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Francesco slept again, feverish but safe, surrounded by the quiet certainty that even when his body finally forced him to stop, he wasn't alone.
Morning didn't arrive with urgency.
It crept in slowly, light easing its way through the curtains rather than forcing them open, the kind of soft London morning that felt considerate, like it knew the state he was in and adjusted itself accordingly.
Francesco surfaced from sleep in fragments.
At first, there was only sensation.
Warmth lingering beneath the duvet. Not as oppressive as yesterday, but still there, humming quietly through his bones. The mattress supporting him instead of swallowing him whole. A faint, distant awareness of birds outside with real ones, not the roaring kind that filled stadiums.
Then smell.
Something familiar. Toast, maybe. Tea. That clean, herbal note he'd come to associate with medicine.
And finally, touch.
A hand, light but persistent, brushing against his forearm.
"Fran," a voice said gently. "Hey. Wake up."
He groaned quietly, turning his head toward the sound. His eyelids fluttered, resisting at first, then giving in.
Leah sat on the edge of the bed beside him.
She was dressed casually with her oversized hoodie, hair pulled back loosely, face bare of anything unnecessary. There was a calm to her, but also that alertness he'd come to recognize over the last day. The kind that didn't relax fully until she was sure he was okay.
"Morning," she said softly when his eyes finally opened.
"…What time is it?" he asked, voice rough with sleep.
"Late enough," she replied. "Early enough that you still get breakfast."
He shifted slightly, immediately aware of his body again. Less heavy than yesterday. Still tired, but the crushing weight had eased. His head throbbed faintly, like a reminder rather than a warning.
"Feel any better?" Leah asked.
"A bit," he said honestly. "Head's still there."
She nodded. "Doctor said that's normal."
His gaze drifted past her.
That's when he noticed the tray.
It sat neatly on the small table beside the bed, arranged with the kind of care that made it obvious she'd thought about it. A bowl of oatmeal, steam barely rising. Toast cut into manageable pieces. A glass of orange juice. Another of water. And beside them, precisely placed, a couple of tablets resting on a napkin.
"Breakfast," she said, following his eyes. "And medicine."
He sighed softly. "You've gone full caretaker mode."
"Someone has to," she replied, unfazed. "And you're terrible at it."
"That's unfair," he muttered.
She raised an eyebrow.
"…Okay," he conceded. "Fair."
She helped him sit up again, arranging the pillows behind his back like she'd done the night before. He noticed, vaguely, that he didn't wince as much this time.
Progress.
She handed him the glass of water first.
"Medicine before food," she said. "Doctor's orders."
He took the tablets obediently, swallowing them down with a long drink. The water was cool, grounding.
"Good," Leah said. "Now eat."
He picked up the spoon and stared at the oatmeal for a second like it might challenge him.
"Don't look at it like that," she said, amused. "It's not the opposition."
"I've faced tougher," he replied weakly.
She smiled and sat back slightly, giving him space as he started eating. He went slowly, listening to his body, but the warmth settled comfortably in his stomach. He hadn't realized how hungry he actually was until now.
They sat in quiet for a bit.
Not awkward. Just… calm.
The kind of silence that didn't demand filling.
Outside, the day was waking up properly now. The light had strengthened, filtering through the windows in pale gold streaks. Somewhere downstairs, the house made its usual sounds with pipes shifting, wood settling.
"How did you sleep?" Leah asked.
"Better," he said. "Still weird dreams."
"Football?"
"Always."
She smiled faintly. "Figures."
He finished most of the bowl, then set the spoon down, leaning back slightly.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For the food?"
"For everything."
She waved it off. "You'd do the same."
He didn't argue, because he knew it was true.
She collected the tray once he was done, setting it aside neatly.
"Okay," she said, standing. "Next part of today's very boring recovery schedule."
He eyed her suspiciously. "I'm scared."
"You should be," she replied dryly. "I want you to sit outside."
He blinked. "Outside?"
"In the backyard," she clarified. "Fresh air. Morning sun. Doctor said it helps."
"I thought he said rest."
