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He did. His parents. His academy coaches. His teammates. Wenger. Leah. Everyone who believed. The city outside glowed in the soft amber light of evening as it was quiet, calm, yet full of promise.
The morning after the storm of headlines, Richmond was washed in that kind of gentle sunlight that makes the whole world feel quieter — as if London itself had taken a deep breath after a day of chaos. The city was waking up slowly, its pulse steady again after the whirlwind of media coverage that had painted Francesco's face across every channel, newspaper, and phone screen on the planet.
Inside his glass-walled kitchen, the air smelled faintly of fresh coffee and toasted bread. Leah stood barefoot by the counter, her hair still slightly tousled from sleep, one of his oversized Arsenal training shirts draped over her like a soft red curtain. Francesco sat across from her at the small dining table, elbows on the surface, a mug of espresso cooling between his palms. For the first time in weeks, there was no rush — no flights, no cameras, no blinding lights. Just the two of them, a slow morning, and the faint hum of the world outside.
"So…" Leah said at last, stirring a spoon through her coffee with that thoughtful little rhythm she always had when she was thinking through something serious. "What are we doing for the rest of the holiday?"
Francesco glanced up from his cup, his smile lazy and tired but warm. "I was thinking about that, actually."
"You, thinking about holidays?" she teased, her lips curling. "That's new. Usually, you only think about tactics and how to beat City."
He chuckled, rubbing a hand through his dark hair. "You're not wrong. But after yesterday…" He paused for a breath, still a little dazed from how much had happened. "After everything, I just need to breathe. You know? No cameras, no flights, no interviews. Just… normal."
Leah smiled softly. "Normal for us is hard to find."
"True," he admitted. "But we could try."
She took a slow sip from her mug, eyes narrowing in playful curiosity. "So, where would our 'normal' be? You thinking about Monaco again?"
He shook his head immediately, smiling faintly. "Nah. I've seen enough sea for now. Besides, I want to stay close to home — close to London."
Leah tilted her head. "Just London?"
"Well," he said, shrugging slightly, "maybe not just London. Maybe around the country. A little road trip, maybe. Just us. No agents, no staff, no press." He leaned back in his chair, a glimmer of boyish excitement sneaking into his tone. "We could drive up to the Lake District. Or maybe head to Cornwall, find some quiet beach nobody knows about. Or… maybe even go to the Highlands. I've never seen Scotland properly."
Leah grinned, resting her chin on her hand. "You? Driving through the countryside in that BMW of yours? You'll have people chasing you for autographs before we even leave the M25."
"Not if we go quiet," he said with a smirk. "Just the Civic. No one expects the Arsenal captain to be driving a Honda Civic."
That made her laugh — a bright, genuine sound that filled the kitchen. "Of course, you use your old car that you give to me."
He nodded proudly. "Of course. That car's seen everything. My first day at Colney. My first debut. It's got more memories than any trophy I've ever won."
Leah shook her head, amused. "You and your sentimentality."
"Hey," he said, pretending to defend himself. "It's part of my charm."
She leaned over the table, resting her hand on his. "That, I can't argue with."
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn't awkward — it was that peaceful kind of quiet that only came from two people who didn't need to fill the space with words. Francesco's gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight danced on the glass, spilling golden patterns across the wooden floor. It was strange — how in the middle of all the noise of fame, the cameras, the weight of captaincy — this kitchen felt like the only place that was truly real.
He finally spoke, voice softer. "You know, it's funny. Yesterday I signed a contract that ties me to Arsenal for five more years. But it feels like today's the first time I've had to think about myself again."
Leah squeezed his hand gently. "You've given so much to football, Fran. Maybe it's okay to just… exist for a while. To not be the captain or the hero or the guy on every screen."
He smiled faintly, his eyes warm with gratitude. "And just be me."
"Exactly."
He leaned back, thinking aloud. "So maybe we skip the big trips. No Monaco, no Paris, no New York shoots. Just… us. London. Maybe a little drive up north. Pub lunches, quiet walks, country inns. No schedule."
Leah's face lit up. "That actually sounds perfect."
Francesco grinned. "Really?"
