First trophy, first trophy—first fucking trophy. The words kept looping in Bren's head like a chant he couldn’t switch off, even now, long after the confetti had settled and the adrenaline had mellowed into a warm, buzzing hum inside his chest. Europa League winners—Europa League winners. Spurs’ first trophy in over a decade, and he’d scored the winning goal. Every time he thought of it, something tightened in his throat, something proud and disbelieving and a bit emotional, though he’d never admit that part out loud.

He remembered the moment the final whistle blew—San Mamés exploding around him, roaring like it had a heartbeat, golden flecks raining down from the rafters like tiny stars. He could still feel them hitting his skin and sticking to his hair. The pitch had looked unreal, almost dreamlike.

Then the celebrations had rolled into each other with no pause, no breath—first on the pitch, then in the changing room, beer soaking the floor, music echoing off tile. Then the bus, weaving through Bilbao, fans everywhere, the whole city thumping with colour and sound. He’d been grinning like an idiot, a medal hanging heavy and perfect around his neck, a new drink shoved into his hand every five minutes.

London had been a blur—an entire city ready to party. And on top of everything, it was his birthday. Of course it was. As if the universe had decided it wanted to take the piss in the best possible way.

Now he was leaning against the bar of the club they’d crashed hours ago, lights strobing off polished surfaces, bass vibrating through his ribs. His head felt light, pleasantly foggy. “Reckon I’ve been smashed since Bilbao,” he muttered to himself with a crooked grin, accent thickened by drink and exhaustion. “Haven’t had a bloody minute without a pint in my hand.”

Brennan’s gaze drifted across the club until he found them again, the familiar sight cutting through neon and noise like something warm and steady. His chest tightened, softer now, calmer than the rush of victory.

He pushed off the bar, stumbling just a little, and laughed under his breath. “Oi, love,” he called out, accent slipping even further, voice touched with a tipsy warmth he didn’t bother hiding. “C’mere a sec, yeah? Birthday lad needs a bit of company.”

The trophy. The confetti. The goal. All of it mattered.

But this—this moment with them—made everything feel real. Game won. Night still young. And he wasn’t celebrating it alone.