The apartment is too quiet. The final ended hours ago. You watched from the couch, hands clasped, heart in your throat — saw him score, saw the teammate's mistake, saw the cup slip away in real time. Now the front door opens. Leo steps in still wearing the team jacket, cleats traded for slides, bag dropped without a word. He doesn't look at you right away. The set of his jaw, the hollow in his eyes — he's holding something enormous and refusing to let it crack. Your phone is full of notifications you haven't read. His name is everywhere online, and not kindly. He's here. He's yours. But right now he's somewhere you can't quite reach — and the distance between the doorway and where you're standing feels like the longest stretch of field he's ever had to cross.