Lose the shirt - Joe burrow x gf!reader
Warnings: Fluff, grumpy Joe, Joe getting sacked.
Word Count: 1,832
The house was loud in the way only a post-win house could be.
Music hummed low through the speakers, something with too much bass and not enough lyrics, blending into the background of overlapping voices and laughter. The TV was on, cycling through highlights no one was really watching anymore—slow-motion replays of the game they’d just lived through, the announcers’ voices occasionally cutting through the noise like an echo from earlier.
In the living room, Ja’Marr and Tee were already deep into another argument, both of them standing too close to the TV like proximity would somehow prove their point.
“I’m telling you that was NOT a catch—”
“It hit both hands, bro!”
“It hit the ground!”
Teddy, stretched out on the couch like he had all the time in the world, didn’t even look up when he chimed in. “Y’all are arguing like we lost.”
That did it.
Ja’Marr turned, pointing toward the screen even though the replay had already moved on. “You see how many times he got sacked?”
The room dipped. Just for a second.
Not silent. Not awkward.
But everyone had seen it.
Everyone had felt it.
The hits had been loud.
So was the way Joe got up after every single one.
Still, it lingered.
Then someone laughed, someone else threw a pillow, and the moment passed like it always did.
But not entirely.
Not really.
Because in the kitchen, it hadn’t passed at all.
The light in here was warmer, softer. The noise from the living room dulled just enough to feel separate, like the two spaces were running on different currents. The counters were half-covered in plates, food you’d thrown together quickly but carefully, drinks lined up in a neat row that was already being slowly picked apart.
Joe stood at the island, one hand braced against the edge like he needed the support more than he’d admit, the other wrapped tight around a bottle of water.
Too tight.
His knuckles were pale against the plastic.
He’d changed into sweats, but everything else about him still looked like the game hadn’t ended yet. His hair was still a mess, sticking up in the back where his helmet had pressed it down all night. There was still that sharpness in his shoulders, in the way he held himself like he hadn’t quite come down from the adrenaline.
Or maybe like he didn’t want to.
You didn’t have to look at him to know he was still pissed.
You could feel it.
It sat in the room with him.
He reached up toward the cabinet, movement quick and thoughtless, like he’d done it a thousand times.
Too fast.
Too high.
And the second his arm stretched over his head, something in his body betrayed him.
It was small. Fast.
Barely anything.
But his entire torso tightened for half a second, his breath catching just enough to notice.
And you noticed.
You always did.
Your head lifted immediately, attention snapping to him like a reflex you didn’t even think about anymore.
“What was that?”
He didn’t turn. Didn’t even hesitate.
“Nothing.”
The answer came too quick. Too flat.
You were already moving before he finished the word, wiping your hands on the edge of a towel as you crossed the kitchen.
“Joe.”
“I’m fine.”
You stopped in front of him, close enough that he couldn’t ignore you now, couldn’t pretend you weren’t paying attention.
“You don’t wince like that when you’re ‘fine.’”
His jaw tightened, the muscle there ticking once as his grip on the water bottle shifted.
“I said I’m—”
“Lose your shirt.”
The words cut clean through whatever he was about to say.
No hesitation. No room for argument.
For a second, he just looked at you.
Like he was recalibrating.
“…what?”
“You heard me. Lose the shirt.”
Behind you, something crashed in the living room followed by a chorus of laughter and someone yelling about their drink.
Neither of you looked.
Joe’s eyes stayed on yours, something stubborn and conflicted sitting right beneath the surface.
“…they’re literally right there,” he muttered, voice lower now.
You didn’t even glance over your shoulder.
“Then maybe don’t act like you’re hiding an injury in your own kitchen.”
That landed.
You saw it in the flicker across his face—the brief flash of irritation, the instinct to push back, to brush it off, to make it smaller than it was.
But underneath that?
Something softer.
Something that only showed up with you.
“…you’re not letting this go, are you?”
“Nope.”
There wasn’t even a second thought behind it.
Another beat passed between you, the noise of the house filling the silence you left behind.
Then he exhaled, sharp through his nose, setting the bottle down harder than he meant to.
“Fine.”
His fingers hooked into the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to prove a point.
You stepped forward immediately, closing the small gap between you without thinking.
“Higher.”
He let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh if he wasn’t still irritated, but his hand moved anyway, pulling the fabric up further.
And there it was.
The bruising spread across his ribs in uneven patches, red bleeding into deeper purples along the edges, the kind that hadn’t fully settled yet. It was fresh. Angry. A reminder of every hit his body had taken.
