The call rings just once before you answer.

“There she is,” you say, settling further into the corner of your sofa, wrapped in a worn, oversized jumper. Your laptop is balanced on your knees in front of you, and Alessia’s face fills the screen, tired but warm, framed by the soft yellow glow of her hotel bedside lamp.

Outside your window, London is beginning to settle in for the night. The July air is thick with humidity, the kind that makes the city feel almost slow. A fine mist has started to fall, slicking the pavement below in a shimmer of streetlamp gold. The occasional car swishes past, headlights cutting across your ceiling in brief flashes.

Your flat is dimly lit—just the lamp in the corner and the string of fairy lights you never bothered to take down after Christmas. A half-finished mug of tea sits on the coffee table beside a stack of paperwork you’d abandoned hours ago. Your phone buzzes somewhere nearby with unread emails, but you ignore it.

Alessia’s sitting cross-legged on a crisp hotel bed in Switzerland, her England hoodie slightly rumpled, damp hair twisted into a lazy braid. You can hear the faint buzz of her teammates in the hallway beyond her door—laughs, the closing of a door, someone yelling for a charger.

“Hey, you,” she says, her voice softer than usual, her eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorise every part of it. “I’ve missed you.”

You smile, tired but genuine. “Missed you more.”

There’s a quiet beat, the kind you’ve both grown used to over the past few weeks—squeezed between training camps and work obligations and time zones. Then you ask, “How are you feeling?”

Alessia shrugs, but you can tell from the slight droop of her shoulders it’s not her usual pre-match energy. “I don’t know. Bit nervous, obviously. But mostly just… wishing you were here.”

You glance down for a second, guilt prickling at your chest. “I know. Me too. I wanted to be more than anything, Less. You know that. But with the client flying in early, the meetings stacked all weekend—I tried everything, but I just couldn’t move it.”

“I just—” She pauses, adjusting her phone slightly. “I know. I know it’s not your fault. It’s just… it’s the final. It’s kind of a big deal,” she adds quickly, gently. “And I’m not mad. Just sad, I guess. I really wanted you in the stands.”

You lean back against the cushions, voice steady despite the lump rising in your throat. “I get it. But please don’t let my absence take away from tomorrow. You’ve worked too hard for this moment to carry anything but pride into that stadium.”

She gives you a tired smile, eyes glassy. “You always say the right thing, you know that?”

“Only because I know how incredible you are.” You pause, then grin. “And because I’m the one who gets to say ‘that’s my girlfriend’ tomorrow while shouting at the telly like a lunatic.”

Alessia laughs, a real one this time, the sound soft and familiar. “Promise you’ll actually watch? Like, the full match?”

You gasp. “Are you kidding? I’m clearing the flat, stocking up on snacks, and wearing that jersey with your name on the back.”

She grins. “That’s the one.”

There’s a beat where you both just look at each other, and it’s quiet in that kind of intimate, stretched-out way that makes you feel like time has slowed down.

“Get some rest,” you say softly. “Big day tomorrow.”

Alessia nods. “I love you.”

You smile so hard it hurts. “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

Alessia doesn’t hang up right away. She just stays there for a moment, watching you through the screen, her fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“Hey,” she says, voice barely above a whisper now. “Can you… would you stay on with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

Your heart softens instantly. “Of course I can.”

“I know it’s stupid,” she says quickly, eyes darting down. “I’m just… a little in my head tonight. It helps hearing your voice. Just knowing you’re there.”

“It’s not stupid at all,” you say gently, settling more comfortably into the couch.

She smiles at that, a slow, sleepy sort of smile. “Okay. Good.”

You watch as she shifts beneath the covers, tucking her phone against the pillow beside her so that your face stays in frame. The hotel room lights are dim now, casting soft shadows over her features. She blinks slowly, lashes fluttering as she starts to unwind, the adrenaline from the day finally wearing off.

“Tell me something,” she murmurs.

“Like what?” you wonder, furrowing your brows.

“Doesn’t matter. Just your voice,” she shrugs tiredly.

So you talk. About the sun setting outside your window. About the fox you saw earlier darting across the street. About how the city feels different when you’re not in it together. You tell her that you bought extra snacks for tomorrow even though you’ll probably forget to eat anything because you’ll be too nervous for her.

