#swewnt

[helen-with-an-a]

Hi, my lovelies. I had this idea of a grumpy!R with G and thought it was cute. Hope you enjoy.

Ouch

Georgia Stanway x Eriksson!Reader

Description: A typical Black cat Golden Retriever relationship, but you’ve broken your arm.

TW: Discussion of a broken arm

“I’m fine,” you spat out, voice rough, sharp. It was a tone that everyone in the room immediately recognised, the kind that screamed I’m absolutely not fine as loud as the words themselves.

“It’s totally okay if you’re not, though,” Pernille offered, her smile soft but sad. She was trying, trying so hard to make things easier, but she knew that no amount of comfort from her could change what was happening.

The evidence was there, in black and white on the x-ray pinned to the wall before you. A massive crack running the length of your ulna. It was obvious. Everyone saw it, but no one wanted to say it out loud.

Everyone knew it was bad as soon as it happened.

Because you didn’t get back up.

That’s not you. You’re the one who takes tackles in stride, the one who wears bruises like a badge of honour, the one who shakes off injuries with a huff and moves on. You were the brick wall, the unshakable force in the centre, a protector, a presence.

The others on the pitch? They got better by simply being near you. Your game was more than just skill; it was raw, unrelenting determination. It was leadership that didn’t need to be spoken but was felt by anyone who played alongside you. You didn’t need to be polite, didn’t need to ask for attention. You demanded greatness, not just from yourself but from everyone else around you.

Whereas Magda had softened with age, and Pernille’s calming influence had played a big part in that, you had stayed resolute, unflinching. Stoic. Grumpy. Moody. It had become almost your identity: the surly centre back with the perpetual scowl.

“Does it hurt?” Magda’s voice was concerned, but tinged with that ever-present dry humour. She couldn’t decide if she should laugh or cry. You were here baby sister - it was her duty to protect you whilst making sure you knew she could take you down before you could even blink.

“No,” you gritted out, a wince flashing across your features.

Pernille’s brow furrowed as she pursed her lips. The familiar expression reminded her too much of Magda. Both of you, two sides of the same stubborn coin. Refusing to admit weakness. Neither one of you would ever acknowledge the truth until it smacked them in the face.

“Is she coming?” you asked, finally breaking the silence that had fallen over the room.

“Is who coming?” Magda smiled, the sly gleam in her eye betraying that she knew exactly who you meant.

“Never mind,” you muttered, voice barely more than a whisper.

“She’s on her way,” Pernille supplied. “She was at media, but she’s coming now.”

You couldn’t help the flutter that swept through you at the thought of her. Of Georgia. You were a stoic, grumpy, moody centre back … until it came to her.

You’d been with her for years now. From the first time you’d crossed paths at Manchester City, when you towered over her like a literal giant. You had laughed when people made the “opposites attract” joke. A six-foot Scandinavian and a five-foot-something English midfielder. But Georgia had found a way into your heart that no one else could, chipping away at your carefully constructed walls until there was nothing left but raw, unfiltered love.

Magda had teased you relentlessly when she found out. It had been non-stop, her love for you translating into endless mockery.

It was entirely accidental on your part for her to find out when she did. It had been a Chelsea-City game. The match was as heated as ever. You’d gone through your usual pre-match routine. Redoing your hair at least 3 times. A final spritz of deodorant. Re-tying your boots for the umpteenth time. And of course, getting a quick hug and a kiss from Georgia before you came into view of the cameras.

Still, to this day, Magda blamed the shock of seeing her little sister locking lips with someone for Chelsea’s loss that day.

Eventually, Magda had come round. She adored Georgia like another sister, but that didn’t stop her from teasing you both like it was her job.

“It’s okay to be in pain, skat,” Pernille’s voice broke through your thoughts, her hand resting gently on your uninjured side, offering what comfort she could.

“Well, I’m not. So it’s fine.” You kept your tone steely, your voice much harder than either of them had heard it in a long time.

Magda’s eyes flicked to Pernille’s with a silent conversation passing between them. The both of them knew you. Knew your stubbornness. But they weren’t going to let it slide this time.

“Seriously, Älskling,” Magda’s voice softened, but her eyes were unwavering. “Broken bones hurt.”

You blinked hard, gritting your teeth, desperate to keep the tears from spilling. You could feel them threatening, but you pushed them back, forced them down.

“Jag mår bra,” I’m fine. you muttered.

Magda sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes. So stubborn.

“Älskling, you’re going to have surgery tomorrow morning.” Magda’s voice was insistent, even as Pernille shot her a quick warning glance.

“Stop,” you snapped, even though the fight was starting to fade, your strength beginning to crack.

