God Of football

The sound of the exhaust hood hummed lowly in the background, mixing with the occasional clang of utensils and the soft, unhurried movements of two figures in the kitchen.

The apartment had a warmth to it now, not from the stove or the overhead lighting, but from the quiet intimacy that had settled between Izan and Olivia.

She stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, fingers deftly chopping vegetables with a focus that made Izan smile.

He leaned against the island, watching her with a lazy amusement, his arms crossed over his chest.

"You act like you've done this a hundred times," he teased, his voice light.

Olivia didn't look up, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"Unlike you, I actually cook," she shot back.

Izan scoffed, pushing off the counter and stepping behind her, his arms casually wrapping around her waist as he peered over her shoulder.

"I can cook," he muttered. "I just choose not to."

Olivia let out a short laugh. "Right. And I suppose you're about to prove that now?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached forward, plucking a slice of red bell pepper from the cutting board and popping it into his mouth.

Olivia smacked his hand lightly with the back of the knife, making him flinch back with a mock-offended expression.

"Ow," he mumbled, chewing. "Aggressive much?"

"Keep stealing ingredients, and you'll lose a finger," Olivia warned, though her tone held no real bite.

Izan grinned, dipping his head closer so his chin rested against her shoulder. "I'll risk it."

Her hands slowed for a moment, feeling the way his arms settled more comfortably around her waist.

He was warm—too warm.

It made it hard to focus. She inhaled, clearing her throat before shaking him off.

"If you're going to stand there doing nothing, at least set the table," she said.

Izan groaned, pulling away dramatically. "You're so bossy."

"And yet, you listen," Olivia retorted, a smirk on her lips.

Izan threw her a mock glare but obediently moved to grab plates.

Olivia continued working, sneaking glances at him as he absentmindedly hummed while placing the dishes down.

It was different, seeing him like this. No football boots. No intense training sessions.

No media commitments. Just Izan—completely at ease.

The thought made her chest tighten in a way she didn't quite expect.

By the time the pasta was ready, they stood side by side at the stove, Izan stirring while Olivia seasoned.

It was a mess—flour somehow dusted on Izan's black hoodie, a streak of sauce on Olivia's cheek.

But neither of them cared.

"You think we should open a restaurant?" Izan mused, twirling the spoon in the sauce.

Olivia scoffed. "Yeah, because that's a smart career move for you."

"I'd call it Izan's Kitchen," he continued, ignoring her sarcasm.

She rolled her eyes. "Sounds original."

"You'd be the head chef, obviously," he added, bumping her lightly with his hip.

Olivia let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "And what would you be?"

"The face of the brand," he said without hesitation.

Olivia turned, resting her elbow on the counter as she smirked at him.

"So, you'd do nothing?"

"Exactly," Izan said, grinning.

She huffed out a laugh, but before she could respond, Izan leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

It was fleeting, but it left her momentarily speechless.

His lips lingered just a second longer than necessary, and when he pulled back, there was something mischievous in his eyes.

Olivia stared at him, her heartbeat suddenly a little quicker.

Izan leaned in again, but this time, Olivia turned her head slightly so his lips met hers instead.

It was slow—unhurried and sweet, with just the slightest tug at her bottom lip before he pulled away.

She blinked up at him, her breath a little uneven.

"Was that to shut me up?" she asked softly.

Izan smirked. "Maybe."

She shook her head but didn't move away when he wrapped his arms around her again, pulling her close.

They stood there, the food forgotten for a moment, his chin resting against her temple as they just… existed in the quiet.

Eventually, Olivia sighed. "The pasta's going to get cold."

Izan hummed against her skin. "Let it."

She nudged him lightly, forcing a laugh. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you like me," he murmured, pressing another kiss—this time on her forehead.

Olivia sighed again, but this time, there was no annoyance.

Just something softer, something almost too fragile to name.

Maybe Miranda had been right earlier.

Maybe she really had stopped something naughty.

Or maybe—just maybe—it had only been put on pause.

Izan and Olivia stayed nestled on the couch, the soft hum of London filtering in through the windows, muted by the thick apartment glass.

The kitchen still held the faint scent of their half-successful dinner, but neither of them had moved to clean up.

Time had slowed, stretched out between laughter and quiet looks, the kind that held stories in silence.

Olivia shifted slightly, letting her hand rest just above Izan's heart, fingers absently drawing small circles.

"I didn't come just to see you," she said after a long pause, her voice calm but deliberate.

Izan turned his head slightly, his brow lifting.

"No?"

She looked up at him, green eyes steady.

"King's College London. They've offered me a spot in their Global Health and Social Medicine program. It's part of an exchange arrangement with my uni, just for a semester."

His expression changed slowly—first confusion, then realization, then something deeper.

But instead of bursting with excitement, he just leaned back and stared at her like he was taking her in for the first time.

"Global Health and Social Medicine…" he repeated, quietly. "That sounds—serious."

"It is," she nodded. "And they're one of the best in that field. I wasn't sure I'd take it at first. But then I thought… London. You."

He didn't speak right away.

Just blinked, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small, genuine smile.

"So… you'd be here? For real?"

"For a while," she said. "If it feels right."

He nodded slowly, his hand tightening around hers.

"You should do it."

Olivia tilted her head. "I wanted to see your face when I told you. To see if it changed anything."

"It does," Izan said. "It makes everything feel less… temporary."

That earned a faint smile from her, and she leaned into his shoulder. He kissed her temple—soft, steady, unhurried.

"I can show you around campus if you want," he added with a small laugh.

She chuckled. "You don't even go there."

"Details," he murmured, kissing her again—this time on the lips, gentle but lingering.

And for a moment, neither moved.

They stayed wrapped up in the idea of a future not so far away, in a city that could finally belong to both of them.

......

The soft morning light leaked through the edges of the curtain, casting a golden warmth across the apartment.

The world outside stirred with the slow hum of London traffic, muffled and distant — but inside, everything was still. Peaceful.

Izan shifted beneath the covers, blinking slowly as the blur of sleep cleared from his eyes.

He didn't remember the exact moment they'd fallen asleep, only the feeling of Olivia's fingers tracing along his chest, the gentle laughter between kisses, the way they had quietly agreed — wordlessly — not to take it further.

It wasn't about restraint. It just hadn't been about that.

His gaze dropped.

Olivia was still curled against him, her arm draped across his waist, head tucked beneath his chin.

Her auburn hair spilled over his chest like fire and silk all at once.

Her breath, soft and even, warmed the hollow of his neck.

A quiet smile crept onto his face.

"I could get used to this," he whispered, barely audible, his fingers brushing through the strands of her hair.

She shifted slightly, not fully waking, only nestling closer to him in response.

He let his hand glide down her back slowly, not with urgency or intent, but comfort — familiarity.

He could feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against his side, in sync with his own in a way he couldn't quite describe.

They hadn't needed to fill the silence last night.

The TV had gone quiet.

The city had gone quiet.

It was just them, pressed close on the couch before eventually moving to the bed, tangled not just in each other's limbs but in something much more delicate — the relief of reunion, the softness of teenage love that hadn't yet been jaded by time or distance.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, exhaling slowly, as if to release whatever tension remained in him after weeks of preseason demands, press responsibilities, and the pressure of expectation.

Then he looked down at her again, pulling the blanket a little higher around them both.

Whatever the day had planned — training, schedules, coaches, cameras — could wait a little while longer.

A/N: Ahhhhhhh. I can smell the scent of loneliness through the screen. Sorry for all the single dogs out here. Have fun reading anyways.