulling him down into another kiss. But Joe wasn’t finished admiring her—not even close. He pulled back just enough to trail his mouth across her collarbone, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her sternum, then lower, taking his time as he kissed over the swell of one breast, then the other. He felt more than heard the tiny gasp she let out when his tongue flicked against her nipple, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Joey…” she whispered, hips shifting beneath him.

He smiled against her skin. “I know, baby. I got you.”

He continued downward, mouthing along the curve of her stomach, over the faint dip of her belly button, nuzzling the softness there before he hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties.

“Okay?” he asked, glancing up at her one last time.

Angel nodded, breath catching. “Yeah.”

Joe slid the thin cotton down her legs, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to miss a second. And then—there she was. Bare and glistening beneath him, legs parted slightly, heat radiating off her in waves.

He nearly forgot how to breathe.

He had imagined this moment a hundred different ways since the first time they kissed, but nothing had prepared him for the real thing. She was soaked, lips swollen and glistening, and her thighs trembled just the slightest bit with anticipation. His cock throbbed inside his joggers, but he didn’t move to take them off yet. He couldn’t. Not before he made sure she was ready.

Even dazed, he was deliberate.

Joe slid two fingers slowly through her slick folds, testing the way she opened for him, watching the way her body reacted. When he circled her clit with his thumb and then eased one finger, then a second inside her, Angel gasped and arched up from the mattress, her thighs falling wider apart like her body was begging for more.

Her walls clenched around him immediately—tight and hot and perfect—and Joe groaned under his breath.

“Jesus, baby…” he muttered, half to himself, eyes fixed on where his hand disappeared between her thighs.

“Joe—” Angel whimpered, hips rolling into his touch, her voice ragged with need.

His free hand slid up her side, anchoring her as his thumb resumed slow, deliberate circles over her clit. “You okay?” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her inner thigh, voice thick with concern. “Tell me if anything’s too much.”

Angel’s breath stuttered. Her fingers gripped the sheets beside her. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, eyes dark and pleading.

That was all the permission he needed.

Joe leaned in again, dragging his mouth back up her thigh, nipping at the soft skin there as he curled his fingers deeper inside her. Her back arched. Her mouth fell open in a gasp. He could feel her getting wetter with every stroke, every flick of his thumb, her body trembling under his touch like a live wire.

“Fuck, Angel,” he rasped, his forehead resting just above her hipbone as he worked her open. “You feel so fucking good.”

Angel could barely think. Her body was tight with need, her thoughts scattered and wild as he built her toward the edge with agonizing precision. It wasn’t just the way he touched her—it was the way he looked at her, like she was something holy. Like she was the only thing in the world worth worshipping.

She reached for him blindly, threading her fingers through his hair. “Joey, please…”

Joe pulled his fingers from her slowly, sucking one into his mouth with a groan that vibrated straight through her spine. Then he moved back up her body, covering her with his weight, kissing her like he couldn’t stand to be away from her mouth another second.

He kissed her like he meant it.

Like he was already in over his head.

And when his hand reached for his waistband, she stopped him with a trembling palm against his chest, breathless and still trying to recover from what he’d just done to her.

“Wait,” she said, voice soft.

His heart skipped. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head and looked at him—really looked at him. “I just… I wanna see you.”

Joe hesitated for half a second, then sat back on his heels, peeling off his tank and tossing it aside.

When Joe finally knelt back on his knees and reached for his wallet on the nightstand, Angel propped herself up slightly on her elbows to watch, chest still rising and falling from the intensity of his hands and mouth. She expected the movement. She knew what came next.

What she wasn’t prepared for—what absolutely stole the breath from her lungs—was when he stood fully, gaze locked on hers, and pushed his joggers down his hips with one smooth motion. The cotton pooled at his feet, boxers following, and then—

Her breath caught.

Joe stood there, flushed and fully hard, his body humming with tension, muscles taut beneath sweat-slicked skin. He was big—thick, long, heavy and already glistening at the tip. Not just impressive, but intimidating in the most beautiful, devastating way. And yet somehow still… elegant, restrained. His abs flexed with each breath, his cock twitching slightly under her stunned gaze.

Angel blinked, jaw slack. “Jesus Christ, Joe,” she whispered, voice nearly reverent.

Her eyes widened with awe, and Joe froze. For a heartbeat, he looked unsure, like he didn’t know if that reaction was a compliment or a warning.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough.

She nodded too quickly. “Yeah—I mean, yeah. I just…” Her hand twitched on the comforter. “I wasn’t expecting all that.”

Joe’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare.

“I had a hunch,” she murmured, eyes dragging over him again. “Like, when I’d sit on you during those late-night makeout sessions, I felt it. And the sweatpants? Yeah. Not subtle, Joey.”

He raised a brow. “And that didn’t scare you off?”

“Scare me?” Angel exhaled a soft laugh, then met his gaze again. “Baby, I stayed.”

That made him smile for real.

She didn’t mean to reach for him. Her hand moved before she even realized it, drawn to him by some combination of curiosity, heat, and want.

Joe saw the movement. Swallowed. Then, carefully, he stepped closer, his breath coming fast and shallow. He reached down, took her hand in his much larger one, and gently guided it around him.

The moment her fingers curled around him, Joe’s entire body shuddered. A strangled moan tore from his throat, his hips stuttering forward into her palm.

Angel whimpered. He was hot in her hand—thick and velvety-soft over steel, pulsing beneath her touch. His weight was heavy, his skin impossibly smooth, and the way he responded to even the slightest movement made her thighs clench.

“Angel…” he said her name like a warning, like a prayer. His voice had gone thick and dark with restraint. “You can’t… you keep touching me like that and I’m gonna lose it.”

She bit her lip, dragging her gaze up from where her hand held him to the raw, unguarded expression on his face. “S’big, Joey,” she whispered, breathless. “So pretty.”

Joe growled—growled—deep in his chest, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked. “Say shit like that again,” he rasped, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to even get inside you.”

Angel smirked, but her touch stilled. She let go slowly, reluctantly, and Joe leaned down to kiss her—hard. His mouth was hungry, desperate, like he needed to feel something to keep from completely unraveling.

Even then—even through the haze of lust and tension—he paused.

He reached again for his wallet, pulling out a small foil packet with trembling fingers. She saw it in his hand and sat up slightly, placing hers gently on his wrist.

“I’m clean,” she said softly, her voice calm but steady. “And we’ve been exclusive for a while now… right?”

Joe’s brows knit as he looked at her, like he needed to be absolutely certain. “Yeah. I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Me either.”

He still didn’t move, the condom packet still resting in his palm. His eyes searched hers. “Angel, I’m not tryna mess this up,” he said quietly. “It’s still early. And I don’t—I’m not ready to be a dad. I just need to be sure we’re protected.”

Without a word, Angel reached for his hand and brought it to the inside of her arm. She pressed his palm flat against the subtle bump beneath her skin, just below her bicep.

“I have an implant,” she said. “I’ve had it for a year. I’m covered, Joey.”

Joe looked down at where his hand touched her, eyes flickering with realization. He ran his thumb gently over the raised outline beneath her skin, like he needed to feel it for himself. His lips parted, a shaky exhale leaving him as the weight of that sank in.

Still, he didn’t move right away.

Angel reached up, brushing her fingers through his hair. Her voice was soft, patient. “If you’re not comfortable, we can stop. I won’t be upset. Really.”

That was it.

That was what broke the last thread of restraint in him—not the offer of sex, but the sincerity in her voice when she gave him the option not to. When she gave him an out and meant it.

He looked at her like she’d handed him something sacred. And then, with reverent hands, he tossed the condom onto the nightstand and bent down to kiss her like he’d just been given permission to breathe.

Angel sighed into his mouth as he crawled back between her thighs, her legs parting instinctively for him. He hooked her knees over his hips, his chest pressed flush to hers, one hand sliding beneath the small of her back to hold her close. Their skin was slick, their breath uneven, but everything about the moment felt slow, intentional—like they were stepping off a cliff together, fully aware of what they were choosing.

Joe lined himself up, his forehead pressed to hers, every muscle in his body shaking with restraint.

He paused—one last time—and whispered against her lips, “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

Angel’s eyes fluttered open, wide and shining. She cupped his jaw in both hands.

“I won’t,” she said. “I need you, Joey.”

His breath stuttered.

And then, finally—finally—he began to press into her.

Joe slid into her slowly—painfully slowly—like he was trying to memorize every fraction of a second, every inch of the way her body opened up around him.

His jaw went slack as he eased deeper, the air catching hard in his throat. “Holy fuck—Angel—shit,” he groaned, voice shaking. His forehead dropped to hers, and his hand braced on the mattress beside her head, knuckles white from the strain. “You feel so fuckin’ good. I—I can’t believe…”

His words fell apart, drowned out by the low, broken sound that tore from his throat when he finally bottomed out.

Angel gasped beneath him, her head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut as she tried to breathe through the fullness. Her nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to ground her. He was thick, long, and deep, stretching her in a way that felt impossibly good—like pressure and heat and pleasure all braided together. Her body trembled with the effort of adjusting around him, her legs tightening around his waist as she pulled him even closer.

“Joe,” she breathed, voice thin and high. “Oh my god…”

He didn’t move at first, too busy trying not to come from the sheer feel of her around him. Her heat, her grip, the way her body clenched like she didn’t want to let him go—it was almost too much.

“You’re so tight,” he whispered, brushing his nose against her cheek. “So warm. Angel, baby—fuck—you’re perfect.”

She whimpered at his words, her hips rising involuntarily to meet his. That small shift—the way she tilted her pelvis, the way her walls squeezed around him—nearly undid him right then.

He pulled back just an inch, then pushed in again, slow and deep, dragging a moan from both of them.

“Jesus,” he hissed, jaw clenched. “If I move too fast, I’m done.”

Angel’s hands slipped into his hair, tugging gently as she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Then don’t go fast,” she whispered. “Just… stay like this.”

He did.

Joe rocked into her slowly, deeply, like he wasn’t just fucking her—he was feeling her. Every movement was careful, reverent, controlled. His hands ran up and down her thighs, her waist, her hips—gripping, stroking, anchoring himself in her body like he never wanted to leave it.

Their lips brushed, soft and fleeting, between gasps. She could feel him trembling above her, the way he held himself back with everything he had. His control was almost painful, but he didn’t let go—not until she did.

“You okay?” he murmured between kisses, his voice ragged but tender. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Angel shook her head, breathless. “It’s not… It’s perfect.”

He groaned against her mouth, thrusting a little deeper this time, earning another gasp from her. Her fingers gripped his back, nails dragging down as she arched into him, chasing the friction.

“Angel,” he rasped, sounding completely wrecked. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it.”

Her reply was a whisper, eyes dazed and heavy-lidded. “Then lose it.”

Joe let out a rough, desperate laugh—but didn’t. Not yet.

He shifted his angle slightly, planting his feet, bracing his weight so he could drive in deeper—right there—and Angel cried out, back arching off the bed.

“There?” he panted, watching her unravel beneath him.

“Yes—Joe—right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He locked in, deep and slow, driving into her with long, grinding thrusts that had her panting into his mouth. Her legs were wrapped tight around his hips, her body coiled tight like a live wire. He could feel her getting closer—feel the flutter of her walls, the way her moans turned breathier, sharper, the way her hands scrabbled at his back like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

“C’mon, baby,” Joe whispered, mouth at her jaw. “Let go for me. I need to feel you come.”

She was already there, teetering on the edge, her whole body trembling. He dropped a hand between them, rubbing slow, firm circles over her clit, and that was it.

But even then, even with his whole body straining not to fall apart inside her, Joe couldn’t stop whispering.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured against her lips, hips still grinding slow and deep. “I need you to come first. You’re gonna come for me, right?”

Angel nodded, her breath hitching, eyes barely open as her body trembled beneath him. “I’m so—close, Joe… don’t stop…”

“Not gonna stop,” he promised, voice low and wrecked. “You’re doing so fuckin’ good. So perfect.”

Her hands clawed at his back, fingers slipping along his sweat-slicked skin as her body arched up to meet each thrust. She was unraveling beneath him—completely overwhelmed, barely holding on—and Joe could feel it. The way she clenched around him. The tiny gasps escaping her lips. The way her thighs trembled against his sides.

He buried his face in her neck, kissing and murmuring against her skin like he could will her over the edge with words alone.

“Let go, baby,” he rasped, breath hot against her throat. “I got you.”

Angel’s moan turned into a sharp cry as it hit her—finally. Her whole body locked up and then shattered, pulsing around him in rhythmic waves that stole every last coherent thought from her head. Her legs squeezed tighter around his hips, her nails digging into his shoulders as her climax tore through her with a force she hadn’t expected.

Joe felt it.

Felt her squeeze him like she was trying to pull him deeper, keep him there. Felt the ripple of her orgasm around him—tight, wet, devastating. And that was it.

That was all it took.

He’d held on longer than he thought he could—longer than anyone would’ve expected given how insane she felt—but the second her walls clenched down and he heard his name break from her lips like a prayer, he lost it.

“Fuck—Angel—shit—” he groaned, hoarse and guttural as he snapped his hips forward once, twice more, then came hard inside her, body locking up as he emptied into her with a low, broken moan. His forehead dropped to her shoulder as he rode out the high, his whole body trembling from the release, from how fucking good she felt—tight and slick and still fluttering around him like her body didn’t want to let him go.

He didn’t even realize he was whispering her name again and again, like a litany, like something sacred.

Their bodies stayed tangled, skin flush to skin, as they came down together.

The room was quiet but for their breathing—harsh, uneven, then gradually slowing as the world settled around them again. The air was thick with sweat, sex, and something softer… something heavier. Something neither of them was ready to name yet.

Joe didn’t move right away. He stayed pressed against her, chest to chest, his arm cradling her head, the other hand smoothing slowly up and down the outside of her thigh. He could feel her heartbeat against his, both still racing, not quite synced but close. Closer than they’d ever been.

Angel’s fingers trailed softly up his spine, anchoring him there, keeping him from floating too far away.

Eventually, Joe lifted his head, just enough to look at her.

Her face was flushed and dewy, her curls haloed around her, lips kiss-bruised and slightly parted. She looked dazed, dreamy, a little wrecked—and so beautiful he could barely stand it.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. Then her cheek. Then the curve of her shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked again, voice still low and raw.

Angel turned her head, giving him a sleepy smile that made his chest ache. “More than okay.”

Joe exhaled, laughing a little under his breath. It was a shaky sound—like he still hadn’t fully processed what just happened. “Good. ’Cause I don’t think I’m ever gonna recover from that.”

She grinned wider, kissing the corner of his mouth. “What, the sex?”

“The everything,” he murmured, pulling her closer, their bodies still connected, still warm and sticky and tangled beneath the sheets. “The way you feel. The way you looked at me. The way you said my name like…”

He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence without completely exposing how gone he already was for her.

Angel reached up and brushed a curl away from his forehead. “Like what?”

Joe smiled, slow and soft. He kissed her again—this time gently, reverently, like she was something fragile.

“Like I belonged to you.”

Angel's breath caught, the moment stretching between them, full and quiet and real.

“You do,” she whispered.

Joe closed his eyes for a second. Then smiled again—this time dazed, completely undone, completely hers.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

“Good,” Angel whispered, curling closer to him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “That’s the plan.”

And when he looked down at her—messy, glowing, his—he meant it with everything in his chest, every beat of his still-racing heart:

“Already are.”

Joe didn’t move. He didn’t want to. He just held her, face still buried in the crook of her neck, his arms tight around her waist like he needed her to keep him anchored.

Angel ran her fingers gently through his hair, whispering his name softly, over and over, until his breath finally started to slow.

“Hey,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You okay?”

Joe let out a dazed, exhausted laugh. “I think I saw God.”

She smiled, wide and warm, then kissed his cheek. “Same.”

And for a while, they just lay there—no words, no movement, just the quiet, steady thrum of their heartbeats and the knowledge that something between them had shifted.

This wasn’t just sex.

It was the start of something real.

Something neither of them would be able to walk away from.

Not now.

Not ever.

[honeydippedfiction]

What are Angel and baby Z’s plan for Joe for Father’s Day?

Father’s Day – Cincinnati, June 2025 Joe Burrow’s First as a Dad

🌤️ Morning — Soft Start

The soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the bedroom floor. The warmth of it brushed Joe’s cheek, coaxing him gently out of sleep. At first, he resisted, eyes still closed, his body heavy with the kind of deep rest that only came after weeks of OTAs, sleepless baby nights, and long rehab hours. But the sound of something small—delicate coos paired with a faint thumping against wood—pulled him further toward consciousness.

His brows knit slightly. A beat passed.

Then came a high-pitched squeal, followed by the unmistakable flutter of paper.

Joe’s eyes blinked open.

And the first thing he saw—blinking right back at him—was a pair of wide, honey-brown eyes. A gurgle of delight bubbled from Zariyah’s mouth as she sat perched right on his chest, chubby legs planted on either side of his sternum like she was a queen on her throne. Her curls were a wild halo from sleep, her cheeks rosy and soft, and her tiny fists were clutching a lopsided, glitter-smudged piece of construction paper.

He squinted to focus, then laughed softly when he read her onesie: “MY DADDY IS QB1.”

His heart didn’t just flip—it swan-dived.

“Hi, baby girl,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. He shifted just enough to cup the back of her head as she shrieked again, card flapping like a victory flag in her fist.

Then—

“Good morning, Daddy.”

Joe’s head turned to the sound of the voice that still made him weak in the knees, even all these years later.

Angel stood in the doorway, leaning her hip against the frame like she had all the time in the world. She was barefoot, curls tied up in a soft silk scarf, his orange No. 9 Bengals jersey hanging off her in the most devastating way—cut short so that her bare thighs were all on display. In her hands, a breakfast tray balanced neatly: cinnamon rolls glistening with icing, fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy turkey bacon, a fresh-pressed green juice, and his favorite coffee steaming from a black mug that read: “GIRL DAD.”

Joe blinked at her, blinking again just to make sure he hadn’t died and gone to heaven.

“What’s all this?” he asked, propping himself up carefully on one elbow while keeping his arm securely around Zariyah’s waist. His voice cracked, rough and scratchy, and maybe a little stunned.

Angel smiled at the two of them—the love of her life holding the little girl who had redefined everything they’d ever dreamed. “Your very first Father’s Day,” she said softly, walking toward the bed with careful steps. “The whole team’s been planning it for weeks.”

Joe chuckled as Zariyah wiggled, practically bouncing on his chest. “Is that right?”

Zariyah let out a long, squeaky babble and waved the card again, like she was mid-press conference. Her legs kicked with excitement, and one of her tiny fists caught Joe’s chin.

Angel laughed as she carefully set the tray on the nightstand. “She’s the captain today,” she said, watching as Zariyah drooled onto her card and then shrieked again at her own sound. “I just follow orders.”

Joe leaned back against the headboard, adjusting the pillow behind him as he kept his eyes locked on both of his girls. “So let me guess,” he said, smirking, “she woke up early, wrote this card, made breakfast, and picked out the outfit herself?”

Angel climbed onto the bed and perched next to him, one leg folded beneath her. “Of course. She even threatened to fire me if I didn’t make the icing from scratch.”

Joe gave her a crooked grin. “Tough boss.”

“She’s relentless.” Angel leaned in and kissed his cheek, then brushed her lips across his jaw and lingered just slightly at the corner of his mouth. “But she thinks you’re worth it.”

Zariyah chose that moment to babble even louder, grabbing a fistful of Joe’s hair and tugging with toddler-strength.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, wincing slightly as he freed himself from her grip. “Apparently she wants me to open this masterpiece.”

Angel leaned over to help, gently loosening Zariyah’s grip on the wrinkled card. Inside were two handprints in bright purple paint—one of them clearly Zariyah’s, the other smaller, smudged, and unmistakably Angel’s attempt at mimicking her daughter’s.

Underneath, in big block letters:

WE LOVE YOU DADDY.

Love, Your Girls.

Joe stared at the page for a long moment, quiet and still.

Then he looked up at Angel.

She was watching him with a soft expression, eyes warm and filled with the kind of affection that didn’t need to be spoken out loud.

Joe’s voice came out low, almost reverent. “You’re gonna make me cry before I even have my coffee.”

Angel’s smile deepened, and she pressed her hand over his heart. “Good. You deserve every second of this.”

Joe bent down to kiss the top of Zariyah’s head. “I don’t know what I did to get you two,” he whispered, voice cracking. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life earning it.”

Angel’s thumb brushed along his jaw. “You already have.”

And for a few minutes, the three of them just stayed there—Zariyah babbling between them, Joe cradling her in one arm and holding Angel’s hand with the other, the soft golden light pouring in through the windows like the universe itself was pausing to bear witness.

Father’s Day had only just begun.

And already, it felt like magic.

🎁 Midday — Gifts & Goofiness

By the time the breakfast tray was cleared and Zariyah had gone down for her late-morning nap, the house was quiet again—still bathed in sunlight, but now filled with the faint scent of cinnamon and the low hum of music coming from Angel’s phone speaker on the dresser. The three of them had spent the last hour snuggled in bed, sharing bites of sticky rolls and laughing over Joe’s failed attempts to sneak tiny pieces to Zariyah.

She’d smacked the spoon away twice, then squealed with delight when Joe fumbled a piece of icing onto his own thigh.

“She’s too young, Joey,” Angel had scolded gently, trying not to laugh as she wiped Zariyah’s sticky fingers. “She only has two teeth.”

“Exactly,” he said with a shrug, “she needs the energy.”

Now, with Zariyah fast asleep in her crib and a moment of rare quiet between them, Angel reached into the woven basket she’d hidden in the corner of the room and pulled out a thick, leather-bound book wrapped in soft tissue paper.

Joe raised an eyebrow, sitting up straighter on the edge of the bed. “What’s this?”

Angel handed it over carefully and sat beside him, folding her legs beneath her. “Just something I’ve been working on. It’s not perfect, but… I think it’s you.”

Joe peeled back the tissue and blinked at the rich brown cover—his name embossed in gold foil across the bottom corner. As he opened it, the pages made a soft creak. On the inside cover, a handwritten message in Angel’s neat script read:

To the man who became the father of my child with more grace, strength, and tenderness than I could have ever dreamed.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love,

Your girls.

Joe’s breath caught.

Then he turned the first page.

A sonogram was taped to the center, black and white and grainy, surrounded by soft brush strokes of paint Angel had clearly done by hand. Above it were the words:

And then there were three.

Joe stared at the tiny shape curled into the blurry image, barely the size of a peanut, and his throat tightened.

“Damn,” he murmured.

Angel leaned her chin on his shoulder, voice quiet and even. “I remember the look on your face when they told us it was real. Like someone had just told you you’d won the Super Bowl, but the stakes were even bigger.”

Joe flipped the page.

The next photo was of him in sweatpants and glasses, sitting on the old couch in his parent's basement, reading Goodnight Moon to Angel’s belly. His hand was resting on her stomach, the curve of it just visible beneath her shirt, and a soft smile was tugging at the corner of his lips.

He hadn’t even known she’d taken that picture.

“I took it because you didn’t even hesitate,” Angel said softly. “You were already hers, before you’d even met her.”

Joe reached up and rubbed his jaw, visibly moved, then turned the next page—and the one after.

There were photos from the hospital: him cradling Zariyah for the first time, stunned and overwhelmed and completely undone. Her tiny fingers wrapped tight around his pinky. Angel asleep in the hospital bed, exhausted but smiling, with Joe leaning over her shoulder holding their daughter like she was made of glass.

He kept flipping, slower now.

Zariyah asleep on his chest while he watched film on his iPad, headphones in, the game forgotten. Angel breastfeeding in the nursery, her eyes half-closed while Joe stood behind her in dress pants, shirt unbuttoned, tying his tie for a Zoom interview. A shot of them both passed out on the living room floor, surrounded by blankets and bottles, Zariyah curled in the space between their bodies like a tiny punctuation mark in the story of their lives.

One photo caught him off guard: him on the floor, knees bent, coaxing Zariyah to roll over. She looked furious—red in the face, mid-shout, but he was smiling, eyes full of pride even as her fists pounded the mat.

“I forgot you took this one,” Joe said quietly, brushing his fingers across the edge of the page.

Angel grinned. “That was the day she finally got it. But you were so patient with her. You always are.”

Joe shut the book gently, staring down at the cover like it might shift and change again if he blinked. His voice came out rough. “I don’t even have words for this.”

“You don’t need words,” Angel murmured, sliding her hand into his. “You show up for her every day. That says more than anything.”

She pressed a kiss to his jaw, lingering there for a second before reaching behind her and grabbing a smaller box, wrapped in matte black paper with a silver bow. “And because your daughter insisted on giving you something herself…”

Joe took the box, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled against soft velvet, was a brushed metal keychain shaped like a football. One side had a tiny, engraved handprint—the size of a quarter—and on the other, etched in delicate script:

Zariyah Jasmine — Est. 2024

Joe ran a thumb over the handprint, and for a second, he just stared at it in silence.

“She’s only seven months old and already giving me better gifts than anyone I know,” he muttered, eyes wet. “How is that possible?”

Angel smiled, biting her bottom lip. “Wait till you see her art projects in a few years.”

Joe set the keychain gently on the bed beside the photo book, then reached for Angel’s hand. “I don’t know how you keep outdoing yourself.”

“Oh, we’re not done yet.” She gave his fingers a squeeze. “One more.”

She disappeared into the hallway for a moment, returning with a small, clear box tucked under her arm. Inside was a mini Bengals helmet—orange, black-striped, and pristine except for one detail. Across the back, where the nameplate would usually sit, the name BURROW was scrawled in uneven, crooked letters, almost comically off-center.

Joe snorted as he held it up. “Did she write this?”

“She tried,” Angel said proudly. “I helped with the Sharpie part, but the scribbles were all her.”

He turned it over in his hands like it was made of glass. “You’re kidding me. This is… incredible.”

Angel watched him set it gently on the nightstand, beside his real helmet from last season. It looked small next to the professional gear, but Joe treated it like it belonged in Canton.

“This is better than any trophy I’ve ever had,” he said quietly.

Angel leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice full of quiet certainty. “That’s because this one calls you ‘Dada.’”

Joe tilted his head back and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as he wrapped an arm around her waist. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

Angel smiled and kissed his shoulder. “Then I’m doing this right.”

☀️ Afternoon — Backyard Picnic 

By midday, the Cincinnati sun had climbed high into the pale blue sky, casting golden light over the Burrow home. Joe had been mid-diaper change when Angel slipped outside, and when he stepped into the backyard twenty minutes later—Zariyah tucked against his side and a burp cloth slung over one shoulder—he stopped in his tracks.

The space had been completely transformed.

Their usual patio setup had vanished, replaced by a soft picnic blanket under a wide, cream-colored canopy tent that fluttered slightly in the breeze. A small, quiet fan oscillated near the center, keeping the air cool enough to be comfortable. String lights were already draped above in a zigzag pattern across the tent poles, though they wouldn’t be needed for a few more hours. A low wicker table sat nearby, laid out with neatly packed to-go boxes, plates, and chilled drinks, and off to the side—

Joe blinked.

“Is that… a projector?” he asked aloud.

Angel looked up from her spot beside a mini playpen and smiled.

“You’re early,” she teased, rising to her feet and brushing invisible dust from her thighs. She was barefoot in the grass, wearing a simple sundress that hugged her curves, her curls pinned up in a loose twist. “I was hoping to have everything perfect before you came out, but you’re always ahead of schedule.”

Joe stepped forward slowly, surveying the scene like it might disappear if he moved too fast. Zariyah began to squirm in his arms, wiggling at the sight of the colorful toys and her mother’s voice.

“What is all this?” he asked, still stunned.

Angel took Zariyah from him with a practiced ease, settling her into the shaded play area lined with plush, breathable cushions. The baby immediately grabbed a soft Bengals football teether and began gnawing on it with pure determination.

“Well,” Angel began, slipping her hand into Joe’s and tugging him toward the blanket, “I knew you’d try to say you didn’t want anything big. That you’d just be happy with a chill day at home. So I did both. A chill day… but thoughtfully executed.”

Joe raised an eyebrow as he sat beside her, reaching for one of the chilled lemonades waiting on the table. “Thoughtfully executed?”

She smirked. “I may have called in a few favors.”

Just then, a familiar smell wafted from a tray nearby—smoky, tangy, and unmistakably southern.

Joe’s head snapped toward it. “Wait—is that…”

“Yep.” Angel leaned back on her palms, her smile triumphant. “Ribs. From your favorite barbecue spot. And before you ask—yes, I got the spicy sauce, and yes, the mac and cheese is the baked kind you like.”

Joe stared at her for a beat, then leaned over and kissed her square on the mouth. “You’re unreal.”

“Tell Zariyah. She helped plan the menu.” Angel grinned, glancing toward their daughter, who was now babbling to herself in the corner while trying to stuff an entire plush tiger tail into her mouth.

They ate on the blanket under the shade, laughing between bites and wiping sauce from each other’s mouths like a pair of teenagers still deep in the honeymoon phase. Joe was messier than usual, tugging at napkins with one hand while juggling a full plate in the other, and Angel kept swatting at his arm whenever he tried to feed her oversized portions of rib meat.

“You are not about to make me smell like smoked pork for the rest of the day,” she warned, dodging a forkful of cornbread.

Joe wiggled his brows. “You liked how I smelled last night.”

Angel gave him a slow, warning look. “There is a literal baby ten feet away, Joseph.”

He winked. “She doesn’t know English yet.”

When the food was cleared and Zariyah had worn herself out with teething and rolling, Joe and Angel lay side-by-side on the blanket. She curled into his side, head on his chest, while he rested a hand over her hip. The soft hum of the fan mixed with the distant chirp of birds, a rare stillness settling over their little bubble.

Then Angel sat up slightly, reaching toward the remote control beside her.

Joe glanced sideways. “What are you doing?”

She held the remote behind her back, a mischievous grin pulling at her lips. “You’re gonna make fun of me.”

His eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“Just…” She scooted a little closer, her voice dipping with playfulness. “Trust me. And don’t judge me too harshly.”

Joe leaned up on one elbow as the projector flickered to life, the side of their white-painted garage suddenly becoming a movie screen.

Soft instrumental music started playing.

Then—

There he was.

Footage of Joe from the past season: throwing in slow motion, walking the sidelines with his helmet tucked under his arm, dapping up teammates after hard-fought wins. Press conferences, mic’d-up moments, sideline hugs, behind-the-scenes training clips. But woven between them were quieter things, things only someone who knew him would think to include:

Joe holding Zariyah in his locker after a game, smiling down at her like she was the only person in the room.

Him brushing a curl from Angel’s cheek during a holiday photo shoot.

Carrying groceries in with one arm and their daughter in the other.

Late-night baby monitor check-ins caught on home security footage, where Joe sleepily rubbed his face and peeked into the nursery.

Overlaid were snippets of commentary—analysts calling him a leader, fans chanting his name, teammates praising his resilience.

Zariyah, who had been fussing softly in her playpen, suddenly perked up at the sound of his voice from one of the clips. She squealed, slapped the side of the mat, and clapped her hands, as if recognizing her dad on the screen.

Joe stared, blinking slowly.

“Did you… make this?” he asked, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

Angel didn’t look at him right away. She just watched the screen, her profile soft in the afternoon light. “It’s her first Father’s Day, too,” she murmured. “I wanted her to see who her daddy is. Not just the quarterback. The man.”

Joe was silent for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly, one hand rising to drag across his jaw.

“You’re gonna make me cry on the grass,” he said hoarsely.

Angel turned then, her smile quiet and full of heat and love. She laid her head back on his chest and wrapped an arm around his waist. “That was the goal.”

He kissed the top of her head, voice thick. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining. “You became hers. And mine.”

And beneath the light of the summer sun, with his daughter giggling beside them and his wife nestled against his heart, Joe Burrow realized—he already had everything he’d ever need.

🌌 Evening — Just the Two of Them

The sun had long since dipped below the skyline, leaving behind a lavender haze that faded slowly into dusk. The house had grown quiet again, blanketed in that soft hush that only came after a long, joy-filled day. Zariyah had gone down for the night without much protest—her belly full, her body tired from crawling and cooing and soaking up every ounce of attention she’d received.

Now she lay in her crib, wrapped snug in her favorite muslin sleep sack, her pacifier lopsided in her mouth, a tiny hand curled beneath her chin. The baby monitor on the nightstand pulsed with quiet static, the screen glowing with a peaceful image of her rising and falling in sleep.

Joe double-checked it like he always did, then stepped into the hallway. The sound of water running lured him toward the master bathroom.

The lights were off—but the flicker of candlelight danced across the walls in soft, golden waves, throwing shadows that rippled over tile and glass. The scent of lavender and eucalyptus filled the air, heady and warm. Steam curled up from the surface of the tub, the water perfectly drawn with Epsom salts already dissolved, creating a soft, mineral sheen that beckoned him forward.

And then he saw her.

Angel stood by the vanity, tying the sash of her silk robe with slow, practiced ease. Her hair was down, curls falling softly around her shoulders. She’d lit candles along the edge of the tub and vanity, and the soft instrumental playlist she always used for wind-down hours hummed from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

She turned when she heard him, lips curling into a knowing smile. “There he is.”

Joe leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, still shirtless from earlier. “You’re serious about this pampering thing.”

Angel tilted her head, letting her gaze trail down the length of his torso like she was mentally undressing him. “Very serious. You’ve been everything to her, Joe. To me. Now it’s your turn to rest.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is this where I get a massage or a therapy session?”

“Both,” she said, taking a step closer. “Now strip, Burrow. Time to shut your brain off.”

Joe chuckled low in his throat but obeyed, tugging his sweatpants down and stepping out of them, leaving only a faint trail of warmth in his wake. She watched him without shame, without rush, just appreciation and that quiet, aching affection that made his chest feel too full.

He stepped into the tub slowly, muscles visibly relaxing as the heat wrapped around him like a second skin. His head dropped back with a sigh the second he was submerged.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes fluttering closed.

Angel lowered herself onto the edge of the tub beside him, her bare knee brushing his arm through the silk. She dipped her hands into the water, then slid them along his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tension at the base of his neck.

“You always carry everything here,” she murmured, voice soft and reverent.

Joe let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan. “Probably because I’ve been carrying a wiggly thirty-pound linebacker on my chest all week.”

Angel laughed under her breath but kept massaging, working her fingers in slow, deliberate circles. “You’ve given that little girl everything. Every ounce of your patience. Your time. Your heart.”

“She deserves it,” he said, eyes still closed. “You both do.”

Angel leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is yet. But I do.”

He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly, reaching up to catch her hand in his. He brought it to his lips and pressed a long, tender kiss to her palm. “I’d do it all again. Every long night. Every diaper blowout. Every 4 a.m. cry. Just to be hers. And yours.”

Angel didn’t say anything at first—just held his gaze, her fingers curling around his, thumb stroking over the back of his hand.

Then she stood slowly, letting the robe slip from her shoulders.

The silk dropped to the floor with a whisper.

Joe’s breath caught.

She stepped into the tub with him, straddling his lap with slow grace, her knees sinking into the warm water on either side of his hips. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, soft and gold and impossibly perfect. She ran her hands over his chest, then leaned in until their foreheads touched.

“I love you,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his lips.

Joe didn’t answer with words—just kissed her. Long and slow and deep, like it was the only language he knew.

The love they made that night wasn’t urgent or frenzied. It wasn’t about release—it was about returning. About anchoring themselves in one another after the constant movement of parenthood. It was slow. A reverent exploration of what it meant to be partners, lovers, and now, parents. Every brush of skin and breath, every whispered word, every soft moan was layered with meaning.

When they finally made it to bed—skin still damp, limbs tangled beneath the sheets—they collapsed together, bodies heavy with satisfaction and love.

Joe pulled Angel close, her back pressed to his chest, his arm draped over her waist.

The baby monitor glowed softly on the nightstand. Zariyah hadn’t moved.

Joe pressed a kiss to Angel’s shoulder, and his voice was low, hoarse with emotion and weariness. “This was the best day of my life.”

Angel smiled, sleep already tugging at the corners of her mind. She reached for his hand and laced their fingers together across her belly. “Just wait,” she whispered. “Wait till Zariyah starts drawing you cards that actually look like something.”

Joe laughed softly against her skin. “That’s not possible. Today was already perfect.”

And in the quiet that followed, with her body warm against his and their daughter safe and dreaming just a room away, Joe finally let himself drift—knowing that love had never felt more complete.

💬 Later That Night — Instagram

The house was wrapped in stillness, save for the gentle hum of the baby monitor and the occasional creak of old wood settling into night. The candles from their bath had burned down to soft embers, the sheets smelled like lavender and skin, and the only light in the room came from the faint glow of Angel’s phone screen as she sat propped against the headboard.

Joe was asleep beside her—completely gone. One arm curled beneath his head, the other still thrown lazily over her waist like even in dreams, he refused to let her go. His curls were a mess, cheeks sun-warmed and lips slightly parted. The corners of his mouth lifted in the faintest ghost of a smile.

Angel looked down at him, her heart aching in that quiet, full kind of way. She let her thumb rest lightly against the curve of his wrist for a moment, then turned her attention back to her phone.

She’d been working on the reel for days—sneaking in edits during naps, scrolling for the right music, stitching together the footage she’d gathered since morning. It was one of her favorite things to do now—capture the small magic of their lives so they could hold it forever.

The final cut was short but seamless. Tender. Honest.

It began with a clip from that morning: Joe asleep on the couch, Zariyah curled up on his chest like a baby koala, one of his large hands resting protectively on her tiny back. The moment was unposed, unfiltered—the kind of quiet love that didn’t ask to be seen.

Then came the photo book: a slow pan over the sonogram, the grainy footage of Joe reading Goodnight Moon to Angel’s belly, and the hospital photo that still made her tear up every time—the one where Joe looked like the entire world had stopped turning the second he held his daughter for the first time.

Next was him holding the tiny Bengals helmet that read “BURROW” in toddler-scrawl, his eyes shining like someone had handed him the Heisman all over again.

Angel had timed the music perfectly—soft piano keys that built into gentle strings, underscoring Zariyah’s chubby hands reaching toward the projector screen, squealing at the sound of her father’s voice echoing across the backyard. In the background, his real voice could be heard murmuring, “You’re gonna make me cry on the grass.”

The reel ended on a clip Angel had almost cut—because it felt too intimate, too sacred—but in the end, she kept it.

The three of them on the blanket.

Zariyah nestled between them, her feet kicking lazily as the breeze played with her curls. Angel lay beside Joe, her head on his chest, while he stared down at them both like he still couldn’t believe any of it was real. Angel’s eyes lifted to meet his, and just before the screen faded to black, she smiled at him with a kind of reverence usually reserved for prayer.

She watched the final cut once more, then tapped Post.

She captioned it carefully, rewriting it three times before landing on what her heart needed to say:

Watching you be Zariyah’s father is the greatest privilege of my life.

Happy Father’s Day to the man who leads with heart, protects with quiet strength, and gives our daughter the kind of love little girls dream of.

You make our world safe, soft, and full of joy.

We love you endlessly, Joseph Lee Burrow. 🧡👶🏽🐯 #GirlDad #FathersDay #QB1and1Half

Within minutes, the notifications rolled in.

Robin Burrow commented first:

He learned from the best. I’m so proud of the father—and man—he’s become. Love you three so much! 💕

Ja’Marr Chase:

Damn near teared up, not gon lie. Z got the GOAT for a dad. Happy Father’s Day, bro 🫶🏾

Jess (Sam Hubbard’s wife):

This is literally perfect 🥹 your family is so beautiful

Tee Higgins:

Zariyah the real MVP. That mini helmet got me 😂

Monica (Angel’s best friend):

Angel, you SNAPPED on this edit. He’s lucky to have y’all. And that baby’s curls?? STOP.

Kelsey & Rae (group chat besties):

#1 Girl Dad in the league

She really got his whole face. Y’all are unfairly cute.

Dozens of fans and followers flooded the comments too, sharing heart emojis, gifs, and messages like:

“This is what love looks like.”

“She’s going to grow up so loved. You can just feel it.”

“Imagine being Zariyah Burrow. Elite genetics. Elite family.”

“That baby’s got a mama who writes like a poet and a daddy who plays like a warrior. Iconic.”

Angel smiled and locked her phone, sliding it onto the nightstand.

She curled back into Joe’s side, her hand brushing across his bare chest, his heartbeat steady and strong beneath her fingertips.

He stirred just slightly, mumbling, “What time is it?”

“Late,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Don’t worry. I handled everything.”

Joe’s voice was thick with sleep, but his arm tightened around her anyway. “Best Father’s Day ever,” he mumbled.

Angel smiled into his skin. “Get used to it, Burrow. You’ve got a lifetime of them coming.”

And in the quiet dark, with their daughter dreaming down the hall and the rest of the world unaware of the perfect little kingdom they’d built, Angel let herself drift off beside the man who’d given her everything.

[honeydippedfiction]

I’m back again! Joe is such a girl dad, he always has to have her in his immediate vicinity. Someone from the team wants to hold her? He’s hovering and watching. Time for bedtime? Joe doesn’t want to leave her “Come on babe, just a few more minutes.” as he holds her in his and Angel’s bed https://pin.it/1rDnR4Fqy

nonnie you and your beautfiul mind. here's some Joe and Zariyah moments.

"Nowhere Without Her"

The locker room buzzed with the familiar chaos of post-practice routine—shoulder pads clattered against metal lockers, the low thump of bass-heavy music pulsed from a corner speaker, and players talked over each other in that easy, exhausted way that came after hours of sweat and grind.

But in the middle of it all, standing calm amid the storm, Joe Burrow wasn’t reviewing film on a tablet or breaking down plays with a coach. He wasn’t even halfway listening to the noise around him.

He was holding Zariyah.

Cradled snugly in the crook of his left arm, his baby girl gripped the drawstring of his hoodie like it was a lifeline. Her tiny fingers curled tight around the soft cotton as she blinked up at the fluorescent lights overhead, wide-eyed and completely unfazed by the surrounding world of cleats, helmets, and adrenaline.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t squirm. Just existed—serene and unbothered—like she belonged there.

Because she did.

And Joe? He wasn’t concerned with who might be watching. Cameras. Teammates. Reporters. It didn’t matter. Zariyah went where he went. No questions. No exceptions.

"Yo!" a familiar voice cut through the locker room din. Tee Higgins sauntered over, sweat still drying on his temples, a grin spreading across his face as he caught sight of the baby. “She’s gettin’ big, man. Lemme hold her?”

Joe didn’t move right away. Not his arms, not his feet. But something in his posture shifted—barely perceptible to most, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him. A slight stiffening. That instinctive dad reflex, quiet but immediate.

He didn’t say no. That wasn’t really Joe’s style. But he didn’t say yes either. He just looked at Tee—one eyebrow arched, lips tugging into a half-smile that didn’t quite hide the protectiveness in his eyes.

“You wash your hands?” Joe asked, voice casual but laced with a teasing warning.

Tee laughed, raising both hands like he was being frisked. “C’mon, bro, I’m good. I ain't tryna get kicked off the baby team.”

Joe eyed him for a second longer, then—after what felt like a silent internal checklist—he shifted his weight and gently passed Zariyah over, like she was made of glass and moonlight.

“Support her head,” he murmured, already hovering close.

Tee adjusted his grip, a little more nervous than he expected to be. “Man, she’s so small,” he said quietly, his voice dipping to a register usually reserved for huddles and prayers.

“Yeah,” Joe said, folding his arms and watching like a hawk. “She’s perfect.”

He didn’t step more than two paces away. Didn’t break line of sight. His body relaxed only slightly, like he was on standby, just in case.

It was a scene the guys had grown used to by now.

What had started as locker room banter—just another nickname tossed around the group chat the day Joe showed up late because Zariyah wouldn’t stop crying unless he rocked her—had turned into something else. Something truer.

“Girl Dad.”

It began as a joke. Now, it was his identity. Not just something they called him, but something they felt in the way he moved, the way he held her, the way nothing—not even game prep—came before her.

Joe Burrow might’ve had one of the strongest arms in the league, but everyone in that room knew the truth.

The tightest grip he ever had?

Was on her.

And nothing in the world—not fame, not football, not fourth-quarter comebacks—mattered more than the little girl who fell asleep on his chest without a care in the world.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

"Just a Few More Minutes"

The house had settled into its evening hush—the kind of quiet that didn’t demand silence but invited it, like a gentle exhale after a long day. Outside, the world had dimmed, the sky a soft gradient of leftover twilight, and even the wind seemed to tread softly against the windows.

Inside the bedroom, the only light came from a bedside lamp, its amber glow pooling gently across the room. The baby monitor blinked idly on the nightstand, its tiny green light a silent sentinel. But it wasn’t needed tonight.

Zariyah wasn’t in her crib.

She was right where Joe wanted her—sprawled on his chest, tucked beneath his chin, the rise and fall of her breath syncing perfectly with the steady rhythm of his heart. The pacifier in her mouth wobbled with each sleepy exhale, and one small hand, warm and impossibly soft, rested along the curve of his jaw. Every now and then, her fingers twitched, lost in whatever quiet dreams danced behind her fluttering eyelids.

Joe lay there still, one arm wrapped securely around her back, the other draped lazily across his own ribs. His body was tired—practice, meetings, the usual—but his mind was calm, grounded in a way that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with the tiny human snoring softly against his chest.

He could’ve stayed like that forever.

From the doorway, Angel watched them. Her arms were folded loosely across her chest, and there was a familiar look on her face—the one that blended affection and mock exasperation into something that looked a lot like love.

“She needs to go down, Joe,” she said gently, voice low enough not to stir Zariyah.

Joe didn’t look at her right away. He shifted just enough to glance up without moving the baby, his movements slow, careful. The exhaustion in his eyes was unmistakable, but so was the peace. A quiet contentment that seemed to radiate from every part of him.

“Just a few more minutes,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly over Zariyah’s tiny back.

Angel exhaled, not quite a sigh—more a release of air than resistance. She wasn’t surprised. This had become something of a routine: Joe clinging to bedtime moments like a quarterback refusing to let go of the ball on fourth and goal. Not out of stubbornness—but because letting go felt too much like losing time he couldn’t get back.

She stepped into the room, the floor creaking softly beneath her bare feet. “You said that twenty minutes ago,” she said, but her voice was all warmth, no pressure.

“I know,” he replied, eyes dropping back down to his daughter. “I just… I don’t know. Every time I think I’m ready to put her down, she does something—sighs, twitches, grabs my shirt—and it’s like... how am I supposed to walk away from that?”

Angel sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, her shoulder pressing lightly into his. She leaned over, resting her chin on his opposite shoulder, gaze falling on their daughter’s peaceful face. “You’re obsessed,” she whispered, smiling.

Joe smiled too, without looking away. “I know.”

“She’s got you wrapped so tight, it’s kind of scary,” Angel teased, though there was no judgment in it—just wonder, admiration. Maybe even a little envy.

“She’s got my whole damn heart,” Joe said, kissing the top of Zariyah’s head with a tenderness that made Angel’s chest ache.

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. Zariyah let out a quiet, contented noise, her head nestling deeper into the soft fabric of Joe’s hoodie. He didn’t move—couldn’t have, really—not with that kind of trust sleeping on top of him.