She hums quietly here and there, eyelids growing heavier by the minute.

Eventually, her breathing slows. Her body stills. You watch her chest rise and fall, peaceful now, one hand curled slightly under her chin.

“I love you,” you whisper, even though she can’t hear it anymore.

But you don’t hang up.

Not yet.

You just sit there, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dim room, casting soft shadows across the walls. Outside, the city hushed. It feels like the whole world has paused.

You watch her—her face softened in sleep, brows unknotted now, tension gone. It hits you then, a sudden wave of something that makes your throat tighten.

She needed you. Not in a grand, dramatic way. But in the quiet, essential kind of way. The kind of need that builds in the small hours, when the world feels too big and the room feels too empty.

Your jaw clenches as you exhale through your nose. You glance at your phone on the coffee table. It’s almost midnight. You should be sleeping. You should be preparing for the meeting with the international client. You should be thinking about logistics and agendas.

But all you can think about is her.

You chew your lip, stare out at the street for a moment, then make a decision.

Swift. Certain.

You reach for your phone, careful not to drop the laptop from your knees. Your fingers hesitate just briefly over the contact name—Boss—before you press it.

He picks up groggily after two rings. “Everything okay?”

You steady your voice. “Yeah, sorry to call this late. I know we’ve got the meetings tomorrow, but I need to make a change.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Go on.”

“I’ll still handle them,” you say quickly. “But I’d like to move them up—early morning, if possible. I’ll be at home. Zoom should work fine. I just—” you hesitate for the first time, “—I need to be on a flight to Switzerland by the afternoon.”

Another beat of silence. Then: “Is this for Alessia?”

You smile, small but sure. “Yeah. She’s playing in the final tomorrow night. And she thinks I can’t be there.”

He exhales, but it’s not annoyed. “We’ll make it work. I’ll send a new calendar invite in the morning. Safe travels.”

“Thank you,” you say, more relieved than you expected.

When you hang up, you glance back at the laptop. Alessia is still fast asleep, her lips slightly parted, hair falling across her cheek.

You gently pick up your laptop and head into your bedroom. Placing your laptop down, you quickly spring into action.

Your suitcase—half unpacked from a work trip two weeks ago—is dragged out from under your bed. As you toss in essentials with one hand, you’re already navigating flight apps with the other, your phone screen casting a glow over your determined expression.

Your fingers move fast, jaw tight, eyes flicking between routes. London to Zurich. Zurich to Basel. No direct flights left this late—not surprising the night before the EURO final—but there’s a seat on a 12:25 p.m. flight that gets you into Zurich just past two. Enough time to make it to the stadium, if everything goes right.

You hesitate for half a second at the price—ridiculous, of course—but then scoff at yourself. What’s a few hundred more for the chance to watch Alessia?

You book it without thinking twice.

As the confirmation email pings through, you drop onto your bed and open your texts.

Tooney. Your thumbs hover for a second before you start typing.

[ you ] hey tooney, sorry it’s late — i’m flying out to surprise less. is there any way you can help me sort a ticket for the match? i’ll take anything. stand, staff list, taped to the goalpost — don’t care lol. totally understand if not, just thought i’d ask!

You send it, chewing your thumbnail nervously. It’s well past midnight, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Ella doesn’t respond until morning.

But a second later, the typing bubble appears.

[ ella ] YOU’RE COMING?!?! ok yes hang on i’ll speak to our media guy first thing — i’ll get you in even if i have to smuggle you in my boot bag! less has been in a MOOD all night, she’s gonna lose it when she sees you!!

You grin, heart thumping.

[ you ] you’re the best. thank you thank you thank you. i owe you a drink. or five. see you tomorrow <3

You toss your phone on your bedside table with a deep breath, your chest tight in the best way. There’s still packing to finish, and a cab to the airport to book, and barely four hours of sleep ahead of you, if that. But you’re going to see Alessia and that’s all that matters.

You’re up before your alarm. Not that you slept much anyway.

The sky outside your flat is still inky blue when you’re gulping down a quick coffee, hair tied up hastily, laptop balanced on your knees as you log into your early meetings. You’ve managed to move everything forward—just enough to squeeze everything in before your flight.

