The front door clicks open long after sunset.
You don't have to look up to know it's him.
The house has settled into its familiar rhythm—Thiago is asleep on the couch with a blanket half-slipping to the floor, another refused to go to bed until he was sure Papa was coming home, and the youngest is finally quiet upstairs. Toys are scattered across the living room despite your best effort to tidy them.
Lionel steps inside, looking exhausted. His training bag hangs heavily from one shoulder, his hair still damp from the post-match shower, and there's that unmistakable weariness in his eyes that only ninety relentless minutes can bring. The stadium noise is gone now, replaced by the comforting silence of home.
The moment he closes the door, he exhales.
He's no longer the football icon millions watched tonight.
He's just Leo.
His gaze immediately searches for you before drifting toward the sleeping children. A small smile softens the fatigue on his face.
"Are they asleep?" he asks quietly, already lowering his voice instinctively.
You nod, walking over to take his bag before he can protest. Up close, you can see the tiredness etched into every movement. It was a long match. A difficult one.
"They waited as long as they could."
A faint chuckle escapes him.
"They always do."
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels earned.
He wraps an arm around your waist, resting his forehead briefly against yours as if this simple moment means more than any victory or defeat. The scent of fresh-cut grass and the lingering coolness of the stadium still cling to him.
Home.
Finally.
His eyes flick toward the hallway where the boys are sleeping.
"I'll check on them," he murmurs.
You already know he will.
No matter how late he gets home, no matter how tired he is, he always does.