Angel leaned her head against his, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. “I’m glad she has you,” she said softly.

Joe swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I needed her more.”

Time passed in slow, golden minutes. Not measured by clocks, but by breaths, by heartbeats, by the stillness that only came with complete presence. Eventually, Angel stood, stretching a little as she moved to retrieve a blanket from the foot of the bed. She draped it over Joe and Zariyah, smoothing it gently across their legs.

“She’s gonna end up sleeping there all night,” she murmured with a smirk.

Joe didn’t argue. His hand rubbed small, steady circles along Zariyah’s back, his eyes already half-closed.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t mind. Not tonight.”

And as the house slipped further into its quiet, the world outside continuing to whisper, Joe stayed just like that—with his daughter asleep on his chest, and his heart exactly where it was supposed to be.

Home.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

"Grandpa’s Girl (But Not for Long)"

Family time at the Burrow house was always a warm kind of chaos.

Voices overlapped at the dinner table—someone halfway through a story when another memory came barreling in, louder and funnier, pulling the conversation in a new direction. Platters of food were passed from hand to hand, sometimes twice, sometimes forgotten until someone remembered the mashed potatoes three bites too late. Laughter echoed off the kitchen tiles and bounced against the walls, where old photographs of holidays and birthdays and football games watched silently, framed in nostalgia.

It was messy. It was loud. It was home.

And today, it came with a small betrayal.

Joe stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder resting against the frame. He was still in sweatpants and a long-sleeve tee, hair tousled from a nap he hadn’t meant to take. But his eyes were sharp—focused entirely on the scene playing out in the living room just beyond the hum of voices and clink of dishes.

Zariyah, his daughter, his baby girl, had chosen her grandpa.

She was curled up contentedly in Jimmy Burrow’s lap, giggling at whatever ridiculous noise he was making—a low growl, followed by a quick "boop" on her nose. Her tiny hands kept patting at his beard like it was the softest, most fascinating thing in the world, and every time her fingers brushed over the wiry gray scruff, she let out another squeal of delight.

Joe didn’t speak. Not yet. He just watched, brow drawn slightly, lips pursed in quiet betrayal. The look on his face was subtle, but unmistakable.

Angel noticed it the moment she passed him on her way to grab a drink from the fridge.

“Don’t start,” she murmured under her breath, bumping his shoulder with hers as she walked by.

“I’m not starting,” Joe muttered, even as he kept his eyes fixed on Zariyah like she’d personally wounded him.

Angel gave him that knowing glance—the one she reserved for when he was being ridiculous but kind of adorable about it. “He’s her grandpa, Joe.”

“I know,” he said, drawing out the words like they tasted bitter. “I’m just sayin’… she usually picks me.”

As if summoned by the tension, Jimmy looked up from his chair, eyes crinkled at the corners with a grin. “You better watch out, son,” he said cheerfully. “She’s got good taste.”

Joe forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Then, slowly, he crossed the room and crouched down beside his dad’s chair. His hand reached out instinctively, fingers curling toward his daughter.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said softly, his voice dropping to that special register he reserved just for her. “Wanna come with Daddy?”

Zariyah looked at him. Her big brown eyes blinked once, considering. Then she turned her face into her grandpa’s chest, gave a little sigh, and snuggled in deeper like she hadn’t even heard the offer.

Joe blinked. A slow, wounded blink.

“Wow,” he said, flatly. “Cold.”

Jimmy just chuckled, rocking her gently. “You had her all morning, Joey. Let us have a turn.”

Joe leaned back on his heels, sulking in the way only a very proud, very mildly rejected dad could. “I don’t like sharing,” he muttered, eyes still on Zariyah. “She’s supposed to be a daddy’s girl.”

Angel had settled onto the couch by now, a plate of pie balanced on her knee. “Guess you’ve got some competition,” she said with a smirk.

Joe sighed, but the edge of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward despite his best effort to stay in his feelings. His gaze softened as he watched his dad sway gently, humming some tune under his breath while Zariyah’s lashes fluttered closed. Her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of Jimmy’s shirt, and Joe’s chest gave a quiet tug at the sight.

Yeah, maybe he was jealous.

But mostly? He was grateful.

Because this—this was what it was all about. Layers of love stacked across generations. The kind of bond that didn’t need words to explain. His daughter, wrapped in the arms of the man who’d taught him how to love, how to lead, how to show up even when you were tired, even when the world pulled you in every direction.

Zariyah’s chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, completely at peace.

And Joe—despite the mock betrayal—couldn’t help but smile for real now, the kind that crept in slow and settled behind his eyes.

Still, he made a quiet promise to himself as he rose to his feet.

The moment she stirred? The second she opened those sleepy eyes?

He was calling her back.

Daddy’s girl, after all.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

"Coach Zariyah"

The tablet sat propped up on Joe’s thigh, its screen flickering between frames, flashing defensive schemes, blitz pickups, and coverage rotations. Plays ran in rapid succession, repeating over and over again like a constant loop, slow-motion breakdowns of what worked, what didn’t, what needed fixing. It was the rhythm of his world, of every week. Another game, another chance to perfect the craft.

But nestled in the crook of his arm, like she was running the entire Bengals’ offense herself?

Zariyah.

She was in full-on babble mode, a tiny whirlwind of sound and motion, her little hands flailing in the air like she was calling the shots. Her pacifier hung loosely from the collar of her onesie, swinging back and forth like a sideline whistle, bouncing with each excited squeal she let out. She looked at the screen with an intensity that Joe could only describe as professional. Every so often, she’d point at the flashing images, her little finger stabbing the air as if she were drawing up Xs and Os with the same urgency he’d seen in countless huddles.

"Da-da-da-da-da," she chattered, her voice rising in pitch, her miniature fist punching the air like she was making a game-winning call.

Joe grinned, his eyes softening as he looked down at her. He wrapped one arm around her, holding her close while the other swiped effortlessly across the tablet’s screen. It was like muscle memory. He’d done this thousands of times, breaking down film, scanning defenses, making split-second decisions.

“Oh yeah?” he said, raising his eyebrows in mock seriousness. “Cover 2, huh? You think I should’ve hit Chase on that post route?”

Zariyah’s response came quickly—a high-pitched squeal, followed by a dramatic slap of her hand on his chest, like she was emphasizing her point with a force that belied her size.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Okay, okay, I hear you, Coach Z. I’ll get it next time."

From the hallway, Angel peeked in, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. A smirk danced across her lips as she watched the two of them. "Is she correcting your reads again?" she asked, the amusement clear in her voice.

“She’s brutal,” Joe said, glancing up at his wife with a smile that only partially masked his mock frustration. He tapped the volume down on the tablet, turning it low enough to hear Zariyah’s constant stream of babbling. “Keeps telling me I missed the hot route.”

Angel laughed, shaking her head as she disappeared back into the kitchen. “She’s not wrong.”

Joe smiled to himself, letting the sound of Zariyah’s coos fill the space between them. He leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out, making himself comfortable. The tablet’s screen flickered as the next play looped through, but he barely noticed. His focus was on the little girl in his arms, the tiny bundle of joy who was now half-draped across his chest, wiggling and babbling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe this wasn’t the way most quarterbacks prepped for Sunday games. Most quarterbacks didn’t juggle a baby and game film at the same time. But then again, most quarterbacks weren’t Joe Burrow. And most quarterbacks didn’t have their whole world nestled into the crook of their arm in the form of a teething, giggling, determined little girl.

With her there, right next to him, tucked in close like she was a piece of heaven wrapped in a Bengals onesie, everything seemed to make more sense. The constant cycle of games, practices, and film—it all had purpose now.

Zariyah let out another squeal, a burst of joy that sent her hands flailing toward the tablet screen, her tiny finger aiming at one of the defenders on the display. Joe squinted, following the path her finger traced on the screen.

“...You might actually be right,” he muttered, furrowing his brow. There was something in the way Zariyah was pointing that made him double-check the play. It was subtle—just a shift in the angle of a defender, a misstep in coverage. It was the kind of thing only a true football mind would catch. And she had just caught it.

He couldn’t help but laugh softly under his breath. Maybe she didn’t know what exactly she was looking at, but there was no mistaking the instinct in her tiny movements. She was already in the game. Already thinking it through, even if her understanding of the Xs and Os was more intuitive than anything else.

"Alright, alright," he murmured to her, shaking his head in amazement. “You’ve got a good eye, kid. We’ll fix it on the next drive.”

Zariyah squealed again, her enthusiasm unrestrained, her tiny body wiggling even harder in his arms. Joe pressed his lips to her head in a soft kiss, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. The film was still playing, but the real victory wasn’t on the screen. It was right here, in his arms, in the laughter and joy of being a father, a coach, a quarterback—one role feeding into the other in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

As Zariyah continued to babble, her face lighting up with every new sound she made, Joe allowed himself to sink into the moment. This wasn’t just preparation for Sunday. It was preparation for life.

And as long as Zariyah was there, sharing her own little commentary, he knew everything would be alright.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ✧˖*°࿐⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

—-"Priorities"

The game was over.

The buzz of the locker room was electric—cameras flashing, reporters swarming like bees drawn to the scent of victory, and the clatter of cleats on concrete filled the air as players filtered in. Coaches shouted quick recaps, their voices rising above the chatter, while players slapped backs and exchanged high-fives. Some limped from the bruises of the game, others laughed through the adrenaline, but Joe Burrow?

He had tunnel vision.

The usual postgame urgency—the interviews, the quick hits, the need to be everywhere all at once—was nothing more than background noise to him. He didn’t head straight to the podium like the others. He didn’t even glance toward the media room where the PR staff was already adjusting mics, rehearsing questions, and mentally preparing for the media frenzy that was about to unfold.

Because halfway down the hallway—past security guards chatting in hushed tones, past team staff coordinating the next few hours—stood Angel. And in her arms, bundled up in a tiny Burrow jersey that was three sizes too big, was the one person Joe truly wanted to see.

Zariyah.

The moment Joe spotted them, everything else fell away. The weight of the game—the bruising hits, the mounting pressure, the shifting stats—melted off him like old tape. His entire demeanor shifted, his posture lightening. He wasn’t a quarterback right now. He was a dad, and the world had just gotten a whole lot simpler.

“There’s my girl,” he said softly, his voice warm and affectionate, as he jogged the last few steps to them.

Angel smiled as she handed Zariyah over without a word. She didn’t need to say anything; the moment was enough. Joe wrapped her up in his arms, holding her like she was the MVP of the night, his heart swelling with something deeper than pride. Zariyah let out a soft, sleepy squeak, her little hands fluttering as she rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of his hoodie.

“Tell Daddy he played good,” Angel whispered, her voice teasing but full of love.

Joe chuckled, looking down at Zariyah with a smile that made his eyes light up. She blinked up at him, her eyelids heavy with the drowsiness of a long day, but still holding that quiet authority, as if she knew she ran the show. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his hand gently rocking her back and forth, swaying as naturally as breathing.

A team rep peeked around the corner, her voice breaking the peaceful silence. “Joe, you ready? They’re waiting.”

Joe didn’t look up right away, his focus still on the tiny bundle in his arms. He gave her a soft, reassuring squeeze before glancing toward the hallway.

“Give me a minute,” he said, his voice firm but kind, as if there was no question in his mind.

The rep nodded, understanding without needing an explanation. At this point, they knew better than to interrupt this moment—the one where Joe wasn’t just the quarterback; he was the dad.

Time felt suspended as Joe continued to sway with Zariyah in his arms. The noise of the locker room—the reporters, the team members, the bustle of a postgame—faded into the background. It was just Joe, Angel, and their daughter.

When he finally stepped into the press room—baby on his hip, bottle in hand, mic in front of him—he didn’t miss a beat. Zariyah sat like a sleepy queen, her tiny head resting against Joe’s shoulder, blinking up at the crowd of reporters and cameras as though she’d been doing it her whole life. The room buzzed with the energy of a thousand questions, but the sight of Joe holding her so naturally, so effortlessly, shifted the focus.

“Sorry for the wait,” Joe said with a smirk, adjusting the tiny Bengals cap on Zariyah’s head. It was way too big for her, but somehow it fit perfectly. “Had to take care of the real postgame interview first.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room as the cameras flashed. It was one of those moments where the usual protocol didn’t apply. The reporters weren’t scrambling for stats or game breakdowns; instead, they were taken by the image of Joe Burrow—the star quarterback, the Super Bowl contender, and, more than anything else, an unapologetic girl dad—holding his baby girl like she was the true victory of the night.

No one cared about the final score, the passing yards, or the highlight reel plays. They were too busy capturing the headline that was already unfolding in front of them: Joe Burrow—MVP, father, and a man whose heart was already home.

And that? That was the win that mattered most.

[honeydippedfiction]

Can I get 15. "eyes open. keep looking." and 16. ^ and in the mirror--it's their large hand splayed across your abdomen, another wrapped around your perking nip. as they thrust into you, hard, slow, deep. their teeth sinking into ur neck.

with Joe and Angel, I just know they're nastyyy🤪

Listened to ‘Maybe’ by Teyana Taylor while writing this so everyone say thank you Teyana for the inspo

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#15. "eyes open. keep looking." & #16. and in the mirror--it's their large hand splayed across your abdomen, another wrapped around your perking nip. as they thrust into you, hard, slow, deep. their teeth sinking into ur neck.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It was supposed to be a chill weekend.

With baby Zariyah gone to spend two blissful days with Joe’s parents—Robin and Jimmy, who were beyond thrilled to take over spoiling duties—the Burrow household had finally fallen into rare, golden silence. No bottles to warm, no 3 a.m. wake-up cries, no schedules to juggle. Just peace. Glorious peace.

Joe had made plans, quiet ones. Sleep in. Watch a little film. Maybe grill something. Wrap Angel in a blanket and cuddle until neither of them knew what day it was. It was supposed to be recovery—for both of them.

But by noon, Joe was starting to realize something: Angel had no intention of letting him enjoy any of it.

From the moment she rolled over that morning, her attitude had been locked in. Petty. Sharp. The kind of bratty that didn’t come from actual frustration—it came from intent.

“You breathing loud again,” she muttered from her side of the bed, voice low and gravelly with sleep, but lined with attitude like sharp eyeliner.

Joe blinked, still half-asleep. “What?”

“I said you breathing loud. Sound like a busted radiator.”

He frowned, turning his head toward her on the pillow. “I was asleep.”

“Exactly.” She yanked the blanket tighter around her like he’d committed some great offense simply by existing.

Joe stared at the ceiling for a long beat. Okay…

He let it slide. For now.

The day went on like that. Little digs. Passive-aggressive comments with a smile. Petty nonsense that she served up like appetizers at a dinner party. At first, Joe let it slide. He knew Angel. Knew when she got this way it was usually about something deeper—or nothing at all. But this time, there was no mystery. No hidden frustration. She was just… acting up.

On purpose.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Later, he padded into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hoping coffee might at least smooth things over.

Angel was already there. Perched on the counter in one of his old LSU hoodies—bare-legged, smug, and scrolling her phone like she was too cute to be guilty. She sipped from her mug without looking up.

“Morning,” Joe offered.

She made a noncommittal sound in response. Something between a hum and a hmmph.

He tried again. “I made coffee. Want some of mine?”

She finally looked up, blinking slow. “Did you put that dusty almond milk in it?”

“No. I used the new one.”

She took a sip of her own drink, then wrinkled her nose dramatically. “Well, mine still nasty. Probably your fault. You opened the fridge too long yesterday.”

Joe squinted. “What does that even mean?”

“Means now everything taste like fridge air and disappointment.” She hopped down, walked past him, and added, just loud enough, “Don’t nobody ask you to help and you still messing stuff up.”

Joe turned, confused, but she was already halfway back to the living room.

That was round one.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

An hour later, Joe tried to lose himself in film. He pulled up Week 5’s offensive breakdown and plugged in his AirPods. Angel was curled up on the couch beside him, allegedly watching TV—but what she was really doing was finding ways to drive him to the brink of madness without ever raising her voice.

First, she stole the throw blanket from his lap with no explanation.

Then, she took the last two slices of the cinnamon toast she knew he had been saving.

And finally, when he got up to go switch the laundry over, he came back to find the remote gone.

“Angel.”

She didn’t look up from her phone. “Hmm?”

“Where’s the remote?”

“Oh.” She paused for a beat, chewing her nail. “I think I dropped it behind the couch.”

Joe gave her a look. “You think?”

“Or maybe I put it in the laundry basket with the whites. Thought it was a sock.”

He stared at her, deadpan. “You put the remote control in the laundry?”

She shrugged with the exact amount of indifference that could drive a man to madness. “Don’t act like you use it. You just watch the same plays over and over. Ball. Throw. Catch. Repeat.”

He took a slow breath. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Angel turned her head and finally gave him her full attention. That familiar gleam was in her eyes—trouble, dressed up as flirtation. “I do. Question is… do you?”

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

Later that morning, Joe tried to get a jump on laundry while Angel scrolled through her phone on the couch, pretending not to watch him.

He held up one of his favorite hoodies—the gray Bengals one with the frayed cuffs.

“Why is this in the bottom of the hamper?”

Angel barely glanced over. “Zariyah spit up on it. I used it to wipe the floor.”

Joe looked at her like she’d just confessed to a crime. “You used this as a mop?”

“It was right there,” she said with a shrug. “Quick reflexes. You should be proud.”

“That hoodie is from my rookie year.”

“And? You got a whole closet of free gear. You’ll live.”

Joe closed his eyes and took a slow breath. She’s trying to get under your skin, he reminded himself. Don’t let her win.

He tossed the hoodie back into the hamper and walked away.

Angel smirked.

Round one: her.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

By early afternoon, Joe was back on the couch, trying to reset the day. He figured if he could just carve out an hour—maybe two—to review some film, he could salvage some peace. Angel had drifted into her own little world, tucked into the corner of the sectional with snacks and a blanket, one leg draped over the armrest like she owned the place. Which, in many ways, she did.

Joe slipped on his noise-canceling headphones, pulled up game tape from Week 5 on his iPad, and settled in. All he needed was silence. Just enough to dissect a few coverages, double-check a couple reads.

But it didn’t take long for Angel’s show—some chaotic reality series where every scene sounded like a wine-fueled argument— to start bleeding through the headphones.

He paused the video with a sigh, pulling one earbud off. “Babe,” he said, turning toward her, “can you turn that down just a little?”

Angel didn’t even glance at the remote. “You got headphones in.”

“They’re noise-canceling,” he said, with measured patience, “not chaos-canceling.”

Angel slowly turned her head, one brow raised with deliberate sass. “You mad because my show got drama or because yours is boring?”

Joe blinked. “I’m mad because I can’t hear my tight end’s route because some girl named Shayla is screaming about her eyelash business.”

She scoffed, unapologetic. “Well, maybe Shayla got bills to pay. Unlike some people, she can’t afford to sit around analyzing football all day.”

Joe’s jaw ticked. “I don’t sit around, Angel. This is my job.”

Angel fluffed her pillow, adjusting it behind her like she was settling in for a long, loud binge. “Mmm. And this is my couch. I pay rent in sass and vibes.”

Joe dropped his head back with an exasperated groan. “I’m not asking you to go mute. Just lower the volume like… two notches.”

She turned back to the screen and, with all the exaggerated flair in the world, hit the volume up instead. The surround sound blared a high-pitched “YOU AIN’T GON’ DISRESPECT ME IN MY HOUSE” from Shayla, just to hammer it in.

“Seriously?” he said, sitting up straighter.

“Seriously,” she echoed, cool and unbothered. “But feel free to go in the guest room if it’s that serious.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Angel finally glanced over again. Her expression was smug, unbothered, her whole body language reading what are you gonna do about it?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, voice saccharine. “I’m just minding my business. Watching my stories.”

Joe stared at her, the tension starting to settle into his shoulders. Not angry—but definitely annoyed. She knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t just being difficult. She was playing with him. Poking the bear. Testing how far she could go before he snapped.

Round two?

Definitely hers again.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

A few minutes passed. Joe didn’t bother restarting the film. He knew there was no point. Angel had kicked her feet up now, her legs stretched out across the cushions like a queen on her throne. She reached into the bag of Hot Cheetos next to her, crunching obnoxiously as she side-eyed him through her lashes.

“Hey,” she said, casual as ever.

“What?” he muttered.

“You left the fridge open earlier. Everything’s warm now. Might wanna double-check your almond milk before you start blaming me again.”

Joe turned his head slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” she corrected.

“You’re a menace.”

Angel smirked, licking red dust from her fingers. “And yet… you still married me.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but then stopped himself, catching the way her lips curled at the corners—the faintest glint of challenge in her eyes. She was baiting him. Hard. And the worst part? She was enjoying every second of it.

That realization settled in his chest like a match on dry leaves.

She wanted a reaction.

And if she kept going like this… she was going to get one.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

By dinnertime, Joe was running on fumes.

The kind of mental exhaustion that didn’t come from workouts or playbooks, but from one beautiful, petty little storm of a woman who had clearly made it her mission to test every ounce of his restraint.

He’d stayed calm longer than he thought possible. All day, Angel had poked, pushed, and prodded. The smirks. The side-eyes. The backhanded compliments. And the worst part? She did it all with that same effortless confidence, like she was swatting flies for sport.

He walked into the kitchen with the vague hope that a quiet meal might buy him a few minutes of peace. Maybe food would reset the mood. Ground them both.

But the second he opened the fridge, that idea died.

There, stacked neatly on the top shelf, were three sushi containers. His favorites, even. Tuna, shrimp tempura, avocado rolls. Perfectly chilled. Perfectly untouched.

But there were only three containers—and none of them were for him.

“You ordered food?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Mmhmm.” Angel didn’t even look up from her phone. She was sitting at the table, one leg crossed over the other, typing away like she hadn’t just committed the ultimate disrespect.

Joe shut the fridge door slowly, deliberately. “And didn’t get me anything?”

“You were busy,” she replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Didn’t want to interrupt your little quarterback study session.”

Joe turned, leveling a look at her. “I’ve been home. All. Day.”

She glanced up then, smile faint and maddeningly fake. “I didn’t think you’d want sushi. You’re always talking about mercury levels. Brain health. All that boring stuff.”

He walked over to the table, jaw tight, frustration starting to simmer just beneath his carefully built surface. He didn’t speak right away—just stared at her, like he was trying to read between the lines of her expression.

Angel finally set her phone down, folded her arms, and met his gaze head-on.

“You’ve been doing this on purpose,” he said.

She tilted her head, mock-innocent. “Doing what?”

“Acting like a brat. All day. You’ve been trying to piss me off.”

Angel leaned back in her chair slowly, the smugness in her expression blooming like a satisfied cat. “Maybe I have,” she said. “What you gonna do about it?”

Joe stepped in, closing some of the space between them, shoulders squaring. “Why?”

She stood up too—deliberate, calm. Not backing down, not flinching. She moved toward him like a challenge incarnate, the edge of her voice dropping into something softer, silkier, yet still taunting.

“Because,” she said, stopping just inches from him, “you’ve been walking around here all peaceful and patient. Quiet. Like you don’t see me. Like I’m just background noise.”

Joe blinked. “You think I don’t see you?”

“I know you do.” Her voice dipped lower now. “But you’ve been treating me like I’m some tired wife with spit-up on her shirt and oatmeal in her hair. I wanted to remind you I’m still me. I still need attention.”

“This was your way of asking for attention?” he asked, voice low, incredulous.

Angel smiled then—but it wasn’t sweet. It was the kind of smile that came with danger. Daring. A trap that she knew he would step into. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Joe stared at her, jaw clenching harder. “You really wanna test me right now?”

Angel lifted her chin, gaze steady, unblinking. “I’ve been testing you all day, baby. The real question is—how long you gonna let me?”

That was it.

That was the moment the tension snapped like a stretched rubber band. Joe moved before he had time to think it through. One hand gripped her waist, yanking her close. The other slid up the back of her neck, into the thick curls she’d piled into a loose bun that was now slipping free.

His voice dropped, rough and warning. “You sure you’re ready for what you’ve been begging for?”

Her breath hitched—but there was no fear in her face. Just desire. Hunger. Victory. She’d poked the bear until it finally turned—and she loved that it was her who brought it out.

“I’ve been ready, Joseph,” she whispered, voice velvet. “You’re the one who's been dragging your feet.”

His eyes darkened. “Say one more slick thing.”

Angel’s grin widened, slow and triumphant. “Make me.”

And that was all he needed.

Joe didn’t just respond—he reacted. He pulled her flush against him, locking her in place with the kind of intensity he’d been holding back all day. Every little comment, every eye-roll, every subtle jab had been leading to this. She’d wanted the fire behind the calm. The man behind the quarterback.

And now she had him.

Fully.

Completely.

Undeniably.

Angel had pushed every button he had. Poked every nerve. And now, as she found herself exactly where she wanted to be—held in place, breath short, eyes wide with anticipation—she knew one thing for certain.

She was finally being put back in her place.

And she was loving every second of it.

Joe moved his hand from the nape of her neck to the front of her throat—not gripping, not squeezing, just placing it there. Wrapping around it. Not enough to even slightly cut off her air supply, but enough to make it clear that he could.

It was enough to send a wave of heat straight to her core.

“You wanna play this game, babygirl?” he murmured, eyes boring into hers. “You think you can take it?”

“I know I can,” she replied, voice steady despite the tremble in her legs. She couldn’t help but smirk. “In fact, I’m gonna win it.”

That earned a snort from Joe, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Big words for someone who can’t even last five minutes without running that pretty little mouth of hers.”

Angel felt the challenge spark between them, hot and immediate. “Then why don’t you shut me up?” she said, voice dropping to a taunt. “If you can.”

Something feral lit in Joe’s eyes, and before Angel could take another breath, she was being turned around, her back flush against his chest. She could feel his erection pressing against her lower back, hard and thick through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. His hand stayed at her throat, keeping her in place, while the other gripped her hip, holding her close.

“Is this what you wanted?” Joe growled, his breath hot against her ear. “You wanted me to lose control, didn’t you? You wanted me to snap.”

Angel licked her lips, her heart pounding. “Maybe I did,” she breathed. “Maybe I wanted to see the real Joe. Not the controlled quarterback, not the calm, composed husband. I wanted the man underneath it all.”

She could feel his grip tighten on her hip, his fingers digging into her skin. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned. “The man underneath it all? He’s not always pretty. He’s got rough edges, dirty thoughts, and a hunger that never quite goes away.”

Angel shivered, a thrill running down her spine. “Then show me,” she whispered. “Show me all of it.”

Joe let out a low growl, his hand moving from her hip to the front of her thighs, pushing them apart. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, and Angel complied without hesitation, her breath coming faster now.

His hand slid up, fingers tracing along the seam of her leggings, finding the wet spot between her legs. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Already soaked for me, aren’t you? So ready to be fucked.”

Angel couldn’t speak, her voice caught in her throat. All she could do was nod, her hips moving involuntarily against his hand.

Joe chuckled, the sound low and dark. “But you don’t get to come that easy, babygirl. Not this time. This time, you’re gonna work for it.”

Angel felt a surge of heat at his words, but she couldn’t help but push a little more. “Work for it?” she repeated, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I thought you were going to shut me up, not make me work.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. “That’s it,” he growled. In one swift motion, he picked her up, tossing her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. Angel let out a surprised squeal, her legs kicking instinctively.

“Joe! What the hell—”

But he ignored her protests, carrying her out of the dining room and down the hall to their bedroom. Angel’s heart raced, her mind buzzing with anticipation and excitement. She’d pushed him, and now he was pushing back.

Hard.

Joe kicked the bedroom door open, then slammed it shut behind him. He set Angel down on her feet, then sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at her with dark, hungry eyes.

“Strip,” he said, his voice low, not playing around.

Angel felt a shiver run down her spine, but she didn’t hesitate. She reached for the hem of her shirt, slowly lifting it over her head. Joe’s eyes followed her every move, drinking in the sight of her exposed skin.

“Faster,” he ordered, his voice rough.

Angel bit her lip, her hands moving to the waistband of her leggings. She hooked her thumbs underneath and began to push them down, slowly revealing her panties. Joe’s eyes locked onto the sight, his jaw clenching.

“Keep going,” he said, his voice strained.

Angel stepped out of her leggings, then reached back to unclasp her bra. She let it fall to the floor, her breasts bouncing free. Joe’s gaze was fixed on them, his eyes dark with desire.

“Panties too,” he said, his voice husky.

Angel complied, sliding her panties down her legs and stepping out of them. She stood before him completely naked, her heart pounding, her body trembling with anticipation.

Joe didn’t move for a long moment, just looked at her, his eyes roaming over every inch of her exposed skin. Angel felt exposed, vulnerable, but also incredibly turned on. She’d never seen Joe look at her like this before, with such raw, unfiltered desire.

“Come here,” he finally said, his voice low.

Angel took a step forward, her legs trembling. Joe reached out, gripping her hips and pulling her closer. He looked up at her, his eyes locked on hers.

“You wanted to know the real me?” he said, his voice dark. “This is it. This is the man you married. Now bend over my knee.”

Angel felt a surge of excitement mixed with a hint of fear. She knew what Joe had in mind, and while part of her was nervous, another part of her—the part that had been poking and prodding all day—was eager to see where this would go.

She bent over Joe’s knee, her ass up in the air, her face burning. Joe’s hand rubbed over her buttocks, the touch firm but gentle.

“You ready, babygirl?” he asked, his voice low.

“Ready for what?” Angel shot back, her sass coming through even in her vulnerable position.

Joe’s hand stilled, then he brought it down hard on her ass. Angel let out a yelp, her body jerking at the sudden impact.

“What was that?” Joe asked, his voice firm.

Angel bit her lip, trying to catch her breath. “I’m ready,” she said, her voice muffled.

Joe’s hand rubbed over the spot he’d just spanked, the touch soothing. “Good girl,” he murmured. Then, without warning, he brought his hand down again, this time on her other cheek.

Angel let out a moan, her hips moving instinctively. Joe spanked her again, and again, each blow landing in a different spot. Angel’s ass began to burn, the pain mixing with pleasure.

“You gonna keep being a brat?” Joe asked, his hand pausing to rub over her heated skin.

Angel nodded, her eyes squeezing shut. “Yes,” she whispered.

Joe let out a low laugh. “We’ll see about that,” he said. And then he started again, his hand coming down hard and fast, alternating between her cheeks.

Angel’s moans filled the room, her body jerking with each impact. The pain was intense, but so was the pleasure. She could feel her pussy throbbing, wetness dripping down her thighs.

After what felt like an eternity, Joe stopped. Angel lay over his knee, panting, her ass on fire.

“How many was that?” Joe asked, his hand rubbing over her sore skin.

Angel tried to think, but her mind was fuzzy. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted.

Joe let out a sigh. “Then I guess we’ll have to start over,” he said.

Angel groaned, but before she could protest, Joe started again. This time, he made her count out loud.

 “One,” she said after the first spank. “Two,” after the second. She made it all the way to eight before losing count again.

Joe sighed again. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Angel shook her head, her face burning with embarrassment.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Joe said. “So for every time you lose count, you get five more.”

Angel groaned again, but didn’t protest. She knew she’d asked for this, and a part of her wanted it—wanted to be pushed, wanted to feel the sting of Joe’s hand on her ass.

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Joe made her start over three more times before he finally stopped. By then, Angel’s ass was bright red, the skin hot to the touch. She lay over his knee, breathing hard, her body trembling.

Joe’s hand moved over her sore flesh, then dipped between her legs. Angel let out a gasp as his fingers traced over her slit, feeling her wetness.

“You’re soaked,” Joe murmured, his fingers teasing her entrance. “So wet for me, even after all that.”

“You want to come, babygirl?” Joe asked, his fingers continuing their torment. He circled her clit with one fingertip, feather-light. Angel jerked at the touch, a small sound escaping her.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Please, I need it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dark. “I know what you need. But do you know what I need?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, dipping two fingers inside her again. Angel’s back arched, a whimper escaping her lips.

“You need to admit it,” Joe continued, his fingers moving just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Tell me what you are.”

Angel frowned, confusion cutting through the haze of pleasure. “What I am? What are you—”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “Tell me why you’ve been acting out all day.”

Angel bit her lip, trying to focus through the pleasure. “Because I… I wanted your attention?” It came out like a question, uncertain.

Joe shook his head, fingers stilling. “No, that’s not it. Try again.”

She squirmed under him, trying to get him to move his fingers. “I was bored?”

Another shake of his head. “Wrong again.”

“Then tell me!” Angel snapped, frustration mounting.

Joe leaned down, his face inches from hers. “You’re a brat, Angel. You love pushing my buttons because you want me to put you in your place. You want me to remind you who’s in charge. Admit it.”

Angel glared up at him, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and desire. “Fuck you, Joseph.”

But even as she said it, she knew he was right. She had wanted to push him. She’d craved this—his intensity, his dominance. She’d missed it, truth be told. With the baby, they hadn’t had much time for anything like this. And she’d been getting a little… restless.

Joe’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t get angry like she expected. Instead, he just sighed, resigned. “Alright, Angel. If that’s how you want to play it…” He pulled his fingers out of her, ignoring her whimper of protest.

“Joe, wait—” but she didn’t get to finish. In one smooth move, he threw her to land in the middle of their bed, flipped over on her back, pulling her to the edge. Before she could even process the move, he’d knelt on the floor.

He found his home between her thighs, and he made sure she knew it. Every lick, every suck, every tease was deliberate. It was a promise of what was to come—and a punishment for what she’d put him through. Angel had wanted a reaction? She had it. And more was yet to come.

Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him grunt against her pussy. The sound vibrated through her, drawing a guttural moan from her throat. He licked a broad stripe from her entrance to her clit, slow, savoring the taste of her. The way she shuddered, the way her breath caught—it was all fuel to the fire he’d been stoking all day.

Angel gasped, hips bucking involuntarily. Joe’s hands clamped down on them, holding her still with a grip that was anything but gentle. She tried to move, to grind against his mouth, but he was immovable. His control was absolute—and she hated how much it turned her on.

“Joe, please—” she broke off with a sharp cry as he sucked her clit between his lips, tongue flicking mercilessly. Her thighs trembled around his head, the muscles taut with the effort of staying still.

He pulled away, a string of spit still connecting his lips to her pussy. “Please, what? Tell me exactly what you want, Angel.” His voice was a dark rumble, eyes glinting with a mixture of desire and something far more dangerous.

Angel’s chest heaved, trying to catch her breath. “I want—I need—” She couldn’t find the words, her mind a haze of pleasure and need. But she didn’t have to find them. Because Joe knew. He always knew.

And with that, he leaned down and licked a long, hot stripe from her entrance to her clit. Angel cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair.

Joe didn’t stop there. He continued to lick and suck her, his tongue delving inside her and then moving up to circle her clit. Angel writhed beneath him, her hips bucking up to meet his mouth.

“Joe,” she cried. “Oh god, Joe. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Joe hummed against her, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through her body. He continued to eat her out, his tongue and lips working her into a frenzy.

Angel was close, so close. She could feel her orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly. She was almost there, just a little more…

But then Joe pulled away. Angel cried out in frustration, her hips chasing his mouth. But Joe held her down, his grip firm on her thighs.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice husky. “You don’t get to come yet, babygirl. You have to wait until I say so.”

Angel whined, her entire body shaking with need. “Please, Daddy,” she begged. “I need to come. Please let me come.”

Joe smirked, his thumb brushing over her clit. “Not yet, we have all night. And I plan to take my time with you,” he repeated. “But soon. I promise.”

Without another word, he dove back in. This time, there was nothing teasing about it. It was all consuming, relentless. His tongue worked her clit in tight, focused circles while his fingers pressed inside her, curling just so. Angel arched off the bed, back bowed in a perfect arc of pleasure.

“Yes, yes, yes—” she chanted, hips moving of their own accord now. Joe let her, one hand releasing her hip to grip her thigh instead, spreading her wider. He sucked her clit harder, fingers thrusting in time with his tongue.

She was close. So close. She could feel it building, that coiling tension in her lower belly, the sparks of pleasure that started at her core and spread out to her fingertips. She was almost there—

Joe stopped. Pulled back completely, leaving her empty and gasping. His fingers slipped out of her with a wet sound that made her face burn with embarrassment and need.

She propped herself up on her elbows, glaring at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” He leaned in, crowding her space until she was flat on her back again. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his erection hard against her hip. “You’ve been a little brat all day, Angel. Pushing my buttons, testing my patience.” He nipped her lower lip, none too gently. “Now it’s time to take your punishment.”

Angel’s breath hitched, a thrill of excitement mixed with trepidation racing through her. She knew that tone, that look in his eyes. He wasn’t joking. And as much as she wanted to keep pushing, to see how far she could go… part of her wanted this. Wanted to give in, to let him take control.

Because when Joe took control, it was never just about him. It was about her pleasure, her needs, her desires. It was about pushing her boundaries and bringing her to heights she hadn’t known existed. It was about trust and vulnerability and connection on a level that transcended the physical.

And right now, she wanted that connection more than she wanted to keep fighting.

She whined in frustration, her hips bucking against his hand. “Please touch me,” she begged. “Please make me come.”

Joe’s chuckle was dark and sinful. “You’ll come when I’m good and ready for you to come,” he said. “Now be a good girl and take what I give you.”

Joe didn’t let her rest for long. His hand slipped between her legs, his fingers finding her clit. Angel let out a moan, her head falling back.

Angel wanted to argue, wanted to push back, but the way Joe’s fingers were moving between her legs made it impossible for her to think straight. She could feel her orgasm building, could feel it just out of reach, and she was desperate for it.

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Joe kept her on edge for what felt like hours, his fingers teasing her, bringing her close to the edge, only to pull back every time. His mouth found her, tasting her, devouring her, but always stopping just before she could tip over into climax. He played her body like an instrument, knowing exactly which buttons to press, which strings to pull.

He looked up at her, lips glistening, eyes dark with lust and a hint of amusement. “What’s wrong, baby? Cat got your tongue?”

Angel groaned, frustration and desire warring inside her. “Why did you stop?”

Joe sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because you were about to cum. And you don’t get to cum until I say so.” His voice was calm, almost conversational. But there was an undercurrent of steel in it that made Angel shiver.

He started again, this time with fingers first. Two, thrusting deep, while his mouth found her clit. Angel’s head fell back, a low moan escaping her. He was relentless, working her up again with practiced ease. She was sensitive now, her nerves alight with the aftershocks of her interrupted orgasm.

This time, when she started to get close, she felt it sooner. The tension built faster, the pleasure sharper. Joe noticed it too. He could read her body like a book, every twitch, every tremor. And when she was on the edge, he pulled back again.

Angel whimpered, hands reaching for him. “Joe, please—I need it. I need to cum.”

He caught her wrists, pinning them beside her head. “You need to learn your place. You think you can push me around all day and then just get your reward? That’s not how this works.”

His hips settled between hers, the hard length of his erection pressed against her thigh. Angel tried to tilt her hips, to get that friction where she needed it most. But Joe held her still, her wrists immovable in his grip.

Angel bit her lip. She wanted to come so badly, but a part of her didn’t want to give in. “I… I…”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, babygirl? Too fucked out to speak? What happened to all that back talk earlier?”

Angel glared at him. “I don’t want to admit it.”

Joe shrugged. “Then you don’t get to come.”

Angel let out a frustrated growl. “That’s not fair,” she said, stamping her foot.

Joe chuckled. “Life’s not fair,” he said. “But if you’re a good girl and admit what you are, I might let you come on my cock.”

Angel’s eyes widened. The thought of taking Joe’s thick length after all this foreplay was too tempting to resist. Slowly, she nodded.

“I’m a brat,” she said, her voice soft.

Joe smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Good girl,” he praised. Then he stood up, lifting Angel onto her feet. He kissed her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth.

When he pulled back, Angel was breathless. “Now,” Joe said, his voice low. He began to strip off his clothes, his eyes never leaving Angel’s. Once he was naked, he laid back on the bed, his back against the headboard.

“Come prove to me you’re sorry,” he said, his cock hard and ready.

Angel didn’t hesitate. She crawled up the bed, straddling Joe’s hips. She reached between them, gripping his length and lining him up with her entrance. But before she could sink down onto him, Joe gripped her hips, stopping her.

“Only good girls get to look at my face,” he said, his eyes dark. “Turn around and watch yourself in the mirror.”

Angel bit her lip but complied, turning her back to Joe. He helped her, placing his hands on her hips and lifting her, then turning her so she faced the mirror that hung on the wall across from the bed.

Angel’s breath caught as she caught sight of herself—naked, legs spread, Joe’s thick cock nestled between her thighs. Joe’s hands gripped her hips, holding her in place.

“Bend forward,” he ordered.

Angel did as she was told, bending at the waist. Joe’s cock slid between her legs, the head catching on her entrance.

“Now ride me like you mean it,” Joe said, his voice rough. “Show me how sorry you are for being a brat all day.”

Angel didn’t need to be told twice. She slid down onto Joe’s cock, taking him to the hilt. The stretch burned, but it was a good kind of pain. She began to move, lifting herself up and sliding back down.

Joe let out a groan, his hands gripping her hips tighter. “That’s it, babygirl,” he praised. “Just like that. Show me what a good wife you can be.”

Angel rode him hard, her hips slapping against his. She could see herself in the mirror, her tits bouncing, her face flushed with pleasure. Behind her, Joe was moaning, his hips meeting her thrust for thrust. Suddenly, his hand came down on her ass, the slap ringing out in the room.

Angel yelped but didn’t stop moving. Instead, she rode him faster, her pussy clenching around his cock. Joe spanked her again and again, the pain mixing with the pleasure.

“Talked so much shit,” Joe growled in her ear, “now look at you. Taking my cock like a good little slut. This all you needed, baby? Your husband to fuck the brattiness out of you?”

“Yes,” Angel breathed. She was close, so close. She could feel her orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly.

Joe’s hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her up until she was laying back against his chest. His other hand slid around to her front, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed her in fast circles as he fucked up into her, deep and slow.

Angel could feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The pleasure was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once. “Joe,” she begged. “Please, I need to come.”

“You need to come?” Joe repeated, his voice mocking. “Well, that’s too bad. I don’t think you deserve it.”

Angel let out a sob, her hips moving faster. “Please,” she begged again. “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll be the best wife, the best girl. Just please let me come.”

Joe reached his other hand up, wrapping it around her throat. He slowed his thrusts, fucking into her with long, deep strokes. “Hmmm, are you done being a brat?” he asked.

Angel nodded frantically, her eyes wide. “Yes,” she said, her voice choked. “I’m done, I promise. Please, Joe. Please let me come.”

Joe chuckled, the sound dark. “Such a good girl now, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Eyes open. Keep looking.”

Angel did as she was told, her eyes opening to look at her reflection in the mirror. She saw the large hand splayed across her lower abdomen, the other wrapped around her throat. She saw Joe’s broad chest behind her, his muscles rippling as he moved. She saw his thick cock, buried deep inside her pussy.

And she saw his eyes, dark and intense, locked on hers in the mirror.

“Good girl,” Joe praised, his hips never stopping. “Keep those eyes open. Keep watching yourself get fucked. Watch yourself come undone on my cock.”

Angel couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. She was mesmerized by the sight of herself, by the pleasure coursing through her body. Joe’s hand on her throat tightened slightly, and his fingers on her clit moved faster. His teeth sank into her neck, biting down on the sensitive skin.

“Come for me, babygirl. Show me how much you love your punishment.”

Angel couldn’t hold back anymore. She came hard, her eyes rolling back in her head, her scream echoing off the walls. She squirted all over Joe’s cock, her juices flowing out of her and down his balls.

Joe groaned at the feel of her coming, his fingers never stopping on her clit. He kept rubbing her, drawing out her orgasm until she was a shaking, sobbing mess in his arms. Then, after a few more thrusts, he came too, his seed shooting deep inside her.

Angel collapsed against him, her body spent. Joe wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard. Slowly, Joe released his hold on her throat, his fingers gently massaging the skin. He pressed a kiss to her neck, then her shoulder.

“Good girl. There’s the woman I married,” he murmured again.

Angel smiled, her body lax against his. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet.

Joe chuckled. “For what? Fucking you into next week?”

Angel laughed. “No, for putting me in my place.”

Joe pulled out of her, then turned her in his arms. He looked down at her, his eyes softening. “You’re perfect just the way you are,” he said. “Brattiness and all.”

Then Joe gently lifted her off his cock and laid her down on the bed beside him.

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly. “You okay, baby?” he asked, his thumb rubbing over her cheek.

Angel nodded, snuggling closer to him. “I’m perfect,” she said, her voice filled with satisfaction.

Joe chuckled. “Good,” he said. Then, after a moment, “You’re still a brat, though.”

Angel laughed, slapping his chest lightly. “Shut up.”

Joe just grinned, kissing the top of her head. “I love you, baby,” he said softly.

Angel looked up at him, her eyes shining. “I love you too.”

As they laid there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, Angel knew that she’d gotten exactly what she needed. She’d needed Joe to put her back in her place, to remind her who was in charge. And he’d done just that.

But more than that, she’d needed to be reminded that no matter what, Joe would always love her. That he would always be there for her, even when she was being difficult. That their love was strong enough to withstand anything, even a bratty wife.

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Just as Angel’s eyes began to flutter shut, the soft haze of sleep tugging at her, she felt herself being lifted gently off the bed. Joe’s strong arms wrapped around her, his chest warm against her cheek as he cradled her with practiced ease. She murmured something unintelligible, half-protest, half-contentment, but he only kissed the top of her head and kept walking.

The en-suite bathroom was softly lit, the overhead light dimmed to a golden glow that made the marble countertops gleam. Steam curled up from the large soaking tub, where fragrant bubbles danced on the surface of the water. Lavender and eucalyptus filled the air, wrapping around them like a warm embrace.

Joe knelt beside the tub and slowly lowered her into the water, careful to ease her in rather than startle her with the heat. Angel let out a long, luxurious sigh as the warmth seeped into her muscles, dissolving the aches of the day. Her head fell back against the edge of the tub, her curls brushing the porcelain.

“Hold still,” Joe said gently, grabbing a silk scrunchie from the counter. He gathered her curls with care, tying them up into a loose bun to keep them from the water. “There we go. Perfect.”

She watched him move around the bathroom, his steps quiet but purposeful. When he turned toward the door presumably to go change the sheets on their bed, she made a small noise of protest, eyes fluttering open again.

Joe paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “Shhh,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll be right back, baby. Just gonna get the bed ready.”

She let him go, the sound of his footsteps fading. In the silence, the soft pop of bubbles breaking on the surface of the water became almost meditative. The warmth, the scent, the quiet—she could’ve stayed there forever.

But only a few minutes passed before he was back, stepping carefully into the room with two tall glasses of ice water balanced in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Hydration, my love,” he said, placing the glasses on the ledge within reach. Then, with a contented groan, he climbed into the tub behind her, water lapping up the sides as his weight settled in.

Angel shifted slightly, nestling herself between his thighs, her back resting against his chest. Joe’s arms came around her, one hand finding hers under the water, fingers intertwining.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then nuzzled into the curve of her neck. “Music?”

“Anything,” she murmured, her voice nearly a whisper.

Joe chuckled against her skin, the vibration of it soothing. “Dangerous thing to say to a man with questionable taste.”

“You’re lucky I’m too relaxed to argue,” she said, smiling sleepily.