"Rest doesn't mean living in a cave," she countered. "You'll sit. You won't run. You won't train. You won't suddenly decide to do sprints across the lawn."
He sighed. "You know me too well."
She reached out a hand. "Come on. Slowly."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the cool floor. He paused there for a moment, letting the world steady itself.
Leah watched him closely.
"Dizzy?" she asked.
"Just… adjusting," he said.
They waited until his breathing evened out, then she helped him stand. He felt solid enough, though his legs still carried that faint, hollow fatigue, like the echoes of exertion hadn't fully left yet.
They moved downstairs at an unhurried pace, Leah staying close without hovering. She opened the doors leading out to the backyard, and cool morning air flowed in immediately.
It smelled like damp grass and clean earth.
Spring trying its best.
The backyard stretched out before them, quiet and expansive. The grass was still dewy, sunlight catching in tiny droplets. Trees at the edge of the property swayed gently, leaves whispering to one another.
Leah guided him to one of the outdoor chairs and helped him sit, then draped a light blanket over his shoulders before he could comment.
"I'm not that fragile," he said.
"You are today," she replied simply.
He leaned back, closing his eyes for a second as the air brushed against his face. It felt good. Different from the sterile cool of indoor spaces. Alive.
He breathed in deeply.
The headache softened another notch.
"Told you," Leah said, sitting in the chair beside him with her own mug of tea.
They sat there together, side by side, letting the morning do its work.
After a few minutes, Francesco opened his eyes and looked around.
"It's strange," he said.
"What is?"
"Being here," he replied. "This time of day. Not rushing. Not thinking about recovery schedules or training sessions."
She glanced at him. "And?"
"And it feels… wrong," he admitted. "But also kind of nice."
She smiled. "That's called balance. You should try it more often."
He snorted softly. "I'm bad at it."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm here."
They sat in companionable silence again.
Eventually, his phone buzzed faintly on the small table beside his chair.
He frowned. "I thought you hid that."
"I did," Leah replied. "But I'm not a monster. Just… selective."
He picked it up and glanced at the screen.
Messages. Missed calls. Notifications stacked higher than he cared to count.
"Don't open your Instagram or Twitter," Leah said immediately.
"I wasn't planning to," he replied. "Just… texts."
One from his agent. Several from teammates. A couple from extended family. And then, inevitably, links.
Arsenal.com injury update.
He sighed.
"Already read it?" Leah asked.
"Yesterday," he said. "Still weird."
He opened one of the fan forums out of curiosity, scrolling lazily.
"People are losing their minds," he muttered.
"Shocked?" Leah asked.
"A bit," he admitted. "They're acting like I'm made of glass now."
She leaned over slightly, peeking at the screen.
"Some of them are defending you," she noted. "Saying you're eighteen. That your body's been overworked."
He paused at that.
"…Eighteen," he repeated quietly.
It sounded strange out loud. He didn't feel eighteen most days. Football had a way of aging you quickly, of compressing time until seasons blurred together and milestones came and went without room to breathe.
But today?
Today, he felt it.
The fatigue. The vulnerability. The way his body had finally drawn a line.
"I hate that I let them down," he said suddenly.
Leah turned fully toward him. "Who?"
"The fans," he said. "The team. Everyone."
She shook her head immediately. "You didn't let anyone down."
"I got sick."
"You got human," she corrected. "There's a difference."
He looked unconvinced.
She reached over and placed her hand on his knee, grounding.
"Fran," she said gently. "You've given them everything this season. More than most people your age are ever asked to give. One fever doesn't erase that."
He stared out at the yard, jaw tight.
"Wenger told me once," he said slowly, "that availability is the greatest ability."
"And he's right," Leah replied. "Over time. Not every single day."
He sighed and leaned back again, closing his eyes.
The sun warmed his face.
"I feel guilty resting," he admitted. "Like I should be doing something."
"You are," she said. "You're recovering."
"That feels passive."
"Sometimes," she said, "the hardest thing for people like you is doing nothing."
He smiled faintly at that.
They stayed outside for a while longer.
