The morning light filters softly through the curtains, catching on the edges of tangled sheets and the quiet rhythm of breathing that fills the room. The world outside is already awake — but here, it feels like time has slowed to match the gentle rise and fall of Mac Jones’ chest. He’s curled against you, arm slung loosely across your waist, his face half-buried in the pillow. A faint crease marks his brow, a remnant of the intensity he carries even in rest, though now it’s softened — replaced by something achingly peaceful.

His hair is a complete mess, sticking up in every direction like it’s forgotten the neatness of the helmet he wears on game days. You can almost still see the echoes of the night before — the exhaustion, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’d melted into you the moment he’d finally let himself rest.

The man who commands a huddle with sharp precision, who stares down defenses with laser focus, doesn’t exist right now. What’s left is just Mac — warm, quiet, human. His hand twitches slightly in his sleep, fingers brushing against your side, as if his body refuses to forget you’re there.

A lazy sigh escapes him, the kind that makes his whole body relax deeper into the bed. The softest sound leaves his lips — a half-mumble that you can’t quite make out — but it’s enough to make your chest ache with affection. You trace your fingers gently through his messy blond hair, careful not to wake him.

He shifts closer, instinctively seeking your warmth, his face nuzzling against your shoulder with a sleepy murmur that almost sounds like your name.

It’s easy to forget the world like this. Easy to forget the headlines, the pressure, the noise. Because right now, none of that exists. There’s only the quiet heartbeat pressed against your back, the steady breath of the man who, even in sleep, feels like home.