She nodded. "You've been chasing the world for years. Maybe it's time to let it slow down and chase us for a bit."
He laughed at that, the sound light and genuine. "Deal."
They clinked their coffee mugs together, sealing it like a quiet promise.
Later that afternoon, Francesco found himself in the garage, running his hand along the side of his old Honda Civic — the car that had carried him from dreams to reality. It was dusty, yes, but it was his. He leaned against the hood, smiling faintly as memories came flooding back — nights leaving Hale End after training, the way the heater barely worked in winter, the smell of worn-out leather seats. It wasn't glamorous, but it was honest.
Leah appeared behind him, arms crossed, wearing a light denim jacket. "So, this is our great escape vehicle, huh?"
He turned, mock-offended. "Hey, this car's got soul."
"It's got rust," she corrected, laughing.
He smirked. "That too. Adds character."
She slid into the passenger seat, tapping the dashboard. "It smells like teenage dreams and petrol."
"That's the point," he said, getting in beside her and turning the key. The old engine coughed, sputtered — then came alive, steady and low. He gave the steering wheel an affectionate pat. "Still got it."
Leah smiled. "So where to, Captain Lee?"
He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth curving into a grin. "Let's start with somewhere simple. Maybe the Cotswolds. Then Bath. Then maybe… I don't know, wherever the road feels right."
And with that, they rolled out of the driveway — no entourage, no flashing lights, no security detail. Just a boy from Hale End and the woman he loved, driving into the kind of freedom that fame rarely allows.
The roads out of London grew greener the further they went. High-rises gave way to rolling fields, the kind that stretched out forever beneath the slow-moving clouds. They stopped in small villages, at old cafés that smelled of cinnamon and rain, where no one recognized them at first — or if they did, they said nothing, letting them be.
In Oxfordshire, they sat by a riverside pub, laughing over fish and chips while an old couple nearby debated football managers. In Bath, they wandered through the old Roman streets hand in hand, Leah stopping every few minutes to snap a photo while Francesco hid under a cap and scarf.
The Cotswolds road stretched ahead in soft curves of gold and green, the late afternoon sunlight glazing over the hills like honey. The Civic hummed along the narrow lanes, its old engine steady and loyal, carrying them past stone cottages wrapped in ivy and gardens that smelled faintly of roses. It was the kind of England people dreamed about — quiet, gentle, timeless.
Leah sat beside him, one leg tucked beneath her, gazing out the window as the wind played with her hair. Her phone rested on her lap, face-down for once, as if both of them had silently agreed that the outside world could wait. The last few days had been a blur of serenity — unplanned stops, roadside tea shops, countryside walks. Francesco had found something in that quiet — not peace, exactly, but a kind of truth.
But peace, for him, was never left alone for long.
They had stopped that afternoon in a little town called Bourton-on-the-Water — postcard-perfect, all small bridges and narrow streams, where ducks wandered between tourists and families in cafes. Francesco parked the Civic near a bakery, stepping out into the crisp air with Leah's hand in his. He wore a simple hoodie, cap pulled low, jeans. No designer gear, no cameras — or so he thought.
They'd barely made it to the bakery door when a voice called out softly:
"Excuse me — are you… Francesco Lee?"
He turned, instinctively polite, though a small part of him braced for it. The girl couldn't have been older than seventeen, clutching her phone with both hands, eyes wide in disbelief. Her friend beside her looked the same — nervous, excited, like they'd just seen a ghost step out of a poster.
Francesco smiled gently. "Yeah, that's me."
"Oh my god," the first girl whispered, looking at her friend. "I told you it was him — I told you!"
Leah laughed softly under her breath, stepping aside as they approached.
"Can we take a photo? Please? We're Arsenal fans. We drove all the way from Bristol for the weekend."
"Of course," he said, and the way he said it wasn't rehearsed or weary — it was genuine. He'd been that kid once, dreaming of meeting his heroes. He took the photos, one with each of them, then signed a paper napkin they'd grabbed from the café.
"Thank you so much," the girl breathed. "We still can't believe you're the new captain. We're so proud of you."