The first call starts at 6:45 a.m. sharp, your voice surprisingly steady despite the storm of adrenaline under your skin. You keep glancing at the time, barely focused on spreadsheets and projections, mentally already halfway to Switzerland.

By 8:15, you’re shutting your laptop with a snap and practically throwing it into your carry-on. A cab’s already waiting downstairs, and you slide into the back seat with a strange mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in your chest.

At Heathrow, the queue for security feels eternal, even though it moves fast. You fidget in line, glancing at your phone every few minutes—no missed messages from Alessia. She still has no clue.

The flight boards on time, and you manage to snag a window seat. The whole time, you stare out at the clouds and try to picture her: in team meetings, out on the pitch for the warm-up, maybe pacing her hotel room. She thinks you’re in London right now, probably just finishing work.

By the time the plane touches down in Zurich just after noon, your heart is racing.

Ella texts the second you land:

[ ella ] you here??? meet me by the side media gate at 4:30 x

i’ve got your wristband — don’t lose it or they’ll probably throw you in UEFA jail

You laugh out loud and text back.

[ you ] i’m coming. wrist ready.

You navigate your way onto the train toward Basel, the Swiss countryside flashing past in blurs of green and gold. It’s beautiful, but your mind is elsewhere—tracking every second, every train stop, every red light like it’s a countdown.

By the time you reach the stadium, it’s buzzing. England and Spain fans are everywhere—flags draped across shoulders, chants starting in waves. The atmosphere is electric.

And there, just outside the staff/media gate, is Ella—hood up, oversized England hoodie on, sunglasses perched on her nose like she’s trying to go incognito (poorly).

When she sees you, her face lights up. “Oi oi, look who actually did it!”

You rush to her, grinning, and she pulls you into a quick hug before handing over a lanyard with a neon wristband attached.

“Wristband gets you into the family and friends zone. She won’t see you until after the match unless you want her to.” She pauses, smirking. “You sure you don’t want to break her now and save her the emotional breakdown later?”

You shake your head, gripping the band tight. “I want her to think I didn’t come. I want to see her face when she sees me after. When it’s done.”

Ella whistles. “Cold-blooded. I respect it.”

Together, you walk through the side entrance, your heart thudding as you pass through security and step into the underbelly of the stadium.

You hear the buzz of the crowd above, distant shouts of fans filtering in through the open-air sections of the stadium. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

Ella walks beside you, hands in the pocket of her England hoodie, shoulders bouncing ever so slightly with pre-match energy. She’s clearly been trying to stay calm, but now that you’re inside, you can feel her heartbeat picking up in the silence between steps.

You glance sideways at her as you both head toward the designated family-and-friends zone near the lower tier.

“You alright?” you ask gently.

She snorts. “As alright as you can be before you play a European final in front of forty thousand people and live telly.”

You laugh with her, but your voice softens. “I meant… really. You okay?”

Her smile falters, just a little. She doesn’t answer right away.

You slow your pace, nudging your shoulder against hers lightly. “I know this is your first major tournament since your dad passed. I’ve been thinking about you. Just wanted to ask properly, not with cameras around or people yelling tactics over your head.”

She takes a breath. It’s a quiet one, but it catches in her chest.

“Yeah,” she says eventually, blinking ahead. “I’ve thought about him all day, to be honest.” You smile, gently. Her voice goes a little quieter, more reflective. “I was scared it’d feel empty without him here, y’know? Like… something big would be missing. But weirdly, I don’t feel alone. I feel like he’s with me tonight. Not in some floaty spiritual way, just… he’s part of this. Always will be.”

You reach over and squeeze her hand. “He’d be so proud of you, Ella. Not just for tonight. For everything.”

She nods, jaw tight, but her eyes are glassy. “Thanks. That means a lot. I haven’t really let myself talk about it today. Just trying to stay in game mode. But… it’s nice. To be asked. So thank you.”

“Always,” you say, voice low and sure. “You girls are going to smash it tonight.”

She clears her throat, smiling again now. “Well, let’s hope so. I’d hate to be responsible for you flying all this way and Alessia not scoring.”

You grin. “If she does, I’ll tell her it was all my doing. Lucky charm and all that.”

“Absolutely shameless,” Ella mutters, but she’s laughing again. “She’s going to cry, y’know. When she sees you.”