“Magda,” Pernille warned again, her tone firmer this time.

Magda didn’t stop. “It’s okay to admit it hurts. You aren’t being brave right now. You’re being stubborn. And that’s just-” Her words were cut off by the door slamming open.

Georgia came rushing in, breathless, her face flushed from running, her eyes wide with concern. She took one look at you and froze, eyes scanning the scene in front of her. You. Hurt. Trying so hard not to show it. Magda sitting at the foot of your bed, her face a picture of Big Sister Disapproval, and Pernille standing with arms crossed, giving a look that mixed love and exasperation in equal measure.

“Hey,” Georgia said after a moment, her voice softer than usual, more tender. You didn’t respond, your lips pressed tight, jaw clenched.

“Hi, Georgia,” Pernille offered, her smile a small comfort in the midst of the tension.

Your eyes stayed on your knees, and you didn’t dare look up. But you felt Georgia move closer, felt her presence at your side. She was close now, standing beside you in the quiet that stretched between you both. You could smell her fresh coconut scent and that stupid fancy lotion she insisted on using.

“Älskling,” Magda’s voice cut through the moment, but it was softer now, almost pleading. “You need to tell Mamma and Pappa.”

“No,” you spat out again, more weakly this time, your resolve beginning to slip.

Georgia’s hand reached out to gently brush your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of her touch through your shirt.

“You need to tell them,” Magda pressed, her voice soft yet persistent.

“No,” you whispered again, barely audible, your throat tight as the tears you’d fought to keep in check finally broke free. One singular tear slid down your cheek, betraying the strength you had fought to maintain. “G…” you whispered her name. It was barely audible, but Georgia heard it.

“Hey, hey,” she murmured, and before you could stop her, Georgia surged forward, wrapping her arms around you. You couldn’t stop the sob that tore from your chest as you sank into her embrace.

Magda stepped back, her eyes wide as she watched the tender moment unfold, Pernille attempting to give her a pointed look.

“Älskling,”

“Enough, Magda,” Pernille snapped, the calmness in her voice making the command all the more effective.

And for the first time in a long time, you let go. You weren’t the unbreakable wall anymore. You weren’t the stoic defender who refused to let anyone see your pain. Georgia was here, and in her arms, it was okay to feel.

“Hurts,” you whispered, the words coming out strained and fragile.

“I know,” Georgia replied softly, her voice full of warmth. “You’ve been so brave, my love.”

Magda watched from the side, her face a mixture of disbelief and empathy. She had never seen you like this. Never seen you so vulnerable. Your prickly, unshakable exterior was gone, and in its place was someone she hadn’t known you to be: a girl who could be broken, who could hurt, who could let herself feel.

“Let me be brave for a bit, yeah?” Georgia pressed a kiss to the top of your head, her voice a gentle whisper. “I’ve got you.”

It was as though, in that moment, Georgia had given you permission to finally fall apart. And as the wave of pain washed over you, starting in your arm, you let yourself feel it. Every bit of it.

[fruno]

This is my first attempt, so please be gentle. The fic is Alexia-centered, but it takes a bit to get there. Stick with me – it will be worth it.

Offside Hearts

y/n is the new press officer for the Swedish Football Association: professional, structured, and meticulous. When they meet Alexia during the 2023 Women’s World Cup, something stirs inside them. What starts as professional distance slowly grows into something much deeper. Slow burn.

Chapter 1 - Winter Light

Warnings: none

The espresso machine came to life before the rest of the apartment did. Y/n had turned it on almost without thinking, muscle memory guiding their hand as they crossed the kitchen barefoot, the floor cold against their skin. Outside, the city was still dim, winter light struggling through cloud cover that never fully lifted this time of year. Stockholm in January did not rush itself. Neither did y/n. They preferred it that way.

The machine hummed steadily as it warmed, a low mechanical sound that filled the quiet space and anchored it. Y/n opened the cupboard, reached for the ceramic cup they used every morning—the one with a slightly chipped rim, heavier than most. It fit their hand properly. That mattered.

Coffee, for them, was not indulgence. It was alignment.

They measured the beans carefully, watching the scale settle before emptying them into the grinder. The sound was familiar, controlled. Predictable. In an industry built on variables—injuries, form, narratives that shifted overnight—predictability was a relief.

While the grinder worked, y/n leaned back against the counter and let their thoughts drift, not aimlessly, but along familiar paths. This was not their first first day.

