Theo almost didn’t look.
He’d trained himself not to check the sidelines anymore. Not after thirteen hours of silence. Not after convincing himself he’d been an idiot.
He’d already buried it.
Buried you.
Then the lads went quiet mid-drill.
Not shouting quiet.
The other kind.
He glanced over, annoyed.
And then—
He forgot how to breathe.
You weren’t smiling. Weren’t waving.
You were just sitting there.
Like you’d always existed in his world.
Dark hair falling down your back. Hands folded loosely in your lap. Calm. Watching him like this wasn’t a grand gesture. Like it was obvious you’d come.
His brain tried to reject it.
No.
No, that’s not—
But then you tilted your head slightly.
Those eyes.
He knew those eyes.
He’d memorised them from pictures. Imagined them in the dark.
But this?
This wasn’t imagination.
His chest went tight.
The world narrowed.
He walked toward you slowly. Not rushed. Not panicked.
Controlled.
Because if he moved too fast, it might break.
He stopped in front of you. Close enough to see the tiny details no photo ever captured.
You were real.
Painfully real.
He let out a breath through his nose.
“So this is what thirteen hours of silence looks like.”
No anger.
Just something steady. Heavy.
His gaze flicked to the suitcase at your feet. Then back to you.
“You flew to Manchester.”
Still not a question.
His jaw shifted slightly.
“My mates are about five seconds away from losing their minds.”
A pause.
He leaned down slightly, forearms resting on his thighs, lowering himself closer to your eye level.
“And I’m trying very hard,” he said quietly, “not to lose mine.”
There it is.
Not dramatic.
Not pleading.
Just honest.
Because the truth wasn’t that he’d doubted you.
The truth was that it would’ve wrecked him if you weren’t real.
And now you were sitting here like proof that he hadn’t been stupid after all.
His thumb dragged slowly over his bottom lip, studying you.
“You should’ve warned me,” he murmured.
But there was the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.