6 Weeks
pairing: joe burrow x reader wc: 1.6k a/n: thank you to @coasttocold for the prompts. here is the first one. iāve got so many wonderful ones in my inbox i'll be working on them for the rest of the weekend.
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You knew before he said anything.
The way Joe stood in the kitchen, gym bag by the door, keys already in his handāit wasn't the careful movements of someone still healing. It was the contained energy of someone ready to get back to work.
"They cleared you," you said.
It wasn't a question. You already knew.
He turned, and there it was in his eyesāthat determination that used to make you feel safe and now made your stomach drop.
"Yeah," he said simply. "I'll be active for Sunday."
The casual way he said itālike it wasn't roughly six weeks post-surgery, like the doctors hadn't said twelve weeks minimum, like your world hadn't tilted sidewaysāmade something cold settle in your chest.
"Six weeks, Joe." Your voice came out steadier than you felt. "They said twelve."
"That was a minimum timeline." He set his keys down but didn't move closer. "Everyone heals differently. I've been working my ass offā"
"I know you haveā"
"ādoing everything they've asked. Extra sessions, every protocol." His jaw tightened slightly. "The doctors wouldn't have cleared me if I wasn't ready."
He wasn't wrong about the work. You'd watched him grind through recovery like it was a opponent he could out-prepare. Early mornings at the facility, extra PT sessions, meticulous attention to every exercise and restriction. He'd done everything right.
But six weeks wasn't twelve weeks, no matter how hard he'd worked.
"It's only been six weeks," you said again.
"And I'm ahead of schedule." There was an edge to his voice now. "That's what happens when you actually do the work."
"You look good. I know you do." You tried to keep your voice level. "But that doesn't meanā"
"What?" He cut you off, frustration bleeding through his usual control. "What doesn't it mean? I'm moving well, the doctors are happy with my progress, I'm not in painā"
"It's been six weeksā"
"You keep saying that like it's some magic number." Joe ran a hand through his hair. "Bodies don't heal on a fixed timeline. Mine is healing faster."
"Or the team is pushing you back faster."
His expression went cold. "That's not what's happening."
"How do you know?" You took a step toward him. "The team is losing without you. You really think there's no pressure on the medical staff to get the franchise quarterback back on the field?"
"That's not how it works."
"Isn't it?" Your voice rose slightly. "They're employees, Joe. Just like you. And their jobs depend on winning games."
He went quiet. You'd hit something true and you both knew it.
"I trust them to do their jobs," he said finally, voice low.
"Even when their jobs depend on getting you back out there?"
Silence stretched between you. Joe's jaw worked like he was trying to find an argument that would land, but couldn't.
"I don't doubt that you've worked hard," you said, softer now. "I don't doubt that you look ready. But Grade 3 tears don't care how many extra PT sessions you do. They don't care that the team needs you. They heal on their own timeline."
"So what do you want me to do?" His voice had an edge you rarely heard. "Keep sitting? Wait the full twelve weeks even though I'm ready now?"
"I want you to be sure. Not just cleared. Actually sure."
"I am sure."
"I'm not."
The words hung in the air between you, honest and raw.
Joe's expression shiftedāsomething between frustration and hurt. "This is my career. My body. My choice."
"I know." Your throat felt tight. "And I can't stop you. I'm just asking you if you can wait four more days."
"Why?" He finally moved closer. "What's four days going to prove?"
"Maybe nothing." You met his eyes. "But if something goes wrong on Sunday and you could've prevented it with four more days..."
You didn't finish.
Joe stared at you for a long moment. Then he sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"Four days," he said finally. "Thanksgiving."
"Thanksgiving."
The agreement should have felt like relief. It just felt like postponing the inevitable.
Neither of you moved. The silence felt heavy with everything still unsaid.
Then Joe reached for your hand. Pulled you closer until you were standing between his knees.
"I hate that you're scared," he said quietly, looking up at you.
"I hate that I can't stop being scared."
His hands settled on your hips. Solid. Grounding.
"I know you think I'm not listening. Or that I don't care what you think." His voice was lower now, stripped of the earlier defensiveness. "But I do. It matters."
Your throat tightened. "Joeā"
"You matter," he continued. "What you think, what you feelāit matters to me."