That one line — the new captain — lingered in his mind as they walked away. It felt strange hearing it outside of the club, outside of football. It wasn't a title in his head yet; it was still a feeling, still settling in.
Leah noticed his silence and nudged him lightly. "You're smiling."
He chuckled softly. "They reminded me of me when I was their age. I'd have done the same thing if I saw Henry in a café."
"You're their Henry now," she said simply.
He stopped for a second, staring at her. The way she said it — so casually, so certain — carried more weight than she realized. He looked away, scratching his jaw with a half-smile. "Don't say that. Makes me feel old."
She laughed. "You're seventeen, Francesco."
"Yeah," he said quietly, "but sometimes it feels like I've lived three lives already."
The small moments of anonymity came and went in waves. In the quieter towns — Tetbury, Cirencester, Bath — people glanced and whispered, but often left them be. Yet as they headed south again, the media tide began to swell.
It started subtly — a photo in The Sun:
"New Arsenal Captain Francesco Lee Spotted in Cotswolds Getaway with Girlfriend Leah Williamson."
Then Daily Mail Online picked it up, splashing it with a headline that made Francesco nearly choke on his coffee the next morning:
"'The Most Handsome Man in Football': Calvin Klein's New Face Francesco Lee Turns Heads During English Road Trip."
The article featured several of the campaign photos Calvin Klein had released the day before — huge black-and-white shots of Francesco, shirtless, arms flexed just enough to define the six-pack that had apparently sent Europe into collective meltdown.
Leah was laughing so hard she nearly fell off the bed.
"Oh my god, Fran — look at this! 'Fans are calling him the David Beckham with better abs.'"
He groaned, burying his face in a pillow. "Please, make it stop."
"No, no, wait — this one's better!" she wheezed, scrolling. "'Twitter users in Paris and Milan are calling him the most handsome man in Europe — and apparently the 'perfect boy' for every Calvin Klein dream ad.'"
Francesco lifted his head just enough to glare at her with mock misery. "I'm never leaving the house again."
Leah threw the tablet onto the bed, still laughing. "You're famous for your football, Fran — but now half of Europe wants to marry you for your abs. You should be proud!"
He rubbed his face with both hands, muttering, "I didn't even know they'd release those photos this soon…"
She leaned over, teasing. "Well, they did — and you look incredible. Admit it."
He gave her a helpless grin. "You're impossible."
"Just being honest," she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Besides, you've earned every bit of it. Captain, model, football's golden boy — not bad for a kid from Hale End."
He smiled softly at that — kid from Hale End. Somehow, that grounded him more than anything else.
But the press didn't stop there. Within days, BBC Sport, Sky Sports, and even Vogue UK ran pieces about his "crossover appeal" — how Francesco Lee had become not just a footballer but a "cultural icon." Vogue called him "the modern gentleman athlete," and GQ UK dubbed him "the future of English style."
Francesco found it both flattering and exhausting. Every café they stopped at now seemed to have at least one person holding up a phone, pretending to check messages while clearly recording.
In one small seaside town near Cornwall, as they sat eating fish and chips on the pier, a group of teenage boys approached, nervously hovering.
"Hey, mate," one of them said. "Sorry to bother you, but… you're Francesco Lee, right?"
Francesco smiled. "Yeah. All good, mate."
They grinned, exchanging excited looks, one of them fumbling for his phone. "Could we get a picture? We're massive Arsenal fans."
"Of course."
After a few selfies and a few handshakes, one boy hesitated before blurting out, "You're a legend already, man. The way you played against Barca — unreal."
That one caught Francesco off guard. He grinned modestly. "Thanks, mate. That was a special night."
When they walked away, Leah gave him a knowing look. "You'll never escape that match, will you?"
"Wouldn't want to," he said. "That night made everything possible."
But fame, like the tide, never rests.
By the time they reached Devon, a black van began appearing in the rearview mirror more often than coincidence allowed. Leah noticed first. "That car's been behind us since the last village."
Francesco frowned, glancing through the mirror. "Paparazzi?"
"Probably." She sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Guess they found us."
