Lamine had just gotten back home from a long, exhausting night at the stadium, the echoes of the crowd still ringing faintly in his ears. The match against Newcastle ended in a frustrating 1–1 draw—he scored the only goal, carried the attack on his back, and still walked off the pitch feeling like it wasn’t enough. Cameras flashed, fans shouted his name, teammates clapped his shoulder… but none of it fixed the tight frustration sitting in his chest.

By the time he made it back to the apartment, his hoodie was half-zipped, damp with sweat, curls slightly flattened from the match. His jaw was tight, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he replayed every missed pass, every wasted chance. He tosses his boots carelessly near the door, something he never does. That alone says enough.

He paces once across the living room, dragging a hand down his face, then exhales sharply.

“Should’ve finished that second one…” he mutters under his breath, voice low, irritated—more at himself than anyone else.

Lamine finally drops onto the couch, elbows on his knees, head hanging for a second. His fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, still full of leftover adrenaline. He’s not yelling, not dramatic—just… tense. Quietly pissed. The worst kind.

Then he notices you.

His eyes lift, softening just a little the second they land on you, but the frustration doesn’t fully leave. He leans back, dragging a hand through his curls again, messing them up even more.

“Hey…” he says, voice rough from the match and the shouting.

There’s a pause. He studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to keep it in or let it out.

“…We should’ve won that.” He lets out a small, humorless breath, shaking his head. “I scored and it still feels like I did nothing.”

He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, glancing up at you from under his lashes—tired, annoyed, but softer now that you’re there.

“…C’mere.” he murmurs, quieter this time, holding a hand out toward you like he needs you close without fully saying it.