You hadn't realized how badly you needed to hear that until the words landed.
"I know I'm asking you to trust something you don't trust. I know that's not fair." His thumbs brushed against your hips, an absent, soothing gesture. "But I need you to knowāI'm not being careless. I'm not being stupid. I've worked my ass off to get back, and I wouldn't go out there if I didn't believe I was ready."
"I know you believe that," you whispered.
"And I need you to believe that I hear you. That I'm waiting those four days because what you're feeling matters more to me than proving something on Sunday."
He pulled you down onto his lap, and you went, tucking yourself against his chest. His arms came around you immediately, solid and sure.
"I love you," he said quietly, into your hair. "You know that, right?"
You nodded against his shoulder.
"I need you to say it."
You pulled back enough to look at him. "I know you love me."
"And I need you to know that you're not invisible in this. You're not just... background noise while I make decisions." His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "You're the person I come home to. The person I want to call after games. The person whose opinion actually fucking matters to me."
Your eyes burned. Joe didn't talk like this often. Didn't lay himself bare emotionally unless it really counted.
"I just don't want to watch you get hurt," you said.
"I know. And I can't promise that won't happen." His forehead pressed against yours. "But I can promise I'm being as smart about this as I know how to be."
He was quiet for a moment, then: "Four more days. And when I go back out there, I need you to trust that I did everything I could to be ready. Can you do that?"
You thought about it. Really thought about it.
"Yeah," you said finally. "I can do that."
It wasn't a lie. You could trust that he believed he was ready. That he'd worked for it. That he wasn't being reckless on purpose.
You just couldn't trust that it was enough.
But sometimes love meant trusting the person even when you didn't trust the situation.
Joe kissed youāsoft, lingering, like he was sealing a promise.
When he pulled back, his hands were still framing your face. "We're okay?"
"We're okay."
"Even though you think I'm being stubborn?"
"Even though I know you're being stubborn."
That got a huff of laughter from him. His arms tightened around you.
"I worry too, you know," he said quietly.
"About what?"
"That I'm asking too much. That you'll get tired of thisāthe schedule, the injuries, the pressure. That one day you'll decide it's not worth it."
You pulled back to look at him properly. "Joeā"
"I know what I'm asking you to sign up for. And I know it's not easy." His voice dropped lower. "So when you push back, when you worryāit's not annoying. It's not you being dramatic. It's you giving a shit. And that matters to me more than you know."
"I'm not going anywhere," you said firmly.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kissed you again. Slower this time. Less about reassurance and more about connection.
When you broke apart, you stayed curled in his lap, his arms around you, your head tucked under his chin.
Four days wouldn't fix your fear. Wouldn't make the timeline longer or the clearance more trustworthy. Wouldn't change the fact that Grade 3 turf toe injuries didn't care how hard you worked.
But Joe had heard you. Had chosen to wait not because he doubted himself, but because your fear mattered to him. Because you mattered to him.
He'd said it plainly, the way he said everything important: you weren't background noise. Your worry wasn't a burden. It was proof that you cared, and he valued that.
You still didn't trust the clearance. Still thought six weeks was too soon. Still knew you'd hold your breath every time he dropped back in the pocket once he returned.
But you trusted him. Trusted that he wasn't being careless. Trusted that he'd heard you even if he couldn't give you what you really wantedāwhich was for him to wait the full twelve weeks, or better yet, not play football at all.
That was the thing about loving Joe Burrow: you didn't get to protect him from the thing that made him who he was. You just had to trust that he valued you enough to be as careful as his nature allowed.
Four more days. Then Thanksgiving. Then you'd watch him go back out there and hope that everyone who'd cleared him was right.
And even if they weren'tāeven if your fear proved justifiedāat least he'd know you'd been there. Worrying. Caring. Loving him enough to fight for four more days.
That would have to be enough.
You stayed like that as the afternoon light fadedāyou in his lap, his arms secure around you, the melted ice pack forgotten on the coffee table.
Outside, Sunday was four days away. Thanksgiving was eight. The season stretched ahead with all its uncertainty and risk.
But right now, in this moment, you had each other.
And sometimes that was the only sure thing either of you could hold onto.