Leah checked his temperature again with the small digital thermometer she'd practically made her sidekick.
"Down," she announced. "Still there, but down."
"That's good, right?"
"That's very good."
They went back inside eventually, moving slowly, deliberately. Leah made sure he drank more water, then guided him back to the sofa in the living room, where sunlight streamed in through the large windows.
He stretched out carefully, propping his feet up.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now," Leah said, settling into the armchair nearby, "you rest. Again."
He groaned. "You're relentless."
"Someone has to be."
As the morning rolled into late morning, more messages trickled in.
Giroud sent a voice note joking about how Francesco had clearly caught something from Bayern.
Sánchez sent a single message: Rest. We need you. With a flexing arm emoji.
Koscielny sent a longer one, reminding him that leadership also meant knowing when to stop.
Wenger's message was simple.
Take care of yourself. Football will wait.
That one sat with him for a while.
He didn't reply immediately.
Instead, he stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house, the occasional distant sound of traffic beyond the walls.
"Leah?" he said eventually.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for calling my parents."
She smiled softly. "Your mum would've appeared out of thin air if I hadn't."
He chuckled. "True."
"She loves you," Leah added. "They both do."
"I know," he said. "I just… forget sometimes."
She watched him carefully.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," she said.
He turned his head to look at her. "I don't know how not to be."
She met his gaze steadily. "You're learning."
That afternoon passed gently.
He dozed on and off, waking only to drink water, take medicine, or respond to the occasional message. Leah stayed nearby, reading, scrolling, occasionally glancing up to check on him.
Outside, the day carried on.
Somewhere, Arsenal trained without him.
Somewhere, debates raged about his absence, his age, his workload.
But here, in the quiet of the mansion, none of that felt urgent.
As evening approached again, Francesco felt something shift.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
But enough.
The fever had loosened its grip. His thoughts felt clearer. His body, while still tired, no longer felt like it was fighting itself.
He sat up slightly, looking toward the window where the sky had begun to soften again.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly.
Leah looked up. "What about it?"
"I think I'll feel better tomorrow," he said. "Not ready. But better."
She smiled. "I think so too."
He leaned back, letting the quiet settle around him again.
The afternoon unfolded without urgency.
Sunlight filtered through the tall living room windows at a slanted angle now, softer than the morning, warmer somehow. The house carried that particular quiet that only came after noon with no longer sleepy, not yet restless. Outside, the garden sat still, leaves barely moving, as if the day itself had decided to slow down with him.
Francesco sat on the sofa, blanket still draped loosely over his legs despite his mild protest earlier. A tray rested on the coffee table in front of him: a bowl of light pasta, grilled chicken cut into small pieces, a side of fruit, and a glass of water that Leah kept refilling before it ever reached empty.
The television murmured in the background.
Not football.
That had been Leah's rule.
Instead, some nature documentary played with wide shots of mountains, rivers, animals moving with quiet purpose. Francesco watched it absently, spoon moving from bowl to mouth at an unhurried pace. His appetite wasn't fully back yet, but it was better than yesterday. Every bite felt like progress.
Leah sat beside him, legs tucked under her, one arm resting along the back of the sofa. She wasn't really watching the television either. Her attention drifted between the screen, her phone, and him with subtle check-ins disguised as casual glances.
"How's the food?" she asked.
"Good," he said. "Boring, but good."
She smiled. "Recovery cuisine."
"I miss spice," he muttered.
"You'll survive," she replied dryly.
He ate a little more, then leaned back, exhaling quietly. The ache in his head had dulled to something manageable. His body still felt tired, but no longer like it was waging a war inside him. More like it was rebuilding, brick by brick.
"That lion looks exhausted," he commented vaguely, nodding toward the screen.
Leah glanced up. "Relatable?"
"Very."
She chuckled softly.
For a moment, it was just that. Lunch. Background noise. Shared space. No pressure.
Then the doorbell rang.
The sound cut through the calm sharply, unexpected enough that Francesco startled slightly, spoon clinking faintly against the bowl.