Over the past fifteen years, they had stepped into enough new roles to know that the work itself rarely changed as much as the environment around it. Clubs had come and gone. Cities blurred together in memory—airports, press rooms, training grounds, hotel conference spaces converted into makeshift media centers. They had worked with teams chasing titles and teams fighting relegation, with organizations that understood communication as strategy and others that only noticed it when something went wrong. They had learned how quickly a single quote could spiral, how silence could be interpreted as arrogance, how honesty—handled correctly—could defuse tension before it ignited. They had been there when a striker’s injury became a scandal, when a coach’s offhand comment threatened to fracture a dressing room, when supporters demanded answers no one could give.

They had learned to listen more than they spoke. To anticipate rather than react.

National team football was different, they knew. Fewer days together. More scrutiny. Less room to course-correct once a narrative escaped into the open. Players arrived carrying expectations shaped by club form, public perception, unfinished business. But the fundamentals remained. Preparation. Clarity. Boundaries.

The espresso finished extracting, the stream slowing naturally. Y/n watched the crema settle before switching the machine off. They took the first sip standing still, eyes unfocused, attention narrowed to taste and temperature. Good.

The apartment itself was minimal—furnished, practical, temporary. They had chosen it deliberately. Close to the federation offices. No excess. No distractions. There would be time later to decide whether this place became something more permanent. For now, it was enough that everything had its place.

They showered quickly, dressed with the same economy of movement. Dark trousers. Neutral sweater. Coat heavy enough for the cold. Hair neat, unremarkable. Professional. Intentional. In the hallway mirror, y/n paused for a moment, studying their reflection with the detached assessment they usually reserved for press footage. They looked as they always did before stepping into something new: composed, alert, already slightly ahead of the moment. Satisfied, they turned off the lights and locked the door behind them.

The cold outside was sharp but clean. Y/n walked rather than checked their phone, breath visible in short clouds as they moved through streets still shaking off the morning. A tram passed nearby, metal wheels humming over tracks. Someone jogged past, earbuds in, face set with determination that felt vaguely familiar. As they walked, their thoughts shifted forward, slotting into place like items on a checklist. Orientation. Introductions. Media schedules. Player profiles. They would observe first. Speak second.

The federation building emerged ahead of them, glass and concrete softened slightly by snow piled along its edges. Inside, warmth greeted them immediately, along with the low, constant noise of people already in motion. This, y/n noted, was always the real beginning—not the contract signing, not the announcement, but the moment when you stepped into a space already alive without you. They adjusted their bag on their shoulder and entered.

The lobby smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink. Screens along the walls displayed archived match footage on mute—goals looping endlessly, celebrations frozen mid-motion. Staff moved through the space with practiced urgency, conversations overlapping without colliding. Y/n paused just long enough to take it in. They were good at this part. Reading a room. Identifying rhythms. Spotting pressure points before they announced themselves.

A receptionist greeted them by name, already expecting them. Their badge was waiting. Their desk assigned. Efficiency was a language y/n spoke fluently.

As they made their way toward the media offices, they passed a corkboard already crowded with provisional schedules. Training camps. Travel days. Friendlies penciled in, some still tentative. They did not stop yet. First impressions mattered, but timing mattered more.

Their office was modest but functional. Desk. Chair. Monitor. A window overlooking the training grounds, currently quiet under a thin layer of frost. Someone had placed a small Swedish flag on the corner of the desk. Crisp. New. Y/n set their bag down, powered up the computer, and took a moment to align the items on the desk—laptop centered, notebook squared, pen parallel. Then they sat. The chair was comfortable enough. That, too, was a small mercy.

Before they could open their email, footsteps approached. “Good timing,” a voice said warmly.

Pia Sundhage stood in the doorway, coffee in hand, expression open and curious rather than evaluative. Years in the public eye had given her a presence that filled space without demanding it. Y/n stood, offering their hand. “Welcome,” Pia said, shaking it firmly. “We’re glad you’re here.” “Thank you,” y/n replied. “So am I.”

Pia’s gaze flicked briefly to the desk, the window, the open screen. She noticed things. That was clear. “We’re heading into media training with the squad this morning,” Pia continued. “I thought you might want to join rather than sit through meetings first.” Y/n’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

As they walked together toward the training hall, Pia spoke candidly—about expectations, about the balance between protecting players and empowering them, about the unique pressures that came with representing a country rather than a club. “The margins are smaller,” Pia said. “And the noise is louder.” “I’ve noticed,” y/n said evenly. “Usually at the same time.” Pia laughed. “You’ll fit in.”

The training hall was already active when they arrived. Music played softly from a speaker near the wall, something upbeat but unobtrusive. Players stretched, talked, laughed. Younger ones clustered together, energy spilling outward; veterans moved with quieter confidence, already focused. Y/n stood slightly back at first, observing. They noted posture, body language, who spoke and who listened. Who filled space. Who held it.