He opened his music app and started scrolling. “Let’s see… Jazz? R&B? Or are you in one of those movie-soundtrack-mood kind of nights?”

“Surprise me.”

He started reading off a few titles, his voice deep and warm, the cadence of it washing over her. By the time he settled on a mellow playlist and set the phone aside, her eyelids were already growing heavy again.

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Minutes passed—or maybe longer—and eventually Joe reached in front her and pulled the plug. The water gurgled and swirled, draining away in a slow spiral. Angel shivered as the steam dissipated and the cool air of the bathroom returned.

Without a word, Joe stood and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel before returning to help her up. He grabbed a warm towel from the towel warmer and wrapped it snugly around her, patting her skin dry with gentle hands. “You good?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers.

She nodded, still wordless, letting him take care of her.

He lifted her again, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her back to the bedroom where the bed now lay freshly made, the sheets crisp and cool. He laid her down carefully, smoothing a hand over her back before returning to the bathroom to hang the towels.

When he came back, he had the ointment in hand. Angel was already on her stomach, her arms tucked under her pillow. He sat beside her, uncapping the bottle, and squeezed a generous amount into his palm. The smell of menthol mixed with something floral rose into the air. He rubbed a generous amount onto her ass, the coolness of the ointment soothing the heat there.

She winced at first as he began to rub it in, but then her body gradually relaxed, melting beneath his hands.

“Mmm… thank you,” she mumbled into the pillow.

He smiled and didn’t reply, just continued the slow, soothing motion of his hands until every trace of tension was gone. When he was done, he wiped his hands off and tossed the towel into the hamper with practiced ease.

Without missing a beat, Joe grabbed one of his oversized T-shirts—soft and worn, smelling like him—and helped Angel into it. Then, from the nightstand drawer, he pulled out her satin bonnet.

She looked up at him with a grateful smile as he gently slid it over her curls. “You know I hate waking up looking like a madwoman,” she murmured.

“Which is why you never do,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

With that, he shed his towel and pulled on a clean pair of boxers. Then he climbed into bed, pulling the comforter over them both and wrapping his arms around her.

Angel curled into his chest, her cheek resting over his heart. The steady thump of it was her favorite lullaby.

“Love you,” she whispered.

“I love you more,” Joe replied, kissing the crown of her head.

Sleep claimed her swiftly, the weight of his arms and the beat of his heart anchoring her in a safety she never took for granted.

•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ•´¨*•.¸¸.•*´¨.¸¸.ପໄଓ࿚ପଓ

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the car windows as they cruised down the highway, soft music playing low from the speakers. Angel’s phone buzzed in her lap. She picked it up, swiping the screen, and smiled instantly.

Joe glanced over from the driver’s seat. “What’s got you grinning like that?”

She turned the phone toward him. A picture filled the screen—Zariyah, their six-month-old daughter, laying on her little baby gym. She wasn’t playing with the hanging toys like usual. Instead, she had her head turned to the side, her eyes closed in serene contentment, a smile tugging at her lips as she sucked her thumb.

Joe chuckled, his eyes flicking from the road to the image and back. “Looks like our girl’s a little brat… just like her mama.”

Angel gasped in mock offense, swatting his arm. “She’s a baby, Joseph! Don’t even start.”

“She is your daughter though,” he teased, clearly trying to hide his grin now.

“Whatever,” she muttered, rolling her eyes—but her cheeks were flushed with affection.

Joe reached over and took her hand, lacing their fingers together with a gentle squeeze. “I love you,” he said, the words simple but deeply felt.

Angel looked at him, her heart full. “I love you too.”

And in that moment—sunlight on their faces, laughter in their voices, and love thick in the air—everything felt exactly as it should be.

[honeydippedfiction]

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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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

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

[honeydippedfiction]

Joe x Angel Angst Prompt #42 “You Promised” with #14 “Don’t you dare walk away from me” with fluff prompt #35 “ I just want to be there for you.”

Whew this one is a lot… prepare your heartstrings (also takes place when they’re still engaged so pre-Zariyah era)

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#42 “You Promised”, #14 “Don’t you dare walk away from me” & #35 “ I just want to be there for you.”

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Angel adjusted the gold necklace resting just above the neckline of her sleek black dress—the same one Joe had picked out for her birthday last year during a surprise trip to New Orleans. She could still remember the way he’d stood behind her in the boutique mirror, arms wrapped around her waist, whispering that she looked like everything the world didn’t deserve.

Now, in the quiet of her hotel suite’s bathroom, she stared at her reflection. Flawless makeup. Confident eyes. The ESPN badge clipped to her waist was a reminder that she’d earned this. After years grinding on the sidelines, chasing quotes in freezing locker rooms, she wasn’t just reporting on college football anymore.

Tonight, she was hosting—live, in front of the country—at the College Football Awards.

It was everything she had worked toward.

The moment she’d dreamt about when she was pulling double shifts during grad school, when she was the only Black woman on set, when she was told to smile more and talk less. All of it led here.

And Joe had promised he’d be there. Not just as her fiancé, but as her partner. As her biggest supporter.

She could still hear his voice from the week before, warm and certain: “Babe, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’ve supported me through everything—now it’s my turn.”

But he had missed it.

Three hours after the stage lights dimmed, after the cameras stopped rolling and the congratulatory hugs faded into the background, Angel stood alone in the driveway of their Cincinnati home. Her heels dangled from two tired fingers, her arches aching, but that pain was nothing compared to the tight, bruised feeling in her chest.

The sky was a soft charcoal above her, clouds hanging low, the kind of Midwest night where the air tasted like rain even if it never came.

She took a breath, lingering at the driver’s side of her car, part of her still hoping—still foolishly clinging to the idea—that maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe he had made it home early and was waiting upstairs, half-asleep in his clothes, her segment paused on the TV. Maybe there was a good reason.

She unlocked the front door quietly, slipping inside. The familiar scent of pinewood and lavender greeted her. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the lamp beside the couch.

And there he was.

Joe was curled up on the sofa, hoodie loose around his frame, legs stretched out, his face bathed in the cold blue glow of his iPad. One headphone dangled from his neck. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, locked onto film breakdown, fingers tapping occasionally to rewind or freeze a frame.

He didn’t look up until the door clicked shut.

“Hey,” he said casually, glancing at her like she’d just come back from the grocery store. “How’d it go?”

Angel didn’t speak right away. She just stared at him. Her hand tightened around her keys.

“You weren’t there,” she said quietly.

Joe’s smile faltered. The guilt on his face wasn’t sudden—it had been there, simmering just beneath the surface. He sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat.

“Angel… I know. I—Coach called a team meeting last minute. There was new breakdown footage from practice, and he needed us to—”

“No.” Her voice sliced through the space between them, sharp and clean. “Don’t start with that.”

Joe’s brow furrowed. “I’m not making excuses. I just—”

“You promised, Joe.”

He sighed and set the iPad on the coffee table. “I swear, I wanted to be there. I was watching the time the whole meeting. But it ran long, and by the time I thought about leaving, it was—”

“Wanted to be?” she repeated, her laugh sharp and bitter. “That’s supposed to be enough now? Wanting?”

Joe stood, rubbing his hands down his thighs like he could scrub the guilt off. “Angel, come on. You know what my schedule’s like. It’s not like I was sitting here playing Xbox. This is my job. You knew this is what life with me was going to be.”

“Exactly,” she snapped, stepping closer. “It’s always your job. Always football. Always something more important than me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” Her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders drawn tight. “What’s not fair is standing on a national stage, my first time ever doing live television, with my heart in my throat, looking for your face in the crowd and praying you'd walk through the doors. Thinking maybe you got caught in traffic, maybe you were running late, maybe—maybe—you gave enough of a damn to show up. But you didn’t. Just like last time. Just like every time.”

Joe’s jaw clenched. “You knew what this life was when you signed up for it.”

Angel blinked. Slowly.

Her voice dropped an octave, calm now. Dangerous. “I didn’t sign up to be a footnote in your life, Joe. I signed up for you. I thought we were building something together. But I’m starting to feel like I’m doing the building and you’re just passing through.”

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.

Angel turned sharply, walking down the hallway without another word. The sound of her suitcase rolling open and the zip of fabric felt louder than any argument.

Joe followed, pausing in the doorway of their bedroom, watching as she began throwing clothes into a duffel bag with a methodical, practiced rhythm.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice tight.

“To Monica’s.”

“You’re seriously leaving over this?”

Angel paused at the dresser, her hand hovering over the engagement ring that had once symbolized the future they were building together. She looked at it for a long moment—her finger, the precious metal, the diamond that had been a promise, now feeling heavier than ever.

Then, without a word, she took the ring off and set it gently on the counter. The sound of the band meeting the stone felt louder than it should have in the silence of the room.

She looked at him. Her eyes were tired now—not angry. Just disappointed.

“I need space, Joe.”

Joe took a step forward. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

That stopped her cold.

Angel slowly turned, her face unreadable. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“Angel—”

“No,” she said, yanking her arm back when he reached for it. Her voice cracked, but her stance held. “Until you can respect me—until you can treat this relationship like it matters—consider our engagement over.”

It hit him like a blindside sack. His lips parted, but no words came.

She slung the duffel over her shoulder, grabbed her keys off the dresser, and walked out. No tears. No dramatic pause. Just the sound of the front door clicking shut, quiet and final, as if the house itself exhaled in her absence.

Joe remained where he was, still trying to make sense of what just happened. His legs felt like lead, his hands trembling, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop her. Not now.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed through the house, like the softest slap of finality. No tears. No dramatic pause. Just the quiet, irreversible exit.

And then, she was gone.

Joe stood there in the silence, his heart pounding, his mind racing with all the things he should’ve said, should’ve done. The house around him felt colder somehow. The weight of Angel’s absence pressed in on him, suffocating the air. And there, in the center of their once-shared home, was the ring. The promise that had slipped through his fingers.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

The night air hit Angel like a slap the moment she stepped outside. Cold. Final. The door shut behind her with a dull click, but inside her chest, it sounded more like a door slamming shut on something sacred.

She didn’t even remember getting into her car. Her hands moved on autopilot—key in the ignition, seatbelt pulled, drive. The streets blurred as she drove through Cincinnati’s quiet neighborhoods, the city lights casting shadows across her dashboard.

And still, no tears.

Not at first.

It wasn’t until she pulled up to Monica’s apartment complex—a beige three-story building tucked behind a row of oak trees—that the adrenaline wore off. That’s when her breath caught in her throat. That’s when the first sob ripped out of her like it had been waiting all night.

By the time she reached Monica’s door, she was trembling. Her fist knocked harder than she intended, but her control had slipped. All of it had slipped.

The door opened within seconds. Monica appeared in plaid pajama pants, a bonnet secured over her tight curls, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one hand and a face mask half-applied. Her eyes widened immediately.

“Angel?” Her voice sharpened. “Girl, what the hell—what happened?”

Angel tried to answer. Tried to say I’m okay, or It’s nothing, or Can I crash here for the night? But the only thing that came out was a choked sob.

And then she broke.

Monica didn’t hesitate. She stepped aside, looping an arm around her best friend’s shoulders and ushering her inside like she was guiding someone out of a burning building.

“Okay. Sit down. I got you.”

Angel dropped her bag by the door and collapsed onto Monica’s couch, tears streaming freely now, her body shaking. Monica knelt in front of her, one hand holding Angel’s and the other reaching for a blanket from the armrest.

“Breathe. Just breathe, okay?”

Angel nodded, but her breath came in gasps.

Monica waited, rubbing her thumb over Angel’s knuckles until her breathing finally slowed. When Angel was able to wipe her face and speak, the first words came in a hoarse whisper.

“He didn’t show.”

Monica blinked. “What?”

“For the awards,” Angel said. “He promised me, Monica. He swore he’d be there.”

Monica sat back, her expression darkening. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Angel shook her head. “I kept looking at the crowd, thinking maybe he’d walk in late, maybe he’d surprise me. But he didn’t come. I got home, and he was just there. On the couch. Watching film.”

“You’re kidding me,” Monica said flatly. “Watching game film?”

Angel nodded, another tear slipping down her cheek. “Like it was just another Tuesday. No apology, no flowers, no effort.” Her voice broke. “And I—I just snapped.”

“Damn right you did.” Monica stood up, pacing now. “After everything you’ve done for that man? After all the times you’ve canceled things for him, traveled with him, bent over backward to support his ass—and he can’t show up for the biggest night of your career?”

Angel looked down at her lap. “I told him I needed space. That I was coming here.”

“You did the right thing,” Monica said without hesitation. “He needed to hear it. He needed to see that you won’t sit around waiting for him to finally remember you’re not just the woman in his house—you’re the woman who’s next to him, or supposed to be.”

Angel winced. “I told him to consider the engagement over.”

Monica stopped in her tracks. “Good.”

Angel looked up. “Mon—”

“I’m serious,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “If he can’t treat you with the respect you’ve earned, then he doesn’t get to wear that ring like it’s a badge of honor. You’ve always been more than someone’s fiancée. You’re Angel Carter. You don’t need a man who only shows up when it’s convenient.”

Angel wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, her voice small. “I still love him.”

Monica’s expression softened, and she returned to the couch, taking Angel’s hand again. “I know. And maybe he loves you, too. But loving someone means more than saying it. It means showing up. Not just when it’s easy. Especially when it’s not.”

Angel nodded slowly, her tears finally slowing, her body exhausted.

“Get some sleep,” Monica murmured. “I’ll make waffles in the morning. You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had carbs and clarity.”

Angel managed a soft, tired smile through the ache in her chest. “I love you.”

“Love you too, babe,” Monica said. “And just so you know, if I do see Joe in the street tomorrow, I’m fighting him. That’s not a threat—it’s a premonition.”

That pulled a short laugh from Angel, a watery one, but real. It wasn’t healing yet. But it was the first breath after drowning.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

The first night at Monica’s, Angel barely slept.

She spent most of it curled on the couch under the weight of a fleece blanket and her own thoughts, staring at the ceiling fan slowly spinning above her. Her phone buzzed twice—both messages from Joe.

She didn’t read them.

She couldn’t.

The next morning, she awoke to the smell of cinnamon and the distant hiss of Monica’s waffle maker. She shuffled into the kitchen, hair tied up, hoodie draped over her petite frame. Monica handed her a plate and a side-eye full of sisterly concern.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Angel said preemptively.

“Didn’t ask,” Monica replied, pouring syrup like it was holy oil. “But I’ll listen when you’re ready.”

Angel spent most of that day in sweats, watching reruns of A Different World and only half-listening. Her mind drifted back to that moment in their hallway—Joe reaching for her like he could fix everything with a hand on her arm. The way his face had changed when she told him to consider the engagement over.

She hadn’t said it to be cruel.

She had said it because it hurt too much to pretend anymore.

By Thursday, her emotions had shifted. The anger wasn’t gone, but now it was folded beneath layers of sorrow and confusion. Every time her phone buzzed, her heart jumped. What if he was saying the right thing now? What if he wasn’t saying anything?

She didn’t check. Not yet.

Friday came with silence. Monica went to the studio for a podcast taping and left Angel with the apartment to herself. Alone, Angel found herself scrolling through old photos—tailgates at LSU, their first NFL Draft night, the weekend in Miami when Joe told her, “I don’t know what the future looks like, but I know you’re in it.”

She had believed him.

By Saturday, the air was heavier. Something about weekends had always made Angel feel closer to him. Their lazy mornings. Coffee in mismatched mugs. Her feet on his lap while they watched film or movies. The ritual of love, in quiet moments.

But tonight was different.

They had planned dinner at Joe’s parents’ house weeks ago. Robin was making her infamous shrimp étouffée. It was supposed to be the kind of warm, casual night they both loved—family, wine, a break from the chaos.

Angel stayed on the couch, her phone on silent beside her, as Monica made sangria in the kitchen. She couldn’t face Robin. Couldn’t put on a brave face and pretend that everything wasn't unraveling.

Across town, the Burrow house was quieter than usual.

Dinner was ready. The table was set for six, though only five were seated.

Robin stirred her wine and looked at the empty chair beside Joe.

“Where’s Angel?” she asked casually, not yet suspicious, just curious.

Joe didn’t meet her eyes. He poked at his rice and shrugged. “She couldn’t make it.”

Robin blinked, surprised. “That’s not like her. She’s never missed a family dinner.”

“I know.”

Silence settled over the table, but Robin didn’t let it rest.

“She okay?”

Joe swallowed hard. “We, uh… we had a fight.”

Robin set down her wine. “What kind of fight?”

Joe shook his head, still not looking up. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine.”

“She just… needed space.”

Robin let the words hang there for a beat. Then, without a word, she reached for her phone, walked out of the dining room, and stepped onto the back porch.

She didn’t need to ask for Angel’s number. She had it saved.

It rang twice.

“Robin?” Angel’s voice came on the other end, hesitant.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Robin said gently, but there was a steel edge beneath the warmth. “I missed you tonight.”

Angel’s breath caught. “I’m sorry. I… I couldn’t come.”

Robin’s voice softened. “You don’t have to apologize to me, honey. But I would like to know what happened.”

There was a long pause. Angel considered dodging, softening the truth. But she was tired of pretending.

“He promised he’d be at the College Football Awards,” she said quietly. “He didn’t show. I came home to find him watching film like it was just another Tuesday night. And I broke.”

Robin exhaled sharply. “He didn’t show up for you?”

“No. And not just that night. It’s been building for a while. I feel like I’m standing alone in this relationship, and when I told him that, he got defensive. I told him I needed space… that I was leaving.”

Robin’s voice went cold. “And he let you?”

Angel didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.

There was a beat of heavy silence.

“Well,” Robin said finally, her voice rising just slightly, “you may not be my daughter by blood, but I love you like one. And I’m not going to sit back and watch my son sabotage the only good thing that’s ever happened to him.”

Angel closed her eyes. Her heart ached from the kindness, from the clarity of being seen.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Robin didn’t respond right away. But when she did, her voice was low, firm, and meant for one person only.

“I did not raise him to be this man. And if he doesn’t wake up soon and check into reality, he’s going to lose the only woman who’s stood by him through everything. And believe me, Angel—he knows it.”

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Robin stepped back into the house, the sliding door gliding shut behind her with a soft click. But the shift in her presence was anything but soft. The warmth in her smile was gone, replaced by a cool determination that made everyone at the dinner table sit up a little straighter.

Joe looked up instinctively. The second he saw her face, he knew.

He’d never been afraid of his mother. Not as a boy, not as a man. But right now, seated at the table like nothing was burning around him, he felt something close.

Robin crossed her arms and stared at him.

“Get in the kitchen,” she said.

A few glances darted across the table. Everyone else fell silent as Joe pushed his chair back with a scrape and followed his mother into the kitchen. He didn’t need a map to know where this was headed—he could feel the storm coming before she even opened her mouth.

Joe blinked. “What?”

“I said get up. Now.”

The scrape of his chair against the hardwood was the only sound as he followed her. Once they were out of earshot of the others—just past the pantry, near the fridge—Robin turned on him.

“I just got off the phone with Angel.”

Joe’s heart sank, but he kept his jaw tight. “I figured.”

Robin’s voice was low, sharp as a blade. “You figured? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he muttered, but it sounded weak, even to him.

Robin leaned forward, her eyes fierce. “Don’t you dare minimize this. You broke a promise to her. Not just any promise—a big one. Her night, Joe. After all the times she’s been there for you. After all the ways she’s had your back, stayed quiet, made space for your career, smiled for cameras when she wanted to cry. And you couldn’t show up for her once? She didn’t come tonight because she couldn’t bring herself to sit across from you and pretend like you didn’t break her heart.”

Joe’s stomach sank.

He opened his mouth, but Robin wasn’t done.

She raised a hand, and he immediately fell silent.

“No. You don’t get to talk yet. You get to listen.”

“Do you understand how lucky you are that that girl even looked at you twice, let alone stayed with you through everything? Through the chaos, the injuries, the relocations, the media—she’s been there. Constant. Loyal. Proud of you. Loving you out loud, in front of the world. I’m not saying this as her friend. I’m saying this as your mother. You want to be a franchise quarterback? A leader? A grown man who earns respect? Then you better start with the woman who’s been holding you down since LSU.”

Joe’s chest rose and fell, slow and tight. He’d felt guilt before—but this? This was something deeper. A sinking realization that he hadn’t just made a mistake—he had wounded something sacred.

“And you couldn’t be bothered to show up for her,” Robin said. “Her night. A night she earned, worked for, dreamed of. You left her alone in that room, looking for your face and realizing you weren’t coming.”

Joe’s shoulders tensed. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there—”

​​“Wanting isn’t doing,” she snapped. “She didn’t need you to want to show up. She needed you to be there. In the seat you said you’d sit in. Supporting her like she’s supported you through injuries, media storms, trades, and a schedule that devours every minute of your life.”

“Mom, I—”

“No.” Her voice dropped, quiet and lethal. “Joseph Lee Burrow.”

Joe froze.

That was it.

The full government name. Robin hadn’t said it since he was sixteen and wrecked her Camry backing out of the driveway too fast. Back then, he’d known it meant he’d crossed a line.

Now, hearing it again, as a grown man, the shame hit him in the chest like a linebacker.

“You didn’t just miss a dinner,” Robin continued, voice trembling now—not from anger, but from disbelief. “You missed her. And then, when she called you on it, you let her walk out that door instead of fighting for her. You let her pack a bag and leave. She told me she called off the engagement. Do you even get what that means?”

Joe’s throat was dry. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” she snapped. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be sitting at this table acting like you’re just giving her space. You’d be on your feet, in your car, at her door, doing whatever it takes to win her back.”

He looked down at the tile floor, hands braced on the edge of the counter. The image of Angel walking out—her bag over her shoulder, her eyes full of fire and heartbreak—played in his head like punishment.

“I didn’t raise a man who hides behind excuses or expects the people who love him to always be the ones bending. I raised a man who knows how to apologize. A man who knows when he’s wrong and makes it right.”

Joe’s throat tightened. “I know I messed up.”

“Messed up doesn’t even cover it, Joseph,” she said, using his full name now. “She left your house. She’s staying at Monica’s. And she told me to my face that she called off the engagement.”

He flinched.

Robin took a breath, softer this time. But no less serious.

“She loves you. But love isn’t a one-way commitment. And you are this close—this close—to losing the best thing that’s ever happened to you because you’re too buried in game tape to notice the person in front of you is drowning.”

Joe leaned against the counter, hand to his face. “I know,” he whispered. “God, I know.”

Robin stared at him for another moment, and then walked closer, her tone dropping to something gentler.

“I adore that woman,” she said. “She’s strong, she’s brilliant, she’s loyal. She chose you—not the NFL, not the spotlight. You. And you’ve got one chance, maybe two, to make this right before she walks away and never looks back.”

Joe nodded slowly, the weight of his mother’s words settling into his bones.

“Figure it out,” Robin said, pointing a finger at him like it was gospel. “Because if you don’t, she’s not going to be the one who regrets it. You will.”

Robin took one last look at him and let out a breath like she’d just set something heavy down.

“I raised you better than this. So act like it.”

With that, she turned and walked back toward the dining room, calm as ever—leaving Joe alone in the kitchen, heart pounding, shame burning like fire in his chest.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Four days.

That’s how long it had been since Angel left.

Each one stretched endlessly, heavy and hollow, the kind of days that don’t tick forward—they drag. The kind of days that make a man sit in silence and realize just how loud a quiet house can be.

Joe didn’t go back to the facility. Not after the fight. Not after the dinner at his parents’ place where his mother, with every ounce of love and fire she had, peeled back the armor he’d been hiding behind and forced him to look at himself. Really look.

He told Coach he needed a few days. Told the team he had something personal to handle. That was true, at least in part.

But what he really needed was her.

And she wasn’t answering.

Not the simple Hey. Not the full paragraph that started with I’m sorry and ended with I don’t expect a response, but I hope you know I love you. Not even the one that just said: I miss you.

Joe had always known Angel was special. Since the beginning. Since LSU. But these four days stripped away every distraction, every assumed “tomorrow,” every excuse.

He wasn’t losing some girl he casually dated. He was losing the woman who had rooted for him when he was a backup quarterback, who had defended him when no one thought he had an NFL arm, who had stood in the shadows of stadium lights so he could shine—without once dimming her own brilliance. The woman who made him, him.

And he had let her down. In front of the world. In front of herself.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭.·:¨༺༻¨:·.⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

That fourth night, just after 9 p.m., Joe stood outside Monica’s condo building, hands shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie. The spring air wrapped around him with a quiet chill—the kind that seeps past cotton, settling in your chest, reminding you that time keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.

He shifted his weight on the concrete stoop. His breath fogged faintly in the porch light as he looked up at the door. From the outside, everything looked normal. Cozy, even. But inside those walls was the woman he’d spent the last four days aching for—and she hadn’t given him a single word.

He deserved it. That silence. And still, it hollowed him out more than any hit he’d taken on the field.

Joe exhaled once, a breath that rattled in his chest, and knocked.

The door creaked open a crack.

Monica appeared, bonnet wrapped tight, arms crossed, eyes sharp as nails beneath arched brows. Her sweatshirt read Don’t Try Me, and she wore it like a mantra.

She didn’t blink. “If you’re here to start drama,” she said flatly, “turn around now.”

Joe didn’t flinch. He nodded once. “I’m not,” he said, quiet and low. “I just… I need to talk to her.”

A long pause stretched between them. The kind of silence that measures character.

Monica narrowed her eyes, then sighed. She didn’t soften, but she stepped back just enough to let him pass.

“She’s in the back,” she said, tone clipped and cautious. “And if she tells me she wants you gone, I will personally help her pack your ego into a suitcase.”

Joe managed a small, broken smile. “Fair enough,” he murmured. “I understand.”

The condo was warm—light jazz playing low from a Bluetooth speaker somewhere in the living room, candles flickering from a side table. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus, cocoa butter, and the vanilla lotion Angel always wore at night. The familiarity of it almost made him dizzy. He didn’t deserve the comfort—but he took it in anyway, like a man gasping for air at the surface.

He moved down the hallway slowly, like each step mattered.

Because it did.

Every one of them was an apology. A plea.

He reached the end of the hallway just as she stepped out.

Angel stood barefoot in Monica’s oversized T-shirt, joggers hanging low on her hips, her curls pulled back into a loose pineapple bun. There were faint smudges beneath her eyes, the kind that didn’t come from makeup—but from not sleeping. From carrying too much.

She looked exhausted. And somehow, impossibly, still stunning.

Joe’s heart twisted hard in his chest. She was right there—so close—but he could feel the distance between them like an entire ocean.

He cleared his throat, voice low.

“I messed up,” he said.

Angel didn’t move. She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t cross the room. But she didn’t walk away either.

That was something.

“I told myself I could balance it all,” Joe said, eyes searching hers. “That football and us could live in two separate lanes. But that’s not how love works. You’re not something I fit into the margins of my schedule, Angel. You’re the center. You’re home. And I haven’t been treating you like that.”

Still nothing. But her arms fell from their crossed stance. Her fingers laced together in front of her like she was holding herself still.

Joe stepped closer, slow and careful.

“I keep saying I love you,” he said. “But love isn’t missing your biggest night because I was too wrapped up in game film. Love is being there. It’s showing up. And I didn’t. I didn’t show up for you—and that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.”

Finally, Angel’s voice cut through the quiet—soft, steady, and sharp.

“Do you know how hard I’ve worked to be taken seriously in this field?”

The words were simple. But they carried years inside them. Years of being questioned. Overlooked. Undermined.

“I do,” Joe said, voice hoarse.

Angel’s jaw tightened. “No. You think you do. But you don’t. I’ve stood on the sidelines in the snow, gotten talked over in press conferences, been told to smile more and speak less. I’ve had people call me lucky for being on air—as if I didn’t earn every second with sweat and receipts. That night… it wasn’t just about the award, Joe. It was about being seen. And I needed you there. Not as my boyfriend. Not as the NFL quarterback. As my person. The one who claps loudest, even when no one else is watching.”

Joe closed his eyes briefly, the weight of her words sinking into his bones.

“You’re right,” he said. “I failed you. I see that now.”

Angel looked down, blinking fast. Her arms hung loose at her sides now, like even holding them up took too much effort. When she spoke again, her voice trembled—not with anger, but with fatigue.

“You let me stand alone in a room full of people who didn’t expect me to be there in the first place. And you were supposed to be the one face I could find. The one person I never had to doubt.”

“I know,” Joe said, taking a tentative step forward. “I can’t fix the moment. But I can do better. From this moment on.”

He looked at her, bare and open, no defenses left.

“I just want to be there for you. Every time. No more excuses. No more ‘next time.’ You deserve more than promises. You deserve action.”

The silence between them stretched long—thick with history and hurt. And love.

Angel’s gaze lifted. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the kind you don’t cry because they carry too much. She looked at him for a long beat, like she was deciding whether to believe again. Whether to let him back into the soft, vulnerable places.

Then, quietly, she said:

“I don’t need perfect.”

She took a step forward.

“I just need present.”

Joe nodded, voice caught in his throat. “I can be that,” he whispered. “From now on… I will be.”

No dramatic music played. No world paused. It was just her—moving closer. Slowly. Until she was in his arms again, wrapping herself around him like she belonged there.

And she did.

Angel pressed her cheek into his chest and let out a breath that seemed to collapse four days of holding everything in.

Joe buried his face in her curls and held her like she was gravity itself.

No, it wasn’t forgiveness—not fully. And it wasn’t forgetting.

But it was hope.

It was us.

It was the start of something new, built from the rubble of everything they’d nearly lost.

In the hallway of a quiet apartment, beneath the hum of candles and the weight of a love still learning how to grow, Joe and Angel didn’t fix everything.

But they chose each other.

And sometimes, that’s enough to begin again.

Joe didn’t move right away. He just held her, arms wrapped tight like he needed the physical confirmation that she was real, that she was here, that she hadn’t slipped through his fingers completely.

After a long moment, she pulled back slightly—just enough to look up at him.

Her eyes were still glassy, lashes clumped from tears that hadn’t fallen. But her shoulders weren’t so tense now. The storm in her chest was settling.

Joe reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and slowly pulled something out—small, delicate, shining faintly under the hallway light.

The engagement ring.

He hadn’t let it out of his sight since the night she left. It had slept on his nightstand, sat on his kitchen counter while he ate cereal he couldn’t taste, pressed against the palm of his hand when he paced the house in the middle of the night.

“Can I…?” he asked, his voice quieter than it had been all night.

Angel looked down at the ring, then back up at him. Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching.

She didn’t answer with words.

She held out her left hand.

Joe took it gently, like he was handling something sacred, and slid the ring back onto her finger—slow, deliberate, like a promise being made for the second time.

It glinted under the warm overhead light. And this time, it meant something more.

Not just love—but earned love.

He looked back up at her, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So,” he said. “Do I get a kiss, or...?”

Angel lifted one brow, her mouth twitching into the smallest smirk. Her voice was soft, but teasing.

“Don’t push your luck, Burrow.”

Joe huffed a laugh, the first real one in days, as she shook her head—but didn’t pull her hand away.

He didn’t lean in. He didn’t need to. That one look, that one line—it was hers. It had always been hers. And he’d take it gladly.

In that quiet hallway, no kiss was exchanged.

But the ring was back where it belonged. Her hand was still in his. And his heart—finally—was back in the right place.

They had a long way to go. But they’d go together.

And that made all the difference.

[honeydippedfiction]

Heyy bestie!! I've got a long one for you (sorry lol). Can I get from the established list 15, 21, 30, and 33 with Joe and Angel. Love you sweet cheeks - 🐯

Looooved writing this so much like you have no idea, need me a man like Joe is with Angel or I'm going to crash out😭

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#15. Sighing and pouting loudly because you haven't paid them any attention. #21. Playing with your hands or jewelry while they're focused on something else, #30. Falling asleep within minutes of you playing with their hair or scratching their back. & #33. Becoming your shadow and following you around the entire day.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The morning sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a warm, dappled glow across the Burrow family’s living room. The soft hum of Zariyah's bouncer filled the space as her tiny feet kicked excitedly at the air, toes wriggling in polka-dot socks. She let out a delighted squeal, the kind only six-month-old babies could make—half-laugh, half-song.

Angel moved effortlessly around the room, folding a baby blanket with one hand and reaching for a pacifier with the other. Her locs were pulled into a loose bun, gold hoops glinting in the light as she swayed with an easy rhythm that only came with sleepless nights and practiced grace. She wore one of Joe’s oversized LSU hoodies—stolen without apology—and a pair of biker shorts that left her legs bare and toned from carrying a baby on her hip all day.

Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, playoff warrior, and franchise golden boy, lay sprawled on the couch like a bored teenager. His arm hung dramatically over the back cushion, mouth twisted in a pout as he watched his wife with the same intensity he reserved for breaking down defensive formations.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh.

Angel didn’t even look up.

Another sigh, louder this time. She still didn’t turn around.

“Angel,” he finally said, his voice low and pitiful. “You haven’t even looked at me today.”

She chuckled quietly but kept folding Zariyah’s onesie. “Joe, it’s barely 9 a.m. I looked at you when you tried to floss your teeth and missed your mouth.”

“That doesn’t count,” he grumbled, sitting up straighter, resting his chin in his hand like a child in time-out. “You didn’t look at me with love. You looked at me like I was some man struggling with dental hygiene.”

Angel turned at that, finally giving him a full glance, one eyebrow raised with mock suspicion. “You’re not gonna start crying about it, are you?”

He didn't answer. He just gave her that boyish, lopsided grin that used to light up Baton Rouge and now haunted opposing defenses every Sunday. But here, in the quiet hum of domesticity, it was aimed only at her.

“You’re so clingy when it’s the offseason,” she muttered, shaking her head fondly.

“I miss you,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms like he hadn’t been draped over the couch for an hour. “During the season, I’m too busy to realize how much I need you. Now? It’s like withdrawal.”

He padded across the room in socks, stopping behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and press his face into the crook of her neck.

“You saw me twenty minutes ago,” she teased, leaning into him.

“Too long,” he murmured. “I get separation anxiety.”

“You’re worse than Zariyah.”

Joe chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against her back. “At least she can’t talk yet. I have to express my feelings verbally.”

She turned in his arms, eyes narrowing. “You followed me to the pantry earlier.”

“I thought you might need help grabbing the cereal.”

“To the laundry room.”

“Folding moral support.”

“To the bathroom, Joe.”

“That was an accident,” he said quickly. “Okay—a happy accident.”

She gave him a look, then stood on her toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “There. Better?”

Joe blinked, momentarily stunned into happiness, his lips twitching into a pleased little smile.

But then he frowned again. “Wait—that’s it?”

Angel pulled back, blinking. “I kissed you.”

“Yeah, but it was a cheek kiss,” Joe whined. “A friendship kiss. A cousin kiss.”

Angel burst out laughing. “Not a cousin kiss, Joe! Boy, if you don’t—”

“I want a real kiss,” he said, dramatically touching his chest like she’d betrayed him.

“I gave you affection and now you’re rating it?” she teased, turning toward the kitchen. “You are so spoiled.”

“I’m in love,” Joe corrected, trailing after her without hesitation. “There’s a difference.”

They moved into the kitchen, where Angel began warming Zariyah’s bottle. Joe leaned on the counter beside her with a deep, martyred sigh—his sixth of the morning.

Angel smirked but said nothing at first, pretending to focus on adjusting the formula. Meanwhile, Joe kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye, lips pushed out in an exaggerated pout. He drummed his fingers on the counter like a child waiting for his turn at the arcade.

“You’re really gonna keep pouting?” she asked, finally looking at him.

Joe didn’t even try to deny it. “I’m just a man,” he muttered, “standing in front of his wife, asking for one real kiss.”

Angel exhaled through her nose and turned fully to face him, bottle still in one hand. “You are too much.”

She stepped in closer, her free hand sliding up to the back of his neck, drawing him down slightly. Joe’s eyes lit up instantly, his breath catching like he knew what was coming.

Angel smiled—then kissed him.

Soft and slow, lingering. Her lips brushed his with a familiar rhythm, something warm and deep that wrapped around the heart before it ever touched the skin. Joe responded immediately, one arm slipping around her waist, the other resting on the edge of the counter behind her like he needed something to hold onto.

By the time she pulled away, his eyes were half-closed and a little dazed.

“Better?” she murmured.

Joe looked like he’d forgotten the day of the week. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Way better. That was like... an entire holiday.”

Angel laughed and gently tapped his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But loved,” he said smugly, following her as she turned back to finish the bottle.

“Barely,” she teased.

“Still counts.” Joe beamed like she’d just handed him a championship ring.

｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

By midday, the house had settled into a rhythm of soft domestic hums—baby monitor static, the faint shuffle of slippers, and the bubbling hush of warming milk. Angel stood in the kitchen, gently bouncing Zariyah against her chest, the baby's soft curls pressed to her collarbone. Zariyah let out a content sigh, half-asleep in her mother’s arms, her chubby fist curled around a lock of Angel’s hair.

The warmth of the bottle slowly crept into the glass as it rested in a pot of hot water on the stove. Angel shifted from foot to foot in a slow, practiced rock that had become second nature, her other hand resting on Zariyah’s back, rubbing gentle circles through her lavender onesie.

Joe was planted just a few feet away, leaned against the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Not because he was tired—he wasn’t—but because he had absolutely nowhere better to be. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Angel in at least ten minutes.

Every movement she made, from adjusting Zariyah’s position to tucking a stray loc behind her ear, he tracked with quiet attention. His fingers, meanwhile, had found her left hand, the one nearest him, and were toying idly with her wedding rings—sliding them up her finger, twisting them gently, then letting them fall back into place.

“You know that’s annoying, right?” Angel said casually, not even glancing his way.

Joe didn’t stop. “What is?”

“Messing with my jewelry like it’s a fidget toy.”

He finally looked up at her with the faintest smile. “I like your hands,” he said with a shrug, his voice low and calm, like he was sharing a secret. “They’re soft. And warm. And they’re yours. I get bonus points if I keep touching you.”

“Bonus points for what?” Angel asked, raising an eyebrow but fighting a smile.

“Affection. Hugs. Maybe some forehead kisses later if I’m lucky,” he replied, now stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

Angel laughed quietly under her breath, shaking her head. “You really are something else.”

“Something amazing,” he corrected, grinning as he slid his fingers between hers, letting their hands rest together on the edge of the counter.

The warmth between them lingered as Zariyah finally finished her bottle and dozed off in Angel’s arms. After settling the baby into her crib upstairs, Angel returned to the living room to find Joe already back on the couch, stretched out and waiting like a man who had ordered comfort and knew it was en route.

This time, he didn’t sigh or pout. He just looked at her with patient hope, tapping his lap twice like a drumbeat.

Angel gave him a look, one hand on her hip. “You need me to carry you to bed too?”

“No,” he said, tilting his head and cracking a small smile. “Just need you to do the thing.”

“What thing?”

Joe widened his eyes like a puppy caught in the rain. “You know the thing.”

Angel huffed out a soft laugh and made her way over to him. She sat down, legs tucked underneath her, and guided his head into her lap with practiced ease. As soon as his head hit her thighs, Joe exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day.

Angel began threading her fingers gently through his short curls. Her nails skimmed his scalp, slow and deliberate, with the kind of care only a woman in love could offer. Joe melted. His muscles unwound in waves, his breath slowing with each pass of her hand.

She shifted slightly to make room, and her other hand found his back. Fingertips traced lazy patterns beneath his T-shirt—light scratches that sent little shivers down his spine. Joe let out a soft sigh, the kind that barely made it out of his mouth before it disappeared into sleep.

Angel glanced down at him—this 6’4”, broad-shouldered man who’d gone toe-to-toe with some of the NFL’s best and looked like he wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped in his wife’s touch forever. There was a softness to his face when he was like this, eyelids fluttering, lips parted just enough to show the vulnerability underneath the calm, confident quarterback the world knew.

She leaned back into the couch cushions, her hand still gently raking through his hair, and let herself fully exhale for the first time that day.

Upstairs, the baby monitor crackled softly, then quieted. A moment later, Zariyah let out a sleepy, squeaky sigh from her crib—one of those tiny baby sounds that always made Angel smile.

“I swear, Zariyah,” Angel murmured, brushing her thumb across Joe’s temple, “you and your daddy are in a competition to see who can be more clingy.”

Joe shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. Then, as if pulled from a dream he refused to let go of, he mumbled again—soft and sure:

“Me… Always me.”

Angel blinked, startled by the timing. She stared down at him, lips twitching with disbelief before laughter quietly escaped her.

“Well,” she whispered, still smiling, “at least you’re self-aware.”

As if responding to her voice, Joe let out a deep sigh in his sleep. His arm slid across her lap and curled around her waist on instinct, fingers gently gripping the hem of her hoodie like a child clutching their favorite blanket. His body relaxed even further, molding into her like he was subconsciously afraid she might get up and slip away.

Angel’s smile deepened, her heart pulling tight in her chest.

“Lord,” she whispered, shaking her head gently, “you’re hopeless.”

She leaned down slowly and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, lips lingering there a moment longer than necessary.

“Yeah, baby,” she whispered. “I know.”

｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Extra - Angel's Turn

The morning light spilled softly across the hardwood floors, stretching its golden fingers through gauzy curtains and warming the quiet Cincinnati home that had grown used to baby coos, sleepy sighs, and the gentle cadence of an NFL offseason. The house, at least for now, was still—peaceful in the way only a house with a six-month-old rarely was.

Zariyah sat nestled in her bouncer in the living room, humming her own tune between a pacifier and the swirl of colors on the screen in front of her. The television murmured with the low energy of toddler cartoons, their cheerful voices bouncing off the walls like soft echoes.

In the kitchen, the coffee pot gurgled and hissed as it finished brewing, the rich scent of dark roast wafting through the air like a morning hug. Joe stood at the counter, freshly showered, clad in grey joggers that sat low on his hips and a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders. His damp hair curled gently, still tousled from the towel he’d raked through it minutes earlier.

With one hand wrapped around his mug, the other lazily scrolling through his phone, Joe looked every bit the picture of offseason ease—relaxed, grounded, and completely unaware of the quiet storm approaching him from behind.

Angel padded into the kitchen on bare feet, moving slower than usual, wearing one of Joe’s flannel shirts over her tank top and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Her locs were still slightly frizzy from sleep, half-pinned, half-wild, and her face was bare, beautiful in that effortless way Joe always noticed most when she wasn’t trying.

She didn’t say a word.

She simply walked up behind him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades with a long, dramatic sigh that practically melted into him.

Joe paused mid-scroll and looked down at the mug in his hand, then at her arms curled around him.

“Well, good morning to you too,” he said, setting his phone down.

“Mmm,” Angel hummed, her eyes closed, her body fully pressed into his back. “You smell good. Like soap… and unearned confidence.”

Joe blinked, caught off guard. “Unearned?”

She sleepily smirked without lifting her head. “You walk around like you’re the main character in a sports movie. Meanwhile, I’m the one raising your daughter and keeping you moisturized.”

Joe let out a low laugh, turning slightly in her arms. “I’ll have you know, this confidence is very earned. I’ve survived SEC defenses, Super Bowl pressure, and you in a mood.”

“Mmm,” she drawled, kissing the middle of his back. “Barely.”

He chuckled, taking her hands in his and spinning her gently around until she was facing him. “What’s your problem? You think I don’t deserve a little swagger?”

“Oh, I’m not saying you don’t deserve swagger,” she teased, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “You definitely earned it... but how you wear it is what cracks me up. It’s the subtle flex every time you walk by a mirror.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And what’s so funny about that?”

Angel gave him a pointed look. “It's the ‘I’m so humble, but look at me’ vibe you give off. You don’t even realize it.”

Joe’s lips twitched, but before he could defend himself, Angel was already wrapping her arms back around him, her face settling back against his back like she hadn’t just launched a full-on roast.

“You can’t even deny it,” she said with a soft chuckle. “It’s endearing, though. In a way only you can manage.”

“Endearing?” Joe echoed, a hint of playfulness creeping into his tone. “I’ll have you know, I’ve got more swag than you’re giving me credit for.”

“Mmm,” Angel hummed, her arms still tight around him. “I’ll believe it when you manage to make the bed without me reminding you first.”

Joe turned his head slightly, looking at her with mock exasperation. “Not this again. I’m a grown man, Angel.”

“I know,” she grinned. “Which is why it’s so impressive that a grown man can’t remember the bed’s got sheets.”

He rolled his eyes but laughed. “Alright, alright. I see how it is. You’re just here to tear me down, huh?”

“You’re so easy to tease,” she said sweetly, standing on her toes to press a kiss to the side of his neck. “I love it.”

Joe gave her a sidelong glance, his voice lowering. “You’re lucky I’m so in love with you, or I’d start fighting back.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, taking a few steps back with a sly grin. “I’d love to see you try.”

He chuckled softly and relaxed into her embrace, one of his hands covering hers where they rested at his stomach. “You okay?”

“Nope,” she murmured without lifting her head. “I’m in a mood.”

Joe shifted, concerned but not alarmed. “What kind of mood?”

Angel pressed a lingering kiss between his shoulder blades, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “A Joe mood.”

He smiled then—one of those slow, lopsided grins she always caught glimpses of on game days and quiet mornings like this one. “A Joe mood, huh?”

She gave a tiny, sleepy nod and began to sway from side to side, still holding onto him like a weighted blanket. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just wanna be close to you. I feel... clingy.”

“You’re allowed to be clingy,” he said, twisting in her arms until he faced her fully. “You’re always holding me together. You think I don’t have days where I just wanna be wrapped up in you like this?”

“Well, now it’s your turn to deal with me like that,” she said, her voice teasing but her eyes soft and honest. “I need cuddles. Touch. Booty rubs. Head kisses. Blanket nests.”

Joe blinked. “Booty rubs?”

She smirked. “Don’t act brand new.”

He raised both brows but leaned down to kiss her forehead anyway. “Alright. I got you, baby. Come here.”

He reached down, lacing his fingers through hers, and led her to the couch like they were dancing slow steps to an invisible song. Zariyah, still entranced by the flashing screen and singing animals, offered them a gurgling coo as they passed by her to the couch.

Angel didn’t hesitate. As soon as Joe sat down, she curled into his lap like it was her rightful place, legs tucked beside him, her head immediately finding his chest. Joe pulled the throw blanket over them both, wrapping his arms around her as she melted against him with a contented sigh.

His hands were warm as they slid under her shirt, his fingers tracing circles on her bare skin, moving slowly to the small of her back. He gently kneaded her lower back with one hand, his other arm wrapped around her waist.

“Better?” he murmured.

Angel closed her eyes, nodding against his chest. “Mmm.”

“This,” she mumbled, cheek resting just above his heart, “is exactly what I needed.”

Joe kissed the crown of her head, rubbing slow circles into her lower back, his hand drifting comfortably and deliberately south, kneading her hip and gently cupping her as she relaxed deeper into him. “You okay for real?” he asked, voice low.

“I think I’m just tired,” she admitted. “Like emotionally tired. A little anxious for no reason. I just needed to recharge.”

Joe didn’t answer with words. He just held her tighter, hand still moving in a rhythm that made her hum with satisfaction.

“With physical affection?” he asked after a moment.

“With you,” she whispered. “I don’t even care if we talk. Just being next to you helps.”

