Chapter 10: The Line
They kissed, passionately and forcefully. They were both enjoying the fell of each other, but Whitney starts feeling conflicted, her religion and beliefs on waiting until marriage to be intimate, but also knowing that this felt real and right. She didn’t pull away as she had a mental battle with herself. One side saying she knew she would end up with Joe anyways, the other saying not to compromise the covenants she’s made with God. She reasons, it’s just kissing. Nothing is going to happen. And her mind goes blank when Joe moves down to a spot on her neck and sucks a hickey into place. Whitney sighs out and tangles her hands in his hair, the feeling electric. Then he comes back up to kiss her lips and she wants to return the favor, kissing along his jaw and down to his neck where she finds the spot where he gasps the loudest and sucks a hickey into that spot. Joe can’t handle it anymore and runs his hands under her shirt and feels her cotton temple garments against her skin.
Whitney tenses and they both freeze. Joe looks at her confused as Whitney’s cheeks go pink. “Wait.” Whitney says breathlessly, not wanting him to actually wait but needing to explain.
The instant her lips formed the word, Whitney felt Joe go completely still beneath her. His hands, moments ago branding paths up her spine under her blouse, froze. The heat radiating between them didn’t vanish, but it condensed, sharpened into something waiting. Electric. Unsure.
Her own breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The ghost of his mouth still burned on her neck, right where the collar of her blouse had been tugged aside. She could smell the salt on his skin, feel the solid thump of his own heartbeat against her chest. The position – perched on his lap, knees bracketing his hips, pinned against the apartment wall – felt suddenly, overwhelmingly exposed. Her fingers, still curled into the fabric of his tee over his shoulders, trembled.
"Whit?" His voice was thick, rough with unspent desire and confusion. He leaned back just enough to see her face clearly, his eyes searching hers. The blue was dark, intense, stripped of the easy charm, revealing the sharp focus beneath. "What's wrong?" His gaze flickered down to where his hand still rested under her shirt, high on her ribs, his thumb dangerously close to the edge of her bra covering the symbol embroidered garment beneath. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." The word burst out too fast. She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his eyes. The naked longing in them, mixed with the sudden wariness, twisted something deep inside her. "No, Joe. You didn't hurt me. It's... it's not that."
She shifted, needing a fraction of space to think, but his hands tightened reflexively on her waist, holding her in place. Not demanding, but grounding. Anchoring her in the storm of her own thoughts. Desire warred with a deep, ingrained conviction. The warmth of his hands against her skin, resting on her temple garment, felt like a brand on her soul. Sacred. Compromised. She’d never let anyone get this close, physically or emotionally. The vulnerability was staggering.
"It's this," she whispered, her voice trembling. She couldn't bring herself to look away from his searching gaze. With shaky fingers, she reached down and gently touched the back of his hand, still resting beneath her blouse, right where it met the distinct hemline of her cotton undershirt. "What I'm wearing underneath. It's... it's special."
Joe’s brow furrowed. He didn't pull his hand away, but his touch went utterly still, careful. "Special?" he echoed, his voice low. His thumb brushed lightly against the fabric edge she indicated. "Like... medical?"
Whitney shook her head, a flush creeping up her neck again. "No. Not medical." She took a shaky breath, the dusty scent of the apartment mixing with the lingering smell of his sweat and the fresh paint. The afternoon sun slanted across the worn couch nearby, illuminating dust motes dancing frantically. How to explain a lifetime of belief in a single, shattered moment? "It's... religious. Sacred. I made promises. Covenants. With God." The words felt inadequate, too small for the weight they carried.
She saw the understanding dawn in his eyes, sharp and immediate. It wasn't just confusion now; it was a rapid reassessment. His gaze dropped from her face to the spot where her fingers touched his hand, then back up to her eyes. The raw heat from moments ago banked, replaced by a profound seriousness. The intensity didn't leave his face, but it shifted, refocused.
"You're..." He paused, searching for the word. "Mormon? LDS?"