He didn't speed up. He didn't panic. He just kept driving, eyes steady on the road. "They'll get bored. They always do."
But that evening, as they stopped at a small cliffside inn overlooking the sea, two photographers were already waiting near the entrance. The flashes came before he could even close the car door — the metallic clatter of shutters echoing across the quiet coast.
"Francesco! Over here! Francesco, are you and Leah engaged?"
Leah froze, her hand halfway to her jacket pocket. Francesco gently placed his hand on her back, guiding her through the crowd without saying a word. His jaw tightened, but he never broke stride. Inside, once they'd checked in and locked the door behind them, Leah leaned against the wall, exhaling hard.
"I hate that they follow you everywhere," she said quietly.
He nodded, still looking out the window at the fading lights. "It's part of the job, I guess. But sometimes… I just wish I could walk down a street and not be someone."
Leah came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You're still you. Even if the world forgets that sometimes."
He turned, pulling her close. "I'm lucky I've got you to remind me."
The next morning, headlines exploded again:
Daily Mail: "Francesco Lee and Leah Williamson Caught on Secret Holiday Getaway, Engagement Rumors Swirl!"
The Sun: "Football's Power Couple: Arsenal's Golden Boy and Arsenal Golden Girl Share Romantic Seaside Break."
Sky Sports News: "Calm Before the Season, Arsenal Captain Francesco Lee Spotted Unwinding in Devon."
Even BBC Breakfast mentioned them briefly, showing a clip of his Calvin Klein billboard towering over Piccadilly Circus.
"Calvin Klein's latest campaign features Arsenal's new captain, Francesco Lee — and the internet has, well, exploded."
Leah saw it first while flipping through the channels. "You're officially on national TV for your abs now," she teased.
Francesco groaned. "Brilliant. Just what I needed."
Yet for all the noise, the quiet moments remain, the ones that mattered.
One evening, as they sat by the coast watching the sun sink below the horizon, Francesco turned to her, voice low. "You know, all of this — the fame, the noise, the headlines — it's not what I dreamed about when I was a kid."
Leah smiled softly. "What did you dream about?"
He thought for a moment. "Scoring at the Emirates. Hearing the crowd chant my name. Making people proud. That's all I wanted. I never thought about billboards or brands or magazines."
She reached over, lacing her fingers with his. "That's why people love you, Fran. Because you still care about the right things."
He looked at her, the sunset reflected in his eyes. "As long as I don't lose that, I'll be fine."
She leaned against his shoulder, and for a long time, they just watched the sea.
For the next two days, the world seemed to exhale again. The noise, the headlines, the tabloids — they faded slightly into the background, softened by the rhythm of the waves and the whisper of the countryside roads. Francesco and Leah drifted through England like travelers caught in a quiet dream, chasing nothing but time itself.
They stayed in a small inn along the Devon coast — a place that smelled faintly of salt and old oak, with creaking floors and windows that faced the restless sea. Mornings began with the soft rustle of curtains and gulls calling in the distance. Leah would always wake first, hair messy, wearing one of Francesco's old Arsenal training tops, padding barefoot to the balcony with her phone in hand.
"Smile," she'd say softly, turning her camera on him as he sat on the bed, half-awake and squinting in the sunlight.
He'd groan, pulling the blanket up over his head. "You're doing this again, aren't you?"
"Of course," she laughed. "My followers deserve to see the real captain — grumpy, unshaven, and in desperate need of caffeine."
Her Instagram stories that week became small fragments of their peace — moments stitched together like postcards from a life that almost seemed too ordinary for two professional footballers.
One story showed the view from the balcony: the ocean glinting silver, Francesco in the background pouring coffee into two chipped mugs.
Another was a video of them walking down a trail, their laughter tangled with the sound of the wind.
One more — Leah's favorite — showed him standing on the cliffside at sunset, hoodie pulled over his head, staring out at the sea while the golden light wrapped around him.
She captioned it simply: "Home is wherever he's breathing."
It didn't take long before her posts began to trend. Arsenal fans flooded her comments with hearts and jokes — "Captain and Captain — the royal couple of North London", "Protect them at all costs." But mixed among them were messages from around the world — from girls in Paris, Milan, Madrid — all swooning over the same thing: "Francesco looks unreal in every shot."
