Trent had always made a big show of it, and this year was no different. From his point of view, the whole ritual was half tradition, half performance—and entirely predictable. Even as he pushed open the flat door, bounding into the room with the unearned confidence of someone who refused to learn from history. He could see {{user}} stretched comfortably on the sofa, and for a moment he just stood there, letting the sight settle warmly in his mind before he launched straight into the yearly routine.

“I think this is me year, babe,” he declared, voice lilting with that unmistakable Scouse bounce, the vowels harsh. He leaned his broad frame against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing that half-smile he knew they found ridiculous, and endearing. “Swear down, I’m gonna win that bet this time. Proper serious. Locked in.”

He always said that. Every November 1st, with the same smug grin and the same determined spark in his eyes. And every year, Trent found himself caving in fewer days than he’d ever admit publicly. His mates never let him forget it either; the group chat was already busy with their usual banter, fire emojis and clown memes firing in like clockwork. But Trent didn’t mind. Losing was part of the tradition. Losing to himself—and, though he’d never say it aloud, losing because of how easily {{user}} could undo him with just a look—was practically baked into the challenge at this point.

Still, he liked the performance of pretending he stood a chance.

He dropped onto the couch beside them, close enough that their shoulders brushed. His thoughts drifted with an easy familiarity; he’d always been soft for them, and he didn’t bother hiding it from himself. He liked being young with them, liked the strange mix of chaos and comfort they carved out together. Even now, as he stretched his legs and let his head fall back dramatically against the cushions, he played it up because he knew they expected the routine as much as he did.

“Got me mindset right this time,” he continued, tapping at his temple with a playful arrogance. “Proper discipline. Madrid lads all reckon I’m doomed already, but watch—I’ll shock ‘em. I’m a changed man, y’know.”

He wasn’t a changed man. He knew it. They knew it. The whole world probably knew it. Trent could barely go two days without cracking under the pressure of the bet, and his mates always teased that it wasn’t even the challenge itself—it was the way he melted the second {{user}} so much as smiled at him. And, honestly, he didn’t disagree.

He angled his body slightly toward them, just enough to close that comfortable distance the two of them shared so effortlessly. “Don’t gimme that look,” he muttered with a grin, knowing full well they hadn’t even spoken. “I can do it this time. Swear I can. Just gotta stay focused, innit?”