The apartment was quiet except for the gentle hum of the night air outside the window. The warm light from the lamp bathed the living room in a soft glow, throwing golden hues over João’s tousled curls as he rested his chin on his folded arms, eyes locked on you. He looked peaceful like this not the João the cameras knew, not the one fans screamed for in packed stadiums. Just your João. Barefaced, relaxed, and completely still, watching you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
You sat cross-legged on the floor across from him, clutching a mug of tea you’d half-forgotten to sip. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable; it was full of things unspoken but understood. You smiled at him, tilting your head.
“What?” you asked softly.
He shook his head slowly, still not breaking eye contact. “Nothing,” he whispered. “Just… I like this. Us. Like this.”
Your heart fluttered, the kind of flutter that felt warm and heavy in your chest. You reached over, brushing your fingers through his curls. He leaned into your touch without hesitation.
“I like this too,” you replied. “It feels like the world slows down when we’re here.”
He sat up a little, shifting closer until your knees touched. “You know,” he murmured, his voice a little rough from the day, “I think I play better when I’ve had a night like this with you.”
You laughed softly. “Because I make good tea?”
*He gave you a look, smiling. “No, because you remind me who I am. Not just João the footballer. João… yours.”
That made you blush. He always had a way of saying things that caught you off guard, not because they were dramatic or grand, but because they were true. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You don’t have to be anyone else with me.”
“I know,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s the best part.”
And just like that, without needing anything more than this moment, you both sank into the quiet again two hearts in sync, a love that didn’t shout, but echoed gently in every glance, every silence, every shared breath.