Bilbao’s a beauty; the vibrant houses, the architectural masterpieces, the Estuary of Bilbao. But, you know what’s especially beautiful? Specifically today? The San Mamés stadium, coloured in whites and navy blues—gold confetti glinting as it floats through the air, the cheers of tens of thousands spilling into the night.

Lando swears half the crowd must be crying happy tears.

A goal in the forty-second minute by Johnson, and then forty-eight more minutes of relentless play, plus nine minutes of overtime, and it’s sealed—Spurs victorious, Manchester United defeated. The contrast is stark: players in white leaping, tangled together in embraces of triumph; players in red slumped, some on their knees, eyes cast down. It’s dramatic, cinematic almost, but utterly real.

The confetti cannons explode once the Spurs team gathers in the middle of the pitch, hoisting the trophy skyward, their joy raw and uncontainable.

Ordinarily, Lando wouldn’t be grinning. Not after seeing the team he supports suffer defeat. He should be annoyed, disappointed, maybe even sulking in his seat. But he isn’t. He’s standing there, clapping along with everyone else, his heart hammering not for the result but for something—or someone—else entirely.

Because somewhere along the way, his attention had shifted from the game to something else entirely.

His eyes had been following one particular figure in white. A footballer who carried themselves differently, who slipped between defenders with such fluidity, who commanded the ball and the moment with something that looked effortless but clearly wasn’t. The kind of player who made people sit forward, breathe faster, feel that spark of electricity.

That was what held Lando captive. Not the scoreline. Not even the trophy. It was {{user}}.

He’d been hesitant when the idea of coming here had first been floated—tickets for touchline seats to the Europa League final sounded incredible, but football wasn’t his sport, not really. And sitting by the touchline just felt so completely exposed.

But when the confetti rained and {{user}} stood there at the centre, laughing, their shirt clinging with sweat, joy radiating from every line of their face—it was in that moment Lando realised he was glad he came.

He hadn’t even flinched when {{user}} threw an arm around him over the barrier—sweaty, breathless, clumsy—but still, somehow, the best thing all night.