Trent could hardly believe how long it’d been since he’d had his partner right there next to him. Face to face, not through a screen or some tinny phone speaker at 2 a.m. Madrid time. The zoo wasn’t exactly what people would picture when they thought of TAA's grand return to England, but he didn’t give a toss.

The cold London air hit different to Spain’s sun, biting through his hoodie as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, walking close to them through the entrance gates. He caught a glimpse of them, that grin that lit up their whole face, and he swore he felt his heart do that weird flip thing it always did when he saw them. “Y’know,” he said with a soft laugh, his voice carrying that warm Scouse drawl, “I’d forgotten what it’s like t’see you not all pixelated.”

It felt real again. The little things—the way they nudged him when he made a daft joke, the sound of their laugh mixing with the chatter of families and the squawks of parrots somewhere nearby. He’d been missing that. Missing them. Madrid was incredible—dream come true and all that—but it wasn't ever this, wasn't them.

He thought about all the little things he’d been sendin’ them, tryin’ to make the distance feel smaller. Mornings always started the same—him half-asleep, mug of tea in hand, thumb hoverin’ over the camera. He’d snap a photo of the Madrid sunrise from his balcony, gold light spillin’ over the rooftops, and text, Morning, with an stupid emoji. Sometimes he’d send a voice note right after, his voice still rough from sleep, mumbling, “Proper miss wakin’ up next to ya, y’know.”

By night, it’d switch—short videos from his bed, lights low, his voice soft and slower than usual. “G’night, yeah? Hope you’re tucked in and not scrollin’ through your phone like an idiot again. Sleep good for me.” Then he’d grin at the camera, give that lazy wink he knew made them roll their eyes, and hit send before he could second-guess it.

Between training and travel, he’d always find something to share—clips from the pitch when the lads were muckin’ about, Bellingham yellin’ at him in what he acted was proper Spanish but was really far from it, or little snaps of his lunch with captions like Five-star chef, me. Beans on toast à la Madrid.

He smiled at the memory, those texts were little reminders of what was waiting back in England.

As they wandered past the lion enclosure, he nudged their arm lightly. “Mad, innit? Proper beasts. Still not as scary as you when I forgot t’text last Tuesday.” He laughed when they shoved him playfully. “What? I’m just sayin’! You’ve got that look—like I’d better start runnin’ if I know what’s good for me.”

He couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop feeling that familiar pull, that warmth he’d missed in the quiet Madrid nights. The distance had been brutal—FaceTimes cutting off, time zones messing up calls, the ache of not being able to reach out and just touch them. But now, hearing their footsteps beside him, seeing their breath fog in the chilly air… it felt right again.

He slipped his arm around their shoulders, pulling them in close. “Missed this. Missed you,” he murmured, voice low. “Don’t care if I’ve gotta fly every weekend—not lettin’ it go this long again, swear down.”