“That’s the plan,” you smile, chuckling softly.

You both reach the designated family & friends seating, wristbands scanned, and step out into the light—into the roar of the stadium. The view from pitch-side is surreal—so close you can see the blades of grass catching the stadium lights.

Ella stands beside you, taking it all in for a moment. Her jaw’s clenched, but her eyes are steady now—focused. Grounded.

“Well,” she says, straightening the hem of her hoodie. “Time to go pretend I’m not about to throw up.”

You laugh softly. “That’s the spirit.”

She turns to you, more serious now. “Thank you. For coming. This… this is going to mean the world to her.”

You nod, your throat thick with emotion. “I couldn’t not be here. Not for this.”

Ella smiles—small but warm—and then pulls you into a quick, tight hug. “Right. I’m off to the changing room. Gotta get my game head on.”

“Go make history,” you whisper as she jogs away, disappearing away surrounded by staff and the pulse of expectation.

You turn toward the stands, your wristband granting you access to the reserved family and friends section. An usher directs you to your seat, and you slide into the row just a few minutes before the official team lineups are due to be announced.

You sit low, pulling the collar of your jumper up slightly, heart pounding in your chest. The buzz of the crowd swells around you—flags waving, chants building, the floodlights gleaming brighter as dusk settles over the stadium.

A few moments pass and you’re scrolling through your phone when the announcer's voice booms through the speakers, and the stadium erupts.

A roar tears through the stands as the players begin to walk out, shoulder to shoulder, led by the referees. The teams emerge into the golden light spilling across the pitch.

And then you see her.

Alessia.

She’s in full kit, jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes locked ahead as she walks onto the pitch with her teammates. Her expression is all focus, that signature game-day intensity carved into every line of her face—but your chest tightens at how beautiful she looks, how ready she is. This is her moment.

You watch her step onto the grass, heart pounding louder than the crowd. The Spanish national anthem was played first then the English national anthem was played.

The players lined up, linking arms with one another and the entire stadium rose. You do too, though your eyes never leave her.

And then—

Right before the first verse begins, Alessia lifts her gaze.

She scans the crowd, just for a second, almost out of instinct. Like she’s searching for something she’s told herself she won’t find.

And she sees you.

Your eyes lock across the distance.

Her expression falters—just for a beat. Her mouth parts slightly, and her shoulders visibly jolt like she’s just had the wind knocked out of her. Her brows draw together in disbelief. You see the flicker of recognition give way to full-on shock.

Her lips move, barely, like she’s whispering, “What—?”

And suddenly her eyes are glassy, blinking rapidly as her gaze stays fixed on yours. She’s meant to be singing—so is everyone else—but you know in that moment, the anthem has faded into background noise for her. Her teammates are singing. The fans are roaring.

But Alessia is standing still, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, staring at you like you’re the only person in the stadium.

You lift your hand in a small wave, your eyes never leaving hers.

She swallows hard, biting down on her bottom lip like she’s physically holding back tears. Her hand tightens at her side, her jaw clenches, and then—just for a second—she smiles. Barely there. Just the corner of her mouth twitching in disbelief, in overwhelming emotion.

The anthem ends.

The crowd erupts.

And Alessia finally blinks and turns her head just enough to join her teammates, wiping the corner of her eye quickly with the back of her hand.

But you know she saw you.

The match begins at an unforgiving pace.

Spain took control early—relentless in possession, passing through the thirds with the ease of a side that had already beaten England once on a world stage. Every time England try to settle, Spain disrupt. The midfield feels crowded. You bite your lip, clutching the hem of your jumper as the clock ticks.

And then, in the 25th minute, your stomach drops.

A sharp cross from Ona Batlle slices into the box. Mariona Caldentey rises, perfectly timed, and buries it with a header into the far corner. 1–0 to Spain.

The Spanish fans erupt. You slump back, heart sinking.

England looked shaken. The rest of the half plays out with Spain commanding nearly all of the possession, pushing England deeper and deeper. Alessia barely gets a clean touch in those moments—tightly marked, frustrated. But every time the camera pans to her, you see the fire. She’s not done.

At halftime, you glance around. Ella’s family a few rows over. Sarina Wiegman pacing on the sideline. You wonder if Alessia’s thinking about you sitting here, if your presence is pushing her through the nerves.

