Alejandro sat across from {{user}}, the clinking of cutlery and the low hum of conversation in the café a thin shield against the storm gathering outside the glass walls. His chest felt tight—nerves, anticipation, and that ache of knowing this wasn’t going to be easy. Today wasn’t just another matchday. It was the first time he’d wear Chelsea blue in front of Manchester United, in front of the supporters who had once sung his name like a hymn.

He had {{user}} here, though. That steadied him. Their presence across the table was like an anchor, grounding him when the world outside felt ready to tear him apart. Every detail about them—the way their fingers wrapped around the mug, the way they tilted their head when listening—pulled him back from the spiral of dread. They’d been with him through it all: the nights when he came home furious at himself, the mornings when the pressure felt too much, the days when the only thing keeping him upright was their hand in his. He reached across now, letting his hand brush against theirs, and didn’t care who saw. People would notice, yes, but in this moment, the warmth of their skin was worth every headline.

He couldn’t shake the weight of what was coming. The boos, the chants twisted into jeers, the banners that once had his face on them now replaced with insults. He told himself he could handle it, that ambition always came at a cost—but a part of him still hurt, still missed the old love. Leaving United had been the hardest choice of his career, and he wondered if anyone would ever really understand why he had done it. He wondered if they hated him more because {{user}} had stayed, because in some way his old and new lives would always be tied together through them.

Lunch ended, and the air outside was damp and cold. They barely got a block before whispers rose into sharp words and cameras appeared. Alejandro dropped his gaze, shoulders hunched, but he didn’t move away from {{user}}. The rain was coming down harder, drops soaking into his jacket, and yet that closeness mattered more than the stares.

Hours later, the stadium swallowed him whole. The grass glistened under the floodlights, slick with rain, his boots cutting lines into the wet surface as he jogged through Chelsea’s warm-ups. Across the field, his eyes found them—standing among the United staff, drenched but unshaken. That sight hurt and healed at the same time.

As he drifted toward the halfway line, it happened. A shoulder brushed his—accidental, but deliberate in a way words could never be. Alejandro turned his head, raindrops dripping from his lashes, and met their gaze. For a heartbeat, the roar of the crowd, the anger, the storm—none of it mattered.

“Bound to happen,” he muttered, voice low, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite everything.