They both froze for a second.
Leah frowned. "Were you expecting anyone?"
He shook his head. "No."
She stood, already curious, and walked toward the front door.
"I'll check," she said. "Stay."
"As if I'm going anywhere," he replied.
He listened as her footsteps moved down the hall. The television kept playing, oblivious. Somewhere outside, a car door closed.
Then voices.
Familiar ones.
Loud, unmistakable, carrying energy that felt completely out of place in the quiet house.
Francesco frowned, leaning forward slightly.
Leah's voice came next, a mix of surprise and amusement.
"You're kidding me."
There was laughter.
More voices overlapping.
His heart skipped, not from illness this time, but recognition.
Footsteps approached again.
Leah reappeared in the doorway to the living room, eyebrows raised, expression caught somewhere between fond and exasperated.
Behind her was.
Giroud.
Sánchez.
Oxlade-Chamberlain.
Bellerín.
Gnabry.
Ramsey.
They filled the doorway in a cluster of Arsenal red, training kits still on, gym bags slung over shoulders, energy spilling out of them like they'd brought the training ground with them.
Francesco stared.
"…What are you doing here?" he asked.
Giroud grinned immediately, arms spreading wide. "Good afternoon to you too."
Sánchez was already stepping past Leah, eyes scanning Francesco critically. "You look terrible," he declared.
"Thank you," Francesco replied weakly.
Ramsey laughed. "That's how you know he cares."
Bellerín followed, hands in his pockets, smiling warmly. "We finished training early. Thought we'd check if you were still alive."
"I was alive before," Francesco said. "Barely."
Oxlade-Chamberlain pointed at the blanket. "They've domesticated him."
Leah crossed her arms, mock stern. "Don't encourage him. He's sick."
Giroud raised both hands. "We come in peace."
Gnabry lingered near the back, quieter than the rest, but he met Francesco's eyes and gave a small nod. "How you feeling?"
"Better," Francesco said honestly. "Still not great."
"That's illegal," Sánchez said, already pacing the room slightly like he didn't know how to exist without movement. "You never get sick."
"Apparently, I do now."
Ramsey dropped his bag near the door and took a seat on the armchair opposite him. "Doctor says you'll be back soon?"
"Four or five days," Francesco replied. "If I behave."
Everyone looked at Leah.
She smiled sweetly. "He won't. But I'll make sure he does."
Giroud chuckled and pulled a chair closer, sitting down with exaggerated care. "We told the gaffer we were stopping by."
"And?" Francesco asked.
"He told us not to bring chaos," Bellerín said.
Sánchez snorted. "We failed."
The room filled with noise quickly.
Not overwhelming, just alive.
Training stories spilled out almost immediately.
"How boring was it without me?" Francesco asked.
Oxlade-Chamberlain scoffed. "Painfully."
"Wenger kept looking over like he expected you to appear out of nowhere," Ramsey added. "Like some dramatic entrance."
Giroud nodded. "We all did."
Francesco leaned back into the sofa, smiling despite himself. "Sorry to disappoint."
Sánchez finally stopped pacing and stood directly in front of him, arms crossed. "You rest," he said firmly. "We need you."
Francesco met his gaze. "I am resting."
Sánchez's eyes flicked to the bowl on the table. "You ate?"
"Yes."
"And drank?"
"Yes."
"And slept?"
"…Some."
Sánchez nodded once, satisfied. "Good."
Leah watched the exchange with amusement. "I feel like I've lost control of the patient."
"No," Giroud said seriously. "You've gained reinforcements."
Gnabry finally spoke again, quieter but earnest. "Training felt weird without you."
Francesco glanced at him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Gnabry said. "Different."
That landed heavier than most of the jokes.
For a moment, the room settled into something more reflective.
Ramsey broke it gently. "Fans are going mad, by the way."
Francesco groaned. "Please don't."
Too late.
"They're shocked," Ox said. "Some think it's the end of the world."
Bellerín laughed. "Others are suddenly experts in immune systems."
Sánchez waved a hand dismissively. "They forget you're eighteen."