The room settled around them. The only sounds were the low hum of the TV and the occasional rustle of the blanket as Angel shifted, burrowing even deeper into Joe’s warmth like she couldn’t get close enough. He rubbed her gently, deliberately—because he knew exactly what comfort felt like to her.

Which is why he gave her the much needed and begged for booty rubs.

“Mmmm, Joe,” she hummed, pressing a kiss to his chest and nuzzling deeper into him. “You can’t be out here flexing your fine self while I’m over here like a loose chihuahua.”

He chuckled. “So you wanna keep me all to yourself today?”

“I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “I’m just emotional as hell today and I need my husband to be my personal space heater.”

“Emotional?” He smoothed his hand over her hair, voice softening. “What are you emotional about?”

She sighed. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. I’m just feeling…”

“… in my feelings,” he finished, smiling.

“Yeah, exactly. And you’re gonna have to put up with me being all up under you because I just need…” She paused, searching for the right word. “I just need you, I guess.”

“Well, you can have me,” Joe said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Just don’t try to keep me here when I’ve got a Zoom meeting in an hour. I know you like to get clingy when I gotta work, too.”

“Shut up,” she laughed, pinching his side. “Don’t make me bite you.”

Joe only grinned and pulled her closer, his large hands gently kneading her ass through the fabric of her shorts, his chest rumbling under her ear when he chuckled.

“See, this right here?” Angel murmured, her words half-slurred with sleep. “This is the shit they don’t put on ESPN. They don’t tell you about the booty rubs, do they? Or the way you hold me just because?”

“Nah, they don’t,” he said, smiling as he trailed his lips across her forehead. “They don’t know shit about how I love you.”

“Mm… I know how you love me,” she hummed. “And I love how you love me.”

“Do you, though?” He grinned, squeezing her ass just enough to make her squeal. “Or are you just a sucker for the booty rubs?”

“Oh, I’ll suck something—” Angel started, but suddenly stopped short, feeling a pinch to her backside. “Joe!”

“Don’t say that shit in front of my daughter,” he scolded, pinching her again.

She rolled her eyes, smacking his hand away. “She’s six months old, Joe. She don’t know what I’m saying and how do you think she got here in the first place with your freaky ass.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I’m not risking it.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes again. “Fine. Spoilsport.”

He only grinned, his lips grazing her forehead.

It was peaceful there, wrapped in the quiet of their morning. The house felt like a sanctuary, a place where the rest of the world could stay outside for a while. Zariyah babbled occasionally, her laughter punctuating the soft cartoon voices still floating from the TV screen.

Angel closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of her husband’s heart.

Minutes passed.

Maybe an hour.

Zariyah eventually drifted off in her bouncer, her pacifier lolling sideways, a soft snore escaping her tiny chest.

When Joe tried to gently move Angel aside to grab his phone off the coffee table, she instantly tightened her grip around his waist.

“Nope,” she said into his chest. “Trapped.”

“I just need to—”

“Nope. I told you, you’re on emotional support husband duty.”

Joe smiled down at her, amused and fully surrendered. “Alright. You win.”

She let out a small, smug hum and began idly playing with the hem of his shirt, then tracing soft patterns across the toned skin of his stomach beneath it. Her fingers wandered higher, skimming the curve of his ribs and the dip between each breath he took.

“Now who’s the clingy one?” Joe asked, cocking his head.

Angel tilted her face up to meet his gaze, eyes half-lidded and playful. “I never said I wasn’t capable. I just like to pretend I’m the emotionally stable one.”

Joe laughed. “I like this side of you.”

“What side?”

“The melted marshmallow version. It’s soft. I kind of love it.”

Angel grinned and let her eyes fall closed again. “Good. ‘Cause you’re stuck with it all day.”

“I can live with that.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, holding her close as the sun shifted in the sky and the house fell into a quiet, golden kind of peace—the kind made not by silence, but by being completely seen and utterly safe in someone else's arms.

“Do I get a scorecard for my cuddle performance?” Joe murmured.

“You’re doing great so far,” she whispered sleepily. “But I’ll need more data to confirm.”

“Got all day,” he said softly.

And he did.

[honeydippedfiction]

Angel x Joe #9 for hurt/comfort. I just love them so much

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#9. Taking you to the ER for an injury/sickness.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It started with silence.

The kind that made Joe glance up from his iPad, the game film still rolling in slow-motion replays, his AirPods still in his ears. The TV was on mute, casting soft blue light across the living room, where Angel sat curled on the edge of the couch.

Or rather, had been sitting.

Now she was hunched forward, elbows on her knees, one hand to her forehead, her breathing shallow and fast.

Joe pulled out his AirPods. “Angel?”

She didn’t answer.

He rose quickly, crossing the room in two strides, crouching down in front of her. Her skin was pale, even under the warm-toned lamplight, and her curls stuck to her forehead with sweat.

“Babe, hey. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know. My head hurts. I’m dizzy. My chest is tight.”

Joe’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t like her. Angel was composed even when she was in pain, someone who once sat through a root canal and walked out like it was a teeth cleaning. But now she looked like she could barely stay upright.

“When’s the last time you drank water?” he asked.

She blinked slowly, trying to focus on him. “I—I don’t remember. I was rushing this morning. I didn’t eat lunch. I had two meetings. Then the cake tasting. I…”

Her sentence dissolved into nothing. Joe barely caught her before she collapsed.

Her body went limp in his arms, head tilting back, eyelids fluttering. For a horrifying second, he thought she was gone—until she let out a shaky breath.

“Angel!” His voice cracked. “Come on. Wake up. Hey.”

She stirred weakly, and then her back arched in his arms—a sudden, stiff jolt—and a small, guttural sound left her throat.

Panic exploded in Joe’s chest.

He didn’t think. He scooped her up, grabbed his phone with trembling fingers, and was already calling 911 before he reached the car.

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

The drive to the ER was a blur.

Joe had never driven so fast in his life, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping Angel’s leg as she lay slumped in the reclined passenger seat. The dispatcher stayed on the line, guiding him with calm, clear directions—keep her head tilted, monitor her breathing, don’t panic.

Don’t panic.

But how could he not?

The woman he loved, the woman he’d been planning a life with—she wasn’t responsive, wasn’t herself. He kept glancing over at her, willing her to open her eyes, to tell him she was okay. That it was just a panic attack, or low blood sugar, or anything less terrifying than what his mind was already imagining.

He pulled into the University of Cincinnati Medical Center’s emergency lane at 1:53 AM, tires squealing. He threw the car into park and sprinted around the side, yelling for help before the door even swung open.

“Somebody—help! I think she passed out—maybe a seizure—she’s not waking up!”

Nurses rushed forward with a stretcher, and Joe gently eased her out of the car. She looked small and weightless in his arms, her head resting against his chest, her breathing faint but there.

“We’ve got her,” one of the nurses said, taking control.

Joe tried to follow them, but a security guard stepped in. “Give them a minute, sir. They’ll come get you.”

“She’s my fiancée,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not going anywhere.”

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

Twenty minutes later, he was finally allowed into the exam room.

Angel was lying under crisp hospital sheets, a nasal cannula feeding her oxygen, an IV in her arm, electrodes on her chest. Her skin was still pale, but her breathing was steadier. A nurse explained the basics: extreme dehydration, compounded by stress, likely triggered a vasovagal syncope response. The moment she passed out, her body’s natural reflex had gone haywire. It wasn’t a full seizure, but close enough to terrify anyone watching.

Joe sat down beside her, covering his face with both hands.

The nurse touched his shoulder. “She’s stable. She’s going to be okay.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

“She’ll need fluids, rest, and probably a full workup to make sure there’s nothing more serious going on.”

As the nurse left, Angel stirred.

Joe shot to his feet, leaning over her. “Hey. Angel. Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered, and slowly, her eyes opened. Confused at first. Then they found him. Her voice was thin, cracked. “Joe?”

“I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She looked around, eyes glassy. “Hospital?”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing hair back from her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She frowned, trying to piece things together. “What happened?”

“You passed out. You were dehydrated. And I think stress finally got the best of you.”

Her eyes filled, not with pain, but with guilt. “I didn’t want to worry you. I thought I could just push through it.”

“You don’t have to push through anything alone,” Joe said, taking her hand gently. “That’s not how this works. Not with me.”

She closed her eyes again, letting a few tears fall. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said firmly. “No sorries. Just get better. That’s all I want.”

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

They kept her overnight for observation.

Joe stayed, refusing to leave even when the nurses brought him a cot he didn’t touch. He sat by her bed all night, holding her hand, listening to the steady beep of the monitors. The hospital window turned from black to navy to gray, and finally, pale pink as dawn broke.

Angel slept deeply, the medications doing their job, her face relaxed at last.

Joe leaned back in the chair, exhausted but wide awake.

In all his years of pressure—on the field, in the spotlight, under blitzes and injuries—he had never been more scared than he’d been watching her body go still in his arms.

Football could break bones. But this kind of fear?

This was the kind that broke hearts.

And still, there was nowhere he’d rather be than beside her.

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

Angel had been home for less than twenty-four hours, and Joe was already driving her crazy.

He hovered.

He followed her from room to room like a silent bodyguard—carrying water bottles, fluffing pillows, adjusting thermostats like the air itself might try to harm her. Every time she so much as shifted her weight or scratched her head, Joe looked up from wherever he was like she’d just cried out in pain.

She loved him. Deeply.

But if he asked her one more time if she was too cold, she was going to pretend to faint just so he’d stop talking.

“Joe,” she said flatly, watching him bring her the third cup of electrolyte water that hour, “I’m not a dying plant. I’m a person. I’m fine.”

He didn’t flinch. “You were unconscious two nights ago. You’re not fine, you’re recovering.”

Angel sighed from her place on the couch, propped up with enough pillows to build a small fort. She wore one of Joe’s sweatshirts, her legs wrapped in a blanket, the IV bruise on her hand faint but still tender. “You’re treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“You passed out and scared the hell out of me. So yeah, I’m gonna treat you like you’re glass. Until the doctor clears you. Until I clear you.”

She raised a brow. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m quarterbacking your recovery. Same thing.”

Angel groaned, rolling her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Joe grinned and sat beside her, not-so-subtly checking her pulse on her wrist. She let him, because truth be told, even though his hovering was excessive, it was also kind of sweet.

“You haven’t left the house since I got back,” she said after a beat.

“I’m on a ‘mental health’ day,” he replied, shrugging. “Coach told me to take it. Said I looked like someone who hadn’t slept in a week.”

She gave him a soft look. “Because you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I’ve been busy keeping you alive,” he teased, though his eyes were still a little too serious for the joke to fully land.

Angel nudged his leg with her foot. “You can breathe now. I’m not going to pass out again.”

“You don’t know that.”

She tilted her head. “You’re scared.”

Joe exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I am.”

The room fell quiet except for the hum of the heater kicking on. He looked down at her hand in his, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles.

“I’ve had injuries. I’ve taken hits. I’ve had defenders try to take my head off,” he said. “But none of that ever made me feel like this—watching you fall and not knowing if you’d open your eyes again.”

Angel’s eyes welled with quiet tears—not from pain this time, but from something softer, heavier.

“I didn’t know I’d let myself get that run down,” she whispered. “I thought I could handle it. The wedding planning, work, the travel… being your partner means being strong.”

“Being my partner means being real,” Joe said. “Strong doesn’t mean pushing until you break. You don’t have to prove anything to me. Ever.”

She nodded slowly, overwhelmed by his gentleness.

“I’ll try to be better about listening to my body,” she said. “But you have to try not to lose your mind every time I stand up to pee.”

“No promises.”

She laughed—a real one this time—and Joe looked both relieved and proud, like he’d just completed a game-winning drive.

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Later that night, after she was asleep, Joe sat on the floor beside the couch, reading the discharge papers for the fifth time. Gallons of fluids, balanced meals, no stress. Easy instructions, hard execution.

He looked up at her, curled under the blanket, face soft in sleep.

He knew he couldn’t protect her from everything. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

[honeydippedfiction]

What is Joe doing for Angel for Mother’s Day?

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mom’s out there by any definition!!! Now this man went all out and god I love how he loves Angel

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Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The scent of cinnamon, maple, and fresh coffee drifted into the master bedroom like a gentle promise. Angel stirred, one arm stretching out over the comforter as sunlight peeked through the linen curtains. She blinked lazily, only half-awake—until she heard a familiar set of footsteps just outside the door, accompanied by soft baby babbling.

“Alright, kiddo,” Joe whispered. “Let’s try not to spill anything this time.”

Angel Burrow stirred to the sound of soft footsteps just outside the bedroom door. Her first instinct was to glance at the baby monitor on her nightstand, but it wasn’t there. Her brow furrowed slightly—until the door creaked open and the familiar voice of her husband whispered into the quiet morning.

“Shhh, Zariyah, we’re about to surprise Mommy.”

She smiled before she even opened her eyes.

Joe entered the room carefully, balancing a wooden breakfast tray in one hand and their six-month-old daughter in the other. The tray was an endearing display: fluffy pancakes shaped like imperfect hearts, golden scrambled eggs, a few slices of turkey bacon, and a short glass of orange juice—pulp, the way Angel liked it. A tiny mason jar with a handful of wildflowers added a delicate touch, clearly picked from the backyard. And nestled in Joe’s other arm was Zariyah, wide-eyed and bundled in a soft pink onesie that read Mommy’s Girl in white script.

Angel let out a soft laugh, blinking against the morning light. “You two look like trouble.”

“Happy Mother’s Day, babe.” Joe said with a grin as he walked toward the bed. “Breakfast, made with love and at least one diaper break.” 

Angel reached out to cradle Zariyah, who immediately squealed in delight and latched onto a lock of her mother’s curls. “Thank you,” she said, looking between them both, her eyes already glassy. “You did all this?”

Joe shrugged modestly. “Well, Zariyah helped with the pancakes. Sort of. She supervised.”

Angel laughed again, the rich sound filling the bedroom. “She’s got a great eye for symmetry.”

Joe set the tray down on her lap, leaned in to kiss her cheek, and settled beside her as they sat together in the comfort of their king-sized bed, sunlight pouring in through the gauzy white curtains. Angel took a bite of the pancakes, closing her eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

“Joe, these are good.”

“Really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Like… restaurant good.”

“Okay, now you’re just being nice,” he said with a chuckle, brushing a crumb off her cheek. “But I’ll take the win. But I had help,” Joe replied, tapping Zariyah’s foot. “Our little sous-chef has very strong pancake opinions.”

The rest of the morning melted away in a kind of lazy bliss. They read a few of Zariyah’s favorite books aloud—Joe performing each character with dramatic flair that had their daughter giggling and flapping her arms in excitement. Angel leaned into him, heart full, watching Joe make silly faces while bouncing Zariyah gently on his knee.

By mid-morning, Angel stood in the hallway, bouncing Zariyah gently as Joe disappeared into the nursery with an odd sense of urgency. When he emerged, he was holding a small gift bag and his phone.

“Okay,” he said, stepping forward and brushing a kiss across her temple. “Time to get dressed.”

“For what?” Angel asked, suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“You, my queen,” he said, with that cheeky grin she’d fallen in love with back in Baton Rouge, “have a spa appointment at noon. Monica’s picking you up in twenty.”

Angel’s face twisted into a half-smile, half-frown. “Wait… what?”

Joe handed her the bag. Inside was a plush robe, a new lavender-scented candle, and a handwritten card. To my favorite girl. Take a break today. Let me show you how much you mean to us. Signed with a doodle of a football, a heart, and Zariyah’s name scrawled in Joe’s handwriting.

“I can’t just leave her,” Angel protested instinctively, her voice dropping to a whisper as Zariyah nestled against her chest. “You’ve never had her for more than, like, two hours on your own.”

Joe raised his eyebrows. “That’s not true. What about the time you went to Target and I—”

“You FaceTimed me three times.”

“Okay, fair,” he admitted, smiling. “But I’ve got it this time. Bottles are prepped, diapers are stocked, and I’ve even got Sesame Street queued up just in case.”

Angel hesitated, looking down at her daughter’s round, sleepy face. “I don’t know…”

Joe stepped closer, wrapping his arms around both of them. “Babe, you give everything to this family—every single day. Let me take the reins today. Go relax, gossip with Monica, do that eucalyptus steam thing you love. You deserve it.”

She sighed, finally relenting. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’m a quarterback,” he said confidently. “I read defenses for a living. I think I can handle some spit-up. She’s in good hands. I’ve got this. Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “Monica won’t take no for an answer.”

That turned out to be true.

Twenty minutes later, Monica’s car pulled into the driveway. Angel kissed Zariyah at least five times and Joe even more before finally backing out the front door.

“Spa day, baby!” Monica shouted from the car window twenty minutes later. “Let’s go!”

“Call me if she cries too long,” she said as she walked backwards toward the car.

“I will.”

“If she doesn’t nap—”

“She will.”

“And text me pictures!”

“I already took ten,” Joe said, waving his phone in the air. “Go! Your robe is calling.”

Once the door closed, Joe turned to Zariyah, who blinked up at him in wide-eyed confusion.

“Alright, kid,” he said, shifting her to his hip. “It’s just you and me.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

The spa lobby smelled like eucalyptus and soft citrus—clean, calming, luxurious. Angel felt her shoulders drop the moment she stepped inside, her stress melting beneath the scent alone. The lighting was soft and golden, like sunset through linen, and tranquil music drifted from hidden speakers in the walls. Every surface gleamed without being sterile, and the gentle hush in the air made her feel like she had stepped into another world—one where she wasn’t “Mom” or “babe” or “can you hold her for a second?” She was just her.

An attendant greeted them with a kind smile and handed each of them a tall glass of cucumber water chilled to perfection. Angel accepted hers gratefully, the coolness sliding down her throat and instantly refreshing her. Within minutes, she and Monica had changed into plush white robes and were led into a private lounge with two large reclining chairs and small porcelain bowls filled with warm, rose-petal-infused water.

Their feet slipped into the soak with a satisfying sigh.

“This,” Angel murmured as she leaned back, her head against the cushioned headrest, “is heaven.”

“I told you,” Monica said beside her, already reaching for a handful of almonds from the snack tray. “It’s what you deserve. You’ve been Mom-ing like a champ.”

Angel chuckled, her eyes fluttering closed. “You say that like it’s an Olympic event.”

“Girl, it is,” Monica replied. “And you? Gold medal. Easily. You’ve got that whole Beyoncé-as-a-mom energy. Like, you carry that baby like a goddess and still somehow manage to look fly doing it.”

Angel let out a deep laugh, one that bubbled up from her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But I’m right,” Monica said, grinning. “Joe’s lucky.”

The compliment warmed Angel’s chest more than the herbal tea the spa attendant poured for them next. “He’s been amazing. He really went all out this morning.”

“Yeah, I saw those pancakes on your story. That man’s a keeper.”

“More than a keeper,” Angel said softly, her thoughts momentarily drifting back to the way Joe looked that morning—sleep-rumpled hair, one arm wrapped around their baby girl, tray in hand like it was second nature. She smiled to herself. “He’s my whole heart.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

They transitioned from their foot soak to a private massage suite, where a pair of massage therapists welcomed them with gentle hands and warm smiles. Angel lay face-down on a heated table as lavender oil filled the air, the stress melting from her shoulders with each deep, practiced stroke.

She felt herself drift somewhere between sleep and waking—until she was gently turned over and treated to a glowing facial that made her skin feel like silk. By the time they entered the steam room, clad in towels and slippers, Angel felt reborn.

“This place should be illegal,” she mumbled, sipping more cucumber water as steam kissed her face.

“Right?” Monica leaned back against the tiled wall, her dark curls wrapped in a towel turban, her skin glistening under the humidity. “Now that your body’s relaxed… let’s talk about the real stuff.”

Angel narrowed her eyes playfully. “Monica, don’t you start.”

Monica smirked. “So… you and Joe. Still keeping things spicy?”

Angel groaned, dragging the towel over her face. “Monica.”

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just asking. You have a baby now. Your body’s doing all kinds of amazing post-partum warrior things. I just want to make sure my best friend is still getting her grown-woman time.”

Angel let out a slow laugh, rolling her eyes but amused. “We find our moments.”

“Mm-hmm.” Monica raised an eyebrow. “That means no. You finding moments is not the same as making moments.”

Angel gave a knowing smile. “I don’t need to schedule sex like a dentist appointment.”

“But sometimes you do!” Monica insisted. “A little premeditated sexy energy? That’s self-care.”

Angel shook her head, still smiling. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you,” Monica said, standing up and stretching, “are coming with me to do a little shopping. Just trust me.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

After their spa treatments, Angel and Monica emerged into the golden late afternoon air looking and feeling like royalty. Their skin glowed from facials, their muscles were loose from the massages, and their nails were freshly polished—Angel had chosen a glossy nude shade that made her hands look effortlessly elegant, while Monica rocked a bold red that matched her energy perfectly.

They’d both had their hair blown out in soft, voluminous waves, and Monica had already declared they were “Too fine to go straight home.”

So, naturally, they made a detour to the mall.

Angel didn’t protest. It had been a long time since she’d strolled a shopping center without a stroller or a diaper bag strapped to her shoulder. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t rushing to get in and out, wasn’t scanning every store for a changing station or calculating how long she had before Zariyah needed her again. It felt indulgent. It felt free.

As they walked past storefronts, arms swinging, Angel sipped from a fresh smoothie while Monica window-shopped with laser precision.

Then Monica stopped in her tracks.

“Hell yes,” she said, eyes zeroing in on a boutique tucked between a high-end jewelry store and a minimalist shoe shop. The windows were tastefully dim, with mannequins clad in silk and lace, and a gold-lettered sign above the entrance that simply read: Velour.

Angel followed her gaze, nearly choking on her smoothie. “No. Monica. No way.”

“Absolutely yes,” Monica said, already steering her toward the door.

“Monica,” Angel hissed, digging her heels in as they reached the entrance, “I just had a baby six months ago. My body is still adjusting. I’m wearing high-waisted jeans and a nursing bra.”

“And you look like a damn goddess in both,” Monica shot back. “Joe is fine. You are fine. This is Mother’s Day, not Mother Teresa’s day. We’re buying you something that makes you feel dangerous again.”

Angel groaned. “I don’t know if I want to feel dangerous.”

“Yes, you do. You just forgot what it feels like.”

Before Angel could argue, Monica opened the boutique’s glass door and dragged her inside.

Velour was nothing like the loud, flashy lingerie stores they’d frequented in college. It was dimly lit and softly scented, with velvet ottomans, vintage gold mirrors, and racks of silk, lace, and mesh in jewel tones and pastels. There was no blaring pop music or teenage sales assistants. Here, everything whispered seduction.

A stylist approached with a warm smile, complimented their nails, and asked if they were shopping for something special.

“She just became a mom,” Monica said, proudly. “And she’s got a man who worships her. So yes. We’re here for something special.”

The stylist nodded like she understood everything with a single glance. “Say no more.”

Within minutes, Angel was in a private dressing room with a small armful of pieces—some delicate, some bold, some that made her laugh out loud.

“Monica, this is insane,” Angel called through the curtain, holding up a strappy emerald green set that looked more architectural than wearable.

“Try it on!” Monica called back from the plush waiting area. “You don’t have to wear it long.”

Angel rolled her eyes but laughed, then slipped into something more her speed—a deep burgundy lace teddy with sheer panels and scalloped edges. It hugged her curves like it had been tailored for her and revealed just enough to make her feel both powerful and a little shy.

She peeked out of the curtain. “Okay… this one’s kind of... wow.”

From her seat, Monica looked up and immediately grinned. “Oh yeah. He’s gonna need a defibrillator. A full resuscitation. Like, someone call 911 now.”

Angel tried to hide her smile as she turned back to the mirror. She hadn’t seen herself this way in a while—not just sexy, but confident. Beautiful, yes, but in control of her own glow.

She changed back into her jeans, still slightly flushed, and stepped out of the dressing room. As she approached Monica at the checkout counter, she found a sleek black dress draped over her friend’s arm.

“What’s that?” Angel asked suspiciously.

“Your dress for tonight,” Monica said, handing it over. “Figure-hugging, just enough stretch, open back, side slit. Pure elegance with a touch of danger. It’s your whole vibe.”

Angel raised a brow. “You don’t even know what we’re doing tonight.”

“No, but Joe knows. And I know Joe. He’s got something planned,” Monica said, waving her hand dramatically. “And when you walk in wearing this? He’s gonna remember every reason he fell in love with you. Twice.”

Angel took the dress, feeling the buttery fabric between her fingers. “I haven’t worn something like this in a long time.”

“Then it’s overdue,” Monica said, handing her the shopping bag. “Now let’s go get you home so you can make a man fall in love all over again.”

They walked out of the boutique as the sky turned soft with evening light, their laughter trailing behind them like a warm breeze.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

The rest of the day was chaos in slow motion. Zariyah fought her nap tooth and nail, finally falling asleep only after a marathon walk around the backyard in her carrier. Feeding time resulted in more oatmeal on Joe’s hoodie than in her mouth, and a diaper incident during tummy time nearly made him reconsider every life choice.

But when he finally got her settled on his chest for a post-nap snuggle, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, Joe knew it was all worth it.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the house had been tidied, soft jazz hummed through the speakers, and dinner was nearly ready—lemon garlic pasta with roasted vegetables, salad, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

Back home that evening, the front door creaked softly as Angel stepped into the quiet hush of their house. It was warm, peaceful—like the walls themselves had been waiting for her to return. The golden light from the setting sun slipped through the curtains, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. The smell of something savory—garlic, maybe rosemary—lingered in the air, teasing her senses.

From the living room, she heard soft music playing—Sade, smooth and low—and then the unmistakable giggle of her daughter.

Angel smiled before she even saw them.

Joe was on the couch, cradling Zariyah in his arms, her little fists waving happily in the air. They were both in matching gray sweats and T-shirts that read Momma's Our World in pink script. Joe looked up the second she walked in.

“Hey, you two,” Angel said, her smile spreading as she walked closer, already toeing off her shoes.

“Hey, beautiful,” Joe said with that warm grin that still made her stomach flip. He rose to his feet, careful with Zariyah, and leaned in to press a kiss to Angel’s lips—gentle but lingering.

“We missed you.”

“I missed you more,” she murmured, taking their daughter into her arms. Zariyah’s little fingers latched onto her curls instantly, and Angel kissed her chubby cheek. “Did she behave?”

Joe lifted an eyebrow as he flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Mostly. There was one code red diaper situation that may or may not have required two outfit changes and a new set of wipes, but we survived.”

Angel laughed, shifting Zariyah to her hip. “She likes to test your limits.”

“She’s your daughter. Of course she’s a little dangerous.”

They sat together, bodies close, with Zariyah nestled between them. Angel sank into the cushions with a sigh of contentment. The quiet moments like these—the ones with no pressure, no distractions—were her favorite. She leaned her head on Joe’s shoulder as she began recounting her day, the scent of eucalyptus and lemongrass still lingering faintly on her skin.

“Monica dragged me into a steam room and interrogated me about our sex life,” she said casually, grinning.

Joe laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like Monica.”

“She also insisted I buy lingerie that probably violates multiple federal regulations,” she added, raising an eyebrow.

Joe looked at her sideways, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

“You’ll see,” she teased, giving him a slow, sly smile.

His mouth curved into a grin. “Now I really can’t wait.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

As the sun dipped lower, the three of them moved into the nursery for bedtime. It had become a rhythm, a quiet routine that grounded them after long days—Joe filling the tiny tub with warm water, Angel picking out a fresh onesie from the dresser. Zariyah kicked her legs happily on the changing table, making baby babble noises as if she too was recounting her day.

Angel scooped her up and undressed her, planting a kiss on her tummy before easing her into the water. Joe knelt beside the tub, gently washing her curls while Angel hummed a lullaby they both knew by heart. The soft splashes, the shared laughter, the love in every movement—it was all part of the sacred rhythm of their life.

After bath time came lotion, pajamas, bottles, and cuddles. Angel rocked Zariyah while Joe dimmed the lights. They stood together over the crib, watching her eyes flutter closed, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Angel’s heart felt full to the brim.

“I don’t know how we got so lucky,” she whispered.

Joe kissed the side of her head. “We made our luck.”

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

After they tucked Zariyah into her crib, both parents lingered for a moment, watching her tiny chest rise and fall in the glow of the soft nightlight. Joe rested a hand on Angel’s back, his palm warm against the silky fabric of her robe, grounding her in the quiet wonder of their little world.

“Still not over how perfect she is,” he whispered.

Angel leaned into him. “Me neither. She’s all you with just enough me to keep her interesting.”

He chuckled, kissed her temple, and gave her a playful swat on the hip. “Come on.”

She followed him out of the nursery and down the hall, expecting to head to the kitchen or maybe the couch for some well-earned Netflix downtime. Instead, Joe stopped in front of their bedroom door, his expression unreadable except for a flicker of mischief in his eyes.

He turned toward her, his voice warm but purposeful. “Go in and get ready.”

Angel tilted her head, amused. “For what?”

Joe opened the door with a flourish, revealing the soft lighting of their room—candles flickering on the dresser, the subtle scent of sandalwood in the air.

“For a surprise,” he said simply. “Trust me.”

Angel stepped into the room, still confused but smiling. “What kind of surprise?”

“The good kind,” he said, backing away with a grin. “Wear the dress you bought today. The one Monica made you get.”

She narrowed her eyes, her voice skeptical but teasing. “The Monica Special?”

“That’s the one,” he confirmed, already retreating down the hallway. “No questions. Just… wear it. I’ll be downstairs.”

With that, he disappeared, the sound of his footsteps fading as he made his way back down toward the main floor.

Angel stood in the center of their bedroom for a moment, letting his words settle over her like silk. Then, still smiling, she crossed the room and sat down at her vanity, the mirrored bulbs glowing softly around her reflection. Her robe fell open at the collarbone as she exhaled, suddenly aware of the way her heart had started to flutter again.

She reached for the black dress carefully folded over the back of the armchair—sleek, elegant, with just enough edge to make her feel dangerous in the best way. Holding it up to herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but think of Monica’s voice echoing in her head: You’re gonna thank me.

Angel shook her head with a grin and slipped out of her robe, letting the fabric fall away before easing into the dress. The material clung like liquid night, hugging her waist and gliding over her hips as if it remembered her body. She adjusted the neckline slightly, then reached for a brush to freshen the curls that had begun to relax since the spa.

She added a touch of highlighter along her cheekbones, a warm gold that caught the light with each turn of her head. A swipe of gloss over her lips. Her favorite gold hoop earrings. Then, finally, a spritz of perfume—her signature scent, soft and warm with hints of vanilla and amber—at the base of her neck.

For a moment, she simply looked at herself. She didn’t look tired. Or frayed. Or overwhelmed. She looked radiant. Soft, but powerful. Still a mother, yes—but also a woman. A wife. Herself.

She stood, smoothing the dress with both hands, and headed for the door. As her heels clicked softly across the hardwood floor, she wondered what Joe was up to. This was different. She could feel it in the air, thick and electric with promise.

But she wasn’t prepared for what waited just down the stairs.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

When Angel stepped out of the bedroom, the hallway lights cast a soft golden glow over her skin, her heels whispering against the floor as she moved. She paused at the top of the stairs, hand trailing along the banister, heart tapping a quiet rhythm in her chest. There was a stillness in the house now—one that felt intentional, waiting. Anticipatory.

And then she saw him.

Joe stood at the base of the staircase, facing her. He was dressed in a charcoal button-down, the sleeves rolled just enough to show a sliver of forearm, paired with tailored black slacks that hugged his frame in all the right ways. In his hands, he held a bouquet—sunflowers and ivory roses, a mix so perfectly her that Angel’s breath caught in her throat.

For a long second, neither of them said anything. They just stared.

And then his eyes widened, lips parting slightly. He let out a low whistle, slow and reverent.

“Damn,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “You trying to kill me tonight?”

Angel laughed, ducking her head shyly, a warmth blooming in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the lighting.

“Joey,” she said softly, brushing one hand over the smooth wood of the railing. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t help it.” He started up the stairs, each step deliberate, his gaze never leaving her face. “You always look beautiful, Angel. Always. But tonight? You’re something else.”

When he reached her, he took her hand gently, his fingers brushing over her knuckles like he was rediscovering them. Then, with that boyish grin she’d fallen for back at LSU, he twirled her in place.

The fabric of the black dress shimmered as it caught the light, rippling around her legs like silk in motion. The open back and side slit gave a glimpse of skin that made Joe’s gaze drop momentarily, just enough to make Angel’s breath hitch again.

“You are… unreal,” he murmured, taking her in fully.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, her voice hushed with affection. “You clean up pretty nice yourself, Mr. Burrow.”

Joe chuckled and handed her the bouquet, his voice suddenly tender. “These are for you.”

Angel’s fingers curled around the stems as she brought them to her nose. The scent of fresh blossoms filled her senses, grounding her in the moment.

“They’re perfect,” she said, eyes glimmering.

“I remembered,” he replied, his voice quiet but proud.

Then, with a wink, he stepped behind her and gently placed his hands over her eyes.

“No peeking,” he whispered near her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a small shiver down her spine.

Angel laughed, her voice light and full of trust. “You know blindfolds are more Monica’s style than mine.”

Joe chuckled. “You’ll survive. Just take it slow with me.”

He guided her step by step down the staircase, his hands secure but gentle, his body pressed close to hers as he murmured calming things in her ear: “Almost there… careful… one more step.” The familiar creaks of the hardwood beneath her feet were the only other sound besides the faint music drifting in from the dining room—soft jazz, smooth and romantic.

When they reached the bottom, he paused.

“You ready?” he asked.

She nodded. “Ready.”

Joe slowly lifted his hands from her eyes.

Angel opened them—and froze.

The dining room was transformed into something out of a dream.

Candlelight filled the space—dozens of them, in varying heights and sizes, flickering on every available surface. Some stood tall in elegant glass holders, others floated in small bowls of water, casting dancing reflections on the walls. The table was draped in pristine white linen, scattered with rose petals and gold-edged place settings. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight, sparkling like stars. In the air, the warm scent of roasted garlic, herbs, and lemon mingled with the soft strains of jazz and the floral perfume from the bouquet still in Angel’s hands.

She turned to Joe, eyes wide, lips parted. “Joe…”

He stepped toward her, took both of her hands in his, and smiled.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Angel.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. “You… you really did all this?”

He nodded once, his voice full of quiet certainty. “For you. You’ve given me everything, Angel. Our daughter. Our home. Your love. I just wanted to give you a moment—a night—where you felt as treasured as you are to us.”

A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and she laughed through it, brushing at her cheek. “You’re gonna ruin my makeup, Joe.”

He reached out, catching the tear with the pad of his thumb. “Then I’ll kiss it back on.”

She pulled him close, pressing a slow, heartfelt kiss to his lips. There was no rush in it, no urgency—just the deep, anchoring warmth of two people who had weathered sleepless nights, spit-up, late feedings, and all the quiet exhaustion of new parenthood and still looked at each other like they’d just fallen in love.

When they finally pulled apart, Joe gestured to her seat. “Dinner is served.”

They sat down together, their knees brushing under the table, fingers reaching instinctively for one another between bites. Joe had cooked everything himself—pan-seared chicken with garlic herb butter, lemony roasted vegetables, and Angel’s favorite truffle risotto. Dessert waited on a side table: molten lava cake with fresh berries and vanilla bean ice cream, just beginning to soften.

The meal was incredible, but the food was only part of it.

It was the way he looked at her when she spoke. The way he laughed at all the little details of her day, like he was hearing them for the first time. The way his foot nudged hers under the table, playful and familiar. The way, in every glance and every touch, he reminded her: I still see you. I still choose you. Every day.

By the time their plates were empty and the last candle flickered low, Angel wasn’t just full.

She was overwhelmed—with love, with gratitude, with the kind of peace that only came from being truly known.

And as Joe rose from his chair, offering his hand once again, his eyes warm and steady, she knew this wasn’t just a celebration.

It was a vow.

A quiet promise wrapped in flowers and candlelight and whispered kisses: I will keep showing up for you. Every day. Always.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

As the last bites of dessert disappeared—Angel having declared the molten lava cake “borderline illegal”—Joe poured the final sips of red wine into their glasses. The dining room had quieted into a peaceful stillness, the soft jazz now a slow, sultry hum in the background. The candlelight flickered low but steady, casting dancing shadows along the walls, making the room feel like its own little world—set apart, protected.

Angel leaned back in her chair, one hand absently swirling the stem of her wineglass, a content smile curving her lips.

“This was perfect,” she said, glancing at him over the rim. “Truly, Joe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more… cherished.”

Joe rested his chin in his hand, eyes locked on her, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. That was the point.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately. “You set the bar high, you know. I’m gonna expect roses on random Tuesdays now.”

“Done,” he said without hesitation. “You want roses on a Tuesday? I’ll bring you a whole garden.”

Angel laughed, soft and sweet, the kind of laugh that made Joe’s chest ache with love. He leaned closer across the table, elbow on the white linen, gaze sharp and suddenly mischievous.

“So,” he said, voice lower now, almost conspiratorial, “about that little… detour Monica took you on today.”

Angel blinked, then smirked. “I knew you’d bring that up eventually.”

“Of course I would,” Joe said, his grin deepening. “You mentioned something about lingerie that might break federal law. I feel like as your husband, it’s my civic duty to investigate.”

Angel sipped her wine slowly, letting him sweat for a second. “Oh, I don’t know… I mean, it’s not really the kind of thing you just see right after dinner.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, shifting in his chair with a mock-serious look. “I respectfully disagree.”

She bit her lip, leaning forward slightly. “You’re very invested in this case, Mr. Burrow.”

“Well Mrs. Burrow, I take matters of national importance very seriously.”

Angel set down her glass and stood from the table, moving around to him with a sultry slowness in her steps. Joe watched every move, the look in his eyes darkening, like he was memorizing each sway of her hips, each shift of fabric. When she reached him, she slid her hands down his shoulders, fingers curling at the back of his neck.

“Maybe,” she whispered near his ear, “you’ll get to see your surprise… if you clean up all these dishes.”

Joe’s laugh burst out of him, low and warm. “You’re evil.”

She kissed his cheek. “You love it.”

“God help me, I do,” he muttered, already rising from his seat.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in until their bodies aligned, until every breath felt like a conversation. “But I’m still cashing in on that surprise.”

Angel grinned, eyes twinkling. “You will. Eventually.”

Joe groaned dramatically, then gave her a lingering kiss that said he could wait… but not for long.

As he turned to start clearing the table, Angel slipped away with one last glance over her shoulder, a sway in her step and a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

Mother’s Day had been everything she hadn’t known she needed—pampering, peace, romance, and this: the playful intimacy that always lived between them like a current. The spark that hadn’t dimmed with time or diapers or sleepless nights.

If anything, it had only grown deeper. Richer. Stronger.

And tonight, that spark was burning bright.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

Upstairs, the quiet of their bedroom wrapped around Angel like silk.

The space glowed in soft amber light, the kind that blurred the edges of everything and made shadows dance on the walls. A few candles flickered gently atop the dresser, their warm flames casting golden halos against the polished wood and catching on the silver frames that held moments of their life frozen in time—Zariyah’s gummy, wide-eyed smile in Joe’s arms, the two of them beaming in wedding bliss under a Louisiana sun, a blurry, exhausted hospital selfie where Angel still had her IV in and Joe’s cap was backward, clinging to her like she was the air he needed.

Angel exhaled slowly as she stood by the edge of the bed, fingertips grazing the hem of her dress. She eased it down, inch by inch, letting the black fabric whisper along her skin until it pooled in a puddle of silk at her feet. The air touched her bare shoulders, cool against the warmth of her skin, and for a moment she just stood there, steadying her breath, grounding herself in the quiet.

Then she turned to the vanity and reached for the emerald green set Monica had all but shoved into her hands. Angel had blushed in the boutique under the soft pink lighting, laughing off Monica’s smirk and feigned innocence, but now… now the memory made her smile. She slipped it on—lace like whispers, soft against her curves. The color was striking, deep and lush, like a gemstone set against velvet. The bra framed her just right, with delicate scalloped edges and thin straps that accentuated the slope of her collarbone. The matching bottoms sat high on her hips, the sheer material revealing and concealing at once.

​​She clipped the matching garter belt around her waist, smoothing it into place with slow, practiced fingers. Thin satin straps extended downward, looping delicately around her thighs and fastening against a pair of sheer black stockings. The tension in the straps added a subtle pressure, a delicious awareness of every movement. 

She turned slightly, catching her reflection.

It wasn’t about perfection. It wasn’t even about seduction.

It was about owning who she was—mother, wife, woman—and feeling powerful in her skin. Beautiful. Present.

With gentle fingers, Angel fluffed the soft curls framing her face, still loose from the blowout earlier that morning. She reached for the dainty gold chain hanging from her mirror and held it between her fingers for a beat.

The necklace Joe had given her on their first anniversary—an emerald pendant encased in a sunburst, her birthstone cradled in gold. The first gift he’d ever given her that wasn’t tied to fanfare or cameras, but pure feeling. She remembered the way his voice cracked when he said, “You’re the light of my life, and this… just a reminder.”

She fastened it at the nape of her neck. The pendant settled just above the swell of her chest, catching the candlelight like a secret.

Angel took one last look in the mirror. Then, with a steady breath and a slow turn, she made her way to the bed.

Each step was deliberate—measured and unhurried. Her hips moved with soft confidence, her shoulders back, her eyes clear. She climbed onto the bed, its plush white comforter soft beneath her knees, and positioned herself in the center. Legs folded beneath her. Hands resting gently on her thighs. Back straight. Poised.

The anticipation was there, humming low and steady like background music.

She didn’t wait long.

And then… the doorknob turned.

The door eased open with a quiet creak, and Joe stepped inside, framed by the golden light spilling in from the hallway. He was drying his hands with a kitchen towel, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his shirt untucked and a little wrinkled from the flurry of cleaning downstairs. He looked like he was about to say something casual—some quip about wine stains or how he managed to scrub out whatever had bubbled over the risotto.

But then he looked up.

And his eyes locked onto her.

And the world stopped.

The towel slipped from his fingers, forgotten. His jaw slackened slightly, his chest lifting in a halted breath. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His gaze locked onto Angel sitting on their bed, radiant in green lace, candlelight playing along the curve of her collarbone and the sparkle of the necklace he remembered clasping around her neck years ago.

He didn’t move at first—just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes dark and full of wonder, like if he blinked, the image in front of him might vanish.

Angel stayed still, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Took you long enough,” she said gently, her voice teasing but thick with warmth.

Joe blinked like he was seeing a vision. His voice, when it came, was hushed—half prayer, half awe. “Jesus, Angel…”

He stood there, unmoving, eyes drinking her in like he needed to commit every detail to memory. And then, as if gravity finally caught up to him, he stepped forward.

“You trying to kill me?” he murmured, echoing the same words he’d said at the base of the stairs earlier.

Angel tilted her head, her smile deepening. “Depends… is it working?”

Joe exhaled a breath that sounded more like a groan, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

When he reached the bed, his fingers were reverent as they found her skin. He touched her like she was something rare—something he’d never stop marveling at. He traced the lace over her hip, the curve of her waist, the line of her shoulder. Angel leaned into him, her hands rising to his chest, slowly working open the buttons one by one.

“Green,” he murmured, half to himself. “You always knew how to drive me crazy… but this?”

She lifted a hand, toyed with the open collar of his shirt, her other hand brushing the short hair at the back of his neck. “This was just a little something to say thank you… for tonight. For everything.”

Joe’s eyes flicked to hers, glassy and dark with emotion. “You don’t ever have to thank me for loving you. But damn, Angel… I’m glad you did.”

“I bought this one just for you,” she said, her voice velvet. “So you better appreciate it.”

Joe’s grin was slow, his eyes dark with heat but soft with love. “Angel,” he murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched, “I don’t just appreciate it. I worship it. I worship you.”

Their mouths met in a kiss that started soft—a brush of lips, an exhale, a pause. Then deeper. Hungrier. Hands wandered, finding familiar places and discovering them all over again. His shirt joined her dress somewhere on the floor. The warmth between them pulsed like a living thing, thick with want but anchored in something more.

Not as husband and wife, not even as mother and father.

Just Joe and Angel.

Two hearts still caught in orbit, still choosing each other, still wrapped up in something deep and unshakable.

Love.

Trust.

History.

And long into the night, the only light left flickering in their home was the one between them.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

They moved together with the kind of ease only years could create. She knew the weight of his touch before it landed. He knew the rhythm of her breath before she exhaled. They didn’t speak—there was no need. Every sigh, every kiss, every pull of a hand or brush of a thigh said more than words could.

And when they finally stilled, tangled together under soft sheets, skin warm and bodies loose with release, Joe curled a hand around her waist and pressed his lips to the side of her neck.

“You’re magic,” he whispered against her skin.

Angel smiled, eyes drifting shut, heart full.

“No,” she whispered back, nestling closer. “We are.”

Angel lay tucked in the crook of Joe’s arm, one thigh still wrapped in a strap he hadn’t dared to remove.

She played absently with his necklace chain, head resting against his chest, while he traced lazy circles into her back.

“That set should come with a warning,” he murmured sleepily.

Angel laughed softly, her smile pressed to his skin. “I’ll let Monica know.”

Joe groaned. “Remind me to thank her tomorrow.”

She kissed his collarbone. “Mm-hmm. Maybe.”

Outside, the wind rustled softly through the trees. Down the hall, their daughter slept soundly in her crib.

And in the quiet warmth of their bedroom, wrapped in each other’s arms, Joe and Angel laid suspended in a moment of peace, love, and the kind of connection that made everything else fade into silence.

But here, wrapped in each other, the world felt still.

And in this soft cocoon of candlelight, love, and velvet shadows, Joe and Angel weren’t just celebrating a holiday.

They were celebrating them.

[honeydippedfiction]

Joe x Angel General #30 “why is arson always your first answer.” With # 7 “ Is that blood?” “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “You are literally bleeding.”

One thing Angel is going to do? Crash out over her man. The one time she does, she goes viral for it.

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#30 “why is arson always your first answer.” & # 7 “ Is that blood?” “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “You are literally bleeding.”

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It was a Wednesday. The kind of midweek day where nothing felt right—gray skies, sticky air, and a mood clinging to Joe Burrow like the defensive linemen who kept finding a way past the Bengals’ O-line.

Practice had been brutal. Spirits in the locker room were low. And while Joe wasn’t the type to spiral, the weight of the season—the missed blocks, the broken plays, the endless postgame blame—was heavy.

So when he slid into the car after practice, hoodie half-zipped and hair still wet from the showers, he barely had time to exhale before Angel launched into a full-on rant from the driver’s seat.

Zariyah, their two-and-a-half-month-old daughter, was buckled into her car seat behind them, a pacifier bobbing rhythmically in her mouth as she blinked up at the roof, totally unbothered.

Angel didn’t even wait for the door to close before she launched in.

“You mean to tell me,” she began, one hand on the wheel and the other flying like it was directing traffic in a Beyoncé music video, “that Coach McFlop over there really said you need to play smarter? You? The same Joe who’s been dragging this team like a Costco cart with three busted wheels?”

Joe leaned back against the headrest, watching her with an amused, exhausted smirk.

