It was past midnight when he finally said it.

You were curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers lazily running through his curls. The TV was on, but neither of you were really watching. It was quiet too quiet.

“Babe,” he whispered, not looking at you. “There’s an offer.”

Your hand paused in his hair. You didn’t need him to say more. You’d seen the rumors. The headlines. The agents talking in hushed corners at matches. And now it was real.

“Where?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

João sat up slowly, facing you. His eyes were tired the kind of tired that comes from pretending things are fine when they’re not.

“Ac Milan.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s… far.”

“I know.”

You looked at him, really looked at him—the boy with stadiums at his feet but a heart that only beat steady when it was near yours. The João that the world saw wasn’t the João you knew: this one was softer, more unsure, more real.

“Do you want it?” you asked.

He hesitated.

“It’s a good move. For my career. Fresh start. More time on the pitch. A chance to prove myself again.”

“But?” you pressed gently.

“But it means leaving you. Again.”

The words hung between you like smoke.

This wasn’t the first time. You’d been through his transfers before different countries, long flights, sleepless calls at 3AM. You always made it work. But every time, it hurt a little more.

“I don’t want you to make decisions around me,” you said, even though it tasted like heartbreak. “I want you to go where your heart tells you to.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “But you are my heart.”

Your throat tightened. “Then take me with you.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, eyes glistening. “We’ve done the distance. The waiting. The missing. I’m done living in the in between. I’ll come. We’ll figure it out.”

João didn’t speak. He just kissed you like he was kissing a lifeline, a promise, a future. Two months later, under grey skies and cold northern air, João stood at Old Trafford in a brand new jersey. He looked up at the stands and smiled.

There you were, in a coat too big for you, clutching a cup of tea and wearing his name across your back. You waved like it was only the two of you in the world. And in that moment, he knew no matter the club, the pitch, the jersey… As long as he had you, he was always home.