There it was again.
That number.
Giroud leaned forward slightly. "You've carried a lot this season," he said, more seriously now. "More than most."
Francesco shrugged. "Didn't feel like it until my body disagreed."
Ramsey nodded. "Happens to all of us. Just… usually later."
Leah placed a gentle hand on Francesco's arm, grounding him again.
"We're not here to lecture," Giroud added quickly. "Just checking in."
"And to make sure he's not sneaking into the gym," Oxlade-Chamberlain said.
"I don't even have the energy to sneak," Francesco replied.
Bellerín leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely. "Honestly, it's probably good timing."
Francesco frowned. "How do you mean?"
"You've been going nonstop," Bellerín said. "This forces you to stop."
"Forces," Francesco repeated.
Sánchez smirked. "Sometimes that's what it takes."
They stayed for a while.
Longer than Leah had expected, but not longer than Francesco needed.
They talked about the Bayern match again, reliving moments from different angles with Giroud's goal, Sánchez's run, the way the crowd had felt like it might lift the roof off the stadium. Francesco listened more than he spoke, content to let their voices fill the space.
At one point, Oxlade-Chamberlain picked up a cushion and tossed it lightly at him.
"Man of the Match gets sick," he said. "Unacceptable."
Francesco caught it weakly and tossed it back. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."
Gnabry laughed quietly.
As the afternoon wore on, the energy softened. Training fatigue caught up with them. Sánchez finally sat down properly. Giroud stretched his legs. Ramsey leaned back, eyes half-closed.
Leah checked the time discreetly.
"Okay," she said gently. "As much as this is… very nice… he does need rest."
There was a collective groan.
"She's right," Francesco said. "I'm fading."
Giroud stood first, nodding. "We'll let you live."
Sánchez stepped forward and clasped Francesco's shoulder briefly. "Get better."
"I will."
Ramsey smiled. "We'll hold things together."
Bellerín gave a small salute. "Doctor Leah's orders."
Leah smirked. "Exactly."
They filtered out gradually, offering quick words, light touches, reassurance disguised as jokes. The house seemed to exhale as the door finally closed behind them.
Silence returned.
Not empty, just softer.
Francesco leaned his head back against the sofa.
"…That was a lot," he said.
Leah laughed quietly. "They care."
"I know," he said. "It's just… weird being on this side of it."
She sat beside him again, adjusting the blanket.
"You won't be here long," she said.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the warmth settle.
"Maybe that's okay," he murmured.
Then night returned the way it had the evening before with quiet, unannounced, slipping into the corners of the house until the windows became mirrors again and the garden disappeared into shadow.
The visit from the boys had taken more out of Francesco than he wanted to admit.
Not in a bad way.
Just… emotionally.
It was one thing to know people cared. It was another to feel it so directly, so loudly, when you were used to being the one carrying things rather than receiving them. By the time Leah coaxed him upstairs again, his body felt heavy in that familiar, post-social way that tired not just from illness, but from being present.
She helped him change, moving with the same quiet efficiency she'd developed over the last two days. The bedroom light stayed low, the curtains half-drawn. Everything about the space felt deliberately gentle.
"You okay?" she asked as he eased himself onto the bed.
"Yeah," he said. "Just… done."
She smiled softly. "That's allowed too."
He took his evening medicine without complaint this time, washing it down with water before sinking back into the pillows. Leah adjusted the duvet, then sat beside him for a moment, scrolling through her phone.
"They've already posted pictures of training," she said casually.
"Without me," he replied, eyes closed.
"Very dramatic ones," she added. "Rain. Cones. Serious faces."
He huffed a weak laugh. "Of course."
She glanced at him. "You miss it."
"Yeah," he admitted. "But not enough to trade this."
"That's progress," she said.
He was drifting again when the doorbell rang.
Leah frowned, checking the time. "It's late."
Francesco's eyes opened slightly. "Who would that be?"
She stood. "I'll check."
He didn't even have the energy to protest this time.
He heard the front door open. Heard voices with lower, calmer than earlier. Familiar in a different way.
