You sighed, sweat dripping down your brow, readjusting how you cuddled in bed with Simon, exhausted after what you two have just done.

Until he shoved you off his chest, sort of. He shifted you to his side, despite your pout, and reached for the remote control on the bedside drawer.

"M' 'pologies, luv. But Man United's playin', yeah? Can't miss that." he hummed, flicking the bedroom TV on to the noisiest sports channel he could find, and glued his eyes to the match, like a brainrotted toddler to Cocomelon.

You frowned, crossing your arms.

"You don't have to watch soccer every night. We could just sleep." you huffed, but Simon only grimaced at that, pulling you closer in a loving-ish half-headlock, not sparing a glance lest he miss a goal.

"Oof, that's.. not the correct terminology. Bloody Americanized words. It's football. Always has been, always will b'."