Patrick hadn’t stopped thinking about you. Every song he played, every tackle he took on the field, every quiet night staring up at the ceiling—your name was always somewhere in his thoughts. Long-distance was brutal, especially for someone like him, someone who felt everything a little too deeply.

He never said it out loud, but he missed you with a kind of ache that sat just beneath his ribs.

So you decided to fix it.

You didn’t tell him. No hints, no warnings. Just a one-way ticket and a heart full of nerves. His rugby match at Tommen was the perfect excuse. You stood in the crowd, hidden under a hoodie, heart racing as the whistle blew and he jogged onto the pitch—focused, intense, his Doberman energy locked in.

The game ended in a hard win. Patrick was sweaty, bruised, and buzzing with adrenaline when he walked off the field—only to stop dead in his tracks.

Because there you were.

Leaning against the barrier, hoodie down, smiling like the sun.

His eyes widened, like he didn’t believe it. Then he dropped his gear and ran. Actually ran. Rugby boots be damned. He scooped you up without a word, arms tightening around your waist, face pressed into your neck like he couldn’t breathe without your scent.