Then footsteps on the stairs.
Leah reappeared in the doorway, stepping aside.
Mike came in first.
Sarah followed immediately behind him.
Again.
Francesco sighed softly, but there was no annoyance in it. Just resignation mixed with affection.
"Mum," he said. "You were here yesterday."
"And I'm here today," Sarah replied firmly, already crossing the room. "Because you're still sick."
Mike lingered near the door, hands in his jacket pockets, expression gentler this time, less worried but still attentive.
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and immediately pressed her hand to Francesco's forehead.
"You're cooler," she noted.
"Leah's doing a good job," Francesco said.
Sarah glanced back at her. "I know."
She smoothed his hair back again, eyes scanning his face the way only a mother's that could looking past what he said and straight into how he actually was.
"Did you eat?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Properly?"
"Yes."
"And drink?"
"Yes."
"And sleep?"
"On and off."
She nodded, satisfied but not done.
Mike stepped closer. "How was today?"
"Quiet," Francesco said. "The boys came by."
Sarah's eyebrows shot up. "All of them?"
"Most," he replied.
She sighed. "No wonder you're tired."
"They meant well," Leah said gently.
"I know," Sarah replied. "I'm glad he has them."
She turned back to Francesco. "Still any headache?"
"Less."
"Fever?"
"Lower."
Mike smiled faintly. "That's good."
They didn't stay long this time.
Sarah hovered for a bit, asked the same questions she'd asked the night before, then finally allowed herself to be convinced that he was stable. Mike stood quietly, offering the occasional comment, grounding the moment.
Before leaving, Sarah leaned down and kissed Francesco's forehead again.
"Call me if anything changes," she said. "Anything at all."
"I will," he promised.
Mike squeezed his shoulder gently. "Rest."
"I am."
They left quietly, Leah walking them downstairs again.
When she returned, Francesco was already half-asleep.
"She worries," Leah said softly.
He murmured, "She always has."
"And always will."
He smiled faintly at that.
Sleep came more easily that night.
Deeper.
Less fevered.
He still dreamed with fragmented images of pitches and faces and voices, but they felt less urgent, less loud. When he woke briefly in the early hours, the room was cool and dark, Leah asleep beside him, breathing slow and steady.
For the first time since the fever hit, his body felt like it might actually be winning.
Morning followed the same rhythm as the day before.
Light through curtains.
Leah's voice, gentle but firm.
Breakfast on a tray.
Medicine with water.
He sat up with less effort this time, the dizziness barely noticeable now. His appetite was stronger too as he finished everything without complaint, even the bland parts.
"See?" Leah said. "Progress."
"Don't jinx it," he replied.
She smiled anyway.
They went outside again after breakfast, sitting in the backyard with blankets and mugs. The air felt crisper today, fresher. Francesco closed his eyes and let the sunlight warm his face, breathing deeply.
His phone buzzed once.
A message from Wenger.
How do you feel this morning?
He stared at it for a second, then typed back.
Better. Still resting.
Good. We will see you later today.
He frowned slightly. "See me?"
Leah looked up. "What?"
"Wenger's coming," he said. "With the doctor."
She nodded immediately. "That makes sense."
"Still," he said. "Feels serious."
"It's care," she corrected. "Not suspicion."
He nodded slowly, knowing she was right.
The morning passed quietly again. More rest. More water. More gentle reminders not to push himself. By the time afternoon arrived, Francesco felt… steady.
Not ready.
But steady.
When the doorbell rang again, he didn't startle this time.
"I'll get it," Leah said.
Francesco stayed seated on the sofa, blanket still in place, television murmuring quietly. He heard the door open, voices greeting one another politely.
Then Wenger's voice.
Calm. Familiar.
Measured.
A moment later, Leah stepped aside, and Arsène Wenger entered the living room with the club doctor beside him.
Wenger wore a dark coat, scarf neatly arranged, glasses perched low on his nose. His expression was composed, but his eyes softened immediately when they landed on Francesco.
"Bonjour," Wenger said warmly.