He noticed it one evening when Leah scrolled through her DMs, giggling under her breath.
"What's so funny?" he asked, leaning over her shoulder.
She turned the screen toward him, teasing. "Apparently, half of Europe agrees you're the 'perfect man.'"
He groaned again, shaking his head. "I can't even take a walk without being turned into a meme, can I?"
"Nope," she said, smiling. "But you're handling it well."
He smirked. "I'm just glad they like my hoodie more than my abs this time."
Leah laughed, nudging him. "That's debatable."
By the third morning, the road was calling again. Francesco loaded the Civic's boot, tossing in their bags and a folded blanket Leah refused to leave behind. She leaned against the doorway of the inn, watching him with that easy, affectionate smile she always had when he wasn't looking.
"Ready?" she asked as he shut the boot with a soft thud.
He turned to her, keys dangling from his hand. "You mean emotionally, physically, or spiritually?"
"Whichever comes first."
He chuckled, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "Then let's go."
The drive back toward London was long but beautiful. The countryside rolled out like an oil painting — endless green fields, flocks of sheep grazing lazily, villages that looked frozen in time. They stopped once in a small village pub somewhere outside Salisbury, where the smell of ale and roasting meat filled the air.
Inside, a few locals recognized him but didn't approach. Instead, they gave him those quiet nods of acknowledgment — the kind Englishmen reserve for respect rather than fandom. It was peaceful, grounding.
Leah leaned across the table, her voice soft over the low hum of chatter. "You know, it's funny. Everywhere we go, people seem to already know you — but they treat you like one of their own."
Francesco smiled faintly. "That's what I love about England. They might tease, they might judge, they might write a thousand headlines — but deep down, they care. Football runs in their veins."
She nodded, watching him for a moment. "You were made for this."
He raised an eyebrow. "What, the press circus?"
"No," she said. "Being the heart of something bigger. Arsenal, England, whatever comes next. You make people feel things when you play. That's rare."
He didn't reply immediately — just looked down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside. "I just try to make sure I never forget why I started. All the rest is noise."
"Then don't forget," she said quietly. "Even when the world starts shouting again."
By the time they reached London, twilight was falling — the skyline glowing against the dusky pink horizon. The first lights of the city shimmered in the Thames like fireflies.
As they crossed Westminster Bridge, Leah rolled down her window, letting the cool wind rush in. "God, I love this city," she said, eyes gleaming as the London Eye came into view.
Francesco smiled beside her. "Welcome home."
But this time, "home" didn't mean the quiet mansion in Richmond or the sleek lines of Arsenal's training ground. It meant something wider — the heartbeat of London itself.
They spent the next few days living like tourists in their own city. No VIP entries, no security, no chauffeured cars. Just two people walking hand in hand, blending into the crowd when they could, laughing when they couldn't.
Their first stop was the British Museum.
Leah had always loved history, and Francesco — though not a museum type by nature — followed her through the echoing marble halls with a quiet curiosity.
They stood before the Rosetta Stone, reading the small plaque in silence.
"It's kind of mad," Leah said, tilting her head, "that one rock basically unlocked an entire language."
He grinned. "Maybe I should have one for interviews. Something that helps me translate my thoughts before Sky Sports twists them."
She laughed, the sound echoing off the grand ceilings. "You mean something that keeps you from saying 'we take it one game at a time' for the hundredth time."
He nudged her playfully. "Hey, that's classic football diplomacy."
A few fans recognized him there — quietly, respectfully. One middle-aged man in an Arsenal jacket approached, almost hesitant.
"Excuse me, son," he said. "Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to say — been supporting the club since the '70s. You make us proud, lad. Proper Arsenal, you are."
Francesco smiled, shaking the man's hand firmly. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot."
When the fan walked away, Leah looked at him with soft eyes. "That's the part of fame they don't write about," she said. "The real moments."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's the part I play for."
Next came the Tower of London.
