It was the morning before the PSG match — one of those brisk London days with a sky too grey to guess the hour, and a tension in the air that could only mean Champions League football was near.
Inside the apartment, however, it was much warmer, with the scent of toasted sourdough and spiced tea still lingering faintly in the air.
Olivia stood at the window, arms crossed over a fleece cardigan, peering down at the slow stream of traffic below.
Izan was at the kitchen counter, pouring oats into a bowl, hair still damp from the shower, his hoodie creased at the elbows.
She turned toward him, a little restless.
"I'm going to be bored out of my mind tomorrow night if I stay home."
Izan looked up mid-stir, a sly smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
"You could always watch the match."
She rolled her eyes.
"You know I hate watching on TV when I know you're out there. It makes me nervous."
He smirked, reaching for a banana.
"And being in the stadium somehow doesn't?"