She nodded, a tight, jerky movement. Relief warred with a fresh wave of vulnerability. He knew the term. That was something. "Yeah. Since I was eight. Baptized in a freezing river back home. Wore these," she gestured vaguely towards her torso, "since I went through the temple at twenty-one. Right before I went on my mission and had a flare." She didn't need to say MS. He knew. It all felt tangled together – her body, her faith, the fight she carried constantly.
Joe was silent for a long moment. His gaze remained locked on hers, absorbing it. His hands stayed exactly where they were, warm and heavy against her ribs, separated from her sacred garment by only the thin layer of her blouse. The weight of that proximity was immense. She felt stripped bare, far more than if her clothes were actually off. He saw her. The fighter, the advocate... and the girl who knelt in quiet prayer, who believed in covenants etched not just in her heart but in the cotton against her skin.
"So that's why," he murmured, more to himself than her. The pieces clicked: her initial reserve, the way she held parts of herself back, even as she fought fiercely for others. He didn't look away. His expression wasn't judgmental, or disappointed, or dismissive. It was... processing. Intensely focused, like he was reading a complex playbook seconds before the snap. "The promises," he said, his voice low and thoughtful. "They mean... no sex before marriage?" He asked it directly, unflinchingly, needing the boundary defined.
Whitney nodded again, her throat tight. "Yeah. Part of it. But... it's more." She struggled to articulate the depth. "The garment... it's a reminder. All the time. Of who I am. Who I promised to be. My commitment." Her voice wavered. "Touching it... like this..." She glanced down at his hand, still under her shirt, resting on the sacred fabric. It wasn't inherently wrong, but the intimacy of the moment, the intent behind his touch moments before, felt like trespassing on hallowed ground. "It feels like... crossing a line I can't uncross lightly."
Joe absorbed this. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his hand. Not jerking away, but sliding it out from under her blouse with infinite care. His palm grazed her waistband, then settled flat and warm on her lower back, outside her clothes. A safer harbor. The other hand slid down from her hair to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin beneath her eye.
"Okay," he breathed. The word was simple. Heavy. "Okay, Whit." He held her gaze, the blue depths serious, accepting. "I didn't know."
"I know," she whispered. The relief was a physical wave, washing over her and leaving her trembling anew. But the heat hadn't vanished. It simmered, banked but present, in the way his thumb stroked her cheekbone, in the solid warmth of his body beneath hers, in the intensity of his focus solely on her. "I... I wanted you to know me. The real me. All of it. Even this." She gestured helplessly, encompassing her faith, her body, the invisible lines she lived by. "Especially this."
He nodded slowly. "I want to know. All of it." His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second, a flicker of the earlier hunger, instantly controlled. "But not like that. Not if it hurts you." His thumb traced her jawline. "Not if it breaks something you hold sacred." The sincerity in his voice was a balm and an ache. He understood. He wasn't fighting it. He was respecting it.
The enormity of it crashed over her. Joe Burrow, the Bengals' golden boy with the weight of a city on his shoulders, was kneeling emotionally bare before her convictions. He wasn't running from the complexity. He was mapping it, learning her boundaries like they were a vital part of the play.
He shifted slightly beneath her, adjusting his braced leg with a suppressed wince. The awkward movement grounded the intense moment. "So," he said, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual wryness, though the intensity remained in his eyes. "The rules. Need the playbook, Roberts. What’s off-limits? Holding hands?" He deliberately laced his fingers through hers where they rested near his shoulder, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Asking for a friend whose game plan just got seriously intercepted."
A watery laugh escaped her, surprising them both. She squeezed his hand back, the connection warm and real, untainted now. "Holding hands is definitely still in bounds, Burrow." She sniffed, wiping her cheek with her free hand. "Kissing... complicated, but probably still on the play sheet. Just... maybe avoiding the red zone for now?" She managed a shaky smile, referencing his proximity to her sacred garment.
