You were sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, legs curled underneath you, your hair still slightly damp from the evening rain. The sightseeing part of the trip had ended in a light drizzle, and the group had practically scattered the moment they got their room keys. Now the corridor outside buzzed with muffled laughter and the occasional thud of someone running in socks on the carpet.

You had ended up in Marcus Rashford’s hoodie.

It had happened so casually you almost doubted it had meaning—but the way his eyes lingered for just a moment too long when he handed it to you said otherwise. “Don’t want you catching a cold,” he had said earlier, his voice low and familiar, and something in the way he smiled made your stomach twist in that way it always did when it was just the two of you.

You remembered the way his gaze dropped for a second, how his hand brushed your arm as he draped the hoodie around your shoulders. His scent—clean, warm, and unmistakably him—lingered in the thick cotton. It swallowed you whole, and you didn’t mind. Not even a little.

Now, hours later, you were still in it. You hadn’t taken it off.

He knocked once and stepped into the room, not even waiting for your response. No one else cared much about boundaries on school trips, and he seemed too tired to pretend they mattered tonight. His hair was slightly messed up, his black tracksuit clinging to him after a long day of shepherding half-awake teenagers through museums and narrow streets.

He noticed the hoodie immediately. A slow, lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Still wearing it?”

You nodded, suddenly very aware of the silence stretching between you.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he added, quieter this time. You weren’t sure if you were meant to hear it.

You looked at him, really looked. He was only 27, but the others didn’t see it like you did. They didn’t see how he came alive when talking about football with you, how his eyes lit up when you actually got it, the tactics, the rhythm, the hunger. They didn’t see the way he lingered after practice, stretching out conversation as if he didn’t want to leave yet.

You did.

“Did you bring your ball?” you asked, voice soft, teasing. “Could play in the hallway after curfew.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I did. And no. You’re not getting me fired tonight.”