"Boss," Francesco replied, sitting up a little straighter out of instinct.
Wenger raised a hand. "Please. Stay comfortable."
The doctor nodded politely. "Good afternoon, Francesco."
They took seats opposite him, Wenger folding his hands loosely in his lap.
"How are you feeling today?" Wenger asked.
"Better," Francesco said honestly. "Still tired."
"That is normal," Wenger replied. "You have asked a great deal of your body."
The doctor began his checks again from temperature, pulse, blood pressure with methodical, calm. Francesco answered questions automatically now, used to the routine.
"No fever," the doctor said finally, looking pleased. "Or at least, nothing concerning."
Wenger nodded once. "Good."
He looked back at Francesco. "You see? The world does not end when you stop for a moment."
Francesco smiled faintly. "Still feels like it might."
Wenger's lips curved slightly. "That feeling will pass."
They talked for a while.
About recovery timelines.
About listening to his body.
About the importance of patience.
Wenger didn't mention matches. Didn't mention tactics. Didn't mention what Francesco was missing.
He talked instead about longevity.
About learning when to push and when to pause.
"Talent is a gift," Wenger said quietly. "But durability is built. Slowly."
Francesco listened, really listened.
"I don't want you back early," Wenger added. "I want you back right."
That stayed with him.
When they finally stood to leave, Wenger placed a hand briefly on Francesco's shoulder.
"You have done very well," he said. "Now continue doing nothing."
Francesco smiled. "I'll try."
After they left, the house settled again.
Leah returned to the sofa beside him.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Relieved," he said. "And… lighter."
She nodded. "Good."
The quiet lingered after Leah's last word, not awkward or heavy, just settled like the house itself had learned to breathe at the same pace as them.
Francesco stayed where he was on the sofa for a long while after that, blanket loose around his legs, eyes half-lidded. The television continued murmuring low and distant, images blurring together without demanding his attention. Leah didn't rush him. She sat beside him, shoulder touching his, presence steady and unintrusive.
Eventually, his breathing deepened.
Not sleep.
Just rest.
The kind that didn't pull you under, but held you gently in place.
That night passed without interruption.
No doorbells.
No unexpected visitors.
No feverish jolts awake in the dark.
Francesco slept longer than he had in days still waking occasionally, still drifting through soft, indistinct dreams but when morning came, it didn't feel like he'd been dragged back into consciousness. It felt… natural.
The light through the curtains was brighter this time, warmer. It painted soft gold across the walls, catching on the edges of furniture, on the picture frames lining the dresser with family moments, match days, quiet snapshots of a life that somehow contained both chaos and calm.
Leah was already awake.
He could hear her downstairs, moving around the kitchen. The faint clink of a mug against the counter. The low hum of the kettle. The sound alone made his stomach stir, not with hunger exactly, but with something close to comfort.
When he sat up, he noticed it immediately.
No wave of dizziness.
No pounding behind the eyes.
His body still felt heavy, yes, but solid. Grounded. Like it belonged to him again.
He pressed his palm briefly to his forehead.
Cool.
He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath you didn't realise you'd been holding for days.
Downstairs, Leah looked up as he entered the kitchen, her expression shifting instantly from neutral focus to careful assessment.
"You're up early," she said.
"Early-ish," he replied, sliding into one of the stools at the island. "Didn't feel awful."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "That's new."
"Don't get excited," he added quickly. "I'm still tired."
She smiled anyway and set a plate in front of him.
Scrambled eggs. Toast. A bowl of fruit. Another glass of water.
"Eat," she said. "Before I start celebrating."
He obeyed, surprisingly willingly. The food didn't feel like a chore today. Every bite went down easier, his appetite quieter but present.
"How's your head?" she asked.
"Fine," he said. Then corrected himself. "Better. Almost normal."
"And your body?"
"Still… slow."
She nodded. "That's allowed."
They ate mostly in silence, the kind that didn't need filling. Outside, the garden looked brighter than it had all week, sunlight cutting clean lines through the morning air.
Francesco finished his plate.
All of it.
Leah noticed.