Your expression changed before you could stop it.
The edge in you disappeared, replaced by something softer, something that always made him feel a little too exposed when it was directed at him.
“…Joe.”
“I told you it was nothing.”
You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face like you were double-checking something.
“That’s not nothing.”
“It’s fine.”
“You got driven into the ground four times.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Your hand came up, hovering for just a second before settling lightly against his side, fingers brushing over the worst of it with careful pressure.
He barely felt it.
But his body reacted anyway.
A sharp inhale slipped out before he could stop it.
Your eyes snapped back up to his.
“See?”
“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, quieter now.
Less defensive.
More… stubborn.
Like if he said it enough times, it would make it true.
Your other hand slid to his side, steadying him without making a big deal out of it.
“Sit.”
“I’m standing.”
“Joe.”
From the living room, Tee’s voice cut through, loud and amused. “Y’all good in there or are we about to have to pick sides in the divorce? Cause I’ll so play both sides to get what I want.”
Joe didn’t even glance away from you.
“Shut up, Tee.”
You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, shaking your head slightly before looking back at him.
“Sit,” you said again, softer this time.
And for you?
He did.
He shifted back against the counter, lowering himself just enough to take some of the weight off without fully committing to it, like even now he didn’t want to admit he needed it.
You stepped closer again, your hands returning to his ribs, slower this time, more deliberate.
The world outside the kitchen kept moving. Music, voices, the clink of bottles, someone opening the fridge and immediately getting yelled at.
But in here, everything narrowed.
Quieter.
Smaller.
Like the rest of the house existed somewhere just out of reach.
“You should’ve said something,” you murmured, your focus still on the bruising under your fingertips.
He didn’t answer right away.
You could feel his gaze on you instead, steady and unguarded in a way he didn’t give to anyone else.
“I knew you’d do this.”
“Do what?”
“This whole…” he gestured slightly, then stopped when it pulled at his side again, his mouth tightening for half a second, “…thing.”
You glanced up at him.
“…take care of you?”
“Yeah.”
There was something in his voice this time.
Not annoyance.
Not frustration.
Something quieter.
Something that sat closer to the truth than he probably meant to let it.
You didn’t push it.
Didn’t tease him.
Just let your hand settle a little more firmly against his side, grounding.
“Someone has to.”
You felt the shift in him.
Not big. Not obvious.
But his shoulders dropped just slightly, the tension in them easing like he was letting himself breathe a little differently.
Your fingers pressed gently against the worst spot again.
“Does this hurt?”
“No.”
You adjusted your pressure, just enough.
His breath caught again, sharper this time.
You didn’t even need to look up to know.
“…a little.”
“Mmhm.”
Your lips pressed together, but there was a hint of a smile there.
A quiet understanding.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
Then his hand moved, finding your wrist.
Not pushing you away.
Not stopping you.
Just holding it there, his thumb resting lightly against your skin like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit.
“…I hate that I couldn’t get away from it tonight.”
There it was.
Not about the bruises.
Not really.
You softened instantly, your other hand shifting to rest more gently against his side.
“You still won.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re mad.”
“Yeah.”
Your thumb brushed along his wrist, slow and absent, like you were smoothing something out that wasn’t physical.
“You don’t have to be perfect every game.”
“I know.”
He paused, his grip on your wrist tightening just slightly before easing again.
“…doesn’t mean I like it.”
You let out a quiet breath, something warm in it.
“Yeah. I figured.”
From the living room, someone shouted again, louder this time. “AYO—y’all got food in there or are we starving??”
“Come get it yourself!” you called back without looking away from Joe.
“No, you invited us, that means you serve us!”
Joe huffed out a small laugh, barely there but real enough to catch.
Your eyes flicked back up to his immediately.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That.”
You nudged his side lightly, careful of where you touched. “You’re allowed to be human, you know.”
He looked at you for a long second.
Long enough that the noise from the rest of the house started to feel even further away.
“…stay in here with me a minute?”
The words were quieter now.
Less guarded.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah.”
And you stayed right where you were.
Your hand still in his.
Your other resting lightly against his ribs, not pressing anymore, just there.
Holding.
Grounding.
The house kept moving around you. The celebration didn’t stop, the laughter didn’t fade, the night kept going exactly the way it was supposed to after a win.
But Joe didn’t move.
Didn’t rush back out there.
Didn’t pretend he was fine.
He just stood there with you, your fingers laced with his, your presence steady and familiar and exactly what he needed.
And for the first time since the game ended,
he wasn’t replaying the hits in his head.
He was just breathing.
And letting you keep him there.
