The studio was alive with the usual chaos. Laughter ricocheted off the walls, Micah throwing jabs across the table while Jamie and Kate argued about a questionable offside call from the night before. Thierry leaned back in his chair, one ankle resting across his knee, fingers steepled under his chin. He wasn’t saying much but his eyes tracked every movement, every sentence. Tactical mind always on, even when the game wasn’t being played.

Rain pattered lightly against the tall windows behind them, a soft rhythm that didn’t quite match the studio’s electric pulse. Thunder rolled somewhere distant, almost theatrical. Thierry’s phone vibrated against the desk once. Then again. Subtle, barely a buzz. His gaze flicked downward as he reached for it, thumbing the screen open without much thought.

Then everything stopped. A picture. From you.

It loaded slowly on the weak studio Wi-Fi, but when it did, Thierry straightened just slightly. You were in a fitting room, a narrow full-length mirror catching every curve in a short, black, impossibly revealing dress. Nothing written. Just the image. Just you. And the gleam in your eye that he could read even through a screen.

He inhaled through his nose, subtle but sharp, tongue pressed briefly to his molars. “Excuse me a moment,” he said quietly, sliding the phone screen-down on the desk as he stood. His voice was even, measured. But his mind had veered entirely off course.

Jamie clocked the shift first. “Oi, what’s that? You look like someone just handed you a red card.”

Micah laughed. “That’s not a red card face—that’s a ’my girl just sent something crazy’ face. Tell me I’m wrong.” Kate grinned over her shoulder. “Oh, it’s definitely that face.”

Thierry didn’t rise to the bait. He just shook his head once, smirking faintly as he grabbed his jacket. “Keep talkin’. I’ll be back.”

“You’re leavin’?” Micah called after him. “Mid-show prep?” The others chuckled, but Thierry was already moving. The door clicked shut behind him.

Outside, the rain was steady now, soaking the pavement and sliding down the car windows in blurred streaks. He didn’t run—but his pace was sharp, driven. And as he moved through the hallway, phone back in hand, another memory slipped into his mind: you, years ago, in a quiet bar, sliding into his life with a laugh and a question about tactics. The first time you challenged him. The first time he saw you.

Now, you were sending him this—this dress, this look, this message with no words. One text came from him: 'I'm on my way..'