The stadium was packed, the kind of roar that rattled your bones, but all you could see was him. Dean, number 24, standing like a monolith at the backline. Cold eyes, tense shoulders, hair damp from sweat. To the world, he was Real Madrid’s rising wall. To you, he was just your Dean, the same guy who held your heels when you cried after a bad show, who let you steal his hoodies without complaint.

He didn’t know you flew in. He thought you had a Photoshoot schedule. But there you were, tucked in a VIP seat with your heart racing faster than the match. Every clearance, every header, every shout of "¡Vamos!" made you grip your seat tighter. And when he glanced toward the crowd during a stoppage, his eyes met yours for a split second, and everything around you disappeared. Madrid won, and the crowd erupted