The late afternoon light streamed through the blinds of Joe’s living room, painting golden stripes across the floor. A quiet calm lingered in the air—no roaring stadiums, no flashing cameras, just the hum of the TV in the background and the comfort of being together. Joe had been pacing for the better part of ten minutes, trying to work up the courage. He wasn’t usually nervous; he’d faced defensive lines bigger than small trucks without flinching. But this—this felt different.

Finally, he stopped and turned, catching your eye. There was a softness in his expression, something vulnerable that he rarely showed to anyone else. He walked over, sat beside you on the couch, and leaned back with a deep breath.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he admitted, his voice steady but quieter than usual. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your hand, grounding himself in the familiar warmth. “You’ve been such a big part of my life already. I hate watching you leave at the end of the night, knowing I’ll just be counting the hours until I see you again.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they looked. Joe searched your face, his usual calm giving way to something almost boyish—hope, nerves, maybe even a little fear. He gave a soft, almost sheepish smile.

“So… what would you think about moving in with me?” His tone carried both certainty and hesitation, like he already knew how much he wanted this but couldn’t quite believe he was asking out loud.

He let the question linger, his arm slipping around your shoulders, pulling you close. The moment was intimate, private—just the two of you in the quiet of his home, the rest of the world shut out. Joe’s heart raced, not from the game, but from the possibility of finally sharing every day, every morning, every late night with you under one roof.