And then the second half starts.

Something shifts.

England come out sharper, hungrier, pressing higher. You watch your girl find space again—barking instructions, dropping deep to link up, fighting for every 50/50 like her life depends on it.

And then it happens.

57th minute. Chloe Kelly bursts down the right and delivers a perfect, whipped cross into the box.

Alessia breaks free of her marker, times her run, and leaps.

Her header is thunderous—angled back across goal, catching the keeper off guard. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–1.

The crowd explodes. You do too—on your feet, hands over your mouth, eyes wide as Alessia shouts in celebration. She looks radiant—roaring with pride, teammates swarming her.

But just before they reach her, she glances toward the stand. A flick of her eyes.

She sees you again.

You know it.

The game stretches on. Tension builds. Spain threaten once or twice, but England hold their line. When 90 minutes end, it’s still level. 1–1.

Extra time. Nails bitten to the quick. You can hardly breathe.

And then, penalties.

It felt as though you held your breath the entire time. Chloe Kelly steps up and you don’t even blink.

She buries it.

England win. 3–1 on penalties. European Champions. Again.

The crowd was thunderous, a sea of flags and arms and tears. On the pitch, it was just as chaotic.

Amid the whirlwind of screams and camera flashes, you spotted Alessia — not running toward the touchline, not yet. She was beside Ella, who’d had her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with something far heavier than victory.

You watched from the family section as Alessia stood beside her, arm slung over her shoulders, forehead pressed to Ella’s temple as she spoke quietly — words you couldn’t hear, but could feel. You knew it had hit Ella hard. Her first major final without her dad. Even in joy, grief finds its place.

Alessia didn’t rush. She stayed with her for a while, anchoring her there with a kind of unspoken understanding only best friends share. When Ella finally composed herself, wiping her face, Alessia gave her a small nod and a tight hug before they both turned toward the stands.

And then Alessia spotted her family.

Her expression shifted—eyes wide, mouth stretching into a full, tearful grin. She broke into a sprint toward the family section, climbing the short barrier and immediately throwing her arms around her mum. The two of them held on like the world had narrowed down to just that moment. Her dad. Her brothers. Hugs, kisses, tears. Photos being taken. Laughter through sobs.

You watched it all quietly, a few steps behind.

You stayed back, deliberately—hands gripping the barrier, heart hammering. You knew how much her family meant to her. Knew that this moment, this connection, had to come first. She’d look for you when she was ready.

And she did.

Just as she pulled back from her brother, still breathless, eyes glassy with everything, her gaze swept the row — and stopped.

On you.

At first, she didn’t move.

Just stared.

You saw the exact second her brain caught up to what she was seeing. Her eyes filled again, this time with a different kind of disbelief. Her lips parted, one hand lifting slowly like she couldn’t trust the sight of you until she touched you herself.

You smiled softly, letting her have the moment.

Then, wordlessly, she stepped past the arms still reaching for her, and walked straight toward you — like the noise had vanished, like the stadium had gone still, like all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat and the memory of your voice.

You wrapped your arms around her waist, anchoring her there, letting her shake in your hold. You felt her whisper it more than you heard it.

“I missed you so much.”

“I’m here,” you say, holding the back of her head, fingers sliding gently into the braid she’d worn for the game. “I’m here, Less. You did it.”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, hands on either side of your face now, eyes scanning every inch like she didn’t quite trust it.

“I don’t know how you did it,” she said in a whisper, eyes closed. “But this… this made everything even better.”

“You made me proud,” you smile. “Every second of tonight. And now we’re going to celebrate properly. Champagne. Victory dance. The whole thing.”

She smiled, eyes still closed, nose brushing yours. “Just stay close. That’s all I want tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly.

And with that, in the middle of a crowded, roaring stadium, Alessia kissed you like the world had finally aligned — as a champion, yes, but more than that… as yours.

The stage had been built in record time, lights flashing, confetti cannons primed. Alessia stood shoulder to shoulder with her teammates on the podium, arms linked, cheeks still wet from tears. The medal around her neck gleamed under the stadium lights.