He grinned, a flash of the familiar, disarming charm, though his eyes stayed serious. "Got it. Red zone is strictly off-limits. No unauthorized entries." He shifted again, his face tightening momentarily with discomfort as he repositioned his ankle. "Damn turf toe," he muttered, though it seemed aimed more at the interruption than the pain. He looked back at her, his expression softening. "But the rest of the field? Wide open for exploration?" He leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving her time. His lips brushed hers, achingly gentle this time. A promise. A question. A new kind of play starting.
Whitney met the kiss, pouring into it all the tangled relief, the dawning awe, and the terrifying, exhilarating hope he ignited. It was different now. Charged not just with desire, but with profound respect and the terrifying reality of being truly, vulnerably seen. She pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his, breathing him in – sweat, grass, and the unexpected scent of sanctuary. Outside, the city hummed. The laptop on the small table sat forgotten, the literacy project momentarily paused. The only plan that mattered now was navigating this uncharted territory, together, one carefully negotiated boundary at a time. Joe’s thumb stroked the back of her hand, his other arm a solid band across her lower back, holding her close against the world, against Liv, against the tremors, grounding her in the fierce, complicated certainty of them.
Joe’s thumb stroked the back of her hand, his other arm a solid band across her lower back, holding her close against the world, against Liv, against the tremors, grounding her in the fierce, complicated certainty of them. The frantic energy of his arrival, the raw exposure of her diagnosis and faith, settled into a quieter hum beneath the afternoon sun warming her yellow walls. Dust motes danced in the slanting light, catching the scent of fresh paint and Joe’s lingering sweat, grass, and something clean beneath it all.
"Okay," Whitney breathed, her voice steadier now, echoing his earlier acceptance. She shifted slightly on his lap, mindful of his braced ankle resting awkwardly on the floor beside the bed. "So... rules." She met his intense blue gaze, a flicker of her usual wryness returning. "Clothes stay on. Always." She tapped the fabric of her blouse over her ribs. "And if anything feels... too much? Like I'm pushing against something sacred?" She squeezed his hand. "I'll tell you. Loud and clear." She managed a small, genuine smile. "Otherwise? The rest of the field? Wide open for exploration, Burrow. Fair game."
A slow, relieved grin spread across Joe’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Fair game," he echoed, his voice rough but warm. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was softer than before, infused with a profound respect that made her heart stutter. It was a promise sealed. They sank into it, the kiss deepening slowly, exploring the new boundaries with a thrilling intensity that felt safer, deeper. His hands stayed firmly on her back and waist, outside her clothes, anchoring her. Hers tangled in his hair, traced the strong line of his jaw, relearned the feel of his lips without the frantic edge of before.
Time blurred. The city sounds faded. There was only the shared breath, the warmth of his body beneath hers, the scrape of his stubble, the solid reassurance of his presence. Between kisses, breaths mingling, foreheads resting together, questions began to surface, tentative at first.
"So," Joe murmured, his thumb tracing circles on her hipbone over her jeans. "Marriage." He said it casually, watching her reaction. "Big deal? In the...covenants?"
Whitney nodded against his forehead, the movement slight. "Huge deal. Sealed. In the temple." She felt him absorb that. "It’s... forever. Not just 'til death."
"Forever," he repeated softly, thoughtfully. "Like... souls bound?" His gaze searched hers.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Eternal families. That’s the goal." She saw the flicker of surprise, maybe disbelief, in his eyes before he masked it. He kissed her again, slow and deep, before pulling back slightly.
"The temples," he continued, his voice low. "They’re... different? Not like regular churches?" He gestured vaguely towards the temple figurine next to her laptop humming on her small table, evidence of her secular ambitions. She nodded her head yes but didn’t have a chance to answer before he asked his next question. "I’ve heard something about a sacrament... communion? How often?"
She answered, explaining the weekly renewal, the symbolism, the quiet reverence. He listened intently, his focus absolute, like dissecting a complex defensive scheme. Between explanations, their lips would meet again, soft brushes or deeper explorations, punctuating the conversation with shared warmth. His questions weren't intrusive; they felt like mapping the territory of her soul.