“And don’t even get me started on the defense. They couldn’t stop a nosebleed if they had a bucket and a plan,” Angel continued. “And the media? The media can kiss my—”

Joe leaned his head back, let out a long, exhausted exhale, and closed his eyes. “Hey, babe.”

“No, no. Don’t ‘hey babe’ me. Because I know exactly what went down at practice today. You think I don’t have sources? You think that equipment manager didn’t DM me the second y’all wrapped?”

Joe cracked one eye open. “You’re texting the equipment guy again?”

“I told you,” she said, eyes on the road, tone deadly serious. “I have a network.”

He let out a slow laugh and shook his head.

Angel wasn’t done.

“I swear, if one more idiot in a headset points the finger at you instead of owning up to that fourth quarter disaster, I will drive down to the stadium with a blowtorch and a Spotify playlist titled ‘Rage, Volume 1. And AGAIN, don’t even get me started on that defense,” she continued, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other stayed on the wheel. “Giving up 380 passing yards and you’re the problem? Please. If I see the D-coordinator in a grocery store, I’m slapping the clipboard out his hand and filing it under ‘community service.’”

“Angel,” Joe interrupted gently, smiling. “Why is arson always your first answer?”

“Because it’s efficient, Joseph,” she snapped. “And these fools have clearly never seen a woman unhinged for her man.”

From the backseat, Zariyah let out a soft coo like she, too, was ride or die.

Angel’s face softened just a little at the sound. “See? She gets it.”

Their destination appeared around the corner: Swirl Up, their go-to frozen yogurt spot. Tucked between a nail salon and a sleepy pet store, it was the kind of small, unassuming place where they could just be a regular couple with a baby and a shared craving for dessert.

It was their spot—lowkey, simple, and always playing early 2000s R&B.

Joe unbuckled and stepped out first, scooping Zariyah from her seat with the kind of practiced gentleness that made Angel’s chest ache every time. He cradled her against his chest, one big hand supporting her head like she was made of glass.

Angel watched them for a beat, then exhaled the last of her rage and followed them into the shop.

It smelled like sweet cream and waffle cones inside, the air cool and clean. Early 2000s R&B hummed low from the speakers—Usher, pre-confessions. A soft smile ghosted over Joe’s lips. For once, it felt like a moment they could breathe.

Joe held Zariyah against his chest as they stepped inside. He rocked her gently, his hand protectively cupped over her tiny back, while Angel scanned the place like a lioness clocking threats in the Serengeti.

They stood in line. Zariyah snuggled into Joe’s hoodie, her small fingers curling against the drawstrings. Joe bounced her lightly on his arm, more out of habit than effort. Angel stood close, their bodies brushing with that familiar, magnetic ease that came from years of being each other’s gravity.

Angel leaned against Joe’s arm while he bounced Zariyah, who was blinking up at the ceiling like it was the Sistine Chapel. That’s when Angel noticed a group of teenagers whispering near the toppings bar, eyes darting toward them like they were witnessing a celebrity Bigfoot sighting.

Three of them huddled near the toppings bar, eyes wide, whispering and nudging each other like middle schoolers at a school dance. One of them—a tall boy with shaggy hair and braces—gathered the courage to walk up, holding his phone like a peace offering.

“Uh… Mr. Burrow?” he asked, voice cracking slightly. “Could I maybe get a picture with you? If that’s okay?”

Joe turned slightly to Angel. Not for permission—he didn’t need that—but to make sure she was comfortable, out of instinct. Just to check in.

She nodded, lips lifting into a small, proud smile, and reached out for Zariyah. “Go ahead, superstar.”

The photo was quick, polite. The kid was beaming like he’d just won the lottery, and when the group left, Angel could hear him whisper-shouting, “Bro! He’s so cool, and his wife is lowkey scary but hot!”

She smirked. “Damn right.”

They ordered—Joe got vanilla with crushed Oreos, Angel picked salted caramel with fresh strawberries—and made their way to their usual booth in the back. Joe sat with Zariyah nestled in the crook of his arm, carefully letting her tiny fingers brush against his spoon, even though she wasn’t eating solids yet. While Angel draped her arm over the back of the seat, finally relaxing.

For a minute, everything was perfect.

Then they heard it.

Two voices—one male, one female—sitting in the booth behind them. The woman sounded like she was just trying to get through the date. The man, unfortunately, had chosen Joe as his topic of the day.

“I’m just saying,” he said, clearly trying to sound like he had authority on the matter, “Burrow’s not that guy anymore. Dude peaked at LSU. He’s a system quarterback. Always has been.”

The girlfriend tried to hush him. “Can you not—he’s right there.”

“I don’t care. Someone’s gotta say it. He ain’t the future. He's fucking Cinderella except his knee is the glass slipper. Broken and worthless.”

Angel’s spoon stopped mid-air.

She hadn’t even looked up yet, but Joe knew—felt—that something had shifted. He didn’t need to hear what had set her off. He already knew what it was.

The booth behind them. A man and his date, talking just a little too loud. Loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Loud enough for someone who was already riding the edge of protective fury to tip right over.

Joe didn’t look back. He kept his focus on Angel, his instincts sharpened by three years of knowing exactly what her stillness meant.

He reached under the table and placed a firm but gentle hand on her knee. “Babe,” he said low, calm, practiced. “Don’t.”

But the rage had already arrived. She was past the warning stage, beyond talking down.

Angel stood slowly, not with sudden violence, but with the deliberate grace of someone who knew they were about to make a scene. Every line in her body was relaxed—but only in that dangerous, feline way. The calm before the clap of thunder.

Zariyah, now cradled safely in Joe’s arms, blinked up at the shop lights, completely unaware that her mother was about to throw hands over froyo.

Angel’s sneakers barely made a sound as she walked toward the booth.

“Hi,” she said sweetly to the man who’d been running his mouth. Her tone was polite, disarming—but the slight upward curl of her lip made the woman sitting with him stiffen in her seat.

“You wanna repeat what you just said a little louder?” Angel tilted her head, her eyes dancing with fire. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

The guy blinked at her, surprised, then offered a smirk. That kind of smug, performative confidence that only ever came from someone who’d never been punched in the face.

“Look, lady, I’m just calling it like I see it,” he shrugged, half-laughing.

Angel didn’t even blink. “Funny,” she said, “because I don’t remember anyone asking you to call a damn thing. What I do remember is my husband putting in more work before breakfast than you’ve done in your whole life.”

Joe rose from the booth behind her, voice steady but concerned. “Alright, let’s—”

“Let me,” Angel cut in, her back still to him. Her tone brooked no interference. “Handle this.”

The guy’s smirk faltered, but he still stood. Poor fool.

He squared his shoulders like someone trying to remember how testosterone worked. “It’s just my opinion.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Angel said, taking a small step forward, “but here’s the thing. You don’t get to disrespect my husband. Not in front of me. And definitely not in front of my daughter.”

The man scoffed and leaned back in his seat, arms folded like he was settling in for a show. “Please, it’s a free country.” he said with a smirk, “your husband’s just another overhyped quarterback with glass bones and a padded contract. Man’s spent more time in rehab than on the field. Honestly, I don’t know what’s softer—his knee, or his ego.”

His mouth curled upward in smug satisfaction.

Joe’s expression didn’t change—but his eyes flicked down for just a second, that old familiar wound reopening in his chest.

Angel, however, blinked once. Just once.

Then her entire expression dropped into something flat. Focused. Final.

The man barely had time to register the shift.

His mouth opened again—maybe to double down, maybe to gloat—but he didn’t get the chance to finish.

Angel’s fist moved so fast it barely registered.

Crack.

The sound echoed through the frozen yogurt shop like a firecracker. It wasn’t a slap, it was a full-force, knuckles-first right hook—years of boxing classes, weight training, and protective rage behind it. The man’s head snapped to the side violently. He reeled backward, crashing into his own table, a hand flying up to his face as blood immediately began to stream from his nose.

Gasps rang out from every corner of the shop. A spoon clattered to the floor. A child started crying.

Joe was already up and moving, Zariyah still nestled in the crook of his arm.

In one smooth, efficient move, he secured Zariyah against his chest, snatched both frozen yogurt cups from the table with a practiced football grip, and hooked an arm around a very pissed-off Angel practically over his shoulder as he made for the exit.

Angel wasn’t making it easy. She was still craning her neck over his shoulder, arms flailing, as if she had just one more thing to say—or throw.

“Let me just—one more shot!” she hissed, twisting in Joe’s grasp. “He said you weren’t the future, Joe! He said it in front of our child!”

Outside, the dusk had cooled the air. Joe all but wedged her between himself and the SUV, using the car as a barrier and his body as a shield.

His voice dropped low, heavy with command. “Angel. Enough.”

The words hung between them. Her chest heaved with adrenaline and fury, but she stilled.

A beat later, a small whimper floated from behind him.

Zariyah.

Joe glanced down. Their daughter’s little face was starting to scrunch with confusion, her lips puckering like she was gearing up for a cry.

Angel’s focus snapped back.

The fire in her eyes faltered, then dimmed as her gaze locked on her daughter.

Her shoulders dropped. “I wasn’t about to let him disrespect you like that,” she said softly, her voice rough with emotion. “Not when I’ve seen the work. Not when I know the weight you carry. Not in front of her.”

Joe didn’t speak right away. He studied her—his firebrand of a wife, breathing hard and bleeding, her knuckles red and raw but her pride intact.

“I get it,” he said finally, gently. “I do. But you can’t fight the whole world.”

Angel’s lip twitched upward. “You just watch me, Joe Burrow. I will burn the whole fucking thing down about you and Zariyah.”

He was about to respond when his gaze dropped to her right hand. His expression shifted instantly.

“Wait… is that blood?”

Angel looked down casually, flexing her fingers. Her knuckle was angry and red, the skin cracked and beginning to swell.

“Yeah,” she said, brushing it off. “But that’s not important right now. What is important—”

“You are literally bleeding, Angel.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That is not the flex you think it is.”

She sighed as Joe gently took her injured hand in his, inspecting it with furrowed brows like it belonged to someone precious. His fingers were careful, tender as he examined the bandage, the concern in his eyes impossible to hide. He stepped back, moving toward the car door. With a subtle tilt of his head, he motioned for her to follow him.

Angel slid into the back seat, her hand cradling her yogurt cup, now a sad soup of caramel and strawberry. Zariyah was in her car seat, hiccup-laughing softly, blissfully unaware that her mother had just broken at least one social rule—and possibly a man’s face.

Joe stood in the doorway of the car, one arm resting against the frame. He reached in, effortlessly buckling Zariyah in with practiced ease, checking every strap, every latch with precision. Once satisfied, he turned and handed Angel her yogurt, the cup warm in her hands.

“I told you not to let me go in there alone,” she muttered, blowing on her knuckle like it might cool the pain. Her voice was quieter now, the fire from earlier finally fading into a mixture of frustration and regret.

Joe gave her a dry smile, his gaze still intense as he leaned slightly into the car. “You walked over,” he replied, his tone even. “I didn’t let anything happen. I witnessed it.”

He stood there a moment longer, eyes roaming over her, the silent tension between them mixing with a faint undercurrent of amusement. He let out a long breath before leaning his head against the top of the car door, looking at her sideways. His expression was equal parts exasperated and awed.

“God help me, Angel,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“You’re gonna give our daughter a complex,” he said, half-laughing.

Angel winced as she took a spoonful of yogurt. “Good. Let her know early—Mama don’t play about Daddy.”

Joe dipped his spoon into the mushy swirl of vanilla and Oreo, feeding Zariyah a finger to distract her from the discomfort of her hiccups.

She gurgled, eyes wide and trusting.

They sat in the SUV with the doors closed and the windows cracked just enough to let the early evening breeze snake through. The adrenaline from the frozen yogurt fiasco had finally begun to taper off, replaced by a still, buzzing quiet that hung between them like smoke after a fire.

The interior smelled like caramel swirl and sugar cones, mingling faintly with the hot pavement outside and the distant scent of lavender from Zariyah’s baby lotion. It was that strange moment after chaos—where everything settled, but nothing quite felt normal yet.

In the back seat, Zariyah had finally calmed down again. Her tiny fists were curled tight, her lips parted in soft sleep-breaths, cheeks flushed a gentle pink from all the commotion. One little sock had slipped halfway off her foot, her pacifier loosely clinging to the corner of her mouth like she’d lost interest mid-suck.

Angel, now tucked into the passenger seat with her legs pulled up, cradled her freshly bandaged right hand in her lap. Her yogurt cup was still in her other hand, the once-firm swirl now a melted, soupy mess. She stirred it absently, the spoon clinking against the sides in soft, slow circles. Her shoulders, tight for the last hour, had finally started to sink back down.

Joe sat beside her, stretched out in the driver’s seat with one arm over the steering wheel and the other resting on the center console. His helmet hair was a little tousled from earlier practice, his shirt still faintly damp at the collar. He hadn’t said much since they’d gotten in the car, but he didn’t need to. He just watched her—calm, steady, his expression unreadable in that unique way only Joe Burrow could pull off. A mix of concern, amusement, and the bone-deep fatigue that only came from trying to wrangle an NFL season and a two-month-old baby in the same lifetime.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was laced with familiarity—like two people who didn’t need to fill the quiet to feel heard.

Angel finally exhaled, a slow, cleansing breath. Then she rolled her head lazily against the headrest, turned her face toward him, and smirked.

“You know,” she said, her voice hoarse from yelling and full of mischief, “you’re really hot when you go all papa bear/Big dick daddy and drop the bass in your voice like that.”

Joe blinked, caught just enough off guard to smile despite himself.

Angel arched a brow. “No, seriously. That whole ‘Angel. Enough’ thing?” She mimicked his deep, commanding tone with a playful rasp. “Whew. If I hadn’t been in the middle of trying to rearrange that man’s face, I’d have dragged you into the back seat so you could rearrange something else.”

Joe flushed immediately, the tips of his ears turning a warm, familiar pink. It traveled quickly down his neck, his expression somewhere between bashful and charmed.

He laughed, soft and low, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But I’m right.”

He glanced at her sideways, then down at her bandaged hand. “You’re also not off the hook.”

Angel pouted dramatically. “Oh, come on. I only hit him once. That’s growth.”

“You hit him hard enough to make the toppings bar go silent,” Joe said, voice deadpan. “Pretty sure the sprinkles jumped off the counter.”

Angel shrugged, not the least bit sorry. “He called you soft.”

Her tone shifted then—less teasing, more matter-of-fact. She turned her body slightly to face him fully, eyes narrowing like she was daring him to disagree.

“And you’re not. You’re the strongest man I know, Joe. On and off the field. I don’t care how many injuries you’ve had, or what the media says when the team struggles. I’ve watched you drag your body out of bed when you could barely stand, still showing up for practice, for press, for us. You get knocked down and you get back up every damn time. That’s what makes you dangerous. That’s what makes you, you.”

Joe’s expression softened. He didn’t say anything right away—just reached across the console, brushing a thumb along her cheek. The touch was feather-light, but it carried weight. His fingers lingered there, like he needed that physical contact to anchor everything she’d just said.

Angel leaned into it, her eyes half-lidded now, that fire inside her dimmed to something slow-burning and intimate. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside—the whispers, the chaos, the headlines waiting to happen—faded into nothing.

Joe leaned in, just a little, and Angel met him halfway.

Their lips touched—slow, unhurried, but full of knowing. It wasn’t a kiss of apology or passion. It was something steadier. Reassuring. A quiet promise between two people who’d seen each other at their rawest and still chose each other, over and over again.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads brushed briefly before Angel settled back into her seat, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips.

Joe exhaled, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And you love it,” she shot back, grinning now.

He sighed with a chuckle, the sound settling low in his chest. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing toward the back seat where their daughter slept on, undisturbed. “Yeah, I do.”

Angel followed his gaze. Her features softened too, the fight finally draining from her in full. Whatever flame had been burning earlier was now just a warm glow in her chest, resting somewhere between devotion and exhaustion.

She leaned back against her seat, her tone lighter now. “Next time someone disrespects you,” she mused, “I’ll use my left hand. Balance things out.”

Joe gave her a long look, one brow lifting. “I need to start carrying bail money when we leave the house, don’t I?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a satisfied nod. “Better safe than sorry.”

She dipped her spoon into her yogurt again, finally taking a bite. The melted mess didn’t seem to bother her anymore. Joe reached for his too, both of them eating in companionable silence.

The sun had nearly dipped below the horizon, casting the parking lot in that hazy golden-purple light that made everything look softer than it was. The street lamp flickered on with a hum overhead. Somewhere across the lot, a couple of teenagers whispered and pointed in their direction—but this time, Angel just leaned her head on Joe’s shoulder and let it go.

And there, in that quiet moment, with their daughter breathing softly in the back seat, frozen yogurt half-melted in their hands, and Angel’s bruised knuckles cradled in Joe’s large palm, they sat.

A quarterback and the chaos he married.

Wrapped in love, defiance, and melted frozen yogurt.

Joe looked between the two of them—his fierce, loyal wife and their wide-eyed little girl—and despite the bruises, the blood, the chaos of the season, he felt something settle inside him.

No press conference, no critical sports anchor, no bad call from the sideline could touch what he had right here.

Chaos and all.

He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, and finally closed the car door with a quiet thud. The engine roared to life as he turned the key, the sound a small comfort in the silence that surrounded them. As the car hummed, Joe adjusted the rearview mirror, making sure everything was in place, before giving Angel a sideways glance.

“Alright, Muhammad Ali," he said with a smirk, "let's get you home before you become a hit on WorldStar.”

Angel's lips twitched into a grin, a quiet giggle bubbling up from her chest. Her laughter was light, the tension from earlier slowly melting away. She shook her head, looking at him with a playful gleam in her eye.

"You’re lucky I didn’t knock you out, too," she teased, the warmth returning to her voice.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled out of the parking lot. The world outside may have been swirling with its usual noise, but in this little SUV, it was just them—two imperfectly perfect people with a baby who was probably going to grow up knowing that her mom could throw hands if needed.

And that, in the end, was enough.

Joe smirked, keeping his eyes on the road, but his voice dropped into a more teasing tone. “Save those moves for the bedroom, baby.”

Angel gasped, her hand shooting out to smack his arm. "Joe! Our daughter is right there!" she said, her voice a mixture of playful shock and mock indignation.

Joe laughed, the deep sound vibrating through the car. “Hey, just saying, that right hook? Kinda got me thinking… you’d be dangerous in the bedroom.”

She shot him a glare, though it was softened by the corners of her mouth, which were still curled in amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably lucky,” he quipped, winking at her.

Angel rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Zariyah, who had drifted off to sleep again, blissfully unaware of the banter between her parents.

“Just wait until she starts talking,” Angel muttered, "she’s going to be repeating everything.”

Joe laughed again, but it was the kind of laugh that felt like home—easy, full of affection, and just a little bit mischievous.

And as they pulled out onto the quiet street, heading home, Joe knew that no matter how crazy things got, this was exactly where he needed to be.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

The Next Day – Bengals Practice Facility

The sun blazed over the practice field, casting long shadows as the team jogged through warm-ups. Cleats scraped against turf, and coaches barked instructions from the sidelines. Joe wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve as they hit a water break, making his way toward the benches where Tee and Ja'Marr were already half-slouched, guzzling water like it was life support.

“Yo,” Tee said, eyeing Joe with narrowed suspicion, “why you walking like your back’s tight? You sleep on the couch or something?”

Joe gave a dry laugh, twisting the cap off his Gatorade. “Nah. Just trying to recover from last night’s chaos.”

Ja'Marr glanced over. “What happened?”

Joe took a beat. He sipped his drink, then leaned against the bench like someone preparing to drop a bomb.

“You know how Angel is,” he started, voice low but amused. “We went to get frozen yogurt. Just a chill night, right? Me, her, and Zariyah.”

Tee raised a brow. “Sounds harmless so far.”

“Yeah… until some dude at the shop starts talking loud trash about me. Like loud-loud.”

Ja'Marr tilted his head. “You say something to him?”

Joe shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Both Tee and Ja'Marr stared, blinking. “…Nah,” Tee said slowly. “You don’t mean—”

Joe nodded. “Angel handled it.”

“Handled it?” Ja'Marr repeated, leaning forward. “Bro. Define ‘handled.’”

Joe tried to fight the grin creeping across his face, but failed. “She walked up to the dude, said something smooth and threatening, he said some reckless stuff about my past injuries—like, ‘washed up,’ ‘not the future,’ the usual loudmouth nonsense—and she just… clocked him. One hit. Boom.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then: “She hit him?” Tee yelled, nearly choking on his water.

Joe held up his hands. “Square in the face. I barely had time to react. Man flew back like someone hit ‘rewind’ on him.”

Ja'Marr started laughing so hard he nearly dropped his bottle. “Naaaah! Not Angel! Wait—how bad?”

“Busted his nose,” Joe said casually. “She messed up her knuckle. I had to carry her, the baby, and our yogurt to the car like we were fleeing a crime scene.”

Tee stood there with his mouth wide open. “Your wife turned a froyo run into a Mortal Kombat match.”

“I told her she was gonna end up on WorldStar,” Joe muttered, shaking his head with a smirk.

“Did she at least feel bad?” Ja'Marr asked, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“She flirted with me in the car,” Joe said, deadpan. “Said I was hot when I get all ‘papa bear.’ Then told me next time, she’ll use her left hand to ‘balance it out.’”

Tee just stared. “You married a superhero and a menace.”

Joe shrugged, grinning now. “Chaos and all.”

Ja'Marr let out another laugh. “I swear, if I see this on Twitter later…”

“Oh, it’s coming,” Tee said, pulling out his phone. “Matter of time before someone posts security footage or a witness comes forward.”

Joe sighed, running a hand down his face. “Please don’t let this hit ESPN.”

Ja'Marr leaned in, still grinning. “Nah, man. If it does? I’m sending Angel a ‘thank you’ bouquet.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Y’all are the worst.”

“We’re not the ones handing out haymakers at dessert shops,” Tee said, already laughing again.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Later That Evening – The Burrow Household

The house was calm—finally.

Zariyah was asleep in her bassinet, arms raised above her head like she was dreaming about leading a revolution. Joe was curled up on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, baby monitor balanced on one knee. Angel padded in from the kitchen with a bag of frozen peas over her wrapped hand and dropped beside him with a groan.

“Remind me to stop punching people who have weak noses,” she muttered.

Joe didn’t look up from his phone. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Because I’m oddly injured,” she replied, lifting the peas to her temple with a dramatic sigh. “He had the bone density of a graham cracker.”

Joe grinned. “I still can’t believe you actually hit him.”

Angel smirked. “I warned him.”

Just then, Joe’s phone buzzed. And then again. And again. And again.

He glanced at the screen.

Then blinked.

Then sat up a little straighter.

“…Uhh. Angel?”

“What?” she asked, head resting on the back of the couch.

“Did you… see this?”

He turned his screen toward her. A Twitter/X video was playing on loop. Grainy footage—clearly a phone recording—captured every second. The frozen yogurt shop. Angel walking up to the man. The exchange. The punch. The gasp. Joe scooping up the baby. Angel being dragged out like a gremlin with unfinished business.

The caption read: “JOE BURROW’S WIFE KNOCKS DUDE OUT FOR TALKING SMACK 😭🔥 #.RideOrDie #.QueenEnergy #.ProtectJoeAtAllCosts”

Angel’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God. Who filmed that?!”

The video had over 4.2 million views. In four hours.

“Babe,” Joe said, scrolling through the replies. “You are trending.”

Angel whipped around to snatch the phone. “No. Nuh-uh. No way I’m—”

She froze.

The top tweet:

“I need someone to love me the way Angel Burrow loves Joe. I’d commit war crimes for this kind of loyalty.”

The next:

“Joe Burrow has a 2-month-old and a wife who throws hands like she’s in a Marvel movie. Bengals might be 2-5 but he already won at life.”

Then another:

“We don’t talk enough about the fact that a man disrespected Joe Burrow once and caught a knuckle sandwich with extra sprinkles.”

Angel’s eyes widened. “Why is this actually hilarious?”

Joe leaned back into the couch, biting back a grin. “Tee sent me the video and just wrote: ‘AYO. SHE REAL.’”

Angel couldn’t help it—she laughed. Loud, belly-deep, head-thrown-back kind of laugh. “Oh, this is insane.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “But also kinda flattering.”

“I mean,” she said, smirking at him, “you saw me in action. That was love and upper body strength.”

“And great footwork,” Joe added, nodding seriously. “You stepped into the punch.”

“I did, didn’t I?” she grinned proudly.

Another buzz. Joe checked his phone again and started reading: “‘She said “Not in front of my daughter” like she was in a superhero origin story.’”

Angel blinked, then looked at him sideways. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did. And then you punched a guy.”

Angel exhaled. “Okay, so now the entire internet knows I’m a menace. Perfect.”

Joe turned to her, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “No. Now the entire internet knows you love your husband so much, you’re willing to commit a minor misdemeanor in public. That’s soulmate stuff.”

Angel squinted. “You better hope this doesn’t end up on First Take. If Stephen A. Smith calls me a thug, I swear to God—”

“I’ll call him myself,” Joe replied dryly. “And ask if he wants the smoke too.”

They both burst into laughter again.

Angel curled into his side, careful not to bump her hand. “Guess I should work on my media apology voice.”

Joe kissed her temple. “We’ll script it after Zariyah’s next nap.”

The baby stirred lightly in the monitor, then fell back asleep.

Angel sighed. “At least she didn’t see it.”

Joe reached for the remote and turned on the TV. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“You’re officially the scariest Burrow in the house.”

Angel smirked, settling deeper into his arms. “Took them long enough to figure that out.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·..·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

The living room was dimly lit, the soft flicker of the TV casting shadows across the walls as Zariyah cooed from her bouncer in the corner. Angel sat cross-legged on the couch, Joe sprawled beside her with one arm draped over the back cushions. Her phone was practically glued to her hand as she scrolled through the endless stream of tweets, memes, and tags lighting up her notifications like fireworks.

“Yo, people are fast,” she muttered, eyes widening slightly as she came across yet another viral remix of the incident—this one set to DMX’s “Party Up.” “This one has theme music. Like, actual sound editing.”

Joe chuckled beside her, his gaze flicking to her bandaged hand as she used it to swipe.

“You good?” he asked, not for the first time.

Angel just gave a dramatic sigh and kept scrolling. “It’s sore, but my pride is thriving.”

Joe smirked, but before he could respond, his phone buzzed loudly on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a FaceTime call.

Ja’Marr.

Joe grinned knowingly. “Here we go.”

He answered and propped the phone up on a throw pillow between them, hitting speaker.

Ja'Marr’s face filled the screen, already mid-laugh. “YO! Angel ‘Hands of Justice’ Burrow! What’s good, champ?”

Angel groaned but couldn’t fight the smile. “Goodnight, Ja’Marr.”

“Nah, nah, you don’t get to go quiet now. Sis, you really hit that man like he insulted your whole bloodline. I thought it was a prank at first. I had to rewatch it like four times.”

“Only four?” Joe teased. “I think Tee’s on his seventh. He said he’s studying her form for when the team fights back at pressers.”

“I’m just saying!” Ja’Marr laughed. “She squared up like she had a fight song playing in her head.”

Angel held up her bandaged hand. “And now I got a busted knuckle and a trending hashtag.”

“#AngelBurrowSaidBingBong is everywhere,” Ja’Marr said, wheezing. “You might be more famous than Joe now.”

Joe leaned into the frame. “I can live with that.”

“You don’t have a choice, bro. Y’all got Black Twitter and suburban moms on your side now. That’s the double threat.”

Angel tilted her head. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

Ja’Marr grinned. “Oh, 100%. And guess who else is loving it?”

Angel’s brow quirked. “Please don’t say who I think you’re about to say.”

“Your mother-in-law,” Ja’Marr confirmed gleefully.

Angel sat up straighter. “Wait. Robin saw it?”

Joe raised a brow. “My mom?”

Ja’Marr laughed harder. “Bro, she texted me before I even saw the video. Said—and I quote—‘Well… she did warn him.’”

Angel stared at Joe, stunned. “Your mom saw it?”

“And she’s unbothered, clearly,” Joe chuckled.

“Your dad?” she asked slowly.

Joe’s phone buzzed again. He checked the screen. “And there’s a text from him now. Hold on…”

He tapped it open and held the screen up for her to see. It was a photo of Jimmy Burrow sitting comfortably on the back porch, holding a "#1 Dad" coffee mug, beside a printed-out freeze frame of Angel’s punch mid-arc like a Renaissance painting.

Underneath it was a caption: “Angel’s got a mean right hook. Proud to have her in the family.”

Angel threw her head back into the couch cushions and groaned. “Oh my God.”

Ja’Marr howled. “You’ve made it, sis. Y’all are officially a dynasty.”

Joe leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Angel’s temple, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “You’re a legend, babe. Chaos and all.”

She peeked out from behind her hands, barely suppressing a smile. “You think Zariyah’s gonna see this one day?”

Ja’Marr answered without missing a beat. “She’s gonna brag about it in kindergarten. ‘My mommy hit a man for talking trash about my daddy.’”

Joe laughed. “We’ll teach her to use her words first.”

Angel smirked. “Unless someone talks trash about her daddy.”

Ja'Marr gave a full salute through the screen. “Can’t wait for her TED Talk: Defending Joe Burrow With These Hands.”

Angel narrowed her eyes. “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“Love y’all!” Ja'Marr called out as the screen went black.

Angel dropped the phone into Joe’s lap and shook her head, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement on her face.

“I just wanted frozen yogurt,” she muttered.

Joe slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, whispering with a grin, “And you got internet immortality instead.”

Angel sighed, leaning into him, the bandage on her hand cool against his side. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No more public dessert spots for the next month.”

Joe chuckled, kissing her temple again. “Deal. We’ll go underground with our ice cream runs.”

And as Zariyah snored softly in the background, the three of them tucked into the kind of peace that could only come after complete and utter chaos—with trending hashtags, family group chats, and a love fierce enough to throw a punch when it counted.

[honeydippedfiction]

18 from smut Joe x Angel please

i really hope this is what you wanted nonnie! It's filthy but sooo good🥵

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#18. "fuck, sweetheart." they smear it all over their lips, breathing heavy, and lean down to kiss you with it!!? pairs with #17. maintaining eye contact as they gather the wetness from between your legs with their fingers and they're sucking them off with a satisfied hum.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The ocean stretched out in a shimmering sheet of sapphire and silver, reflecting the late morning sun as it climbed higher over the horizon. A soft breeze danced through the palm trees, rustling their fronds like an easy whisper. The villa sat perched on a quiet bluff, half hidden by lush green foliage, its wraparound porch opening up to a view that felt more like a painting than real life.

Inside, the floor-to-ceiling glass doors were wide open, letting in the salty air and the occasional call of distant seabirds. Joe Burrow stepped barefoot onto the sun-warmed stone patio, a ceramic mug of coffee in hand, still wearing the LSU basketball shorts he liked to sleep in.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

Angel looked up from her lounge chair, smiling over the top of her oversized sunglasses. Her skin glowed in the morning light, warm and radiant against the soft ivory cushion beneath her. She wore a breezy linen cover-up, her braids pulled up in a high knot, gold hoops catching the light as she turned her head.

“I did,” she said, stretching lazily. “Probably the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Might be the ocean air.”

“Might be the wine,” he said with a smirk, sitting down beside her and brushing a kiss onto her shoulder.

They both laughed, remembering the bottle of local red they’d shared the night before on the beach—blankets spread on the sand, toes dug into the earth, the sky ablaze with stars. That had become their rhythm here: slow mornings, sun-soaked afternoons, and quiet, wine-drenched evenings under the stars. The NFL offseason had finally given Joe a break, and the two of them had slipped away from the mainland, seeking peace in the hush of the Caribbean.

Joe leaned back, letting the sun warm his chest. “I still can’t believe this place is real.”

Angel reached for her drink—fresh pineapple juice with a hint of ginger—and gave him a playful side-eye. “Well, it should be, with what that NFL contract is looking like.”

He laughed again, and she grinned, loving the way he always took her teasing in stride. Despite his rising fame and success, he was still Joe from Athens, Ohio. Still her Joe.

°.✩┈┈∘┈˃̶୨୧˂̶┈∘┈┈✩.°°.✩┈┈∘┈˃̶୨୧˂̶┈∘┈┈✩.°

Later that afternoon, they walked hand-in-hand down a narrow trail that led to a secluded beach cove, hidden from the usual tourist paths. The sun hung high, casting golden light across the water. Angel kicked off her sandals and ran toward the surf, laughing as the waves chased her ankles. Joe followed, tossing his towel onto the sand.

“Race you to that rock!” she shouted over her shoulder, already sprinting.

Joe grinned, jogging after her, knowing she’d win—she always did. When they finally reached the dark lava rock jutting from the shoreline, they collapsed against it, both breathless and smiling.

“You really don’t take it easy on me,” he said, brushing damp curls from her forehead.

“Where’s the fun in easy?” she replied, tugging him in for a quick kiss.

They spent the next hour floating lazily in the shallow surf, the tide lapping against their skin as if the island itself was trying to lull them into complete serenity. When hunger finally pulled them back to shore, they strolled into the nearby fishing village for lunch. The locals knew them by now—“The quarterback and his girl,” a quiet curiosity to some, just another pair of vacationers to most.

They ate at a little beachside shack with painted wooden tables and no menu—just whatever the owner had caught that morning. Angel beamed when the server brought out a whole grilled snapper, smothered in island spices, served alongside coconut rice and fried plantains.

“Okay,” she said, eyes wide as she took a bite, “I officially need this recipe.”

Joe dug into his plate with enthusiasm. “This might be the best thing I’ve eaten all year.”

Angel leaned in, whispering, “Even better than your mom’s pumpkin pie and snickers salad?”

He gave her a faux-wounded look. “You trying to start a family war?”

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the villa’s terrace, the two of them curled up together on a hammock strung between two trees. Joe wrapped an arm around Angel, her head resting comfortably against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat slower now, more at ease.

“We don’t get many moments like this,” Angel said softly, her voice nearly lost in the sound of the waves. “Just us. No schedule. No cameras. No noise.”

Joe kissed the top of her head. “I know. That’s why I want to remember every second of it.”

Above them, the sky blushed pink, fading into lavender and finally, deep indigo. The island hushed for the night, the air cool now, touched with the scent of salt and distant bonfires.

For a little while longer, they could stay in this soft world, wrapped in quiet luxury and each other’s arms, far from the pressure and pace of their usual lives. Here, under the stars, Joe Burrow wasn’t the quarterback of the Cincinnati Bengals. He was just a man in love, spending the offseason exactly where he wanted to be—by Angel’s side.

°.✩┈┈∘┈˃̶୨୧˂̶┈∘┈┈✩.°°.✩┈┈∘┈˃̶୨୧˂̶┈∘┈┈✩.°

The midday sun was high and golden, casting a honeyed sheen over everything it touched. The villa’s infinity pool mirrored the sky—blue and wide and endless—blurring at the far edge where it met the sea. Somewhere in the distance, a lazy steel drum rhythm floated up from the beach, mingling with the gentle hush of the waves.

Angel reclined on a sun chair, dark sunglasses resting low on her nose, a book open in her lap but long since forgotten. She wasn’t reading—not really. Not when her view was this good.

Joe was in the pool, neck-deep in the water, lazily swimming from one end to the other. His movements were slow and unhurried, a man completely at ease. She tilted her head, studying him with a soft smile playing on her lips. His skin, once a cooler tone at the start of their trip, had darkened under the sun’s steady attention—now kissed with a warm, golden tan that seemed to suit him. He looked healthier. More relaxed. Happy.

She let her gaze linger on the way the sunlight gleamed off the droplets sliding down his back when he paused at the edge. His hair, damp and pushed back, curled slightly at the ends. There was something about the way he moved in the water, confident but unbothered, like he belonged there.

Joe glanced up then, and their eyes met across the patio. A slow grin tugged at his lips.

“You staring, babe?” he called, voice thick with that teasing drawl she loved.

Angel lifted her sunglasses with one finger, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe I am. What about it?”

Joe chuckled, tilting his head just enough for the sun to catch his sharp jawline. “Just sayin’. If the roles were reversed, you’d be calling me out.”

“Mm,” she hummed, closing her book entirely now and setting it aside. “That’s true. But you’re not the one in this bikini.”

His smile widened. “Trust me, I’ve noticed.”

That made her laugh—a low, melodic sound that floated through the heat. She stood, stretching in a slow, cat-like motion that made Joe’s breath catch just slightly in his throat. The bikini she wore—a deep rust color that popped beautifully against her skin—fit like it had been made just for her. She moved with an effortless kind of grace, and Joe, for all his discipline on the field, never had the slightest control over the way he looked at her.

Angel padded across the warm stone deck, her hips swaying, and came to sit at the edge of the pool. She dipped her legs into the water, sighing softly at the cool touch against her calves.

Joe swam over, resting his arms on the ledge beside her. Water dripped from his shoulders, catching in the light like glass beads.

“You sure you don’t want to get in?” he asked, voice low now, more intimate.

Angel smiled down at him, brushing a stray curl off her cheek. “I’m good right here for now. Just enjoying the view.”

“Pretty sure I’m the one who’s enjoying the view,” he murmured, letting his eyes trace the curve of her waist, the way her thighs caught the sunlight, the glint of her belly chain just above the water.

She nudged him playfully with her foot. “Down, quarterback.”

He laughed, catching her ankle gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her foot before letting it go. “Can’t help it. You look unreal.”

Angel’s eyes softened, the playfulness giving way to something more tender. “So do you. This… being here with you like this—it’s been everything.”

Joe pushed himself up slightly, water lapping against his chest. “Yeah. Me too. I needed this—needed you—more than I realized.”

They sat like that for a while, basking in the sun and each other’s presence, their banter giving way to a comfortable quiet. Every now and then, Joe would reach up to touch her knee, or Angel would trail her fingers through the water, brushing against his skin. It wasn’t about grand gestures or big declarations. It was about the ease between them. The way they fit into each other’s space like they’d always belonged there.

Eventually, Joe looked up again, eyes squinting slightly in the bright light. “Come in. I promise to keep my hands to myself… at least for the first minute.”

Angel laughed, shook her head, then slowly slid into the water with a graceful splash, wrapping her arms around his neck as he caught her waist instinctively.

“Liar,” she whispered against his cheek.

He smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

°.✩┈┈∘┈˃̶୨୧˂̶┈∘┈┈✩.°°.✩┈┈∘┈˃̶୨୧˂̶┈∘┈┈✩.°

Angel dipped her legs back out of the water and reached for the silk scrunchie she’d left on the lounger. With practiced ease, she gathered her long braids and twisted them into a high knot on her head, a few golden strands catching the light as they slipped free. Joe watched her the whole time, his gaze never wavering, a quiet intensity settling into his features.

She noticed it. Felt it.

That low, simmering energy that sparked when their banter faded and silence did all the talking. The way the air between them seemed to grow heavier the longer their eyes held. It wasn’t new—but out here, away from the noise of the world, it had nowhere to hide.

She slipped into the water slowly, letting it rise inch by inch over her skin until she was chest-deep. The heat of the sun clashed with the coolness of the pool, making her shiver slightly. Joe was already there waiting, still leaning against the edge with his arms spread wide, but his posture had shifted. He looked… settled. Possessive in the quietest, most subtle way. Like he had no intention of sharing this moment with anyone but her.

Angel swam the short distance to him, her fingers brushing over his stomach beneath the surface as she closed the gap. She didn’t say anything—just looked at him, that familiar mix of curiosity and challenge in her dark eyes.

“You keep looking at me like that,” Joe said, voice low and husky, “and I’m gonna stop playing nice.”

Angel arched a brow. “Playing nice?”

He tilted his head, his smirk slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

She did. She knew exactly what he meant.

Water lapped gently around them as she moved in closer, her body barely touching his, her arms sliding up to rest around his neck. Their faces were inches apart now, breath mingling, tension curling between them like the steam off the patio tiles.

“You’re not the only one staring, Joe,” she murmured, lips just grazing his. “That tan… the way your back looks when you swim across this pool…”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening just slightly. His hands found her hips beneath the water, fingers splaying across her skin like he was grounding himself.

“You trying to drive me crazy, Angel?” he asked, voice rougher now.

She smiled, slow and knowing. “Maybe.”

Joe’s mouth found hers in that moment—firm, unhurried, but full of heat. He kissed her like he had all day. All week. Like the ocean, the sun, the island itself didn’t exist beyond the feel of her body against his. Her fingers tangled in the damp curls at the base of his neck as she deepened the kiss, lips parting, breath catching.

The water moved around them, gentle waves stirred by their closeness. His hands slid from her hips to her lower back, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the quiet restraint he always carried, but here—now—it was fraying.

They broke apart just slightly, foreheads touching, noses brushing.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered.

“We haven’t even left,” she replied, breathless but smiling.

“I don’t mean the island,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “I mean you—like this. All of you. No distractions. No schedule. Just… us.”

Angel softened, one hand cupping his cheek. “Well, you’ve got me.”

Joe’s smile turned softer, but the fire in his eyes didn’t dim. “Yeah,” he said, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I do.”

And for the next long while, neither of them said anything at all. The pool, the sun, the island—all of it faded around them as they lost themselves in each other, suspended in a moment that felt endless.

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The sun had dipped low by the time Angel stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind her like silk. The scent of her body oil—warm vanilla and a hint of jasmine—lingered in the air as she padded barefoot across the polished wood floor of the villa’s master bedroom. She moved with practiced ease, the kind of confidence born from knowing exactlyhow she looked and how it would affect the man waiting for her.

She wore a high-slit skirt in deep bronze, soft and hugging her hips like a secret. Each step she took revealed a flash of her thigh, smooth and glistening under the ambient glow of the setting sun. On top, a gauzy cream blouse draped off one shoulder, the fabric so light it danced when she moved. Gold bangles clinked softly on her wrist, and a single delicate chain rested just above the swell of her chest.

Joe, standing by the window and buttoning the cuffs of his shirt, turned as he heard her approaching—and froze.

“Damn,” he said, under his breath first, then louder as he turned to face her fully. “Damn, Angel.”

She smirked, pausing just in front of the full-length mirror to adjust one earring. “Too much?”

He was already closing the distance between them, his shirt half-tucked, eyes tracing her silhouette with open admiration. “Nah. Just enough to make me rethink leaving the villa.”

She gave him a once-over, biting back a grin as she raked her gaze from his tousled hair down to the crisp, open-collared white shirt he wore. The fabric hugged his shoulders and chest perfectly, but it was the pants that made her tilt her head and really look. Dark tailored slacks, clean lines, and snug in all the right places—especially around his thighs and backside.

“Okay, you talk about me,” she said, stepping up to him and sliding a hand over his hip, “but these pants? I’m pretty sure you had them sewn on.”

Joe laughed, resting his hands on her waist. “Hey, you picked ‘em.”

“I didn’t realize they’d fit like this,” she said, letting her palm run just a little lower before pulling back. “You’re lucky the restaurant’s not far.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips across her jaw, teasing. “You keep talking like that and we’re never making it there.”

Angel turned slightly, adjusting her blouse one last time in the mirror before meeting his eyes through the reflection. “You’re the one who started with the ‘damn, Angel.’ Don’t act brand new now.”

He stepped up behind her, hands resting lightly on her hips as they both looked at each other in the mirror. “I’m just appreciating my girl. Is that a crime?”

She leaned back into him slightly, her voice low and velvety. “Only if you don’t follow through later.”

Joe let out a slow breath, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “You trying to make me lose focus before dinner?”

Angel smiled, turning around in his arms. “Just keeping things interesting.”

Their kiss this time was brief—teasing, charged—but they both knew they were playing a game with a slow burn. The kind of anticipation that came from knowing the night was still young, and they had nothing but time.

As they walked out the door, the sky ablaze in streaks of orange and deep purple, Joe took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

“You look beautiful,” he said, tone suddenly softer.

Angel’s heart gave a small flutter, even after all this time. “So do you, babe.”

They walked together toward the terrace path that led down to the beachside restaurant, the sea breeze tugging gently at her skirt and rustling the open collar of his shirt. It wasn’t just a vacation anymore. It was theirs—each moment layered with affection, laughter, desire, and something even deeper.

And the night hadn’t even started yet.

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The restaurant sat at the edge of the beach, half-open to the warm night air, with soft candlelight flickering in lanterns suspended from driftwood beams. The floor was sand, smooth and cool beneath their feet, and the music was gentle—acoustic guitar, mellow and low, blending into the rhythm of the tide just steps away.

Joe and Angel were tucked into a table near the edge, the view behind them endless ocean and moonlight. A string of fairy lights zigzagged overhead, casting a golden glow over everything. It was the kind of place that didn’t need much to be special—just good food, good wine, and the right person across the table.

Angel reached for her wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid thoughtfully before taking a sip. “Okay,” she said, setting it down, “top three dishes of the trip. Go.”

Joe leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he pretended to consider. “Hmm. The grilled lobster from two nights ago—that’s gotta be on the list.”

Angel nodded. “Solid choice. The butter was elite.”

“Then those spicy plantain fritters from the shack yesterday—those slapped.”

“Agreed. What about number three?”

Joe smirked. “Your mango chicken from that night you cooked.”

Angel laughed. “Boy, I said local cuisine.”

“Yeah, and you were here. Local enough.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling as she reached for another sip. “Flattery won’t get you another round of that chicken.”

“I’m playing the long game,” he said, giving her that lazy grin she never quite got used to—even after all this time.

Their banter flowed easily, each comment laced with warmth, each laugh more of a shared language than a reaction. They talked about everything and nothing—how good the breeze felt, how nice it was to not be recognized every five seconds, what new playlist they should queue up next time they lounged in the villa pool.

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By the time dessert arrived—a plate of warm coconut rum cake with caramel drizzle—Angel had a mischievous gleam in her eye that Joe caught immediately. He narrowed his gaze at her as she set down her fork without touching the cake.

“Why do you look like that?” he asked, leaning slightly across the table.

“Like what?” she asked, all innocence, though her lips were already curling into a familiar, teasing smile.

“Like you’re about to start something.”

Instead of answering, Angel stood and, with the grace of someone who absolutely knew the effect she had, slid around the table and into the seat next to him. The hem of her slit skirt shifted as she crossed one leg over the other, exposing just enough thigh to make Joe pause mid-breath.

She leaned into his side, her hand resting lightly on his knee, her lips close to his ear. “Can’t I just want to sit next to my man?”

Joe turned toward her slightly, resting an arm along the back of her chair, trying to play it cool—but his pulse had picked up. “You can. I’m just saying… you have a tell.”

She raised her eyebrows, playful and intrigued. “A tell?”

“Yeah. That look in your eyes when you're thinking something wicked.”

Angel smiled, eyes gleaming under the soft candlelight. “What makes you think I’m not just admiring you?”

“Because you’re touching my leg and pretending it’s casual.”

She laughed quietly, brushing a kiss just beneath his jaw, her lips feather-light. “Maybe I just missed you.”

“We’ve been together all day.”

“I meant like this,” she murmured, fingers trailing slightly higher beneath the table, slow and subtle. “Up close. No distractions. Just me and you… and a very good reason to skip dessert.”

Joe shifted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat and sending a quick glance around—no one was paying attention. “Angel…”

She looked up at him, expression soft but wickedly amused. “Relax. I’m not gonna get you kicked out of paradise.”