Leah Williamson raised it high and the crowd roared. Red and white confetti burst into the air, raining over the Lionesses as they jumped and screamed and clung to one another in pure, unfiltered joy. Alessia looked out into the stands, scanning instinctively for you even in the chaos, eyes bright with something fierce and gentle all at once.

Later that night, the city was quieter now, a hum outside the window — car horns, celebratory chants drifting up from the street below. The room smelled faintly of peppermint shampoo and hotel linen, but it was Alessia’s presence that filled the space, the adrenaline of the night slowly ebbing from her body.

You sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you. She stood across from you now, fresh out of the shower, your hoodie hanging off her frame — the kind that swallowed her, sleeves too long.

And you just… watched her.

Eyes full of awe. A small, dazed smile playing on your lips. Like seeing her in this quiet moment, barefoot and flushed with warmth, was somehow even more overwhelming than watching her lift the trophy hours earlier.

She caught you staring and let out a soft, bashful laugh, cheeks pink as she padded across the room.

“What?” she asks, voice scratchy from cheering.

You shook your head slowly. “You were incredible tonight.”

Alessia looked at you for a long moment, eyes soft, heart so full it almost hurt. And then she sank down beside you, resting her forehead against your shoulder with a hum of contentment.

“This is all I wanted after today,” she whispers. “You. This. Quiet.”

You kissed the top of her head, gently. “Then it’s all yours.”

And for the first time since the final whistle, she let herself breathe — not as Alessia Russo the goal scorer, the champion, the headline — but as the girl who was finally, completely, home.

Alessia stayed curled into you, warm and still slightly damp from her shower, her cheek pressed to your shoulder like it belonged there. You could feel her steady breathing slow even further, like your presence was finally letting the tension of the night melt away.

You couldn’t stop looking at her.

The shape of her nose. The slight flush still on her cheeks from adrenaline. Your thumb traced a slow line down her arm, memorising her again, even though you already knew her by heart.

“Stop staring at me,” she mumbles, voice muffled by your hoodie.

You grinned and leaned in close. “Can’t help it. You’re too pretty.”

That got a groggy laugh out of her, low and a little embarrassed. “You’re such a nightmare.”

“And yet,” you say softly, tilting her chin up with one finger, “you love me anyway.”

Her lips curved into the smallest smile, and before she could give some tired, teasing reply, you stole a kiss — soft and deliberate. Then another. And another. Quick, feather-light ones along her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

“Oi,” she murmurs, giggling now as she half-heartedly swatted at you. “You’re impossible.”

You laugh. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

“Mm,” she hums, leaning up to meet your mouth properly this time. The kiss lingered — slow and full of warmth, her fingers curling around your wrist like she couldn’t let go even if she wanted to.

You pulled her in closer by the waist, and she came easily, like her body had been waiting to slot into yours. Her thigh slid between yours, and her fingers threaded into your hair as your mouths moved together, breathing through soft laughter and groaned half-sentences.

“I should sleep,” she murmurs against your lips, but doesn't move.

“Mm,” you reply, kissing just under her ear. “So sleep.”

“Can’t. You’re making it impossible,” she grumbles.

You laugh softly and kiss her again, this time slower, deeper. All she wanted was you.

Her hands slid beneath your shirt again, fingertips skating across your ribs, and you sighed into her mouth, curling your hand into the hem of her hoodie in return. She tugged it up lazily, grinning when you shivered under her touch.

“Missed touching you,” she says, her voice low.

“I can tell,” you reply, a teasing lilt to your voice.

You kissed her again, and again. She rolled on top of you briefly, forehead pressed to yours, hips grazing just enough to make you gasp before she settled back beside you, smiling in that way that made you feel like the only person in the world.

Neither of you said much after that. You just kissed — slow, exploratory, indulgent in the way that only happens when the distance has been too much for too long. Every movement was a silent reassurance: I’m here. I missed you. I love you.

Eventually, Alessia let out a long, spent sigh and buried her face in your neck, nuzzling in like a sleepy cat.

Within minutes, her breathing evened out, body lax and completely curled around you, one hand tucked beneath your shirt, her leg thrown over yours. You reached out with your free hand and flicked off the bedside lamp, the room plunging into a hush of moonlight and soft shadows.

You lay there, wide awake for a moment longer, just watching her. Holding her.