Joe Burrow wasn’t used to sitting still. He’d built a career on precision, discipline, and pushing through pain—but this time, he couldn’t. Turf toe, they called it. A small injury with a big impact. For the first time in a long while, he was forced to slow down, and he hated it.

The house was quiet except for the sound of the game playing softly on TV. He sat on the couch, foot propped up with an ice pack, his jaw clenched in frustration. Every few seconds, his eyes darted toward the screen—watching his teammates grind without him.

When you walked in, carrying a mug of tea and that calm expression he loved, he sighed, the tension in his shoulders softening just a little. You handed him the cup, and he gave you a small, sheepish smile.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice low and tired. “I feel useless just sitting here.”

You didn’t respond, just raised an eyebrow at him, the kind of look that said you know better. He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“I know, I know. ‘Rest is part of recovery.’ You sound like the trainers now.” He leaned back, wincing slightly as he adjusted his foot. “But watching the game from home? That’s torture.”

You sat beside him, your hand brushing against his arm. His eyes softened, the edge of his frustration fading.

“Guess it’s not all bad,” he said after a beat, his lips twitching into a small grin. “Means I get more time with you. I’ll take that trade any day.”

For a moment, the room felt lighter. The weight of missed plays and lost games faded under the warmth of your quiet presence. He reached for your hand, thumb tracing soft circles against your skin.