“Not yet,” he muttered, chuckling under his breath as he brought a hand to her bare thigh, squeezing gently. “But you’re making it hard to sit still.”

She nuzzled into his shoulder with a satisfied smile. “Good.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping lower. “Keep that up and we might need to make an early exit.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” she breathed, tilting her head just enough for their lips to brush as she spoke.

Joe’s hand slid further up her thigh, his fingers brushing the edge of her bikini bottom, pausing when he realized there was only bare skin beneath it. He went still, eyes narrowing at her. “Seriously?”

Angel’s smile widened. “Don’t act so surprised. You know I’m not a fan of tan lines.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She turned her face, catching his lips in a quick kiss, then murmured against them, “Then what are you talking about?”

“This,” he said, sliding his hand further up until she caught her breath, fingers now pressed firmly against where she was already warm and waiting. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Angel.”

“Maybe I wanted to be prepared for anything.” Her breath hitched as his thumb moved in a slow circle.

“For anything,” he echoed, amused.

“For everything,” she corrected, voice catching slightly. “Especially you.”

He bit back a groan, turning his head to scan the area again—no one seemed to have noticed anything. The nearest couple was absorbed in their own conversation, and the server was nowhere in sight. “You’re killing me here.”

“Am I?” she whispered, shifting her hips just enough that his breath caught. “What a way to go.”

Joe shook his head, trying to maintain his composure. “You realize we can’t just…”

“Who says we can’t?” Her lips brushed his ear as she spoke. “No one’s watching. We’ve got the perfect cover.”

He paused, considering, then slowly moved his hand again—she arched into the touch with a soft, satisfied noise.

“Just a little taste?” she murmured, her own hand sliding higher on his thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to the fly of his jeans. “To hold us over until we get back to the villa?”

Joe’s resolve crumbled, and he let out a quiet, strained laugh. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

She smiled against his jaw. “You love it.”

“I do,” he admitted, pressing his lips to hers in a brief, heated kiss. “But we need to be careful. Last thing we need is to get banned from the resort.”

Angel’s laugh was a warm puff against his skin. “Then I guess we’ll just have to be very, very good at this.”

Joe’s fingers curled against her, teasing gently. “I thought you said you weren’t going to get me kicked out of paradise.”

“I’m not,” she purred, biting her lower lip as he applied more pressure. “I’m just trying to show you how much fun paradise can be.”

He let out a low, rumbling sound—a cross between a laugh and a groan. “You’re making it pretty damn tempting to find out how much trouble we can get into before someone notices.”

Her breath caught again, hips shifting imperceptibly in her seat. “Is that a challenge, Mr. Burrow?”

“If you want it to be.”

Angel turned her face, capturing his lips in a deep, demanding kiss that left Joe momentarily breathless. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark and playful. “Challenge accepted. But first…”

She reached for her water glass, taking a slow sip before setting it down and leaning back in her seat, all casual grace. “We should probably finish dinner, don’t you think?”

Joe blinked at her, caught off guard. “Wait, what?”

She raised an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. “I mean, we did order all this food. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

He stared at her, torn between amusement and disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

“Completely,” she said, reaching for her fork and spearing a piece of cake. “Besides, anticipation is half the fun, isn’t it?”

Joe watched her take a bite, the look of pure pleasure crossing her face as the caramel and coconut hit her tongue. He shook his head, laughing quietly. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible?” she repeated, licking a drop of caramel from her lower lip. “Or irresistible?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned in and kissed her deeply, his hand resting possessively on her thigh beneath the table. When he pulled back, he murmured against her lips, “Both.”

Angel’s lips curved into a satisfied smile as Joe stood, pulling her up with him.

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They didn’t make it to the bed.

As soon as they were back in their villa, Joe had his hands on Angel, backing her toward the door the moment it closed behind them. His mouth found hers as he pressed her against the smooth wood, one hand tangled in her hair while the other roamed lower, fingers seeking the slit of her skirt.

Angel arched into him, her hands already working at the buttons of his shirt, her breath catching between kisses. “I thought we were gonna make it to the couch at least,” she managed, a hint of laughter in her voice.

“You were the one teasing me all through dinner,” Joe murmured against her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. “Did you really think we’d make it that far?”

She let out a soft sound, her nails scraping lightly down his back. “I was hoping we wouldn’t.”

With a low growl, Joe lifted her, hands gripping her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist, the skirt riding up effortlessly. Angel gasped as he pressed her more firmly against the door, the hard length of him trapped between them.

“Joe,” she breathed, tightening her legs as his mouth found the swell of her breast above the neckline of her top.

He paused briefly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. “Tell me this is what you want.”

Angel’s response was immediate, her fingers threading through his hair as she brought his mouth back to hers. “It’s what I’ve wanted all day.”

The words sent a bolt of heat through Joe, and with a swift motion, he turned, carrying her toward the nearby couch. Angel’s laughter was warm against his shoulder, her arms tightening around his neck.

They made it as far as the coffee table before Joe set her down, hands immediately going to the tie at the back of her top. Angel turned, presenting her back to him.

Behind her, Joe let out a low sound of appreciation as he untied the bow, revealing more of her melanated skin inch by inch. “No panties and no bra,” he murmured, fingertips brushing her bare back. “Someone was feeling daring tonight.”

Angel glanced over her shoulder, a sultry smile playing on her lips. “Someone wanted to be ready for anything. Or should I say… anyone?”

Joe’s hands slid around her waist, pulling her back against him as he bent to kiss her shoulder. “You know I have no problem with that kind of preparation.”

She arched into his touch, head falling back against his shoulder. “I know. That’s why I married you.”

His laugh was low and warm near her ear. “Is that the only reason?”

Angel turned in his arms, her top now hanging loosely from her shoulders, caught between them. “One of many,” she murmured, reaching up to pull him into a slow, deep kiss.

As their mouths moved together, Joe’s hands slid down her body, curving around her hips to fill his hands with the soft swell of her ass. Angel let out a soft, encouraging sound, her own hands busy with the last buttons on his shirt.

“Off,” she whispered against his lips, tugging at the fabric.

Joe obeyed, shrugging out of the shirt without breaking the kiss, only pulling back long enough to let the garment fall to the floor. Angel’s hands immediately went to his bare chest, nails lightly scraping down over his nipples and continuing lower.

When she reached the fly of his jeans, Joe caught her wrist, a soft warning growl rumbling in his chest. “Not yet,” he murmured, stepping back slightly to look at her.

Angel’s top had slipped further, now caught at her wrists, leaving her topless. She made no move to cover herself, instead raising an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?” she asked as she threw the top behind her.

He shook his head slowly, taking in the sight of her. “Not a damn thing. Just appreciating the view.”

Her smile was slow and sultry. “Like what you see?”

“Always have.” His hands found her hips again, thumbs hooking under the skirt, now bunched around her waist. “Always will.”

Angel’s breath caught as he bent, pressing a kiss to her sternum, then lower, following the path the top would take as it fell. When he reached the top of her skirt, he paused, looking up at her.

“May I?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

She nodded, fingers threading through his hair. “Please do.”

With torturous slowness, Joe hooked his fingers under the fabric and began to pull down, revealing her inch by inch. He followed the descent with his lips and tongue, tasting her skin, savoring her soft gasps.

By the time the garment reached her feet, Angel was trembling lightly, her grip on his hair tightening as he pressed a final kiss to her hipbone. “Joe,” she breathed, voice strained with want.

He looked up at her, a wolfish grin playing on his lips. “Yes?”

“Don’t tease,” she warned, though there was no heat in it—only aching desire.

Instead of answering, Joe stood slowly, hands tracing up her sides as he rose. When they were eye-to-eye again, he cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing over her cheeks. “I’m not teasing,” he said softly. “I’m savoring.”

Angel’s eyes fluttered closed at his touch, a shuddering breath escaping her. “I don’t know if I can stand much more savoring.”

Joe chuckled quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before stepping back. “Fair enough,” he conceded, his gaze dropping once more to take her in—naked, flushed, and absolutely breathtaking.

His mouth watered at the sight between her thighs, already glistening with her need. Without a word, Joe took her by the hips, turning her gently before guiding her lay on the couch.

Angel let out a surprised sound, half gasp, half laugh, as Joe knelt on the floor below her. “What are you—”

Her question dissolved into a moan as Joe gripped her thighs, lifting them slightly to place over his shoulders. “Savoring,” he reminded her, nose brushing the inside of her thigh as he spoke.

“Fuck,” Angel breathed, fingers tightening on the couch cushion as Joe’s mouth found her center, tongue flat as he dragged it upward in one long, slow lick.

Joe hummed against her, the vibration sending another tremor through Angel’s frame. “You taste like paradise,” he murmured before diving in again, this time with no intention of holding back.

His tongue circled her clit with practiced ease, drawing soft cries from Angel as she arched back toward him. One of Joe’s hands moved to her hip, holding her steady while the other joined his mouth, fingers sliding into her with a slow, steady rhythm that had her gasping his name.

Joe groaned against her, hips canting forward involuntarily at the taste of her, the sound of her pleasure. He would never deny his girl anything she wanted, and if what she wanted was him between her thighs? He’d drop to his knees every damn time. Because as much as he loved being inside her, there was something intoxicating about her taste on his tongue, her breathless cries in his ears, the way her body moved with his touch.

He was addicted. To her taste, her touch, her. Nothing would ever satisfy his hunger the same way.

As Angel’s breath came faster, her hips moving in time with his mouth, Joe could feel her getting closer, the tension building. He curled his fingers inside her, finding that perfect spot that made her thighs tremble around his head.

“Joe… oh God, Joe…” Her voice hitched with each breath, the couch creaking slightly under her grip.

He redoubled his efforts, alternating between firm strokes over her clit and gentle suction that had her calling out his name over and over, each time more desperate than the last.

“Joe… God, yes… right there…”

He obliged her pleading, curling his fingers as his tongue kept up its relentless work. Angel’s hips rocked against him, small, eager movements that had Joe growling softly in encouragement.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her, the sound vibrating through her. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

Joe didn’t let up, wasn’t in any rush to end this. His eyes flicked up occasionally to watch her, the beautiful arch of her back, the way her head dipped as she gasped, fingers twisting in her own hair as his fingers brushed against that spot inside her she’d once sworn drove her soul straight out of her body.

She was close, so close he could feel it in the way her muscles tightened around him, the way her breath caught and held, the way her thighs quivered against his ears.

“Come on, Angel,” he murmured against her slickness, the words vibrating through her. “Let go for me.”

Angel’s response was a breathless whimper, her body tensing as the pressure built. “Joe… I’m gonna…”

And just like that, Angel fell apart.

Her orgasm washed through her hard and fast, ripping a cry from her throat as her hips jerked, pressing her more firmly to Joe’s mouth. He rode it out with her, gentling his touch but refusing to stop until the last tremor had worked its way through her body and she sagged against the couch, boneless.

She managed a breathless laugh, tilting her head to look back at Joe as he stood, her slickness glistening on his lips and chin. “Fuck,” she whispered, voice raw.

Joe’s eyes were dark as he drank her in, her naked body draped over the furniture, completely spent and utterly stunning. His own need was a heavy ache between his thighs, his cock straining against the confines of his pants in a way that was bordering on painful.

But there was a sense of satisfaction in the discomfort, in knowing he’d been the one to unravel her so completely.

Angel watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Joe reached between her thighs again, this time not to tease or taste, but to gather the wetness that coated her skin onto his fingers. She bit her lip as he brought those fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low hum of approval.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, pressing his hips forward slightly, seeking relief. His hand dropped to smear the remaining wetness over his lips before he leaned down, catching Angel’s mouth in a filthy kiss that tasted of her.

She whimpered against him as she tasted herself on his tongue, hands reaching to grip his shoulders for support. Joe’s fingers found her clit again, swollen and sensitive from her orgasm, and Angel’s hips jerked at the contact.

“Joe…” His name was half warning, half plea.

He smiled against her mouth. “Too much?”

Angel nodded, a soft sound escaping her as he continued the gentle circles, her body twitching with each pass. “S-sensitive,” she managed.

Joe bit back a groan, pressing his forehead to hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, hard and fast. “I like it when you’re like this.”

“Like this?” she echoed, voice catching as his thumb continued its relentless attention.

“Sensitive,” Joe murmured, pulling back to look her in the eye, watching her pupils dilate at the continued stimulation. “Needy.”

“I am needy,” Angel admitted on a gasp. “I need you.”

Something in Joe’s expression shifted at her words, the playful glint in his eyes darkening to something more intense. “What do you need?”

“You.” She swallowed hard, hips shifting away from his touch in a futile attempt to relieve the oversensitivity. “Inside me.”

The words struck a match somewhere deep in Joe’s gut, igniting a fire that threatened to consume him. With a low growl, he reached for his fly, popping the button with trembling fingers.

Angel watched him, lips parted, breathing shallow as she waited. Her hands dropped to his shoulders again, nails biting into his skin as he lowered his zipper, springing his cock free from its confines.

Before Joe could take control again, Angel dropped to her knees in front of him, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “My turn,” she said softly, looking up at him with a hooded gaze.

“Angel…” The word was strangled, caught somewhere between a warning and a plea.

But Angel wasn’t listening. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the head of his cock before opening her mouth and taking him in.

Joe’s head fell back on a guttural groan, hips jerking forward instinctively, seeking more of the exquisite warmth of her mouth. His hands found her hair, not guiding, not pushing, just holding as Angel took as much of him as she could, her hand wrapping around the base to stroke what she couldn’t fit between her lips.

She knew just how to work him, fingers teasing just under the head as her tongue pressed flat, the suction just this side of heaven. Every time with her was like this—new, exciting, perfect. Her mouth was magic, and he was powerless against it.

The wet sounds of her ministrations filled the air, mingling with Joe’s ragged breaths and the low, guttural sounds rumbling from his chest. Angel’s other hand slid up his thigh, gripping tight as she bobbed along his length, picking up speed with each pass.

“Fuck… Angel… fuck,” Joe managed, the words slurred together as his hips worked with her movements, desperate for more. “That’s so good… so good, sweetheart.”

Angel hummed around him, the vibration nearly sending Joe to his knees. He held on to her hair with trembling fingers, the sight of her on her knees for him almost too much.

She could feel herself growing wetter at the sight of him losing himself to her touch, to her mouth, his head thrown back and chest heaving. It was intoxicating, knowing she could unravel him so completely.

Determined to push him further, Angel hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard as she pulled back, tongue pressing up along the underside of his cock. Joe cursed low and filthy, fingers tightening in her hair as his hips snapped forward.

“Angel, fuck… I’m close,” he ground out, breathless.

She paused, looking up at him from under her lashes. “You going to come for me, Joe?”

He nodded sharply, a strained sound tearing from his throat. “If you don’t stop… fuck, Angel…”

Instead of pulling away, Angel leaned forward again, taking him deep until he hit the back of her throat. She swallowed around him, once, twice, before coming up for air. Leaning down and licking at the precum leaking down his shaft.

As much as he wanted to let her continue, to let her take him all the way to the edge and over it, he couldn’t. Not tonight. Tonight, he needed to be inside her with a desperation that bordered on painful.

Because he needed to be inside her. Needed to watch her come apart around him.

With Herculean effort, Joe found the willpower to pull back, sliding from the warmth of her mouth with a wet sound that left them both breathless. Angel looked up at him, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, and more beautiful than any fantasy.

“Come here,” he breathed, reaching for her, gripping Angel beneath her arms and lifting her to her feet. She let out a sound of surprise at the sudden movement, only to gasp as he claimed her mouth in a hard, demanding kiss. His hands found her thighs, lifting her, and Angel responded immediately, wrapping her legs around his waist as he walked them toward the bedroom.

As they moved, Joe’s mouth never left hers, kissing her like he needed her taste to survive, like he was starved for her. Angel clung to him, arms looped around his neck as she let him carry her, let him lead.

He shouldered the bedroom door open with a crack, never breaking the kiss as he laid her back on the bed, following her down and pressing her into the mattress. Angel arched beneath him, her fingers sliding through his hair before trailing down his neck, his back, nails leaving faint red lines along his skin.

“Please,” she whispered against his mouth, hips lifting to meet his.

Joe growled in response, reaching between them to line himself up with her entrance. Angel was already so wet, so ready, and when he pressed forward, sinking into her inch by maddening inch, she let out a long, low sound of relief.

“So good,” Joe managed, forehead pressed to hers, voice tight with restraint as he fought the urge to thrust deep and fast. “So fucking good, Angel.”

She wrapped her legs around his hips, heels digging into his lower back, urging him wordlessly for more. Joe obeyed, hips pulling back before sliding home again, setting a pace that had them both gasping.

Angel clung to him, hands gripping his shoulders, his upper arms, anywhere she could reach to ground herself as Joe moved above her. He was relentless, each thrust going deeper than the last, angling them just right to have her seeing stars behind her lids.

“Perfect,” Joe ground out, catching her knee and lifting it higher over his hip. “Just like this, sweetheart. Just… fuck!”

Angel arched sharply, a strangled cry tearing from her as Joe found that spot inside her that drove her wild. He aimed for it again. And again. And again until she was a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him.

“Joe… Joe please… I need… oh god…” Her words were fractured, disjointed as pleasure built sharply within her.

Joe pressed their foreheads together, eyes locked on hers as he picked up speed, hips pounding relentlessly. “Tell me,” he urged. “What do you need, Angel?”

Her nails bit into his shoulders, drawing a hiss from him that only served to spur him on. “You,” Angel managed. “Just you. Only you.”

The words struck something deep within him, that possessive, primal part of him that roared to life at her admission. His fingers tightened on her hip, pulling her harder into each thrust until the sound of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with their harsh breaths and desperate cries.

Angel’s body tensed, her back arching off the bed as she pressed up into him, closer, needing all of him. Her lips found his again and Joe kissed her deeply, tongues moving together in the same rhythm as their lower bodies.

“I love you,” Angel whispered against his lips, the words more breath than sound.

Joe’s response was a low rumble in his chest, a sound of pure want, pure love as he drove into her again and again and again.

Angel came first, her orgasm ripping through her and out of her in the form of Joe’s name, over and over like a prayer. Her body tightened around him and Joe grit his teeth, fighting back his own release, refusing to find his end until he’d taken her there again.

He could.

Before she could catch her breath, Joe flipped her so she was on all fours, and was back inside her, filling her in one smooth thrust that had them both crying out.

“Joe!” Angel gasped, hands scrambling for purchase against the pillows as he began to move, each thrust fast and deep.

“Can’t wait,” Joe ground out, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Can’t… fuck, you feel so good.”

Angel’s response was lost to a choked sound, her body rocking with each powerful snap of Joe’s hips. She pushed back to meet him, angling herself to take him deeper, and was rewarded with a guttural curse and a sharp sting across her ass as Joe’s hand connected with a loud smack.

“Joe,” she cried out, the mix of pleasure and pain sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

He did it again, palm connecting with her other cheek in a blow that had her whimpering his name. “So good for me, Angel,” he growled, hand smoothing over the stinging skin. “So perfect.”

She keened at the praise, hips moving faster to meet his thrusts, the sound of their bodies coming together filling the room. Joe leaned forward, chest flush to her back as he reached around to find her clit, fingers working over the sensitive bud in firm, quick circles that had her gasping.

“I need you,” she breathed, hands clenching in the sheets. “Joe… please…”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Come for me, Angel. Let me feel you.”

Angel sobbed at his words, fingers twisting in the fabric beneath her. She was so close, so close to falling over that delicious edge again. Joe’s fingers continued their relentless assault, his cock filling her completely before withdrawing only to do it again.

And again.

And again until Angel couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t contain the pleasure coursing through her in hot waves. Her orgasm crashed over her, ripping a scream from her throat as she pressed back into Joe, body tightening around him like a vice.

Joe let out a strangled sound of her name, hips losing their rhythm as he fucked her through her release, each drag of his cock inside her drawing out her pleasure, prolonging the waves of ecstasy coursing through her.

When she finally began to come down, Joe pulled out, flipping her to her back once more. Angel watched him through heavy lids, arms lifting to pull him closer.

He sank into her with a relieved groan, bracing himself on his forearms as he found her mouth, kissing her deeply. Angel wrapped her arms around his neck, legs around his waist, holding him close as he moved above her.

“Love you,” Joe breathed against her lips, the words a sweet contrast to the almost brutal pace he’d set. “So much, Angel.”

Her response was a kiss that tasted of desperation, of love, of everything they’d shared and would share. Joe poured everything he had into that kiss, into the movement of his hips, into the soft murmurs against her lips.

He wasn’t going to last much longer, and they both knew it. Angel’s fingers found their way into his hair, gripping the strands firmly as she met each thrust, urging him on.

“Joe…” Her voice was low, husky with pleasure. “I want you to come for me.”

His response was a sound caught somewhere between a moan and a growl, the tension in his body drawing tight as he fought back his release, wanting to make this last as long as he could.

But Angel had other plans.

Her hand slid down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his nipples before dropping lower, finding the place where their bodies were joined and stroking over him where he entered her.

It was too much.

Joe’s hips stuttered, his orgasm ripping through him so fast he couldn’t hold it back if he tried. Angel whispered his name, holding him as close as she could, savoring the feel of his release within her.

He collapsed over her, barely managing to keep his full weight off her as they both struggled for breath. His lips found her shoulder, pressing a kiss there before moving up along her neck to just under her ear.

They stayed that way for a long moment, wrapped in each other, breathing heavily. Joe finally lifted his head, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, keeping her close.

“You okay?” he murmured softly.

Angel let out a breathless laugh, head tilting to give him more access. “Better than okay.”

Finally, Joe shifted, moving to pull out and roll to the side, but Angel’s hands on his waist stopped him.

“Stay,” she murmured, already sleep-tinged.

Joe huffed out a quiet laugh. “Thought I was too heavy.”

Angel shook her head slightly, eyes still closed. “Not too heavy. Just right.”

[honeydippedfiction]

What was Joe's reaction when Angel got her yiddies pierced? I just know he was sad he had to wait until they were healed to mess with them.

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Synopsis: Four months of teasing, temptation, and self-restraint come to a head when Joe is finally allowed to touch what he’s been dreaming about since Angel’s bold girls’ night dare. The wait is over—but what follows is far more intense, intimate, and unforgettable than either of them imagined.

Warnings: Sexual content / sensuality (Includes descriptions of physical intimacy, breast/nipple play, and body piercings in a sexual context), Body modification (nipple piercings), Mature themes, Substance mention (mild)

WC: 10.3k

A/N: Angel girlll there's a Joe behind you. Again don’t get tattoos or piercings under the influence

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Based from this ask!

The apartment was drenched in a soft amber glow from the string lights Monica had tacked along the ceiling earlier that afternoon, casting a golden warmth over everything it touched. The floor was littered with pillows, cozy blankets, and the aftermath of a chaotic but joyful girls' night—half-eaten popcorn, empty pints of Ben & Jerry’s, half-full wine glasses with lipstick stains, and open boxes of candy strewn across the rug like party confetti. The soft bass of a 2000s R&B playlist thumped low in the background, blending seamlessly with the occasional burst of laughter and the faint scent of lavender incense curling through the air.

Angel sat cross-legged on the plush rug in a pair of fuzzy socks and one of Joe’s oversized LSU sweatshirts, cheeks warm from both the wine and the weed, her curls piled into a messy bun that had definitely seen better days. Monica was sprawled next to her, legs kicked over the arm of the couch, her phone in one hand and a wine glass in the other. Two other girls, Kelsey and Rae, were slouched comfortably nearby, already deep in giggle fits over something that had just happened during a round of dirty charades.

They’d been playing for over an hour now—everything from “Never Have I Ever” to a messy round of “Most Likely To”—and the combination of weed, Moscato, and sisterhood had turned the night into the kind of spontaneous, slightly reckless memory that stuck around long after the buzz faded.

Monica took a slow sip of wine, her eyes flicking to Angel with that familiar glint—the one that always meant trouble. “Okay,” she said, voice sweet but unmistakably wicked, “Truth or dare, Angel.”

Angel blinked, then grinned, already leaning into the playful chaos. “You really wanna do this?”

Monica raised her eyebrows, daring her. “Don’t punk out now.”

Angel glanced around the room, then lifted her wine glass like a challenge. “Dare.”

That was all Monica needed.

A slow, devilish smile unfurled across her lips. “I dare you,” she said, pausing just long enough to draw the tension like a rubber band, “to get your nipples pierced.”

The room exploded into gasps, squeals, and overlapping laughter.

“Bitch, what?” Rae cackled, nearly choking on her gummy bears.

“Girl, are you possessed?” Kelsey cried, her eyes wide, hand slapped dramatically over her chest.

Angel’s jaw dropped. “You’re lying.”

Monica just sipped her wine and raised a brow, unmoved. “Dead serious.”

Angel’s hand flew to her chest, instinctively covering herself through the sweatshirt. “You’ve officially lost your damn mind.”

“I mean, unless you wanna forfeit and take the die shot,” Monica sing-songed, already reaching for the chaotic mix of Fireball, tequila, and rum they’d deemed the “bitch shot of shame.”

Angel hesitated. For a second, the idea sounded completely unhinged—piercing her nipples on a random girls’ night while Joe was probably asleep in his apartment, blissfully unaware that his semi-girlfriend was even considering it. But the more she thought about it—Monica’s challenge, the alcohol buzzing in her veins, the comfortable circle of laughter and warmth—the more the dare started to feel like a story she didn’t want to miss out on.

She took another sip of wine. Then stood.

The room went silent.

Angel swayed slightly on her feet and grinned. “Let’s do it.”

“Wait—what?” Kelsey blinked.

“You serious?” Rae gasped.

Monica jumped up like she’d won the lottery. “Oh, we’re really doing this. Y’all heard her! No backing out now!”

Within minutes, the wine was packed in to-go cups, keys were found, and shoes were half-stumbled into as Monica dragged Angel out the door with Rae and Kelsey still trying to process what had just happened.

“This is what happens when I let y’all mix Barefoot wine and weed,” Angel muttered, climbing into the front seat of Monica’s car.

“This is what happens when you hang out with me,” Monica shot back, beaming as she started the engine. “You get memories, baby. You’re welcome.”

Σ>―💛→

​​The piercing studio was tucked between a vape shop and a 24-hour taco joint, its blacked-out windows and neon "OPEN" sign the only indication it was still running at this hour. Inside, the vibe was unexpectedly serene—more like a boutique spa than the chaotic, grungy place Angel had imagined. Soft ambient music played low through the speakers, and the walls were lined with sleek display cases showcasing everything from delicate gold hoops to edgy titanium barbells. The air smelled faintly sterile, tinged with disinfectant and a hint of lavender, likely from the piercer’s diffuser sitting on the front desk.

Angel sat nervously in the back room, perched on a padded black recliner that reminded her way too much of a dentist’s chair. Her knees bounced lightly as she fidgeted with the hem of the cropped cami she’d been given to change into, her usual confidence dulled slightly now that the wine was wearing off and the reality of what she was doing settled into her bones.

“You good?” Monica asked from her seat in the corner, phone in one hand, smirk in full bloom on her face. She was far too comfortable, like this was a casual Tuesday night instead of what it actually was: her best friend willingly letting someone shove a needle through her chest for the thrill of it.

“I don’t know,” Angel admitted, glancing down at the tray of glinting metal the piercer had laid out. “I feel like I’m about to do something real stupid.”

Monica grinned. “That’s how you know it’s gonna be worth it.”

The piercer walked back into the room, gloves already on and a calm, measured energy about him that immediately helped. He was a tall, broad man with sleeves of colorful ink and a voice so even it felt like white noise.

“All right, Angel,” he said, pulling up a stool beside her. “You still sure you want to go through with it?”

Angel took a slow breath and nodded, trying to match his cool energy. “Let’s do it before I change my mind.”

He smiled slightly. “Okay. I’m going to clean and mark you first. Then we’ll go one at a time. It’ll sting, but it’s quick. Deep breath in, deep breath out. You’ve got this.”

Angel leaned back as he got to work, trying to focus on anything but the growing nerves tightening in her belly. Monica caught her eye from across the room and lifted her phone with a wink. “Smile for the ‘before’ pic.”

“Don’t you dare,” Angel whispered, grinning anyway despite her nerves.

The alcohol from earlier had faded just enough for the anxiety to creep in, but the adrenaline buzzing beneath her skin was louder. She wasn’t scared, exactly—more like electric. She didn’t do stuff like this. She was calculated, usually. Measured. But tonight? Tonight was about freedom. About a little reckless thrill. About doing something just for herself.

“Ready?” the piercer asked.

She nodded once, gripping the armrests.

“Okay. Deep breath in…”

She inhaled sharply.

“...and exhale.”

The needle went through.

Her gasp was immediate, her back arching just slightly off the recliner as the sharp, burning pinch sliced through her. It was fast—intense but fast. Her eyes fluttered shut and she let out a breathy, shaky laugh.

“Oh my God.”

“You’re doing great,” the piercer said, already prepping the second.

Monica leaned forward, wide-eyed. “You good? You alive?”

“Barely,” Angel wheezed, laughing again. “That was insane.”

“Second one coming now,” the piercer warned gently. “Same thing—deep breath in… and out.”

The second needle slid through a moment later, the pain just as sharp but easier now that she knew what to expect. She bit down on a breath, exhaled slow, and just like that—it was done.

The piercer gave her a moment to breathe before stepping back and handing her a mirror.

Angel sat up slowly, her body buzzing with endorphins, wine, and disbelief. She brought the mirror to her chest and stared, blinking once… then again.

“Oh… wow.”

Her nipples were now adorned with two dainty silver barbells, symmetrical, clean, and—dare she say it—sexy. She looked fierce. Feminine. Wild in the best kind of way.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” she whispered, almost in awe of herself.

Monica let out a loud, triumphant laugh. “Girl, you did that. You look bomb.”

Angel turned the mirror slightly, angling it to get a better view. “This was insane.”

“And you’re gonna thank me when Joe sees them,” Monica added, standing up and sliding her phone back into her bag. “Man is gonna combust.”

Angel rolled her eyes, still staring at her reflection. “He’s either gonna love them or have a heart attack.”

“Maybe both,” Monica said with a shrug. “Either way, it’s gonna be a show.”

The piercer finished wrapping up the aftercare instructions, handing Angel a small bag with saline spray and healing balm before giving her one last reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You did great. Just keep things clean, wear soft bras—if any at all—and no rough business for a few weeks.”

Angel made a face. “Define rough.”

Monica snorted. “She’s asking for a friend.”

The two burst out laughing as they made their way out of the studio, the chill of the night air brushing over Angel’s skin like a dare of its own. She tucked herself into Monica’s passenger seat, still buzzing.

Joe was absolutely not ready for what was coming.

Σ>―💛→

The kitchen was dimly lit, all soft yellow glow from the overhead bulbs and the blue flicker of the TV from the next room. The lingering scent of leftover chicken Alfredo clung to the air, mingling with the subtle spice of Joe’s cologne—warm, clean, and unmistakably him. He moved with the easy familiarity of someone at home in their space, barefoot and relaxed in a hoodie and mesh shorts, half-listening as Ja’Marr chirped in his ear through the phone tucked between shoulder and jaw.

He had one arm braced on the counter, the other reaching up lazily to open cabinet doors he didn’t seem all that interested in. Every now and then, he’d grunt or chuckle—low, deep sounds that made Angel’s head turn from where she lingered in the hallway, hidden just out of his line of sight.

“I’m just saying,” Ja’Marr’s voice floated out loud enough for her to catch, “you really think you got the footwork to beat me in the first ten yards? That’s real bold, bro.”

Joe let out a laugh, the sound like honeyed bourbon. “You forgetting who your quarterback is?”

Angel rolled her eyes fondly as she padded barefoot across the cold tile, dressed in nothing but boy shorts and one of Joe’s well-worn Ohio State tees that hung off her like a second skin. She’d been trying to catch his attention for the better part of ten minutes. A light kiss to the jaw when she walked in. A brush of fingers along his back. Even a dramatic sigh as she passed behind him to grab a slice of cold pizza. Nothing.

But Ja’Marr? That man said “what’s up” and had Joe’s full attention like they were playing for the national title tomorrow.

Angel moved toward him with quiet steps, hopping up onto the counter beside where he stood, legs swinging slightly. Joe didn’t even glance her way—just reached out like it was muscle memory and rested his palm on her bare thigh. His thumb began tracing slow, lazy circles against her skin, as natural as breathing, and Angel felt a little flutter low in her stomach despite herself.

“You’re crazy,” Ja’Marr was saying. “And slow.”

“I’m efficient,” Joe replied, popping open the fridge with one hand, still locked in.

Angel leaned back on her palms, watching him. He was unfairly beautiful like this—brow furrowed in concentration, mouth curved just a little at the corner, jaw flexing as he twisted the cap off a Gatorade. That little part of her, the petty one, sparked with heat. She didn’t mind Ja’Marr—not really—but tonight, she wanted Joe’s attention on her.

All of it.

“Joey,” she called sweetly, dragging out the vowels in that teasing voice she knew he loved.

Joe hummed, distracted, still half-facing the fridge. “Yeah, baby?”

When he turned, casual and unbothered, Angel pulled the oversized t-shirt up and off in one fluid motion, letting it fall behind her on the counter. She sat up straighter, chest bared, her fresh piercings catching the low kitchen light like twin sparks of silver fire.

Joe froze mid-step.

His gaze dropped instantly. The Gatorade slipped from his hand and bounced off the counter before rolling across the floor, forgotten. His mouth opened, then closed again, throat bobbing.

Angel tilted her head, pretending innocence. “You just gonna let Ja’Marr listen to you lose your mind, or…?”

Joe blinked. Then, without a word, reached over and hit the red button on his screen.

Call ended.

“Angel,” he breathed, voice strangled and reverent like she’d just done something holy. “What the hell, baby…”

She smirked, legs swinging a little. “Surprise.”

His steps toward her were slow but heavy, like he didn’t trust himself not to pounce. “When did you—? How long have you—?”

“Girls night,” she said casually, brushing her fingers through her curls. “Last weekend. Monica dared me.”

Joe’s eyes were everywhere, eating up every inch of skin, but they kept returning to the silver glinting through her nipples like magnets. He reached out, fingers trembling just slightly, like he was afraid they weren’t real. “Can I—?”

Angel caught his hand with a light slap. “Nope.”

Joe looked betrayed. “Why not?”

“They have to heal. Minimum four months before touching.” She gave him a little shrug. “Sorry, rules are rules.”

Joe looked down, then up again, then back down, jaw slack. “Four months?”

“Mmhmm.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling like she’d just told him he’d be benched for the season. “You gotta be kidding me. Four months?”

Angel bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You’ll survive.”

“I won’t,” he grumbled. “I’m literally already dying. I just watched my soul leave my body.”

She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure you’ll live.”

Joe groaned, resting his forehead against her shoulder. “You’re evil.”

“I’m brilliant,” she corrected, wrapping her legs loosely around his waist. “And maybe now you’ll remember who owns your attention.”

Joe looked up, lips brushing her jaw. “That’s how you’re playing it now?”

Angel gave him a slow smile, equal parts sweet and smug. “I don’t play, baby. I win.”

He kissed her collarbone, gentle and slow, dragging his hands down to her waist as if that was enough to satisfy him. “You pierce anything else I should know about?”

Her grin widened. “You’ll just have to behave for four months to find out.”

Joe groaned again, more dramatic this time, collapsing lightly into her with all the weight of a man denied the one thing he wanted most. “Four months,” he repeated, hopeless.

Angel’s laugh echoed through the kitchen, rich and warm. “Start the countdown, Burrow.”

And he did.

That night, Joe held her like a man trying to memorize the map to heaven but couldn’t touch the treasure just yet. And by the time she was asleep in his arms, he’d already set a reminder in his phone.

Day One: Survive. Day One Hundred Twenty: Devour.

Σ>―💛→

Joe didn’t need a calendar to know what today was.

He’d been counting in silence since the night Angel first dropped the bomb on him, casually flashing him in his kitchen while he was on the phone with Ja’Marr—two silver bars glinting from her chest and the words “You have to wait four months” still echoing like a curse in his head.

And wait he did.

Through tank tops. Braless mornings. Through late-night stretches on the couch when she'd lean over him in nothing but sleep shorts and one of his cut-off tees, the soft sway of her chest right there in front of him—teasing, unbothered, and completely off-limits.

Angel didn’t make it easy.

In fact, she made it her personal mission to make it as hard as humanly possible.

Not that she ever said as much out loud—but Joe could see it in the glint in her eyes, in the way her lips twitched when he swallowed hard, in the casually sinful stretch of skin she just happened to leave uncovered every chance she got.

The teasing started subtly at first—harmless, even playful. But by the second week, it became an unrelenting game of chicken, and Joe was losing. Badly.

“Hey babe,” Angel would purr, strolling past him in the kitchen like it was nothing, bare from the waist up beneath one of his old open flannels, the fabric slipping down one shoulder like it couldn’t be bothered to do its job. “Can you hand me the almond milk?”

Joe froze mid-reach, halfway through stirring his protein shake, mouth open, thoughts completely abandoned. His gaze locked—helplessly—on the way her new piercings caught the morning sun filtering through the window, silver bars gleaming like temptation itself. Her nipples were already perfect, but with the added jewelry? It was criminal.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered after a beat, yanking the fridge open with more force than necessary and practically throwing the almond milk at her without daring to look down again.

Angel just grinned as she took the carton. “You’re dramatic,” she said sweetly, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek—just close enough for her chest to brush his bicep. Then she turned and walked away with a slow, deliberate sway of her hips, her back bare beneath the open flannel, confidence radiating off of her like perfume.

Joe stared after her with a tight jaw, his knuckles whitening around the blender lid. Lord, give me strength.

The closer they got to the end of the four-month wait, the bolder she became.

Sometimes she didn’t bother pretending. She’d stroll out of the bathroom after a shower, steam still clinging to her glowing brown skin, towel slung low on her hips and nothing on top. Just lotion-slicked curves, soft and warm, her nipple jewelry peeking out like a dare.

Joe had once dropped his phone when she bent over to grab her bonnet off the nightstand, her breasts swaying unbothered and unbothering, like this was just normal behavior in any shared living space. Like he wasn’t holding himself together with willpower and cold showers.

“Angel…” he groaned one night, voice tight with frustration, as she leaned over him on the couch to grab the remote. Her chest brushed his shoulder—intentional, no question—and his eyes darted to the sliver of skin visible beneath the cutoff tank she wore like it owed her rent.

“What?” she asked, all wide eyes and feigned innocence. “They’re healing. I can’t wear anything tight yet.”

“Then why,” he said through gritted teeth, “are you rubbing them all over me?”

She blinked, cocking her head like she was trying to understand quantum mechanics. “I wasn’t.”

“Angel.”

A slow, guilty smile curved her mouth. “Okay… maybe a little. But you’re fun to watch when you’re frustrated.”

Joe muttered something low and vile and locked himself in the bathroom with the shower running cold enough to induce amnesia.

The flashes were somehow worse.

Sudden. Swift. Calculated.

She’d wait until his back was turned—then lift her shirt for half a second, just long enough to catch his eye and show him what he couldn’t have. Her laughter echoed down the hallway like music when she saw the way he twitched, fists clenching, breath catching like she’d thrown a grenade into the room.

“You’re gonna pay for this,” he warned one Saturday afternoon during film review, notebook open on his lap. Angel had walked in, flashed him without a word, and then plopped down across his thighs like she hadn’t just short-circuited his brain.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled against his ear. “I’m counting on it.”

He spent the rest of that study session blinking at the same replay of a slant route ten times, unable to focus, too busy trying to remember how breathing worked.

Joe’s restraint became something legendary—at least in his own mind. Not a single touch. Not a single reckless graze, even though every bone in his body begged him to just feel. Even when she fell asleep tangled in the sheets beside him, the edge of her tank top riding up to expose the curve of her breast and a flash of silver. Even when she reached across him in bed and the cool metal brushed his arm and sent heat roaring straight to his core.

But he never cracked.

Not once.

Though by the time the end of the countdown rolled around, Joe Burrow was holding himself together by thread and prayer.

And Angel? Angel was sleeping like a damn angel, stretched out across their bed, as if she hadn’t just spent the last four months slowly unraveling him one braless outfit at a time.

Σ>―💛→

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, the kind that lingered slow and heavy with the scent of clean laundry and Joe’s cologne clinging to the cushions. The living room was dim, the blinds tilted just enough to let streaks of golden light dance across the hardwood floors. Joe sat slouched on the couch, remote in one hand, his other arm sprawled lazily across the backrest as he flipped through film from last week’s game on his tablet.

Angel had been wandering in and out of the room for the past fifteen minutes, suspiciously quiet, wearing a cropped white tank top that stopped just above her ribs and a pair of soft black cotton shorts so small they might as well have been underwear. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a loose puff, curls bouncing with every barefoot step as she moved around the apartment pretending to clean—but really, she was watching him.

He was so focused, brows furrowed, lip caught between his teeth, murmuring things like, "read that coverage too early," and "come back to the middle." And it would’ve been cute, the way he got so lost in his zone, if he wasn’t also completely ignoring her.

Angel narrowed her eyes, then smiled like a cat who just spotted an unattended fish bowl.

She crossed the room slowly and without a word, then climbed right into his lap—backward. She straddled him with practiced ease, her thighs bracketing his hips, the hem of her tank lifting just enough to flash him the bottom curve of her breasts as she settled against him like a perfectly placed landmine.

Joe flinched like she’d slapped him. His breath hitched. Hands instantly flew to her waist on instinct, but he kept them still, fingers twitching.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked sweetly, glancing over her shoulder with a faux-innocent smile.

Joe’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Angel.”

She adjusted slightly, rolling her hips once—slow, deliberate. Not enough to be vulgar, but more than enough to make his abs tighten beneath her.

He groaned, low and long. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

“No,” she purred, tilting her head and stretching languidly, arms overhead in a move that made her back arch and her chest lift even more. “Just watching film with my man. Like a supportive girlfriend should.”

“Bullshit,” he muttered, voice tight, jaw clenching as he squeezed her waist—not pulling her closer, but definitely not letting her go. “You’ve been teasing me all damn week.”

She hummed, feigning surprise. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you don’t?” he said dryly, glancing down at the way her tank barely clung to her body. “What even is this shirt?”

“Your old high school workout tee,” she said, adjusting it again like she was cold, which only made the fabric stretch tighter across her back. “You like when I wear your stuff.”

Joe dropped his head back with a groan, his hands gripping her hips harder now. “Angel, I’m begging you. Have mercy.”

She wriggled just enough to press back into him again, a wicked smile curling her lips as she looked over her shoulder. “Four months, remember? Still got a few weeks left, Quarterback.”

Joe’s eyes darkened, his voice a rasp against her shoulder. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been counting down like it’s my job.”

“Well,” she said, leaning back into his chest, her bare skin pressing flush against his shirt, “maybe next time, you’ll think twice before letting Ja’Marr talk your ear off instead of paying attention to me.”

His hands slid up under her tank top, hovering just below the line of her ribs. “You’re diabolical.”

“I’m motivating,” she corrected. “You’re more focused now than ever.”

Joe laughed under his breath, half in pain, half in awe. “Focused? I haven’t been able to think straight since the day you came home with those piercings.”

She leaned back further, lips grazing his jaw. “Then you’re welcome.”

He kissed the curve of her shoulder, a soft press of lips that lingered. “Just know, the second that four-month mark hits?”

“Mmhmm?”

“I’m cashing in every tease. With interest.”

Angel grinned, pulling his arms tighter around her like she had no idea what kind of fire she was playing with. “Can’t wait.”

And Joe, still clutching her against him while the film played on forgotten in the background, knew he was a man holding back a storm—but for her, he’d wait.

He just wasn’t going to be quiet about it.

Σ>―💛→

Mornings were the worst—and not in the traditional, groggy, alarm-blaring kind of way. No, for Joe, mornings had become a masterclass in suffering ever since Angel decided the bedroom was her own personal stage for slow, intentional torment.

It always started the same.

The first thing he’d feel was movement—her body shifting beside him, warm skin brushing against his as she stirred. Then came the stretch. A long, luxurious, feline arch of her back, arms reaching overhead until her shirt—that damn thin white tank of his she always claimed as sleepwear—crept up her torso inch by deliberate inch. It rode high enough to expose the soft undercurve of her breasts, the cool morning air hardening her already sensitive nipples beneath the fabric… and the flash of silver piercings never failed to catch the light peeking through their bedroom window.

Joe would crack one eye open, groggy, already struggling to keep his breathing steady. His body reacted before his brain could fully register it—heat pooling low in his stomach, jaw tensing as he fought to stay still and pretend like he didn’t notice.

And then—like clockwork—she’d roll out of bed, pulling the covers off with her, giving him a full, unobstructed view of her ass in those barely-there cotton shorts as she stood at the foot of the bed and stretched again, arms up, shirt rising, body glowing in the soft golden light.

“Angel,” he rasped one morning, voice still thick with sleep, hand dragging down his face as he blinked at her. His sheets were already tented and his patience was nonexistent. “Baby…”

She turned just slightly, enough to catch his expression over her shoulder—eyes dark with frustration, lips parted, hair a wild halo around his pillow.

Her face lit with mock surprise. “Oops,” she said, biting back a smirk. “Forgot you were awake.”

Joe let out a long, suffering breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he propped himself up on one elbow. “You forgot, huh?”

“Totally innocent,” she said, pulling open a drawer and bending at the waist just enough to make him curse under his breath. “Just trying to get dressed.”

He watched as she slid her shorts down and stepped out of them with a grace that was anything but accidental, standing in nothing but the tank and a pair of lacey black panties he didn’t remember her owning.

“You do realize this counts as psychological warfare, right?”

She straightened, pulling a fresh pair of leggings from the drawer, her tone airy. “I don’t make the rules, Joey. Just trying to be comfortable while these heal.”

“No bra?” he asked, eyes locked on the swaying movement of her chest as she pulled her hair up into a bun.

“Can’t,” she said with a shrug. “Irritates them. Doctor’s orders.”

He groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow. “You’re the devil.”

“Correction,” she said, sliding the leggings up her thighs like she was moving through molasses. “I’m your devil.”

“Unfair,” he muttered, clearly suffering.

She turned and walked toward the bed slowly, purposefully, every step deliberate as her hips swayed. “Need help getting up?”

“I need Jesus,” Joe grumbled, pulling a pillow over his lap.

Angel laughed, low and soft, leaning down to press a slow, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got two weeks left. You’re doing so good, baby.”

“I don’t feel good,” he whispered, voice cracking as her chest brushed his shoulder just enough for him to feel the cool metal through the fabric.

She smirked. “Don’t give up on me now.”

Joe reached for her out of instinct, but she danced back, out of reach, lips curling in triumph as she pulled her hoodie over her tank and tied her hair up for real this time.

“Breakfast?” she asked like she hadn’t just made his morning hell.

He stared at her like she’d set him on fire and offered him toast.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, “the second June first hits, you’re mine.”

She paused at the door, casting him one last wicked smile. “Countdown’s ticking, baby.”

And then she was gone, humming down the hallway while Joe lay there in bed, completely wrecked before the day even started.

Again.

Σ>―💛→

Angel’s post-shower routine had become another carefully crafted test of Joe’s sanity. Not that she’d ever admit it outright—no, she claimed it was all “self-care” and “responsible aftercare.” But Joe knew better.

