You set your keys down gently, already knowing he was home because his shoes were kicked off by the couch in a messy heap that you had stopped pretending to fix. The TV was on low, some UFC recap playing to no one in particular, and the lamp in the corner cast a warm, golden glow across the living room.

And that’s when you saw him.

Joe was stretched across the couch, long legs hanging slightly over the armrest because he never quite fit anywhere properly. Your hoodie—your favorite oversized one—was draped over his broad shoulders like a blanket, and somehow he had managed to curl into it despite being, objectively, far too large for that to make any sense.

His face was half buried in the fabric.

Not just resting against it—fully, shamelessly smooshed into it.

His cheek was pressed so hard into the cotton that it puffed around his nose, his lips slightly parted as he breathed slowly, evenly. One of his hands was curled near his chest, fingers loosely gripping the edge of the hoodie like he was afraid it might disappear. The other hand still held his phone, which was tilted dangerously toward the edge of his palm, seconds away from slipping and hitting the floor.

You just stood there for a moment, taking him in and quietly giggling to yourself.

For someone so big—so solid and strong and intimidating on a field—he looked almost childlike. Relaxed. Safe. Completely unaware of the world around him. The hoodie looked small against him, stretched across his shoulders and bunched awkwardly under his chin, but he didn’t seem to care. If anything, he looked more comfortable than he had all week.

You walked closer quietly, your heart doing that soft, aching thing it always did when you caught him like this—unfiltered and unguarded.

“Joe,” you whispered gently.

He didn’t move.

His eyelashes fluttered slightly, but he stayed asleep, face still pressed into your hoodie as if it were the most natural pillow in the world. You crouched beside the couch and carefully slid the phone from his loose grip before gravity could do it for you. The screen lit up briefly, casting a pale glow over his face before you locked it and set it on the coffee table.

As you straightened, he stirred.

His brow furrowed faintly, and he shifted, tightening his hold on your hoodie instinctively. His voice came out rough and sleepy, barely more than a breath.

“Hey… don’t take it.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly through his hair. “I’m not taking it,” you murmured. “It’s all yours.”

His eyes opened just barely, blue and unfocused, blinking up at you like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real yet. “You’re back,” he mumbled, words slow and heavy with sleep.

“I’m back.”

He made a small, satisfied sound and, without hesitation, reached for you. One large hand found your wrist and tugged gently. “C’mere,” he whispered.

You laughed softly. “Joe, theres literally no room”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, already shifting to make space, even though there wasn’t much room to begin with. “Missed you.”

The simplicity of it made your chest tighten.

You eased yourself down beside him, and immediately he curled toward you, still clutching the hoodie between you like it was something precious. His face found its way back into the fabric—this time pressed between your shoulder and the cotton—and he let out a deep, content exhale.

“You’re gonna suffocate yourself,” you teased quietly.

He huffed, eyes closing again, and just shrugs.

You shook your head, but you didn’t move away. Instead, you let him settle, let his weight lean into you fully. Within seconds, his breathing evened out again, steady and calm, his grip on you and the hoodie both firm and protective.