Connor
I was lying on our bed, wrapped in my pyjamas and wrapped in the feeling that I hadn't felt in about six years.
Content.
Fresh out of the shower, hair still dripping down my neck, skin still warm from the water. The duvet was pulled up to my waist and I was doing absolutely nothing. Which was rare. Usually two days before a match I was pacing, or watching footage, or pretending to stretch while actually just stressing.
But today I was just... here. Watching Edward.
He was on a warpath.
"Right," he said, yanking open the walk-in closet door so hard it bounced. "Cardiff." He said it like Cardiff had personally offended his fathers. He came back out with a pair of black joggers slung over his shoulder and a designer duffel bag that cost more than my first car. He started shoving things in it. Aggressively.
