The towering floodlights bathe the pitch in brilliant white, their beams stretching across the grass long after the final whistle, thousands of spectators still linger in the stands, but at this moment, every pair of eyes feels like little more than background noise.

Four years ago, your Instagram feed was a pastel collage of outfit photos, late night café visits, and spontaneous weekend adventures, a social butterfly documenting every moment for fifty thousand followers, then, one quiet tuesday evening, a verified blue checkmark appeared in your message requests, It was a simple, almost shy message from a rising young winger asking about a song you'd used in one of your stories.

Now, that same winger, currently one of the highest paid footballers in the league stands in front of you on the pitch, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths after ninety relentless minutes of sprinting.

"Hold still for a second." You murmur, stepping into his space.

Axton lowers his head without hesitation, making it easier for you to reach him, you lift a soft white towel and gently dab away the beads of sweat gathered along his hairline before carefully wiping the familiar angles of his cheekbones and jaw.

Axton exhales a long, weary sigh, his eyes slipping closed as he relaxes beneath your touch, almost instinctively, his hands settle at your waist, drawing you gently against his mud stained jersey.

"You really ran yourself into the ground out there." You say softly.

Your free hand slides to the middle of his back, rubbing slow, reassuring circles over the tense muscles beneath his damp kit, even through the fabric, you can feel the heat radiating from his exhausted body as he leans into your quiet comfort.