Tourists swarmed the cobblestone paths, the Thames glinting behind them. Leah was fascinated by the old legends — the ravens, the executions, the hidden stories behind the walls. Francesco, meanwhile, was amused by the fact that nearly every tourist guide seemed to recognize him halfway through their speeches.
"Arsenal captain, right?" one Beefeater whispered during a group photo. "My son won't believe I met you here."
Francesco laughed, posing with him by the old cannons. Leah filmed the moment on her phone, posting it later with the caption: "When your boyfriend steals attention from 1,000 years of history."
It became one of her most-liked posts of the month.
Their next stop was the London Eye.
As the glass capsule began to rise above the city, the sound of the streets faded below them. The view opened up like a painting — Big Ben, the Thames snaking beneath the bridges, the sprawl of the city stretching into the horizon.
Leah pressed her forehead to the glass, smiling. "You can see everything from up here. Every corner of the life we've built."
Francesco watched her, not the skyline. "I can see everything I need right here," he said quietly.
She turned, cheeks flushing with a mix of amusement and affection. "That's smooth, Captain."
"Comes with the job," he grinned.
They stood there for a long time, hand in hand, as London turned gold beneath the sinking sun.
When the capsule finally descended, a few fans outside clapped and waved. Francesco smiled and waved back — gracious, humble, real. For a moment, Leah saw not just the captain of Arsenal, not the Calvin Klein model, not the tabloid idol — but the boy from Hale End who still couldn't quite believe he'd come this far.
Their final stop was Big Ben, gleaming under the clear blue sky the next morning. Tourists milled around, snapping photos. Francesco and Leah leaned against the bridge railing, the clock tower looming above them like an eternal guardian of the city.
Leah turned her phone toward them, snapping a quick selfie. "For the scrapbook," she said.
He smiled. "You're really documenting everything, aren't you?"
"Every second," she said softly. "Because one day, when all this noise fades — when the cameras move on, when people forget the billboards and the headlines — I want us to remember that we lived it."
He looked at her, eyes deep with quiet affection. "Then let's make sure it's worth remembering."
They kissed there, in the shadow of Big Ben, surrounded by strangers and traffic and the hum of life. No cameras, no media circus — just a moment of stillness in the heart of London.
That night, back in his mansion at Richmond, Francesco stood on the balcony overlooking the river. The city lights shimmered in the distance, faint but constant. Leah came out beside him, wrapping a blanket around them both.
He exhaled slowly. "Feels strange being back."
"How so?"
He shrugged. "The quiet felt real out there. Here, it feels like the world's waiting again — the season, the press, the expectations."
She rested her head against his shoulder. "Then remember what we found out there. The peace, the laughter, the little moments. Keep that with you when it gets loud again."
He smiled faintly. "You sound like a coach."
She chuckled softly. "Maybe I am. Someone's got to keep the captain grounded."
He turned, kissing the top of her head. "You already do."
Francesco smiled, the corners of his lips curling as he pulled away gently from Leah's embrace. The night air was cool, carrying that soft scent of damp earth and river mist that always came after rain in Richmond. The sound of the Thames below was steady — a low murmur of water against stone — and somewhere in the distance, a fox barked. The city never truly slept, but up here, it almost felt like it did.
He gave Leah's waist a final squeeze and murmured, "Alright… I love this moment, but I'm starving."
Leah tilted her head up, amused. "Starving? You just ate two hours ago."
"Yeah," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, "but that was just a snack. This—" he patted his stomach dramatically "—needs something proper."
Leah laughed softly, shaking her head. "You're insatiable."
"Occupational hazard," he said, walking back into the kitchen. "Burned 5,000 calories chasing you around London today."
"Oh, please," she teased, following him inside. "You were the one who insisted on climbing every flight of stairs in the Tower of London."
"Because someone said it was good for the calves," he retorted with mock offense, rummaging through the fridge.
She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms as she watched him — the familiar scene bringing an easy warmth to her chest. He looked more at home here than anywhere else: barefoot, sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly messy from the wind, moving with the relaxed rhythm of someone who wasn't trying to impress anyone. Not the captain, not the model, not the public figure — just Francesco Lee, in his kitchen, looking for inspiration.