Then he asked about her mission. The air shifted subtly. Whitney took a deeper breath, the familiar pang of old hurt resurfacing. "Kansas Wichita," she said, her voice flat. "Two months. Then...flare." She didn't need to elaborate; he knew the drill. "Vision blurred. Legs went numb. Mission President panicked." She shrugged, trying for nonchalance she didn't feel. "Sent me packing. Said the MS was too big a risk. Didn't trust me to manage it." She paused, the memory of the betrayal – her trainer’s sudden distance, the President’s cold dismissal – still sharp. "Didn't trust me."
Joe went rigid beneath her. His hands tightened on her waist, not painfully, but possessively. "He what?" The words were a low growl, fury flashing in his eyes, stripping away the quarterback’s calm. "After everything you fight through? After how strong you are? He sent you home?" His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping. "That’s bullshit, Whit. Absolute bullshit."
Seeing his anger flare so fiercely for her, so protective, was a balm Whitney hadn't known she needed. A soft laugh escaped her, surprising them both. She placed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his indignant heart. "Hey," she murmured, her voice gentle but firm. She pushed him lightly back against the wall. "Easy, tiger." She leaned in, brushing her lips softly against his. "It sucked. Majorly. Felt like a betrayal." Another soft kiss. "But I’m over it." She held his furious gaze, her own calm and certain. "Truly. Did a service mission in St. George for nine months after – helped at food banks, community centers. Then finished strong in Spanish Fork for seven months." She kissed him again, lingering this time. "It worked out. I’m here."
He searched her eyes, the fury slowly banked by the sincerity he found there. He kissed her back, deeply, pouring his frustration and fierce protectiveness into it. They lost themselves again for a while, the kiss a reaffirmation, a claiming of the present over the painful past. When they finally pulled apart, breathing ragged, Whitney traced the faint stubble along his jawline. "Why?" she asked softly, curiosity threading through the lingering desire. "Why all the questions? About... all of it?"
Joe held her gaze, his expression serious, open. "Because it’s you," he said simply. "Because I need to understand the map if I'm gonna navigate the territory." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "And... because a lot of it?" He shrugged, a slight, self-deprecating gesture. "Sounds... right. The trying to be good. The helping people. The... connection to something bigger." He looked away for a second, then back, his blue eyes earnest. "I believe in that. In treating people right. In leaving things better than you found them. In... grace, maybe? Not sure I'd call it that." He met her eyes fully. "Seems like we're reading from pretty much the same playbook, Roberts."
Whitney’s breath caught. The alignment felt profound, resonating deep in her chest. "Almost," she whispered, a smile touching her lips. "Except the forever part." She tapped his chest lightly. "You don't buy the eternal families thing?"
He considered it, his brow furrowing slightly. "Didn't think it was possible," he admitted honestly. "Seemed... too big. Too good." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers again. "But looking at you?" His voice dropped to a husky murmur. "Makes me want to believe impossible things."
The sincerity, the raw vulnerability in his words, stole her breath. She kissed him, pouring her own burgeoning belief in them into it. The kiss deepened, hungry and hopeful, fueled by shared values and the electric connection sparking between them. When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, a playful glint sparked in Whitney’s eyes. She gestured vaguely towards her small bookshelf crammed with textbooks and a few worn paperbacks. "Well," she teased, her voice light, "I do still have my Preach My Gospel handbook around here somewhere... Could always pull it out and give you the official lessons?" She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. "Full missionary mode. Burrow?"
She meant it as a joke, pure deflection after the intensity. But the words hung in the air. Joe didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He just looked at her, his expression shifting from playful surprise to something deeper, more contemplative. His gaze drifted past her shoulder, towards the bookshelf, as if he was genuinely picturing it. The easy humor faded from the room, replaced by a sudden, charged silence. The possibility, absurd yet strangely compelling, lingered between them, thick and unexpected. His thumb stilled on her hip. He blinked, slowly, then refocused entirely on her face, his blue eyes holding hers with an unnerving intensity. He didn't say yes. He didn't say no. He just... considered it.