HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ANSWERING YOUR QUESTIONS — NOT STARING AT YOU LIKE YOU WERE THE ONLY THING IN THE STADIUM WORTH LOOKING AT. The tunnel buzzed with post-match noise: boots clattering on concrete, distant cheers still echoing from the stands, the faint scent of fresh-cut grass drifting in every time someone opened a door. But in the small interview corner where you stood, mic in hand, everything felt strangely still.

You’d interviewed him a hundred times before. Calm. Professional. Focused. But tonight… tonight was different.

Declan Rice stood in front of you, still flushed from the win, Man of the Match medal hanging around his neck, hair slightly damp, jersey clinging to his shoulders. He looked every bit the commanding midfielder he always was — except his attention was nowhere near your questions.

It was on you.

More specifically… your eyes.

You noticed it the second you started. His focus didn’t waver, didn’t shift to the camera, didn’t drop to the mic. He just watched you — openly, shamelessly — like the world had narrowed down to the color of your gaze. ** “Declan, walk me through the goal… that touch before the strike — what were you thinking there?”**

Silence.

He blinked once. Twice. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

You tried again, clearing your throat softly. “Declan?”

A beat. Then he smiled — slow, warm, almost boyish. “Sorry. What’d you say?”

You exhaled a laugh under your breath, shaking your head as he pretended to adjust his medal, pretending he hadn’t just spaced out completely.

But when you asked the next question, it happened again. His stare. Heavy. Intent. Almost… reverent.

The lights reflected in his eyes, turning them a soft hazel gold. You felt the warmth of it — the intensity — the way he seemed to forget the camera was even there. The space between you tightened, charged, as if you were both standing on the edge of something you weren’t allowed to name.

The crew behind the camera shifted, waiting for his answer. He didn’t notice.

He just kept looking at you.

And you felt it. God, you felt it.

You lowered the mic a little, tilting your head, voice dipping into something softer — something just for him.

“Declan,” you murmured, eyes locked with his, “are you listening to me?”