She didn't say anything.
But her smile lingered.
They were still at the table when the doorbell rang.
Francesco glanced up instinctively, then relaxed again. "That'll be the doctor."
Leah stood. "I'll get it."
He stayed seated this time, wrapping his hands around the warm mug in front of him, listening as the front door opened. Voices followed that polite, professional, familiar now.
The club doctor stepped into the kitchen moments later, clipboard tucked under his arm, expression open and friendly.
"Good morning, Francesco," he said.
"Morning," Francesco replied. "I feel like we're on a schedule now."
The doctor chuckled lightly. "Only temporarily."
He went through the routine again with temperature first. Pulse. Blood pressure. Each check came with a small nod, a satisfied hum.
Finally, he straightened.
"No fever," he said clearly. "Completely gone."
Francesco felt a rush of relief hit him unexpectedly hard. He leaned back slightly, shoulders loosening.
"That's good news," Leah said, unable to hide the relief in her voice.
"It is," the doctor agreed. Then he raised a finger gently. "But."
Francesco sighed. "There's always a 'but.'"
The doctor smiled. "A reasonable one."
He sat down across from Francesco, posture relaxed but attentive.
"Your body fought something off," he explained. "It did its job. But fighting takes energy. Your immune system is still recalibrating."
"So I'm not… fixed?" Francesco asked.
"You're improving," the doctor corrected. "There's a difference."
He tapped the clipboard lightly. "The fever being gone is a milestone, not the finish line."
Francesco nodded slowly, absorbing it.
"I want you to rest today," the doctor continued. "No training. No gym. No 'just a light jog.'"
Leah shot Francesco a look.
He raised his hands in surrender. "I wasn't planning anything."
"Good," the doctor said. "Because even without a fever, your body isn't fully recovered yet. The immune response doesn't shut off like a switch. It winds down."
"How long?" Francesco asked.
"That depends on how well you listen," the doctor replied calmly. "Today is about letting your system stabilise. Tomorrow, we reassess."
Francesco exhaled again which not frustration this time, just acceptance.
"Okay," he said. "One more day."
The doctor smiled approvingly. "Exactly."
They talked a little longer with hydration, light movement around the house, sleep quality. Nothing dramatic. Nothing alarming.
Before leaving, the doctor placed a hand briefly on Francesco's shoulder.
"You've handled this well," he said. "That's not always easy for someone like you."
Francesco met his eyes. "Someone like me?"
"Someone used to pushing," the doctor clarified.
After he left, the house settled once more into its now-familiar rhythm.
Leah leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely. "One more day."
Francesco nodded. "One more day."
He expected to feel restless.
Impatient.
Instead, there was something else.
Relief.
They spent the morning much like the others which is quiet, unhurried. Francesco moved around the house a little more today, not pacing, just existing in different rooms.
He stood by the window in the study for a while, watching the garden. Sat on the edge of the bed, stretching lightly. Even stepped outside briefly, the cool air grounding him further.
His phone buzzed occasionally.
Messages from teammates.
From staff.
From friends checking in.
He replied to some. Ignored others.
Leah didn't comment.
By afternoon, the sun had shifted again, light pooling across the living room floor. Francesco lay back on the sofa, eyes open this time, mind wandering.
"You bored?" Leah asked from her spot nearby.
"A bit," he admitted.
She smiled. "That's a good sign."
"Is it?"
"Means your body isn't screaming anymore."
He considered that. "Fair."
They talked then not about football, not about recovery schedules, but about smaller things. About Leah's training. About random things they'd seen online. About nothing in particular.
Time passed without pressure.
As evening approached, Francesco realised something quietly.
He didn't feel guilty.
Not about missing training.
Not about resting.
Not about letting other people take care of things.
It was unfamiliar.
But not unpleasant.
When night returned again with soft, unannounced, gentle in its descent. it didn't feel like an ending.
It felt like part of a process.
And for the first time since he'd woken up feverish days ago, Francesco went to bed not thinking about what he was missing, but about how close he was to coming back whole.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 37
Goal: 59
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9