Every time she stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling behind her like mist from a spell, she made sure to towel off just enough to glisten. Her skin still damp, golden and glowing, she’d toss the towel aside with zero ceremony, letting it fall to the floor in a soft, damp heap. Then she’d walk—completely bare—across the room to their full-length mirror, hips swaying with that slow, unhurried confidence that made Joe feel like he was watching something sacred.

And then it began.

Body butter. That sweet, warm vanilla one she knew drove him insane. She’d open the jar, scoop some out, and start smoothing it in with long, deliberate motions—first her arms, then her legs, moving slow, rubbing circles into her skin like she was sculpting marble.

Joe watched from the bed, his back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head like restraint alone was the only thing keeping him from lunging. His jaw flexed, chest rising and falling in measured breaths as she worked her way up to her hips, then her stomach… and then, with zero hesitation, her breasts.

The piercings caught the light. Silver and perfect. Her thumbs worked in slow, careful circles, massaging the butter in, fingers grazing over metal and skin alike. She was focused, methodical, and entirely too graceful to pretend this wasn’t a performance.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed, unable to look away.

And then—because she knew exactly when to deliver the killing blow—she looked up. Met his gaze through the mirror like she’d just remembered he was there, watching her unravel him one circle of body butter at a time.

Her mouth curved into a smirk.

“Can’t neglect the healing process,” she said sweetly, almost innocently.

Joe didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“I need Jesus,” he whispered.

Angel chuckled under her breath, turning slightly so he could see even more of her side profile—her thigh propped up on the bench in front of the mirror now as she focused on the curve of her hip, the swell of her ass, the long, slow trail of her hands gliding over every inch like she had nowhere to be but here. Glowing. Teasing. Testing the man who hadn’t known true restraint until she’d gifted it to him in the form of four months of look, but don’t touch.

“You know,” she said conversationally, dipping her fingers into the jar again, “this stuff works better when it’s massaged in slowly. Blood circulation helps with the healing process.”

Joe let out a low, strangled noise from the back of his throat. “You’re evil.”

Angel looked over her shoulder, smiling like sin. “I’m glowing.”

“You’re naked,” he shot back.

“Semantics.”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face, then dropped it to the bed like he was seconds from waving a white flag.

Angel, completely unbothered, stood and admired her reflection for a beat longer before casually reaching for the oversized robe hanging on the door. She slipped into it slowly—so slowly it felt like a punishment in itself—and tied it loosely at the waist, leaving just enough of a gap to remind him of what he still wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Lunch?” she asked brightly, like she hadn’t just sent him to the brink of madness.

Joe glared at the ceiling like maybe divine intervention was coming for him after all. “Only if it’s served cold. Like my life.”

Angel giggled and disappeared into the hallway, hips swaying, leaving behind the lingering scent of vanilla and crushed resolve.

And Joe? Joe lay back on the bed, already counting down the days. Again.

Σ>―💛→

The kitchen smelled like home—the thick aroma of simmering tomato sauce mingled with garlic and fresh basil, curling through the warm air like a familiar invitation. Soft jazz hummed quietly from the speakers in the corner, mixing with the gentle clatter of pots and pans. Joe stood by the stove, stirring the spaghetti noodles with methodical patience, trying to keep his focus on dinner but already feeling the subtle pull of distraction tightening around him.

Angel floated beside him, an effortless presence in loose lounge pants and a cropped tank top that left little to the imagination. Her every movement was fluid, graceful, the way she moved around the kitchen like she owned the space—and the night. She reached up toward the top shelf to grab the jar of Italian seasoning, stretching her arms above her head in slow, deliberate motions. The thin straps of her tank slipped down her shoulders just so, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbone. Then, with teasing inevitability, the hem of her shirt lifted just enough to bare the gleam of her silver nipple piercings.

When her bare skin brushed against his shoulder as she leaned past him, Joe recoiled like he’d touched something electric. His breath caught, and the muscles in his neck tightened involuntarily.

“I’m just trying to make spaghetti here,” he muttered, voice low but edged with a mix of exasperation and something far more vulnerable. “Why are your tits involved in this operation?”

Angel turned to face him, eyes wide but sparkling with laughter that threatened to spill over. Her lips curled into that signature mischievous grin that always spelled trouble. “I don’t know, Joe. Maybe you’re the one standing in the way.”

He narrowed his eyes, setting the wooden spoon down with a soft clink against the pot. “Explain that.”

She stepped closer, the heat from her body radiating against his side like a quiet challenge. Leaning in, she dropped her voice to a teasing whisper, her breath warm against his ear. “Because every time you try to focus, I end up distracting you.” Her fingers traced a lazy path over his forearm, sending a jolt through him. “Maybe it’s my fault your hands keep wandering.”

Joe’s jaw clenched, fighting a grin even as his heart hammered against his ribs. “Hands haven’t even made it close yet,” he protested.

“Yet.” Angel’s smirk deepened, her eyes glinting with promise. “But I’m working on it.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he turned back toward the stove, though his eyes kept flickering to her—the way her tank clung loosely to her curves, the subtle shimmer of the piercings catching the kitchen light like tiny stars.

“You really want me to lose focus on dinner?” he asked, voice thick with mock accusation.

She shrugged innocently, then shot him a slow, deliberate wink. “I just want to make sure dinner is the last thing on your mind.”

Joe groaned, the heat pooling deep inside his belly, and muttered, “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Angel replied softly, looping an arm around his waist and pressing herself against him. Her fingers slid upward, tracing circles on his side like a silent promise.

Before he could respond, she tilted her head up and brushed her lips over his in a slow, teasing kiss that quickly deepened, drawing him in like gravity. His hands twitched, fingers brushing the edges of her tank top, aching to touch the warm skin beneath.

Joe’s hands slid beneath the fabric, grazing the cool silver of the piercings, and he let out a low, desperate sound. “Angel, come on—”

But she pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, a sly smile curving her lips. “Not yet.”

His brows furrowed in frustration, lips parting to plead, “Please? I’m losing my mind here.”

She laughed softly, a sound full of triumph. “You can wait. You’re going to have to earn it.”

He shook his head, half-laughing, half-defeated, as she slipped out of his grasp, the soft click of her footsteps retreating echoing through the room.

Joe stared after her, the simmering sauce bubbling quietly on the stove, the heat in his body growing, a delicious ache that made him wonder if he’d survive the night without losing control completely.

Σ>―💛→

A few days later, Joe had every intention of having a productive study session. The kitchen table was covered in notebooks, highlighters, and a half-empty cup of coffee—his battlefield for the next few hours. He was hunched over a complicated diagram, lips moving silently as he tried to memorize every detail.

But then Angel slipped in, as effortlessly distracting as ever.

She was wearing nothing but a pair of soft boyshorts and one of his old button-down shirts, left completely unbuttoned. The fabric hung loose and inviting, revealing more than Joe was ready for—her piercings peeking through, skin glowing softly in the afternoon light.

Without a word, she sauntered over to the table, her bare feet making no sound on the hardwood. Joe’s eyes stayed glued to his notes, stubbornly refusing to look up, but he could feel her presence closing in.

Suddenly, she leaned forward, reaching over the table with casual grace, her hand brushing against his papers as she plucked his pen from the mess.

“Didn’t mean to distract you,” she murmured, voice smooth and teasing.

Joe blinked, caught between glancing at the delicate curve of her chest framed by the open shirt and the scrawled words on his notebook. His brain scrambled to refocus, but it was hopeless.

“You’re gonna make me fail a quiz and a drug test at the same time,” he said, exasperated, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.

Angel grinned, tugging the shirt tighter around her waist just enough to remind him what he was up against. “That bad, huh?”

“Terrible,” he muttered, shaking his head. Then, catching her eyes, he added, “How am I supposed to concentrate when you keep showing up like this?”

She shrugged innocently but didn’t move away. “Maybe you need a break.”

Joe groaned, but the tired weight of studying suddenly felt a lot lighter—like maybe a little distraction wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Σ>―💛→

It was late—one of those nights when the guys were deep into a gaming session on Discord, their voices crackling through the headsets as they shouted strategies, exchanged barbs, and traded trash talk like seasoned veterans. Joe sat on the edge of the couch in the dimly lit living room, controller gripped firmly in his hands, eyes locked on the screen. The flickering glow of the TV bathed his focused face in shifting hues of electric blue and green, reflecting the digital battlefield where every second counted.

Around him, the room told the story of hours-long play: empty snack bags spilled near the coffee table, half-full soda cans sweating in the warm air, and the low hum of the game’s audio blending with the boys’ banter. Ja’Marr’s voice pierced through Joe’s headset with that familiar mix of rivalry and laughter, thick with the kind of competitive energy that always bubbled up when the game hit a tense point.

“Bro, you ready to get smoked or what?” Ja’Marr teased, chuckling as he laid down the challenge.

Joe smirked, his fingers twitching over the buttons, ready to fire back with a sharp comeback—when the door creaked open behind him, soft and deliberate.

Angel stepped inside like she owned the moment, her presence immediately stealing the air from the room. She moved with that effortless grace, a confident sway in her hips that made Joe’s head snap around faster than he expected. Loose lounge pants hugged her hips, but she wore no shirt—just one of his old, oversized faded tees, knotted casually at her waist, leaving her waist bare to the world. The soft cotton clung just enough to suggest, never hiding the silver flash of her nipple piercings that glittered under the overhead light like tiny rebellious stars.

She paused for the briefest moment—just long enough for their eyes to meet across the room, a spark of mischief dancing in her gaze. Then, with the smooth fluidity of a seasoned tease, she lifted the hem of the shirt in one practiced motion, revealing the bare skin beneath. The silver jewelry caught the light and shimmered—an unspoken challenge, a secret shared just between them.

She gave him a slow, deliberate wink, the kind that said I know exactly what I’m doing, before turning on her heel and sliding quietly back out of the room. The faint click of the door closing was like a whispered promise hanging in the air, leaving Joe suspended between shock and desire.

He blinked, frozen in place, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes drifted back to the screen. But the controller felt suddenly foreign in his hands, heavy and useless. His focus shattered, replaced by a swirling heat that seemed to consume every thought.

“Bro, you good?” Ja’Marr’s voice cut through the silence in his headset, sharp with curiosity and concern.

Joe swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper, raw with defeat. “…No. I’m not.”

The image of Angel’s bare skin and that slow, teasing wink kept replaying behind his eyelids, distracting him with an intensity that made it impossible to concentrate. The words in the headset faded into background noise as his pulse quickened, the heat in his chest spreading like wildfire.

“Dude, seriously, you’re about to throw the whole game,” Ja’Marr’s voice pressed again, sharper this time. “Focus up.”

Joe forced his jaw tight, trying to reel his attention back to the screen. He squinted at the flashing icons, the mini-map, the countdown timer—but all he could think about was Angel’s soft skin brushing against him, the subtle glint of metal catching the light, and the way she owned the room just by standing there.

Just as he was about to dive back into the match, the door swung open again, softer this time, and Angel slipped inside, her bare feet silent on the carpet. This time, she wore that same faded tee, but it was completely unbuttoned—no knot at the waist—letting the fabric fall open like a curtain revealing the real show.

She sauntered up behind Joe, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, leaning down so close her breath tickled the back of his neck. “Still distracted?” she whispered, voice low and teasing.

Joe’s breath hitched. “You’re killing me.”

She grinned, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shirt. “Good. You deserve a little punishment for ignoring me.”

“Punishment?” He turned his head just enough to catch her smirk in the reflection of the TV screen.

“Absolutely.” She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “But maybe if you win this game, I’ll reward you.”

Joe groaned, the challenge fueling a fire beneath his skin. He flicked his eyes back to the screen, gripping the controller tighter. “Now that’s motivation.”

Angel squeezed his shoulders gently and stepped back, disappearing with a playful wink and a soft click of the door. Joe exhaled slowly, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself.

“Alright, Ja’Marr,” he muttered into his mic, “Let’s finish this. But don’t blame me if I’m a little... distracted.”

Ja’Marr laughed. “Man, y’all are nasty.”

Joe shook his head, fingers moving faster, heart pounding—but with Angel’s tease still warming his skin, maybe, just maybe, he was ready to take on anything.

Σ>―💛→

Sometimes, when Joe was in the middle of changing in their bedroom—halfway through pulling off his shirt or reaching for a pair of shorts—Angel would quietly slip into the doorway without a sound. It was one of those subtle, unspoken moves that made his pulse spike every single time. She never made a scene or said a word; instead, she simply leaned casually against the doorframe, one arm lifted above her head, elbow resting lightly on the wood. The other arm hung loose at her side, fingers tracing idle patterns against her thigh.

Her posture was relaxed, almost effortless, but there was an undeniable electricity about her presence—like the whole room subtly shifted around her. The soft glow from the bedside lamp spilled through the space, casting a warm amber light that softened the edges of the furniture and draped shadows over her body. The thin fabric of her tank top hung loose and light, sheer enough that the silver flash of her new nipple piercings peeked beneath, catching the light with a quiet gleam that made Joe’s breath hitch.

He was halfway through pulling his shirt over his head when his eyes caught her in the doorway, and everything stopped. His arm froze mid-motion, the fabric dangling from his fingers. His muscles tensed, chest tightening with that sudden, familiar rush of heat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. Her eyes met his, sharp and mischievous, a silent challenge that spoke louder than words.

“Don’t just stand there like that,” Joe said, voice low and rough with a mixture of amusement and warning. His gaze didn’t waver from hers.

Angel’s lips twitched into a sly, almost predatory smile. “Like what?” she said, the playful tease in her tone impossible to miss. Her eyes sparkled, daring him. “I’m literally just standing here.”

Joe’s gaze swept over her slowly, savoring the sight—the way the thin cotton clung to the curves of her chest, the subtle outline of her nipples boldly visible beneath the fabric, glinting where the silver jewelry caught the light. It was like she’d crafted this moment just to torment him, and damn if it wasn’t working.

“Naked and disrespectful,” he shot back with a crooked grin, moving to the chair where a hoodie lay draped and yanked it off with mock exasperation. He tossed it her way like an overgrown kid reluctant to share his favorite toy.

She caught it without missing a beat, the soft laughter that spilled from her lips ringing warm and light in the room. It was a sound that had haunted his thoughts all day—like a private joke only they understood. She shrugged the hoodie over her shoulders, the fabric sliding against her skin, and took a slow step forward into the room, fully claiming the space as her own.

Joe exhaled deeply, caught somewhere between frustration and admiration. No matter how many times she pulled this stunt—how many times she slipped into the doorway and froze him in his tracks—Angel always had the perfect way of making his heart race, and every other part of him tingle with want.

He glanced down at the hoodie draped over her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You know, you could just ask,” he said, voice rougher now, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Angel tilted her head, mock innocent. “And spoil all the fun?”

Joe shook his head, amusement flickering through his tiredness. “Yeah, you’re impossible.”

Her grin widened, eyes twinkling like she was already plotting her next move. “Maybe. But I’m your impossible.”

The room settled into a warm silence, filled only by the faint hum of the city outside and the soft rustle of the hoodie as she pulled it tighter around her. Joe found himself watching her, memorizing the way the light hit her skin, the way she lingered just long enough to keep him guessing before finally moving away.

He caught himself thinking: no matter how many times she teased him, no matter how much she made him beg silently in his own mind—he wouldn’t trade these moments for anything.

Σ>―💛→

It was late. The kind of late where the world felt too quiet and the air too warm. Angel was curled against him in bed, wearing one of his cut-off tanks, no bra underneath. Just skin and sleepy heat.

Joe’s arm was around her waist, hand splayed across her stomach. He didn’t mean to start anything. Not really. But his thumb started moving, slow, absent strokes just under the fabric.

Angel shifted, pressing her back tighter to him. She hummed softly. “You’re getting handsy.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “You feel too good.”

His hand slid up just slightly, over her ribs, then paused at the edge of temptation. The fabric of her tank was thin—he could feel the jewelry through it. His breath caught.

Angel turned her head, voice barely a whisper. “Joe…”

He kissed her shoulder, his voice rough with restraint. “I just wanna touch.”

“They’re not fully healed yet.”

“I know,” he groaned, forehead pressing to her shoulder. “I swear I wasn’t trying to start anything. I just…”

“Miss them?” she teased gently.

“Miss you,” he corrected. “All of you. I’ve been good, Angel. So good. You have no idea.”

She rolled to face him, eyes soft and fond and a little wicked. “You want me to kiss it better?”

Joe exhaled like she’d knocked the wind out of him. “Angel, don’t play.”

“I’m not,” she whispered, brushing her lips over his. “But you still gotta wait.”

He let out a strangled sound of frustration, burying his face in her neck.

“I hate rules,” he muttered.

She laughed, stroking his hair. “You love me more.”

He groaned again. “That’s the only reason I’m surviving.”

Joe was unraveling.

Still buried in the crook of Angel’s neck, he let out a long, strained groan like he was in actual pain. His hand had stopped just under her chest, trembling from the effort it took not to move any higher. Every breath he took made his resolve slip further.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice cracking.

Angel hummed, soft and smug, dragging her nails up the back of his neck. “Yes, love?”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes wild and glassy with desperation. “Please.”

Her lips parted, feigning innocence. “Please what?”

“You know what,” he growled, the restraint in his body visibly wearing thin. “Just a little touch. I swear I’ll be gentle. I’ll be careful. I’ll be so careful.”

She bit her bottom lip, amused and a little flattered. “Joe—”

“Angel, please.” The word came out strangled, like it hurt to say. “You can’t just walk around here naked and glistening and wearing those little tops that don’t hide anything and expect me to be normal.”

“I’ve been following doctor’s orders,” she teased, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re the one losing your mind.”

“I lost it three weeks ago,” he confessed without shame. “I’m gone, baby. I’m a shell of a man.”

Her laugh was low and wicked as she traced the seam of his jaw. “So dramatic.”

“You don’t get it,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face before cupping her cheek with the other. “You were already hard to keep my hands off of. And now? You sparkle. Like a damn present. And I’m not allowed to unwrap you.”

Angel rolled her eyes, amused despite the heat in her belly. “It’s been three months and three weeks. That’s like… ninety-five percent of the way there.”

“Exactly! That’s practically healed!” he argued like he was in court. “I’ve read everything—online, in the aftercare stuff, even that weird Reddit thread. And I swear, they all said some people are good by week fourteen.”

“You went on Reddit?” she asked, shocked.

“I’m in forums, Angel,” he said, dead serious. “I’m lurking. I’m lurking so hard.”

She couldn’t help the laughter that escaped her, even as he pressed his forehead against hers and whispered again, more softly this time.

“Please let me touch you.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’ve had me dreaming about this for months. I’ve had to pray to stay in control. Do you know how many cold showers I’ve taken?” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip, eyes pleading. “Just one touch. One.”

Angel studied him, lips parting, chest rising and falling a little faster.

“You’ll be gentle?” she asked, like she didn’t already know the answer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he promised instantly. “I’ll be slow. I’ll be careful. I’ll treat you like glass, baby. Just… please.”

She paused. Let the tension stretch.

Then slowly—very slowly—she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, letting it fall between them in silence.

Joe’s breath caught like he’d just been handed a miracle.

His hands hovered, trembling, just a breath away from touching her. He reached out like she was sacred, fingertips brushing over the swell of her breast—but the moment they got close enough to graze the jewelry, Angel caught his wrist.

“Uh-uh,” she said softly, her voice a velvet dagger.

He blinked, stunned. “Angel…”

“I said four months, Joey.”

“It’s been four months and some change,” he argued, practically panting now, eyes wide and hungry. “I counted. I counted every damn day.”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “And the countdown ends… next week.”

Joe stared at her like she’d kicked him in the chest. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” she said sweetly, brushing her thumb along his jaw, her touch infuriatingly gentle. “It’s technically four months next week. If you want to be exact.”

He groaned like he was in physical agony, forehead dropping to her chest—but she arched away with a smirk, denying him even that.

“You’re cruel,” he whispered. “You’re so cruel.”

“I’m thorough,” she corrected, climbing off his lap like a cat unbothered. She stretched again, this time with full intent, her bare chest on full display for one glorious second before she pulled his shirt back on—slowly. Torturously.

Joe watched, visibly pained, eyes dark and jaw clenched so tight it might crack. “Angel…”

“I’m proud of you,” she said, like she hadn’t just turned his bones to jelly. “You’ve lasted longer than I thought you would.”

“Barely.”

She leaned in close, mouth brushing his ear, her voice a warm whisper. “Just one more week Joey. You can wait one more week, right?”

He made a sound halfway between a whimper and a prayer.

“I’m gonna die.”

“You’re gonna survive,” she said, already walking toward the closet, hips swaying with every step. “And next week? You can have all of me.”

Joe collapsed back against the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“You’re evil,” he mumbled.

“And you love me,” she called over her shoulder.

“I do,” he groaned, helpless. “But I also hate you just a little right now.”

She laughed, light and wicked. “Good. That’ll make next week even better.”

And with that, she disappeared into the other room, leaving Joe alone, painfully hard, and counting down the hours like a man waiting for his release from solitary confinement.

One more week.

Just one.

If he made it.

Σ>―💛→

But today—today—that streak was finally over.

He’d been counting—not just days, but moments. Every stolen glance when her shirt clung just a little tighter. Every time she stretched in front of him with no bra, feigning innocence with that slight smirk. Every teasing brush of her chest against his back while he tried to stay focused on game film, breathing through his nose like he wasn’t two seconds from begging.

It had been four months. One hundred and twenty days. Seventeen weeks of temptation, discipline, and whispered promises he’d murmured into her skin. But now… now the wait was over.

And he was already half hard just thinking about it.

Angel was sprawled across their bed, belly down, lazily flipping through a worn paperback, one of her legs bent at the knee as she hummed quietly to the music playing from her phone speaker. Her hair was piled into a messy bun that exposed the delicate slope of her neck, and Joe had been watching her from the doorway for the past five minutes, arms crossed, jaw tight.

The sunlight made her skin glow. The kind of glow that didn’t just catch the eye—it pulled at something deeper. His fingers twitched like they missed the feel of her already, and he hadn't even touched her yet.

She glanced up, sensing him.

“You okay?” she asked, a little amused, a little curious.

His voice came out hoarse, deeper than he intended. “What day is it?”

Angel smiled. Slow. Knowing. “June first.”

That was all he needed.

Joe pushed off the doorframe with quiet purpose, the air shifting as he crossed the room. Angel sat up just as he reached the edge of the bed, her eyes laughing even as her body leaned into his.

“You really remembered the date?”

“I’ve had it circled in my mental playbook since the night you flashed me,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist, tugging her into his lap. Her book fell to the floor, forgotten.

“You act like it was hard,” she teased, straddling him. “I’m not that irresistible.”

Joe gave her a look that made her feel scorched from the inside out. “Angel… you wore tank tops. No bra. Around the house. For weeks.”

“You said you liked when I’m comfortable.”

“I do,” he murmured, lips brushing her jaw. “But I like it a hell of a lot more when I can touch you.”

His hands slid under the hem of her shirt—one of his old LSU tees she always stole—the pads of his fingers grazing her lower back with slow, reverent pressure.

She shivered. “So what now?”

Joe didn’t answer with words. He just shifted her back, guiding her gently until she was lying across the pillows, curls tumbling free, brown eyes wide as he knelt over her.

The shirt came off slowly, like unwrapping a gift he’d been forbidden to touch. His hands trembled just enough to give him away. When the cotton hit the floor and the light caught the silver jewelry—two small bars glinting against her rich skin—Joe stilled completely.

His breath caught. His eyes darkened. And for a second, he just stared.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Baby…”

Angel’s cheeks flushed under the heat of his gaze, but her smile was smug. “Still think I was torturing you on accident?”

He swallowed hard. “I take back everything I ever said about you not being a menace.”

“Good.”

Joe reached out, slow and reverent, fingers ghosting over her ribs until they hovered—just hovered—above the new jewelry. He didn’t touch yet, didn’t dare. His voice came out tight. “You sure I can?”

She nodded, breath already shaky. “You waited.”

“Damn right I did.”

And then his hands made contact—light, reverent, and maddeningly gentle. Angel gasped, back arching just from the glide of his thumb across the side of her breast, careful not to disturb the fresh skin too much.

Her nipples had always been sensitive, but the jewelry heightened everything—her pulse kicked up just under his gaze alone.

Joe lowered his head, his voice a promise murmured into her skin. “You’ve been teasing me with these for months.”

Her hands threaded into his hair as his lips ghosted over her sternum, inching lower.

“I wasn’t teasing,” she said, breathless. “I was being responsible.”

He chuckled darkly. “That’s cute. Let me be irresponsible now.”

But then his mouth followed.

Slow. Careful. Worshipful.

His lips wrapped around one pierced nipple, the cold metal pressing against the warmth of his tongue. Angel cried out, a sound she hadn’t meant to make, her fingers flying to his hair as sensation lit her up from the inside out.

“Still good?” he asked, voice low, voice rough.

“Joe,” she whispered, “if you stop now, I will scream.”

That earned her a wicked smile before he ducked his head again, taking his time, alternating between teasing flicks and deep, steady suction that had her thighs squeezing around his waist.

“I missed this,” she breathed, breath catching as he moved to the other side.

“You had me the whole time,” Joe said, nipping at her skin. “But now I get all of you again.”

Every kiss that followed was soaked in meaning. In built-up need. In four months of restraint finally unraveling.

The rest of the evening blurred into hours of sensation—soft moans and tangled sheets, whispered filth and sweeter confessions, Joe worshiping every inch of her with the kind of patience that came from knowing it was worth every second of the wait.

And when they finally collapsed into each other, breathless and smiling, Angel curled into his side, her chest rising and falling as she traced lazy circles on his stomach.

Joe pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then, lower. Then finally to her chest again—gentle, reverent, his fingers brushing the now thoroughly adored piercings.

“Next time you get something pierced,” he murmured, “I’m going with you.”

Angel laughed sleepily. “Next time I’m making you wait six months.”

Joe groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow. “You’re evil.”

“Mmhm,” she said with a soft, smug smile. “But I’m yours.”

He wrapped his arms around her tighter, hand still resting on her chest like he couldn’t quite believe the countdown was over.

“Damn right you are.”

[honeydippedfiction]

#3 established relationship for Angel and Joe

So I combined this with another request, but I hope you still love it!

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#3. Driving your car routinely to fill the tank, wash it, clean it out, etc.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Angel knew her car was clean before she even walked out the door.

It was always like that on Sunday evenings. The air would smell faintly of tire shine and lavender interior spray, drifting in through the kitchen window before she even touched the keys. It was the scent of care, of ritual, of Joe’s quiet love at work. Her car sat in the driveway parked a little straighter than when she left it, its black paint polished just enough to catch the sun and wink back at her.

When she stepped outside, keys jangling in her hand, she already knew what she’d find: a full tank, the floor mats vacuumed down to the fibers, and her favorite peach iced tea tucked lovingly into the center console.

Always peach. Never too sweet.

That was Joe.

The note was waiting for her on the steering wheel—folded, neat, just like the man himself.

“You’ve got a full tank, baby. Drive safe this week. — J”

Angel read it twice before smiling to herself, her heart full in that quiet, overflowing way love has when it’s rooted in the everyday. Not the loud, social-media kind of love—but the durable, steel-threaded kind. The kind that holds you even when you're apart. The kind that fills your gas tank every Sunday and never once forgets to wipe down the rearview mirror because he knows you use it to put on lip gloss at red lights.

She walked around the side of the house, rounding the corner where the sound of a basketball hitting concrete echoed rhythmically in the driveway. Joe stood there in an old hoodie and sweatpants, hoodie sleeves pushed up over his forearms, brow furrowed in that calm, focused way that always made her stomach flip.

He caught her in his periphery and stopped dribbling. “Full tank again?” he called out, like he didn’t already know.

She held up the note, waving it in the air. “Is this your version of poetry now?”

He smirked. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Angel walked toward him, slow and deliberate, letting him see the amusement in her eyes. “You know I could do all this myself, right?”

Joe nodded, bouncing the ball once. “Of course. But you shouldn’t have to.”

She walked toward him, stopping just at the edge of the driveway. “It’s not like I expect it.”

“I know that too.” He offered the ball out to her, like a peace offering.

She didn’t take it. Instead, she reached up and placed her hand on his chest, right over his heartbeat. “But you’ve been doing this since year one. Back when I was still driving that busted Civic with the duct-taped mirror.”

“Hey,” Joe said with a nostalgic laugh. “Don’t talk bad about the Civic. She got us through a lot.”

“She did,” Angel agreed. “But you got me through more.”

They stood like that for a moment—comfortable silence, full of shared memory. No flashbulbs, no fanfare, just the kind of quiet love that rooted itself deep.

From the very beginning, Joe had given Angel what she called “the princess treatment,” though he never used the term himself. It wasn’t about grand, romantic declarations. Joe didn’t need roses or choreographed dinners to show his heart. His romance lived in the details: the way he opened her door before getting into his own car, how he memorized her coffee order by their second date, or how he always carried an extra pair of gloves in winter just in case she forgot hers.

He had grown up in a small Ohio town with a coach for a father and a mother who kept the house full of warmth and accountability. He wasn’t flashy by nature. But when it came to Angel—he showed up.

Not for the cameras. Not for Instagram. Just because that’s how you treated the woman you loved.

That was the thing about him. Joe never made a show of it—never bragged, never used the word “chivalry.” But he showed up for her in all the small, meaningful ways that built a foundation no storm could shake.

It had been that way from the start.

She still remembered the first time he picked her up for dinner, back when they were just dating. Joe had cleaned out the passenger seat of his truck and laid a folded blanket across it because he knew she hated sitting on cold leather in the winter. No one had ever done that for her before. And when she got in, there was a playlist already queued up—songs she’d mentioned in passing over text. Old-school R&B, some H.E.R., a little Anita Baker. He didn’t just listen. He remembered.

“Thought you might want to be comfortable,” he’d said back then, casually, as if that wasn’t the smoothest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Later that same night, when they got caught in the rain walking back to his truck, Joe took off his jacket without hesitation and held it over her head the whole way—even though he was the one who had practice the next morning. She tried to protest, but he just smiled and said, “You look too good to be walking around wet.”

Little things. Always little things.

When she started night shifts during her internship in Baton Rouge for the local sports broadcast, he never let her drive home without checking in first. More than once, he stayed up after games—long after the media scrums and film breakdowns—just to FaceTime her while she sat in the staff lounge with tired eyes and vending-machine coffee.

“Want me to talk you home?” he’d ask, and then he’d narrate her drive with jokes, updates on his day, and gentle reminders to get something to eat. She never had to ask. He was just there.

And now, years later, even with contracts signed and stadium lights following his every move, nothing had changed.

Sundays were still for her.

Joe still filled her tank.

Still vacuumed the carpets.

Still replaced her windshield wipers without her even noticing they were streaking.

And in the winter, she’d often come out to find her car already warmed up, seat heaters on, and a note on the dashboard that simply read: “Didn’t want you to be cold. Love you.”

Angel leaned in now, standing on her toes just slightly to brush her lips against his. “You’ve been spoiling me since the beginning, Joseph Lee.”

He rested his forehead against hers, his voice a low hum. “I’m not spoiling you. I’m doing what you deserve.”

She tilted her head, eyes locked on his. “You don’t think this is over the top? Gas tank. Clean car. Sticky notes. Blanket in the seat? I’m not even that high-maintenance.”

“You’re not,” he said, “but I’ve always believed in preventative care.”

She laughed softly and stepped back, folding her arms. “Okay, Doc Burrow. What else you got in your relationship care plan?”

Joe scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Well, I always keep a charger in your purse. Made sure your heated seat settings are saved. Oh—and I replaced the lip balm in your glove compartment last week.”

“You did not.”

“Peppermint. SPF 15. You were almost out.”

She stared at him for a long moment, chest warm, cheeks flushed. “You make it really hard to be mad at you.”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “I plan on keeping it that way.”

That was what made their love so real—not just the romance of it, but the reliability. The calm in it. The way he loved her like it was his honor, not his obligation. And the way Angel, who had always been the strong one, the one who handled things, could finally relax. Because Joe did what most men forgot to: he paid attention.

And he never stopped showing up.

So yes, every Sunday evening, Angel’s car gleamed in the driveway. But what really shone was the love behind it—the slow, steady, faithful kind that carried them forward, full tank after full tank.

She shook her head, laughing quietly. “You’ve been spoiling me since day one.”

“Not spoiling,” he corrected gently. “Just making sure you know you’re loved. Every day.”

And that was the truth of it. There were hundreds of small moments that shaped their life together, but it was this—the routine Sunday drive, the full gas tank, the bottle of tea in the console—that spoke the loudest.

Angel leaned in, kissing him quickly, warmly. “Well, you succeed. Every single time.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “You make it easy.”

They stood there in the driveway, the sun slipping behind the trees, the sound of wind in the leaves and distant cars passing by. No paparazzi. No NFL spotlight. Just a quarterback, a nurse, a shared life—and a car with a full tank, ready to carry her into a new week.

Because Joe Burrow didn’t just protect the pocket—he protected her. And he always would.

[honeydippedfiction]

Angel and Joe with 'Eagerly watching you hold a little fashion show after coming home from shopping.' but then it turns spicy with Toying with a piece of clothing, whether that be the collar of your shirt, slowly undoing your belt, sliding a finger under the waistband of your underwear before letting it snap back against your skin. and 'don't just stand there, you tease. come here and let me taste'

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#26. Eagerly watching you hold a little fashion show after coming home from shopping. 'Toying with a piece of clothing, whether that be the collar of your shirt, slowly undoing your belt, sliding a finger under the waistband of your underwear before letting it snap back against your skin. and 'don't just stand there, you tease. come here and let me taste'

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Angel Burrow cracked open one sleepy eye, hearing the soft coos of her six-month-old daughter, Zariyah, on the baby monitor. She smiled to herself—those little morning babbles were her favorite soundtrack these days.

Joe was still asleep, sprawled across the bed with one arm slung lazily over where Angel had been. For a moment, she lingered there, watching her quarterback husband sleep, his curls mussed and his face at peace. A soft warmth filled her chest, but today was her day.

Her girls day.

She hadn’t had one since Zariyah was born, and she could feel it in her bones—she needed this. Needed to step back into the version of herself that existed before spit-up stained sweaters and three-hour naps on the nursery floor.

After six months of adjusting to the beautiful chaos that came with being a new mother to baby Zariyah, Angel was finally carving out a few hours for herself. A long-overdue girls day with her best friend Monica was exactly what the doctor ordered—and frankly, her soul had been begging for it.

“Z is fed, dressed, and in a great mood,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone, as she packed the diaper bag for Joe.

Downstairs, Joe bounced their daughter gently in his arms, pacing back and forth near the front door. Zariyah’s soft curls had a mind of their own, much like her spirit. She giggled and squealed every time Joe made a silly face or kissed her cheeks.

When Angel descended the stairs, radiant in an effortless two-piece set and sneakers so clean they practically sparkled, Joe paused and looked her over with open admiration. “Damn,” he said, blinking slowly. “Girls day, huh?”

Angel chuckled, grabbing her bag. “Don’t act surprised. I told you I was getting cute today.”

“You’re always cute,” he replied with a smirk, handing over the baby with a little spin. “But today? You’re trouble.”

Zariyah babbled in agreement.

Angel kissed Joe on the cheek and then Zariyah’s forehead. “Try not to let her drive you crazy,” she teased.

Joe gave her a mock salute. “Ten-hut, Captain Mom. We’ll hold down the fort.”

Outside, Monica was already waiting in her sleek black SUV, music pulsing faintly through the closed windows. She rolled it down as soon as Angel approached, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose.

“Ohhh, yes ma’am!” Monica called out. “You better walk down that driveway like it’s a runway.”

Angel tossed her bag into the car and slid into the passenger seat. “Let’s go before I remember I left two loads of laundry in the dryer.”

Monica laughed, throwing the car into drive. “Don’t worry, babe. Today is about vibes, not responsibilities.”

Their first stop was brunch downtown. They sat on the patio, warm sun on their skin and mimosas in hand. The conversation flowed as easily as the citrusy drinks—catching up on everything from Monica’s new situationship to Angel’s sleepless nights and all the messy beauty in between.

“You’re glowing,” Monica said between bites of avocado toast. “Motherhood looks real good on you.”

Angel grinned, swirling her drink. “Thanks, but I’ve been looking like a raccoon for the past six months. I needed this detox from diapers.”

After brunch, they hit the nail salon—chrome gel sets with detailed accents, because as Monica said, “It’s all in the details, babe.” From there, they swung by their favorite hair salon for scalp massages and blowouts, each of them emerging with fresh styles and new energy.

It was late afternoon when they reached the mall. The air conditioning offered sweet relief from the heat as they strolled from one store to the next, arms slowly accumulating shopping bags like medals of honor. Sephora. Zara. A Black-owned boutique tucked in the corner where Angel snagged a sleek jumpsuit and Monica talked her into matching gold hoops.

While browsing in one store, they were stopped by a group of young women, one of whom gasped when she recognized Angel.

“Oh my God, you’re Joe Burrow’s wife, right?”

Angel paused, a bit startled but gracious. “I am.”

“We love you guys!” the woman gushed. “And your baby is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Can we get a picture?”

Angel smiled, nodding. “Of course!”

As Monica snapped the photos, one of the girls whispered, “She’s even prettier in real life.”

Back in motion, Monica nudged her. “You really are the people’s princess.”

Angel rolled her eyes playfully. “Nah, I’m just the woman who married the golden boy.”

Monica scoffed. “Please. You’re the Angel Burrow. Don’t play yourself.”

Their final stop was an upscale lingerie boutique nestled near the mall’s exit. The lighting was soft, the music low and sultry, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and vanilla.

“Alright,” Monica said, already eyeing a sheer emerald green set. “Time to shop for a surprise. My little boo has no idea what’s coming.”

Angel chuckled, trailing behind her. “You’re such a menace.”

“I try,” Monica said, flicking a hanger with flair.

As Monica hunted down sizes and styles, Angel meandered through the displays, half-interested—until her hands brushed over a deep red satin teddy. She stopped. It was bold, romantic… and exactly the kind of thing she hadn’t worn in months.

Before she knew it, she had gathered a small pile: the red teddy, a black lace bodysuit with strategic cutouts, and a blush-toned bralette and panty set with delicate gold embroidery.

When Monica returned, her arms full of hangers, she glanced at Angel’s haul and smirked.

“Well, well, well,” she teased, setting her own pieces down. “About time you brought that fire back, momma. You’re trying those and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Angel raised a skeptical brow. “Says the woman who once convinced me to buy thigh-high boots I never wore.”

“And you still looked bomb in them. Now go.”

Monica took the lead in the changing rooms, emerging in a rotating lineup of sultry and sleek. Each time, she struck a pose for Angel.

“This one says ‘I’m a snack.’ This one says ‘full-course meal.’ This one says ‘dessert at midnight.’”

Angel laughed so hard her stomach hurt. “That one definitely says ‘booty is a privilege.’”

Once Monica narrowed down her final picks, she gave Angel a pointed look. “Alright. Your turn.”

Angel hesitated. “It’s been a minute.”

“And yet,” Monica said, taking a seat outside the fitting rooms, “you’re still that girl. Let’s go.”

Angel emerged a few minutes later in the red teddy, smoothing the straps. The moment she stepped into the soft light, Monica gasped.

“Angel. Oh, this is it. That color on your skin? You’re dangerous.”

Each outfit brought more cheers—or the occasional “Nah, that one’s not a winner,” because Monica kept it real. By the end, Angel stood in front of the mirror in the black lace bodysuit, feeling more like herself than she had in months.

She turned. “Too much?”

“Girl,” Monica said, wide-eyed, “Joe is going to keep you locked up in that house once he sees you in these.”

They laughed their way to checkout, arms full of delicate lace and silk. As the cashier rang them up, Angel raised an eyebrow at her total and winced. “My bank account is crying.”

“But your man’s gonna be praising the heavens,” Monica replied, tossing a wink. “Worth every penny.”

The sun had started its slow descent, stretching golden fingers across the freeway as Angel and Monica sped along with the windows cracked just enough to let the early evening breeze sweep through the SUV. The playlist—curated expertly by Monica, of course—shifted from upbeat girl anthems to smooth R&B, blending laughter with bass.

Angel’s curls danced in the wind, and her lips moved to every lyric like muscle memory. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, bags rustling quietly in the back seat with every turn.

Monica leaned back with a satisfied sigh, legs crossed on the dash like the day hadn’t drained her at all. “We needed today. Like, spiritually.”

Angel nodded. “My soul’s been on life support. I forgot how good it feels to just... exist. Outside of diapers and bottles.”

“You’re still that girl, and don’t let motherhood make you forget it,” Monica replied, pointing with her fresh chrome nails. “Joe’s about to be a problem once he sees what you bought.”

Angel smirked, eyes still on the road. “He might faint. I may have gone a little overboard.”

Monica let out a delighted cackle. “You? Overboard? Sis, your man is an NFL quarterback who worships the ground you walk on. He’ll build an altar when he sees you in that red lace.”

By the time they pulled up in front of Monica’s apartment, the car was full of new energy—sisterhood, shared secrets, the hum of restoration.

Angel parked at the curb and turned down the music. “Thanks for today. Really.”

Monica squeezed her hand. “Anytime. And I expect a full report on Burrow’s reaction.”

“Oh, you’ll get a play-by-play,” Angel teased.

They hugged, said their goodbyes, and Monica slipped out with a wink before Angel merged back into traffic. The drive home was quieter now, the adrenaline of the day settling into a comfortable afterglow.

And with that, Angel pulled away, the sky darkening gently around her as she made her way home—bags in the trunk, music humming low, and her heart full.

She didn’t know it yet, but the fire she’d rediscovered that day wasn’t just about lingerie or a little glam.

It was about coming back to herself. And she was just getting started.

By the time she reached the house, twilight had painted the sky in streaks of lavender and peach. As the garage door slowly lifted, Angel spotted them immediately—Joe standing in the doorway to the house, barefoot and in sweatpants, holding baby Zariyah like she was the crown jewel of his world. And she was.

The soft light caught them just right: Joe with his curls slightly tousled and a boyish smile tugging at his lips, and Zariyah cooing in his arms, one tiny fist tangled in his hoodie strings. It was the kind of image that made Angel’s chest swell.

She parked and climbed out slowly, a smile blooming on her lips before she even reached them.

“There’s my baby girl!” Angel sang, her voice lifting as she rushed to the steps, arms already outstretched.

Zariyah let out a squeal of delight and bounced in Joe’s arms, her little legs kicking with excitement. Angel kissed her soft cheeks over and over, inhaling the sweet scent of baby lotion and formula.

Then, as naturally as breathing, Angel leaned up and pressed her lips to Joe’s. A slow, tender kiss. Nothing dramatic—just long enough to say, I missed you. I’m home.

Joe’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, completely undone by the softness of her mouth and the warmth of her energy.

When they broke apart, he smiled like a man who had just glimpsed heaven.

“I see girls day was a success,” he murmured, voice thick with admiration.

Angel gave him a knowing hum and took Zariyah from his arms, bouncing the baby gently on her hip. “My bank is going to hate me, Joe.”

He laughed, following her toward the car. “How bad are we talking?”

Angel opened the trunk, and Joe’s eyes widened at the sheer number of bags stacked like mini shopping trophies.

“Oh, it’s bad,” she said with mock seriousness.

Joe reached for a couple of them, but Angel stepped in front of him with a playful finger wag. “Uh uh. No peeking, mister. I’ll take them upstairs. You can see everything... later, once Z’s asleep.”

Joe groaned like a man who had just been denied the final play in the red zone. “You’re torturing me.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “And yet you love it.”

He chuckled and relented, stepping back and scooping Zariyah into his arms again. “Alright. But I’m holding you to that promise.”

Angel gave him a sly look as she started her first trip into the house, bags swinging from her arms. “Oh, you’ll get your reward.”

The next twenty minutes turned into a mini workout. Three full trips—first the clothes and accessories, then the new shoes, and finally the very important, very secret lingerie bag, which she tucked discreetly into the corner of the walk-in closet beneath a few jackets.

Joe offered to help again, but she shooed him away each time.

“Consider it part of the suspense,” she teased on her last return to the garage, wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow.

After the final bag had been tucked away—lingerie discreetly hidden beneath a tangle of soft sweaters in the walk-in closet—Angel took a breath and rolled her shoulders. The long day of pampering, laughter, and low-key mischief with Monica had been exactly what she needed. But nothing, not even a girls day full of shopping and spa stops, compared to the warmth that filled her chest the moment she stepped back into the kitchen and saw Joe there, sleeves rolled up, baby monitor on the counter, soft music playing in the background.

The lights above the island cast a cozy glow, and the faint scent of garlic and olive oil mingled in the air as he stirred a sauté pan. Angel padded barefoot across the tile and leaned her hip against the counter, watching her husband in his comfort zone. There was something endlessly attractive about a man who knew his way around fatherhood and a skillet.

When she joined him in the kitchen, Zariyah was back in her bouncer, playing with her soft teething ring, and Joe was pulling out ingredients for dinner.

Angel peeked at the cutting board. “Chef Burrow in the building?”

“I figured you’d be tired,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Thought I’d get started.”

She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “And this is why I married you.”

He turned and kissed her forehead. “It’s one of the reasons, right?”

Angel laughed. “Top five. Right after ‘makes good babies’ and ‘puts the toilet seat down.’”

He grinned and handed her a knife. “You can chop the garlic then. Teamwork.”

They worked side-by-side, Zariyah babbling nearby, the scent of sautéed onions and herbs filling the air. It was peaceful in a way that grounded Angel after such a fast-paced day—an anchor back into the safe haven of her little family.

She reached out and plucked a carrot stick from the prep bowl, crunching thoughtfully.

“Was she any trouble?” Angel asked, her tone casual, though her smirk betrayed her.

Joe didn’t even turn around at first, just gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. “She was perfect.”

Angel raised a brow, arms folding as she narrowed her eyes in mock disbelief. “Our daughter? Zariyah Jasmine Burrow? The mini menace didn’t cause a ruckus today?”

Joe finally looked over his shoulder, grinning like a man who’d been caught mid-lie. “No ruckus. I swear.”

“Mmhmm,” Angel said, inching closer, leaning into the doubt like a well-worn inside joke. “So she didn’t scream like a banshee when her pacifier fell out?”

“She… voiced her displeasure a little,” Joe admitted with a laugh.

“And you didn’t have to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ on repeat while holding her like Simba to calm her down?”

“She just likes when I freestyle. I may or may not have invented a remix,” Joe replied, lifting a wooden spoon like a microphone. “Zariyah's got taste.”

Angel rolled her eyes and walked over to the other side of the counter, grabbing a cutting board and a knife. “So what I’m hearing is, chaos did in fact occur, but you handled it like a champ.”

He reached out and bumped her hip affectionately. “You trained me well.”

Together, they fell into the kind of rhythm only two people who truly knew each other could share—chopping, stirring, moving around each other like a pair of dancers in slow motion. There were soft touches and whispered jokes, a low hum of domestic ease layered beneath the music.

Angel sliced zucchini while Joe grilled seasoned chicken breasts. Occasionally, one of them would glance toward the monitor where Zariyah slept peacefully, tiny fists curled near her cheeks.

