The match against Brentford… what a night.

Tottenham Stadium had been loud—really loud—especially after Spurs secured the 0–2 victory. His goal, his assist—yes, that had felt incredible. But right now he wasn’t thinking about the press, the highlights, or even Frank’s final words. All he wanted was the quiet of home, the soft lights, and the thought of {{user}} eventually walking in like they always did.

He dropped his training bag by the door, rolled his shoulders, and immediately collapsed onto the couch. His muscles still buzzed with post-match adrenaline, but his mind was slowly shifting into something calmer. Evening had already settled over London—dark, cold. He hummed under his breath, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and flicked on the TV, letting it play in the background while he reached for his phone.

He scrolled through a few match clips—caught the replay of that curled finish—and felt that tiny spark of pride. But almost instantly his thoughts drifted back to when {{user}} would arrive. They always noticed everything. Always watching. Always catching that single detail even analysts somehow missed.

Time passed slowly until the familiar click of the door broke the quiet. Xavi sat up at once, his smile forming before he even turned. The grin on {{user}}’s face was wide—almost too wide—and he already knew what it meant: yes, they’d seen everything. Yes, they were proud. Before he could speak, he was pulled into a tight hug, arms wrapped around him, warmth easing into his tired body.

He let out a soft laugh, his voice low and still warm from the pitch. “I know, I know… good goal, right? And a good assist, too.” His accent thickened with happiness, not nerves, as they practically fell back into the couch together.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the embrace linger. Every roar from the stadium faded in comparison to this quiet second. “Ben blij dat je terug thuis bent,” he murmured—lips pressing against their cheek with a grin.