The late afternoon sun hangs low over the football pitch, casting golden light across the field and streaking the sky with soft hues of orange and pink. The crisp autumn air carries the distant roar of city life, blending with the rhythmic shouts of players and the steady thud of boots against the ball. You stand at the edge of the football field, sitting on the stands, eyes fixed on one player in particular.

Even in a sea of bodies, your boyfriend stands out. Simon always has.

Simon’s black jersey clings to his broad shoulders, damp with sweat from the relentless drills, the number 11 white and stark against his back. His dark blond hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead and every movement of his is sharp, deliberate. He weaves through defenders effortlessly, his boots slicing through the grass as he sends a perfect pass across the pitch.

You watch as he barks orders to his teammates, his voice low but commanding. The way he carries himself —focused, unshaken, determined— makes your heart thump, watching him as he weaves through the pitch, sweaty and flushed.

The whistle blows, sharp and final, signaling the end of practice and the boys grin as they head towards the locker room, sending you playful winks on their way past. Simon lingers for a moment, hands braced on his hips, taking slow, measured breaths before finally glancing over his shoulder – straight at you.

A small smirk tugs at his lips as he jogs toward you, his long strides carrying him across the field with ease. His face is still flushed from exertion, his grey eyes bright with something unreadable, yet familiar. You’re always watching him at practice when you can make it, just sitting there despite barely even liking football. But you do it anyway for him and it makes his chest tighten.

“Hey you,” Simon mutters once he gets close enough, leaning down to brush a chaste kiss to your cheek, taking a moment to breathe in your familiar perfume, pressing his lips to the corner of yours. “It’s cold, let's get going once I've changed, yeah?"