“Did she at least nap for you?” Angel asked, turning to place the chopped vegetables into a bowl.

“Twice,” Joe said proudly. “One long one after lunch and a shorter one while I watched film.”

Angel gave him a sidelong glance. “Did you hold her the whole time?”

Joe shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “She naps longer when I do.”

Angel paused, her heart giving a little tug at the sweetness of it all. Joe was many things on the field—strategic, composed, precise—but at home, he was just Zariyah’s dad. Soft, silly, patient. It was the version of him she’d fallen in love with long before Super Bowls and media days.

“Sometimes I think she’s just pretending to be difficult with me,” Angel muttered as she sprinkled sea salt over the salad.

Joe looked up. “She’s playing the long game. You’re the boss. She’s trying to stage a slow coup.”

Angel laughed so loudly it startled the monitor for a second. She walked over and leaned against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Thanks for today, seriously. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”

Joe placed his hand over hers and kissed her knuckles. “You give everything to her. You deserve time for yourself, too. I got it handled. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Angel echoed, pressing her forehead to his back. “I can live with that.”

The oven timer dinged and they broke apart, plating their meal in comfortable silence. Angel poured them both glasses of sparkling lemonade and took a seat at the island while Joe served dinner.

They ate side by side, shoulders touching occasionally, laughter flowing just as easily as the conversation. It was a simple dinner—grilled lemon chicken, roasted vegetables, quinoa—but it felt luxurious in the way quiet, uninterrupted time often does.

Angel speared a piece of zucchini. “You know, after all that shopping, I didn’t even show you what I got.”

Joe raised a brow. “Not even a sneak peek?”

“Later,” Angel said with a grin. “Once Zariyah’s officially down for the night.”

Joe exhaled like the anticipation was a physical weight. “You’re killing me.”

Angel sipped her drink, eyes sparkling. “That’s the plan.”

They cleared the dishes together, trading jokes about whose turn it was to do the drying (“You’re taller, you reach the top cabinets faster,” Angel insisted) before heading upstairs for bedtime duty.

The last light of day had long faded, replaced by the hush of night blanketing the Burrow home. Down the hall, a soft lullaby played faintly through the baby monitor, and the comforting scent of lavender from Zariyah’s nighttime bath still lingered in the air.

Angel stood quietly beside the crib, gazing down at their daughter. Zariyah was deep in slumber now, arms stretched above her head in that carefree way only babies seemed to sleep. Her long lashes fluttered occasionally, lips gently parted around the edge of her pacifier.

Joe stood a step behind Angel, hands in his pockets, watching them both with quiet reverence.

“She looks like you when she sleeps,” he murmured, voice low to keep from disturbing the peace.

Angel smiled but kept her eyes on their baby. “You say that every night.”

“And I’ll keep saying it,” he replied, gently placing a hand on the small of her back.

She finally turned to face him, the corners of her mouth curving up as she slipped her hand into his. “Come on, Burrow,” she said, her tone lighter now, teasing. “Your personal show awaits.”

Joe let out a breath of a laugh, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, when you put it like that...”

Angel led him out of the nursery and down the hall, their footsteps soft against the hallway runner. The house had gone still around them, quiet and dim, the kind of intimate silence that only settled in when the baby was finally down for the night and the grown-ups could reclaim just a little of their own world.

When they reached their bedroom, Angel pushed the door open gently and flicked on the low amber lights from the bedside sconces. The room glowed warmly—cozy, familiar, and tinged with anticipation.

Joe was already tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt when she turned to him with a raised brow. “Ah ah—no moving yet. Sit,” she said with mock authority, pointing to the edge of the bed.

With a soft chuckle and a playful salute, Joe obeyed, sitting down and resting his elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving her.

Angel crossed the room and disappeared into their walk-in closet. “No peeking,” she called behind her.

“Not even a little?” Joe teased, leaning to the side like he could catch a glimpse past the door frame.

“Be patient,” she said, her voice floating out with a light laugh.

Inside the closet, Angel took a steadying breath. The shopping bags were exactly where she’d left them earlier—lined up by brand, carefully tucked away like little secrets. She pulled them out one by one, gathering the first few items: a structured blazer in crisp cream with gold buttons, a silky olive green wrap dress that hugged in all the right places, and a pair of wide-leg pants in soft mocha. Then came the shoes: nude stilettos, snakeskin booties, and a pair of strappy black sandals she’d fallen in love with at first sight.

The first look was sleek and sophisticated—a cream-colored blazer that hugged her waist and accentuated the gentle curve of her hips. Underneath, she wore nothing but a delicate satin camisole in soft beige, tucked into wide-leg mocha trousers that draped effortlessly to her ankles. On her feet were the snakeskin booties she’d fallen in love with earlier at the mall.

“Okay, businesswoman vibes,” Joe said, nodding in appreciation. “Are you about to fire me or promote me?”

Angel smirked, giving him a slow twirl. “Depends on how well you behave.”

“You look like a whole CEO,” he said, leaning back with a grin. “CEO of taking my breath away.”

Angel rolled her eyes playfully and disappeared into the closet again.

The next time she came out, the vibe had completely changed.

Gone was the structured look—now she was soft and sultry in a silky olive-green wrap dress that clung to her like it was tailored just for her. The thigh slit danced with every step she took, and she paired it with black strappy heels that gave her walk a subtle sway.

Joe’s eyes darkened slightly, his jaw ticking as he watched her cross the room.

“Okay, now that’s date night,” he murmured. “No way you’re wearing that in public.”

Angel cocked a brow. “Possessive already?”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Have you seen you?”

She paused just in front of him, hands on her hips. “Well, I did buy it with you in mind.”

Joe’s lips twitched. “I knew I married a genius.”

She gave him a quick wink, then retreated once more into the closet. Each outfit that followed painted a new mood—elegant, playful, bold. A slinky black jumpsuit with a deep neckline. A ruched burgundy midi dress that made Joe audibly groan. A cozy off-shoulder sweater dress paired with suede boots that made him smile in a different way, like he could already picture her curled up on the couch with Zariyah on her lap.

When she finally stepped out again, it wasn’t just clothes in her arms—it was a tiny shoebox and a smaller gift bag.

“Alright, now for the really important things,” Angel said.

“These,” she said, walking over to the bed, “are for my favorite humans.”

Joe perked up. “We’re getting to the good stuff now?”

She opened the box first and pulled out a pair of baby pink sneakers, no bigger than the palm of her hand and held them up. Joe’s face softened instantly.

“For Z,” she said. “You know... so she can start her sneakerhead journey early.”

Joe’s face lit up. “No way. Little Z got new kicks?”

“She had to,” Angel said, shaking her head like it was obvious. “The child has my face and your feet. She deserves good shoes.”

“And what about me?” Joe asked, trying to peek into another bag. “Did I get anything, or is this just ladies’ day all the way?”

Angel fished out a box and tossed it to him gently. “Try not to cry.”

Joe opened it and pulled out a navy blue hoodie embroidered with “#GirlDad” in cursive across the chest. He blinked, clearly touched.

“You like it?” Angel asked, suddenly a little shy.

“Babe... this is perfect.”

“I figured you earned it. You survived a full day with the mini menace.”

“I love it,” he said, voice low. “You have no idea. Thank you.”

He reached for her hand, tugging her gently toward him. “I’d survive anything for you two.”

Angel let him pull her closer, her knee pressing lightly into the bed between his legs. He kissed the back of her hand slowly, deliberately, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

She smiled, brushing her free hand through his hair. “You’re sweet.”

She melted against his chest, letting herself linger there for a few quiet seconds. His scent, the low thrum of his voice, the steadiness of his arms—it all wrapped around her like safety.

Joe leaned back just slightly, head tilted. “So... I noticed you’ve been dancing around one particular bag.”

Angel raised a brow, feigning innocence. “What bag?”

He gestured toward the closet. “There’s one left, I counted how many you had. The one you won’t let me touch.”

“Oh,” she said casually. “That’s for later.”

Joe groaned dramatically, falling back onto the bed. “You’re killing me, Angel.”

She leaned over him, placing a quick kiss on his lips. “It’s called suspense. Builds character.”

As she stood again, Joe reached up and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her there for a moment.

“I don’t care what’s in the bag,” he murmured against her stomach. “You showing up in this room, smiling like that... that’s already everything.”

Angel ran her fingers gently through his curls, heart swelling at the quiet affection in his voice. She knew Joe was a man of precision on the field, but off it, he loved with the kind of depth that left her breathless. He made her feel like she was the center of his gravity—even after months of late-night feeds and spit-up and sleep deprivation.

But then she pulled back with a sly grin.

She stepped back slowly, a twinkle in her eye. “Well, just wait until you do see what’s in the bag.” Now walking backward toward the closet like a woman with a plan. 

Joe sat up, raising a brow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Angel winked. “Why not both? But I’m gonna need five minutes and zero interruptions.”

“I will sit here and suffer in silence,” he promised, already adjusting the pillows behind him.

Angel laughed as she vanished into the closet again, the door clicking softly behind her.

Inside the closet, Angel closed the door softly behind her and exhaled slowly. Her heart pounded—not from nerves, exactly, but from a bubbling excitement that she hadn’t felt in a while. Not since before Zariyah. Before round-the-clock feedings, sleepless nights, and the wonderful chaos of new motherhood.

This was for her just as much as it was for him.

She pulled the first set from the sleek black bag—the deep ruby red lace that Monica had all but demanded she try on. It was delicate but daring, the sheer bodice cut high on the hips, leaving very little to the imagination. She adjusted the straps, ran a hand down her hip, and glanced at herself in the mirror.

Angel’s reflection stared back—a woman who was still learning to feel at home in her post-baby body, but tonight? Tonight she looked like herself again.

And she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Ready?” she called out.

Joe’s voice came back low and eager. “Always.”

She cracked the closet door and stepped out, slowly, deliberately—one hand resting on the frame, the other on her hip.

Joe looked up. And blinked.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared, eyes locked on her like she’d frozen time.

The deep red popped against her smooth skin, the soft lighting catching the intricate lace as she stepped forward with quiet confidence.

“Oh... my God,” Joe breathed, sitting up straighter. “Angel.”

She stopped in front of him, one brow raised. “Too much?”

“Too perfect,” he said instantly. His eyes swept over her with reverence, not hunger—though that simmered just beneath the surface. “You’re unreal.”

She gave him a slow turn, the curve of her back on full display, and heard the breath he sucked in through his teeth.

“You’re trying to kill me tonight, huh?” he said, voice lower now.

Angel gave a playful shrug. “Maybe a little.”

She disappeared back into the closet before he could reach for her, laughing under her breath as she leaned against the door to catch her breath. That reaction? That was exactly what Monica had meant by “bringing the fire back.”

The next set was softer—blush pink mesh with satin cups and tiny floral embroidery, delicate and ethereal. She paired it with a silk robe, barely tied.

When she stepped out again, Joe’s mouth opened slightly—but no words came out at first.

“Okay,” he said finally, blinking twice. “This one’s... dangerous in a different way.”

Angel tilted her head. “Different how?”

“You look like you’re about to climb into my lap and steal my soul,” he replied, utterly serious.

She laughed—a warm, full sound that made his chest ache.

“Maybe I will,” she said, brushing past him so closely he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

Joe groaned, flopping back on the bed with his arm over his face. “I’m in so much trouble.”

When she returned a few minutes later, he heard the soft click of heels before he saw her. This time, the look was bolder—jet black lace, sheer panels, crisscross straps across her midsection, and thigh-highs with garters. The kind of ensemble that made Angel feel like a superwoman in her own skin.

Joe sat up before she even reached the foot of the bed, his gaze sharp but reverent.

“Okay, stop,” he said, running both hands through his curls. “That one? That one should be illegal.”

Angel smirked, hands on her hips again. “You’re just saying that because I saved it for last.”

“I’m saying it because if I blink, I’m going to miss the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice was sincere now—deeper. Slower.

She walked up to him, and this time, she let him reach for her.

He sat there on the edge of the bed, hands out, but unsure of where he wanted to touch her first. This woman? This beautiful heart-stopping and smart woman was his wife. Joe began thanking every God he could think of for even letting him be in her presence.

Angel smiled up at him, stepping between his knees. “Still think I’m trying to kill you?”

Then Joe traced his hand along her side—slow, deliberate. He began toying with one of the crisscrossing straps, letting his fingers dance along the top edge of her stockings before sliding a finger under the delicate lace edge of her underwear. He let it snap back against her skin with a soft thwack.

If she could tease him and get him so fired up like this… he could do the same thing too.

“Maybe you’re not trying to kill me,” Joe murmured, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of both her underwear and those black thigh-highs, slowly pulling them down, “but if I have to keep watching you like this and not touching you? It just might.”

Angel stepped out of the fabric pool at her feet, still in the lace bralette, the matching garter still holding up her stockings. She leaned down until they were eye to eye. “Touching me is the whole point,” she whispered against his lips. “Just say the word, and I’m yours.”

He swallowed thickly, pulling her into his lap.  She could feel just how much he wanted this through his sweatpants. Angel smirked, but he was quicker, stealing another kiss before she could speak.

“Mine, huh?” Joe said, pulling back just enough to make sure she was looking at him. In his eyes, dark with need. “Then I want it all.”

His hands found their way under the garters, around the back of her thighs until he gripped her bare ass. She gasped, and he kissed her again—harder this time, his teeth catching her bottom lip.

Angel pulled back, breathless. “All of what?”

Joe smiled—a slow, wicked smile that made her stomach flutter. “All of you. I want every inch. I want to be everywhere you are. I want you so far gone that you can’t remember your own name, Angel.” His lips brushed hers with each word. “I want you to forget your own name so you can remember mine.”

Angel bit her lip, pulling herself up from his hold. She stood over him, a sly smile on her face at what she saw—his eyes a darker shade of indigo blue, his face flushed, his entire body taut with restraint, the unmistakable outline of his cock straining against his sweats.

He watched her every move—his eyes trailed over her body from bottom to top, the heat in his gaze a palpable thing. Angel could feel the hunger in every deliberate breath he took, in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his sides. As if he were still deciding exactly where he wanted to put them.

She gave a little spin, letting him see the rest of the ensemble, the way the lace cradled her backside, the delicate straps that cut across the small of her back and the top of her ass.

Joe groaned before reaching out for her, only for Angel to take another step back. He looked up at her, eyes burning.

“Don’t just stand there,” Joe said, his voice a low rasp. “Come here and let me taste.”

Angel smirked again, stepping closer until she was between his knees again, and leaned down to kiss him. “What exactly do you want to taste?”

Joe smirked back against her lips. “You.”

“Hmm. You’ll have to show me what you mean,” she said, and she felt him smile against her lips.

“With pleasure,” he murmured.

He kissed her again, hard and deep, and Angel could feel herself getting wet from the way he moved, the way he took what he wanted. His lips were firm, insistent, his tongue tangling with hers as his hands found the hooks on her bra.

He broke the kiss, eyes dark and burning when he looked up at her again.

“I’m gonna take this off,” Joe said, already working at the hooks. “And then I’m gonna kiss every inch of you, starting here—” His lips brushed the space between her breasts. “And working my way down.”

Angel shivered. “Yeah? What happens when you get down to the bottom?”

“I’m gonna make you come apart on my tongue,” he whispered, lips brushing hers again.

She moaned against him, and Joe smiled against her lips. “And I’m not going to stop until you’re begging me to fuck you.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Angel said, breathless.

“It’s worth it,” Joe replied, “to see you like this. To remind you who you are.”

Angel swallowed, eyes searching his face.

“Who am I?” she asked, voice soft. Uncertain.

Joe reached up, cupped her face in his hands. “You’re mine.” He kissed her. “You’re my wife.”

Another kiss. “You’re a mother.”

Another kiss. “But right now? Right now, you’re just Angel.”

She kissed him this time, pulling him closer, her fingers curling in his hair, her entire body surging forward to meet his.

“And I want all of you,” Joe continued, pulling back just long enough to speak against her lips. “The good, the bad, the messy, the beautiful.”

Angel could feel tears welling up in her eyes—tears of relief, of need. “I want all of you, too.”

He kissed her hard again, and this time there was no restraint. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the delicate lace before he reached for the hooks again.

He broke the kiss only long enough to pull the bralette off—and then he was pulling her down to him again, his mouth on her breast, tongue swirling over one peak and then the other, the wet heat of his mouth making her ache with want. His fingers found her other breast, rolling the peak between his thumb and forefinger until Angel was breathless and gasping.

He pulled her into his lap again, the thin fabric of his sweatpants doing little to mask the heat of his cock as she straddled him. Angel rocked against him, slowly at first, but Joe’s hands were everywhere all at once—her breasts, her back, her ass, the lace straps of her garters, the wetness between her thighs.

“Joe,” she breathed, the ache building. “God, Joe.”

He sat up abruptly, lifting her with him. Angel wrapped her legs around him, her arms around his neck as he carried her the few steps to the wall.

Joe pressed her against it, pinning her hips there with his own, and his mouth found hers again. Angel pulled at his sweatshirt, yanking it over his head before her hands found his shoulders, his chest, her nails digging into his skin.

He groaned against her, his fingers dipping into the wetness between her legs, finding her clit with unerring accuracy. 

Angel gasped, her back arching against the wall. His fingers worked in slow circles at first, his tongue following the same rhythm against her own, until she was gasping his name, her hips moving to meet him.

Joe pulled back just enough to speak, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts against her lips. “Is this what you want?” He pressed his fingers against her again, this time letting two slide inside of her. She was so wet, so ready.

“Yes,” Angel breathed. “Yes—God, yes—”

Joe’s fingers curled, pressing against that spot that made her vision blur, made her see stars. Angel whimpered, her entire body tightening. She was close. So close.

Then his fingers were gone.

Angel gasped, blinked down at him in confusion. “Joe—”

“Not yet,” he murmured against her neck, pressing kisses against her skin. “Not until I taste you.”

Before she could say anything else, he lifted her again, carrying her to the bed. She lay back against the sheets as he hooked his fingers in the sides of her stockings, pulling them down slowly.

His fingers traced the path the stockings had taken until they reached her center again. She was still wet—still ready for him.

He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other. His tongue traced the outline of her, slowly, carefully—learning every curve, every dip, every fold. Angel’s fingers curled into the sheets when his tongue finally, finally met her clit.

“Joe—” she gasped.

He hummed against her, the vibration sending shockwaves through her entire body.

“Joe—yes, please—”

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles, never breaking contact as Angel’s breath came in sharp gasps. He could feel her shaking beneath him, the muscles in her thighs trembling with restraint.

“Shit, I’m so close—”

He hummed against her again, slid one finger and then another inside of her, curling them forward until she cried out. Angel’s entire body tightened, her back arching off the bed as she came on his tongue.

Joe didn’t stop.

His tongue kept moving, his fingers curled inside of her until he felt her start to shake again, her voice breathy and urgent now.

“Joe—I can’t—oh my God—”

He pulled back, his voice low. “You can. And you will.”

And before she could answer, his mouth found her clit again, his fingers working in time. Angel couldn’t form a single thought—just felt the slow, steady climb toward that edge again.

“Joe, Joe, JOE—” she cried out, her entire body shuddering with the force of her release.

She lay back against the pillows, boneless and breathless, watching through half-lidded eyes as Joe stood and pushed his sweats down.

Angel bit her lip at the sight of him—hard and thick and ready for her.

She reached for him, but he shook his head, kneeling on the bed again.

“Not yet,” Joe said, pressing a kiss to her lips, letting her taste herself on him. “I’m not done with you.”

Angel groaned. “Joe, please—”

He kissed her again. “Please what? You have to use your words, Angel.”

“I need you,” she said, reaching for him again. This time, he let her—let her fingers wrap around him, let her pump him slowly until his hips were moving with her.

He pulled her hand away with a growl.

“Need me to do what?” Joe asked, reaching down to trace her lips, Angel's mouth opening and sucking around Joe's fingers. He pulled them away slowly before he could lose control, before he gave her what they both wanted. “Tell me what you want.”

Her voice was a whisper, a low, needy sound that made him ache. “I need you to fuck me.”

He shuddered, his restraint slipping. “How do you want it?”

She pulled him down to her, kissing him deeply. When she spoke again, it was a breathless whisper against his lips.

“I want you on top of me. I want to feel you everywhere. I want you to remind me how much you love me.”

Joe groaned and captured her mouth with his again, kissing her deeply as he positioned himself between her legs.

He pushed into her in one smooth motion, and they both gasped—Angel at the feeling of fullness, of completion, and Joe at the feel of her tight, wet heat around him.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Joe’s hips moved in slow, deep thrusts at first, savoring every second, every shiver that ran through Angel’s body beneath him. He wanted to make this last, wanted to make it good for her.

But the way she felt around him—the way her back arched, her body opened for him—he couldn’t hold back. Not when he was already on the edge, not when he could feel his own release building.

Joe’s thrusts grew harder, faster, his lips finding hers again in a searing kiss. Angel met him with the same urgency, her hips rising to meet his, her voice a steady stream of breathless pleas.

Her nails dug into his back, his shoulders, the pain and pleasure merging into one overwhelming wave.

“Angel—” Joe breathed. “Angel, I—”

She pulled back just long enough to look at him, her eyes locked on his.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “Don’t stop.”

“I can’t,” he ground out. “I can’t stop.”

 His hips were moving of their own accord now, driven by a need he couldn’t control. “Angel—”

“Yes,” she breathed, her own release building again. “Yes, Joe—”

"Fuck baby, squeezing me so good." Joe groaned. Angel could feel him getting closer, could feel him thickening inside of her.

Joe grabbed her leg pulling it to his shoulder. Angel moaned louder, feeling Joe go deeper. Her hands gripped his arms, her nails dug deeper into his skin as he pounded into her.

“I love you,” he managed, his voice strained. “Angel—I love you—”

“I love you, too,” she cried out, her voice breaking. “Joe—Joe, please—”

"Come on baby, let me feel you." Joe said as he brought his hand down to rub tight circles on her clit. "Cum for me baby, you can do it. Give it to me." He thrust harder.

Angel's entire body tensed, every muscle straining toward that release. Joe could feel it building inside of her—the heat, the pressure, the need.

“Please, please—Joe—”

Then suddenly, she was falling over that edge, her body shaking with the force of it. Angel cried out his name again and again as her body spasmed around him, pulling him over the edge with her. Joe groaned, his hips losing their rhythm as he pulsed inside of her, filling her completely. He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath hot and ragged against her lips, his body trembling with the intensity of his release. Angel wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as they both rode out the last waves of pleasure.

She kissed him again, slowly this time, her lips moving gently against his. Joe sighed against her mouth, his own lips responding lazily as he came down from his high.

They lay there for a moment, breathless, Joe’s face buried in the curve of her neck.

Angel was the first to move, pressing soft kisses along his jaw, his cheek, until he looked up at her. She brushed his curls back, smiling softly.

“Hi,” she said.

Joe smiled back, kissing her softly. “Hi.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. “Don’t thank me. I should be thanking you.”

“I know you did this for me,” he murmured, “but I hope you felt it, too.”

Angel’s breath caught.

“I did,” she whispered, her fingers threading through his curls. “I needed to remember that I can still feel like... me. Like a woman. Not just ‘mommy.’”

Joe pulled her closer, resting his forehead against her chest. “You’ve never stopped being you, Angel. You’ve only added more layers of amazing.”

She smiled gently, carding her fingers through his hair as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her like she was the most precious thing in his world—which, to him, she was.

After a long beat, he looked up, eyes twinkling.

“So… which one are you wearing when we don’t have a sleeping baby down the hall?”

Angel laughed, low and warm. “That depends. Are you planning to behave?”

Joe stood and swept her effortlessly off her feet, cradling her against his chest as she gasped and looped her arms around his neck.

“No,” he said without hesitation, carrying her to the shower. “Not even a little.”

[honeydippedfiction]

I need to know more about Angel having Joe's initals tattooed and about Dare or Die

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Synopsis: During a wild LSU party and a brutal game of Dare or Die, Angel drunkenly gets Joe Burrow’s initials tattooed on her hip—long before they ever made things official. A week later, when Joe finally sees it for himself… it sets off a night neither of them will ever forget.

Warnings: Alcohol use / underage drinking, Tattoo under the influence, Sexual tension / suggestive content (Includes heavy flirtation, intimate dialogue, and sexual undertones between characters), Peer pressure, & Mild body modification themes.

WC: 2.9k

A/N: they're insane for each other your honor. Also don't ever get a tattoo or anything while under the influence if that wasn't clear.

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Based from this ask!

The LSU party was already in full swing when Angel and Monica arrived, the night buzzing with that heady, reckless energy that came from being young, free, and just drunk enough to forget about tomorrow. Neon lights blinked erratically against the ceiling, casting flickering colors over the crowded living room. Solo cups littered nearly every surface, the air thick with the sharp tang of alcohol and too-loud laughter. Music pumped from the oversized speakers in the corner—something bass-heavy and dirty that made the floor vibrate and your hips sway whether you wanted them to or not.

Angel hadn’t planned on going out. Not without Joe.

Normally, a Friday night without him meant a quiet night in, curled up in one of his hoodies, watching whatever he had on while sneaking kisses between bites of takeout. But tonight, Joe was holed up in his apartment going over film—grinding through footage with his usual intensity, headphones in and a brow furrowed in that serious, focused way she secretly loved. He’d told her not to worry about him, to go out and have fun. And she figured… why not? Maybe a night with Monica and some noise would help chase away the ache she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying since he’d left her apartment that morning.

What she didn’t expect was to be swept into a drinking game before she could even shed her jacket.

“Dare or Die!” someone bellowed, a cheer rippling through the room. A table was already set up in the center—like beer pong, only sloppier, wilder. Underneath each cup sat a folded dare, and if you chickened out, you had to dump the drink into the big punishment cup at the center of the table: a cloudy, sinister-looking mix of cheap vodka, tequila, beer, and God knows what else.

Angel hesitated, trying to blend into the shadows with her drink, but Monica spotted her instantly.

“Oh, no ma’am,” she said with a devilish grin, grabbing Angel’s wrist. “You are not just gonna stand there lookin’ cute all night. Come on, LSU First Lady—get in the game.”

“Don’t call me that,” Angel groaned, though a smile tugged at her lips.

Monica just raised a brow. “I mean, you’re basically taken. Whole campus knows Joe’s in his ‘taken and smitten’ era.”

“We’re not official,” Angel reminded her, weakly.

“No,” Monica said with a knowing smirk. “But you will be.”

Angel rolled her eyes but let herself be pulled forward. She could feel it, the way her heart fluttered at the idea of being Joe’s. Fully. Publicly. The way his name alone made her feel anchored, even when he wasn’t in the room. Maybe they hadn’t defined it yet, but everyone knew.

She knew.

The game kicked off in a whirlwind of laughter, dares, and dare-fueled regrets. Someone gave a lap dance on a coffee table. Someone else had to call their ex and act like they were getting head. Angel ended up taking a tequila shot with whipped cream off Monica’s stomach and boobs, and by her second round, her head was warm and fuzzy and her confidence high.

The game had already claimed its first few victims.

A tall guy from the track team had pulled a dare that made him strip to his boxers and run through to Mike’s cage and have someone record him pretending to crawl around like a tiger growling.

One girl was halfway through giving her ex’s new girlfriend a lap dance on the couch—and judging by the girl’s reaction, she wasn’t mad about it.

Someone else had just pulled a dare that involved calling their mom and pretending to be high. The entire room had quieted for that one, and the mother’s response—“Tell that weed I said hello, and make sure you eat something”—had everyone in stitches.

Angel was still sipping from her cup, grinning at the chaos, when it happened.

Monica smacked a ball into a red cup near the center of the table. Cheers went up. She plucked the folded paper from beneath and unfolded it, her eyebrows shooting sky-high.

“Girl,” she said, showing Angel the dare. “Kiss the person in the room you most want to sleep with. No backsies.”

Angel choked. “Don’t look at me.”

“Oh, relax,” Monica said with a dramatic eye roll. Then she turned and kissed a girl from the softball team square on the mouth—to whoops and hollers all around. “What? She’s hot.”

The next guy got dared to post a thirst trap with “DM for feet pics” on Instagram. He did it without blinking. Another girl was dared to shotgun a White Claw while on someone’s shoulders—and when she chose Angel’s lap, Angel nearly spilled her drink laughing.

Then it was Angel’s turn.

Monica hit her with a look.

Angel stepped forward, cheeks pink from the heat and the drinks. She tossed the ball underhand. It sank into the cup on the right.

She flipped the note underneath, brow quirking as she unfolded the small square of paper. Her eyes skimmed the words—and stopped cold.

“Get your man’s initials tattooed. Right now. Monica’s driving.”

Angel let out a startled laugh, blinking as though the words might rearrange themselves. “Absolutely not.”

There were howls of protest and laughter from the crowd.

“Pussy!” someone called out. “Dump your drink!”

Angel hovered, her cup midair. Her eyes were still on the dare. The words felt like a joke. A wild, ridiculous one. But they also stuck in her brain like glue.

Joe. Her Joe.

He wasn’t just a man. He was her man. Even if they hadn’t labeled it yet, she felt it in every late-night text, every soft kiss on her shoulder when she fell asleep in his bed. He made her feel seen. Protected. Adored.

Joe wouldn’t even know.

He wasn’t here.

But it wasn’t just any initials. It wasn’t some random guy. It was Joe. Her Joe. The man who kissed her forehead like it was sacred. Who called her “baby” in that soft drawl that melted every bone in her body. The man who texted her after practice just to make sure she ate.

She felt Monica watching her.

Would he even care?

Would he love it?

She didn’t answer. Just looked over at Monica.

Monica narrowed her eyes, then tilted her head. “You’re really thinking about this?”

Angel bit her lip.

“I mean,” Monica shrugged, “I do know a guy who stays open late. Just saying.”

Angel hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Monica’s grin widened. “Girl, nothing. You’re just down astronomically. Come on—what’s life without a little chaos?”

Angel exhaled, set her drink down, and laughed. “I’m insane.”

Monica grinned like she’d won the lottery. “And I’m driving.”

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Ten minutes later, they were in Monica’s car, windows cracked, Angel’s leg bouncing so fast it shook the cup holder. She was still buzzed but nerves were starting to crowd her chest.

Monica glanced over. “You’re really doing this.”

“You sound more excited than I am.”

“That’s because I am,” Monica beamed. “Girl, it’s romantic. Dumb, sure. But romantic.”

The tattoo shop was barely still open, the “Closed” sign already flipped on the door—but the guy at the desk, a tatted-up dude with sleepy eyes, recognized Monica instantly.

“You bringing me trouble tonight?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Monica grinned.

Angel was in the chair fifteen minutes later, hip bared, laughing with her hands over her face as the artist prepped his tools.

“What are we doing?” he asked, gloves snapping on.

“Initials,” Angel said. “J.L.B.”

The artist raised a brow. “He better be worth it.”

Angel smiled to herself, heart warm. “He is.”

She squeezed Monica’s hand while the needle buzzed to life. A soft wince pulled at her mouth when it touched skin, but she didn’t flinch. The pain was sharp but brief, and over almost too soon. J.L.B. in fine, slanted script—small and simple, right above the curve of her hipbone, flanked by three delicate butterflies, their wings light and soft, like flight.

Twenty minutes later, it was done.

Angel stood in front of the mirror, jeans low on her hips, her fingers grazing the fresh ink.

“I’m insane,” she whispered.

Monica grinned behind her. “Nope. You’re in love.”

Angel didn’t say anything. But the smile tugging at her lips said everything. Her eyes looking at the butterflies and cursive script.

One for then. One for now. One for whatever the hell came next.

Joe didn’t find out about the tattoo that night. Or the next one.

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Friday had come and gone in the way most of his in-season nights did—low-key, focused, and quiet. He was camped out in his apartment, hoodie on, feet up, watching game film with a half-eaten container of takeout and his phone flipped screen-down on the couch beside him. Distractions weren’t allowed when he was locked in, especially this close to kickoff. But sometime after midnight, when his brain started to fog and his eyes began to blur from the endless rotations of defensive sets, he finally caved and checked his phone.

Twenty-two messages in the group chat.

He groaned, swiping it open with one hand, still half focused on the replay on his laptop—until he saw what had them all talking.

The first was a video.

Angel.

Blurry, grainy, lit with that terrible red party glow—but unmistakably her. She was on top of the kitchen island at someone’s house, mic in hand, trying to belt her way through a Beyoncé song while Monica stood behind her, playing backup with a cooking spoon like it was a prop.

Joe cracked a smile, shaking his head. He tapped the video again, watching it loop.

She looked beautiful—tipsy and unbothered, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed. Her body moved with that easy rhythm he knew so well, even when off-key and barely balancing in heels.

“Tell your girl to calm down,” someone had texted under the video.

Joe just smirked, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She’s fine. But he didn’t send anything. Just kept scrolling.

Then came the second video.

And this one stopped him cold.

It opened mid-laugh, the room buzzing. Monica was laid out across the kitchen counter, shirt pulled up, her bra still on but pushed a little higher. There was whipped cream running down her stomach in a zigzag, settling between the curve of her ribs and the top of her jeans. Someone off-camera shouted, “Three… two… one!”

Angel leaned in.

Head tilted. Eyes focused.

She licked a line of whipped cream, fast and laughing, then gripped a salt shaker, tapped it onto the inside of Monica’s hip, and knocked back a full shot of tequila. The crowd erupted.

Joe’s mouth parted slightly.

The video ended there.

Another text followed: Your girl is WILD.

He stared at the screen, thumb frozen.

The logical part of him—the one trained for chaos and pressure—reminded him it was a party. A dare, probably. College antics. Harmless. He’d seen worse on the sidelines. It wasn’t even sexual. Just girls being drunk and stupid.

But the other part—the part that had been imagining her curled into his side tonight instead of licking whipped cream off someone else—was not as cool about it.

He hit play again.

Watched it slower this time. Noticed the way her hand curled around Monica’s hip for balance. The way she laughed after the shot, tongue darting out to catch a drop of tequila from her lip.

Jesus.

He sank deeper into the couch, jaw tight.

The text buzzes didn’t stop. More photos. More chaos. Someone sent a picture of Angel and Ja'Marr locked arm-in-arm, sunglasses on at night, flashing peace signs like they were on spring break.

Joe finally set the phone down, screen-up this time. Just stared at it.

He wasn’t her boyfriend. Not officially. They hadn’t put a title on anything yet. She didn’t owe him anything.

And yet—

That possessive curl low in his gut wasn’t trying to hear logic.

Still, he didn’t say a word. Not that night. Not the next one either.

When she texted the next morning—Miss you—he replied with Miss you too, sweetheart. Like always. Like nothing was different. Like his brain hadn’t replayed that whipped cream moment seventeen times and imagined exactly what it would’ve felt like if she’d done it to him.

And the tattoo?

He had no idea.

Not yet.

That surprise was still waiting—inked under soft skin, hidden in plain sight, waiting to wreck him in ways even that tequila video hadn’t.

Until a week later.

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It started as one of those quiet nights they both craved—no game film, no classes, no loud parties or practice schedules to juggle. Just the two of them in Joe’s apartment, wrapped in the kind of easy silence that only came from real comfort. The movie playing on the screen had long lost their attention, reduced to background noise beneath their slow conversation and half-stifled laughter.

Angel was curled into Joe’s side on the couch, one leg thrown over his, her head nestled against his chest. He absentmindedly ran his fingers through her curls, his gaze more on her than the screen.

“Monica’s with her sneaky link,” Angel murmured, voice warm with amusement. “So no surprise FaceTime chaos tonight.”

“Thank God,” Joe chuckled, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Every time I hear her voice echoing through your phone, I brace myself like it’s a blitz.”

Angel snorted, pulling the throw blanket higher over her bare legs. “That’s fair.”

The night stretched long and lazy after that, full of easy touches and half-spoken thoughts, until Angel sat up with a stretch, her shirt riding up slightly as she stood. “I’m stealing one of your hoodies,” she announced, already halfway to the drawer.

Joe leaned his head back against the couch and watched her move, a small smile playing at his lips as she pulled open the drawer and tugged one out—his navy LSU hoodie, the one she always stole.

Then she pulled her shirt off and tossed it onto the bed, standing in just her shorts and a black bra. That’s when he saw it.

The curve of her waist. The soft dip of her hip.

And ink.

Not just the butterflies—though those caught his attention first, three tiny ones dancing just above the waistband of her shorts, like they were mid-flight across her skin.

No. It was what the butterflies framed that made him sit up straight.

Three letters.

J. L. B.

Joe blinked, brows furrowing as he stared. His throat went dry.

“Wait,” he said, voice quieter than before but sharper, rougher. “Come here.”

Angel froze mid-pull of the hoodie. “Why? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward and held out his hand. “C’mere, baby.”

Something in his voice made her move. Carefully, curiously.

He pulled her in by the waist, guiding her between his legs as he sat at the edge of the couch. His hands were warm, thumbs grazing over her hips as his eyes locked on the tattoo. His expression shifted from confused to completely wrecked in seconds.

“Joe—” Angel started, heart thumping.

But he was already pulling at the hem of her shorts, just a little. Just enough to see all of it.

The ink was small. Clean. Fresh. Still healing, if he looked close enough.

J.L.B.

His initials. Marked right above the curve of her hip.

He froze.

Angel’s stomach dropped.

“Okay—before you say anything,” she said quickly, her voice rushing to fill the silence, “I was drunk, okay? It was this dumb game and Monica dared me and I swear I wasn’t trying to be crazy—”

“Angel.”

“I mean, we weren’t even official yet! I just—ugh, I don’t know what I was thinking, and I totally get if you think I’m nuts—”

“Angel.”

“I can get it removed, or covered, or—”

“Baby.”

The sound of his voice stopped her cold.

Low. Rough. Like it scraped the back of his throat. His grip on her hips tightened just slightly as he looked up at her, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“You let somebody tattoo my initials on you?” he asked, barely breathing.

She swallowed. “...Yeah?”

His jaw flexed. His fingers dragged along her waist, slow, reverent. “You really did that?”

“I didn’t think you’d be into it,” she whispered. “I thought you’d freak.”

Joe gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Angel, you don’t even know what you just did to me.”

She blinked. “Wait—you’re not mad?”

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Mad?” he echoed. “You got my initials on your skin. Wrapped in butterflies. You really branded yourself for me and you thought I’d be mad?”

Angel felt the warmth rush to her cheeks, suddenly shy under his intense gaze.

“I think it’s sexy as fuck,” he said, mouth at her hip now, voice like velvet. “I think it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She laughed—nervous, breathless. “You’re serious?”

Joe’s lips brushed her tattoo, slow and deliberate. “Dead serious.”

Her breath caught as his fingers traced the top of her waistband again, dipping slightly lower.

“You really let the whole world know you’re mine,” he murmured, voice molten now. “You marked yourself, baby.”

Angel shivered as his tongue flicked out, teasing the sensitive skin just below the ink. “I didn’t mean to—it just kind of happened.”

“Nah,” Joe growled, standing and hauling her effortlessly into his arms. “You meant it. You wanted me to see it.”

She squeaked as he carried her toward the bedroom. “Maybe a little.”

“Now I gotta show you what that kind of loyalty gets you.”

Her giggle melted into a gasp as he dropped her onto the bed and hovered over her, eyes still locked on the butterflies, like the world had narrowed down to that one little spot on her body.

“You think that dare had consequences?” he murmured, mouth trailing kisses down her belly. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

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

[honeydippedfiction]

#18 of established relationship with Joe x Angel

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#7. Telling their family that they think they're going to marry you.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

Snow drifted gently from the sky, blanketing Athens, Ohio in a hush that muffled the world into stillness. Joe Burrow had always loved this kind of cold. It reminded him of Friday nights at the local stadium, breath steaming in the air, fingers numb inside worn gloves. But this year, as he pulled into his parents’ driveway, it wasn’t the memories of football games or the crackle of hometown pride that filled his chest—it was something warmer, quieter, and harder to name.

Angel sat beside him in the passenger seat, her gloved hands resting in her lap. She wore a thick, camel-colored coat and a knit beanie that framed her curls like a halo. The car’s heater hummed softly between them, but Joe reached across the console and wrapped his hand around hers anyway.

“It’s like a snow globe,” she said, her voice soft, almost to herself.

Joe smiled. “That’s kind of what this town is like.”

She looked over at him then, raising an eyebrow. “You mean small and charming or claustrophobic and full of secrets?”

“Bit of both,” he replied, laughing. “But mostly the first. Especially when you’re here.”

“You nervous?” he asked, casting her a sidelong glance.

Angel raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Why? You think your mom’s gonna grill me this year?”

“She might. That’s how you know she likes you.”

Angel laughed, the sound rich and melodic. “If that’s the test, I passed it last Christmas.”

Joe squeezed her hand gently. “You did. With honors.”

They pulled up in front of the house just as the porch light flicked on. The Burrow home stood sturdy and familiar, wrapped in evergreen garlands and framed by frosted windowpanes. The warmth inside seemed to radiate from the bricks themselves.

As they stepped out of the car, Angel took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold. Joe rounded the car and reached for her hand without thinking.

“Ready?” he asked.

She gave a small, steady nod. “Always.”

The Burrow home hadn’t changed much. The same wooden shutters framed the windows, and a big red bow hung on the porch rail like always. But there was a new wreath on the door this year, a fresh layer of white lights coiled around the porch columns. Joe’s mom had clearly been busy.

Inside, the house buzzed with the easy noise of family—clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, the faint sound of a football game on in the background. The air smelled of cinnamon, roasted turkey, and something sugary cooling on the kitchen counter. As they stepped inside, Robin came bustling out of the kitchen with a wide smile and open arms, apron still tied around her waist, cheeks flushed from cooking.

“You’re here!” she said, pulling them both into warm hugs. “Come in, take off your coats. Angel, you’re just in time to save me from burning the sweet potatoes.”

Angel laughed as she unwound her scarf. “I’ve got you. Just point me in the direction.”

Joe lingered by the front door for a moment, watching her. Watching how she moved straight toward the kitchen like she’d been raised in this house too. watching her fold into his family’s rhythm like she’d always been part of it. Watching how his mother smiled wider whenever Angel spoke, how his brother leaned in to hear her stories. His dad, Jimmy, emerged from the den with two mugs of cider, handing one to Joe and giving him a pat on the back.

“She fits in well,” Jimmy said casually.

Joe nodded, quiet for a moment. “Yeah. She really does.”

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After dinner—an hours-long event full of laughter, second helpings, and mild debates over which pie was superior—the family settled into the living room. Robin and Jimmy sipped cider from matching ceramic mugs while the younger generation picked spots on the floor or curled into armchairs. Joe’s grandma, Evelyn, had claimed her usual spot by the fire, her cane leaning nearby, her short silver curls immaculate as always.

Joe stood near the hallway archway, his back resting lightly against the frame, a half-empty mug of cider warming his hands. The living room had grown quieter in the past few minutes, the energy mellowing into the golden stillness that comes only after a long day of food, laughter, and being surrounded by people who know you best.

Across the room, Angel sat cross-legged on the rug beside the tree, deep in conversation with Grandma Evelyn while Harper—Joe’s energetic six-year-old niece—curled up beside her with a lap full of paper snowflakes. Angel’s sleeves were dusted with glitter, and her eyes were bright, focused entirely on Harper’s animated explanation of how her snowflake was “special because it has six hearts.”

Angel laughed, and Joe swore it was the sound that could stop time. She touched Harper’s cheek with the back of her hand, then reached to adjust the throw blanket that had slipped off Evelyn’s lap. It was such a small thing—casual, thoughtful—but to Joe, it felt like witnessing a glimpse of his future: Sunday mornings, shared glances across family dinners, children running barefoot in a yard.

He hadn’t even noticed his parents had come to stand beside him until he felt the light pressure of his mother’s hand slip around his elbow.

Robin followed his gaze, her own expression softening. “You’re staring,” she said with a knowing smile.

Joe didn’t look away. “Can you blame me?”

Robin let out a soft laugh, the kind only mothers have—the kind stitched with memory and a hundred unspoken things. “I don’t,” she said. “I don’t at all.”

Jimmy stepped up beside them, sipping from his cider, his posture relaxed but attentive. “You alright?” he asked, sensing the weight in the air but not pressing.

Joe nodded, then glanced down at his cider before lifting his eyes again to Angel. She was now holding Harper in her lap, reading the tag on a gift aloud in a playful voice, Grandma Evelyn chuckling quietly beside them.

He swallowed, then spoke. “I think I’m gonna marry her.”

Robin’s head tilted slightly as she looked up at him, and for a second, Joe thought she might tear up.

“Oh, honey,” she said softly, touching his chest with her palm. “We knew.”

Joe’s breath caught. “You did?”

His dad chuckled. “She won us over before you finished your second plate of stuffing last year.”

Robin smiled, then leaned her head gently against Joe’s shoulder. “But tonight… watching you look at her like that? That’s how your dad looked at me the night he told my parents we were getting married.”

Joe’s lips twitched into a smile, caught between humility and awe. “It just feels… right. All of it. Her. Us.”

“It is right,” Robin said, her voice low and certain. “She brings out the part of you that doesn’t come from football or headlines. The part we saw when you were five and stayed behind at recess to help clean up without being asked.”

Jimmy clapped a hand on his son’s back. “Just promise us one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“When you propose—don’t do it on the jumbotron at a game,” he said with a smirk. “Your mom will disown you.”

Joe laughed, then leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for a brief second. The warmth of the cider, the steady presence of his parents, Angel’s laughter floating softly through the room—it all wrapped around him like a promise.

“No jumbotron,” he said. “I want it to be just us.”

Robin gave his arm a gentle squeeze, then whispered, “She’s going to say yes.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“She’s special,” Jimmy said after a pause. “You know that already.”

Joe exhaled, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yeah. I do.”

Jimmy looked over at his son, his face unreadable for a moment. Then, with a slow nod, he lifted his glass. “Well… don’t wait too long. Women like that don’t just stick around because you’re a quarterback.”

Joe laughed, the sound low and genuine. “I know, Dad.”

Robin stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. No lecture. No checklist. Just a mother’s silent blessing pressed against her son’s chest.

There was no big announcement. No dramatic pause or speech. Just that moment—the three of them standing side by side, watching Angel laugh with the youngest and oldest members of their family like she’d always belonged.

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When Joe returned to the living room, Angel had dozed off slightly, her head resting against a throw pillow. He sat back down beside her and gently brushed a curl from her forehead. She stirred, eyes fluttering open.

“Hey,” she murmured.

“Hey,” he whispered back, letting his fingers curl around hers again.

Outside, the snow kept falling. And inside, Joe knew something had shifted—not just in the night, but in him. This wasn’t just someone he loved. This was someone he could build with, someone he would build with. And while the ring wasn’t in his pocket yet, the promise was already in his heart.

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Later that night, as coats were shrugged on and leftovers packed into foil, Angel hugged Robin tightly at the door, whispering, “Thank you for everything,” in a voice filled with gratitude and something deeper—something that had nothing to do with dinner.

As Joe and Angel stepped out into the night, the snow still falling lightly around them, Joe looked over at her. She was humming softly, cradling a tin of cookies against her chest, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and from something like joy.

He didn’t tell her what he’d said. Not yet.

But in his heart, the decision had already been made.