"So," she said, smiling. "What's the plan, Chef Lee?"
He turned, squinting playfully. "Pasta."
"Of course," she said, laughing. "When in doubt."
He grinned, already pulling out ingredients — a bag of spaghetti, a jar of cherry tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and a few fresh basil leaves from the small plant by the window that Leah always tried to keep alive. "Simple, effective, undefeated," he said. "Like prime Wenger football."
Leah snorted. "You're ridiculous."
He shrugged, tossing her a tomato. "Catch."
She did — barely. "You're lucky I've got good reflexes."
"Arsenal captain reflexes," he corrected, pointing at her with a wooden spoon. "Don't forget who trained you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me, I'm the one with the Euros medal, remember?"
He froze mid-stir, pretending to think. "Ah, right. I take it back. I should be the one catching tomatoes."
She laughed again, that kind of unguarded laugh that made everything around them feel lighter. It filled the house, bouncing off the marble counters and glass walls until it felt like the whole place was alive again — not just a home, but their home.
Francesco poured olive oil into the pan, the familiar sizzle filling the air. The smell of garlic soon followed, warm and comforting. Leah perched on the counter, swinging her legs lightly as she watched him work — quick, sure movements, like he was running a play on the pitch.
"You've got that look again," she said softly after a moment.
He glanced up. "What look?"
"The one you get when you're thinking about something. Like your brain's a million miles away."
He paused, stirring the sauce slowly. "Just thinking about how strange it feels. To be here, after everything. Weeks ago, I was standing in Buckingham Palace. And now I'm making pasta in my kitchen."
She smiled gently. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"No, not bad," he said. "Every time I think I've seen everything football can give me, life throws another curveball."
Leah hopped down from the counter, walking over to him. "You've earned all of it, you know. The fame, the respect, the noise — even the pasta at midnight."
He chuckled, stirring again. "You make it sound poetic."
"It is poetic," she said, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. "Because you've stayed the same through all of it."
He didn't reply right away. Instead, he reached into the pot, pulled a strand of spaghetti with the wooden spoon, and blew on it before offering it to her. "Taste test."
She leaned forward, caught it between her lips, and chewed thoughtfully. "Needs salt."
He grinned. "Knew you'd say that."
She smirked. "Because you never add enough."
"I'm cautious," he said defensively, reaching for the salt shaker.
"You're scared," she teased.
He laughed, shaking his head. "That too."
They moved around each other like they'd done it a thousand times — she grabbing plates, him reaching for parmesan, their hands brushing now and then in the kind of easy, wordless rhythm that came from shared comfort. Outside, the city glowed quietly, the lights of passing boats flickering on the Thames.
When he finally set the plates on the table — simple spaghetti with cherry tomato and basil — Leah whistled low. "Looks professional."
"Please," he said, taking a seat. "Michelin stars could never."
She smiled across the table, fork in hand. "Alright, Chef Lee, moment of truth."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the faint clinking of cutlery and the hum of London beyond the windows. It wasn't a fancy meal, not the kind fit for headlines or cameras — but it was theirs. Honest. Warm. Real.
Leah swallowed a bite and sighed contentedly. "You know, I think I like you better when you're cooking than when you're doing interviews."
He laughed. "Noted."
"You're calmer," she said. "You don't have to think about what you're supposed to say. You just… exist."
He nodded, twirling a forkful of pasta. "Yeah. Maybe that's why I like cooking. It's simple. You put effort in, you get something good out. Football's not always like that."
Leah smiled softly. "You make football sound like a relationship."
He looked at her then, eyes thoughtful. "Maybe it is. You give it your heart, your time, your body — and sometimes it gives you everything back. But sometimes…" He paused, searching for words. "Sometimes it takes everything first."
She reached across the table, brushing his hand gently. "And that's why I'll always remind you there's more to life than that."
He smiled faintly. "You already do."
They sat there for a long time, the plates slowly emptying, the conversation wandering — from Arsenal's preseason tour to her own training schedule with the women's team, to the stray cat that sometimes wandered onto the property. The air felt easy, like home should.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (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 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