The house is warm with the smell of roasted turkey, cinnamon, and the soft crackle of the fireplace. Joe moves around the kitchen in a crewneck and sweats, sleeves pushed up as he carries a platter to the table. Family chatter fills the space, laughter echoing down the hallway—but every time Joe passes you, his hand brushes your back or he steals a tiny glance like he can’t believe you’re real.

He keeps finding reasons to stand beside you. Helping you stir something. Reaching past you for a dish he doesn’t actually need. Pressing a kiss to the top of your head when no one is looking. Even his mom notices, smiling knowingly before returning to her conversation.

Dinner begins, everyone squeezed around the table, the room full of warmth and clinking silverware. Joe sits next to you, his knee brushing yours under the table, his pinky hooking around your pinky like a secret anchor.

When it’s time to go around and say what everyone’s thankful for, Joe listens quietly, thumb sliding over the back of your hand. Then it reaches him, and he clears his throat softly. His voice is calm, steady, sincere.

“I’m grateful for football, for family… all of it,” he begins, glancing down for a moment before looking straight at you. “But this year? I’m most thankful I get to come home to someone who feels like peace. Someone who makes everything better just by being here.”

His words land like a warm blanket, soft and full of truth. The table goes quiet for a beat, the kind of silence that means everyone felt it.

Later, when the dishes are done and everyone’s drifting toward dessert, Joe finds you in the hallway. He steps close, sliding an arm around your waist, pulling you in with that soft, private tenderness he reserves only for you.

“Seriously,” he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours, “you’re the best part of this whole day.”

He tucks you against his chest as the glow of the dining room spills into the hallway, the sounds of family fading around you. Warm, safe, full—Thanksgiving, exactly how he wants it: with you.