Pia gathered the group’s attention and introduced y/n without embellishment. Title. Role. Purpose. “I’m not here to police you,” y/n began, voice carrying easily without strain. “I’m here to make sure you don’t have to deal with unnecessary problems later.” That earned a few smiles. A few raised eyebrows.

They started with simple exercises. Mock questions designed to feel harmless until they weren’t. Expectations. Pressure. Tournament goals. Hanna Bennison volunteered first, answering quickly, honestly, and without much filtering. Y/n let her finish before stepping in. “Good instinct,” they said. “Now let’s make sure the headline doesn’t write itself.” They reworked the response together, y/n guiding rather than dictating. Hanna listened, adjusted, tried again. Better.

Nearby, Nathalie Björn watched closely, absorbing patterns. Filippa Angeldahl asked thoughtful questions about reframing negativity. Kosovare Asllani leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp—not challenging, but assessing. Y/n welcomed it.

They moved through scenarios steadily, increasing complexity. Leading questions. Provocations disguised as praise. Silence used as pressure. They explained not just what to say, but why. By the time they wrapped up, the atmosphere had shifted. Less self-conscious. More deliberate.

As the group dispersed, Asllani approached. “You don’t overcomplicate things,” she said. Y/n nodded once. “There’s rarely time for that.”

When the hall finally emptied, y/n checked the time and made a mental note. The session had run long. No one had complained.

—

Back in their office, the building quieter now, y/n poured themselves another coffee from the small machine someone had already stocked. Not as good as the one at home, but serviceable. They sat, took a sip, and let the events of the morning settle. First days were always about calibration. About understanding how much to push, when to step back. About setting tone without force. So far, so good.

They opened the calendar at last. Spring filled the screen with blocks of color—training camps, travel, friendlies. Their eyes paused on one entry.

Sweden vs Spain – Spring Friendly

They clicked it open. Details sparse for now. Venue still tentative. Press obligations already flagged. This would be their first major press conference in the role.

—

By late afternoon, the building had begun to quiet. The constant background noise—phones, footsteps, overlapping conversations—thinned into something more spacious. Doors closed softly. Chairs scraped less often. The kind of silence that settled in not because work was finished, but because attention had shifted elsewhere.

Y/n noticed it without reacting to it. They stayed.

First days rarely ended on time, and they had never trusted early departures in new roles. The real work tended to surface once the immediate demands were out of the way, when there was room to think.

The coffee on their desk had cooled, thin steam long gone. Y/n took a sip anyway. Flat, but familiar. They opened a new document and began drafting.

Internal FAQ.

Not for the press. For control.

They typed the header, then paused, fingers hovering briefly over the keyboard. Preparation was never about scripting. It was about narrowing margins—about making sure everyone understood where the edges were before stepping close to them.

Coach. One player.

They started with the obvious.

“Where have you placed the main focus in training ahead of this match?”

Y/n leaned back slightly, eyes unfocused. The answer wasn’t football alone. It was what the answer signaled. Calm or urgency. Confidence or reaction.

They typed notes, not sentences.

Structure. Balance. Collective responsibility.

Spain’s midfield was an unavoidable reality. Technically strong. Comfortable in possession. Built around players who dictated rhythm rather than chased it. Y/n added the word midfield, then expanded around it—space control, decision-making under pressure, transitions.

They hesitated only briefly before opening the provisional squad list alongside the document. Names scrolled past, most already familiar.

Putellas, A. Midfield. Captain.

Y/n didn’t linger. They added a quiet note beside the question: acknowledge the quality without isolating individuals. Mention structure, not names. Control, not confrontation.

The follow-up question took shape easily.

“Spain are known for their technical quality. Is there a particular area you’re paying special attention to?”

Journalists liked this one. It invited specificity disguised as respect. Y/n adjusted the internal guidance accordingly—collective strengths, ball circulation, central spaces. Nothing that elevated one player above the system.

The third section made them slow again.

“Have you decided on your goalkeeper for this match yet?”

They exhaled softly. Goalkeeper questions always carried weight. Decisions that weren’t settled yet rarely benefited from public speculation.

Open, but not uncertain. Trust in the process. Competition as strength.

They typed, deleted, refined. Language mattered here more than anywhere else.

An email notification appeared briefly at the edge of the screen.

Maybe we don’t need this much structure for a friendly?

Y/n read it once, then again. They didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they saved the document, named it carefully, and closed the laptop for a moment. Outside the window, the training grounds lay empty, frost untouched.

Loose had its place. So did clarity.

They reopened the laptop and replied, polite and firm. The framework would stay. Adjustments could come later.

When the message sent, the office felt still again. Y/n finished the last of the coffee, set the mug aside, and glanced once more at the document.

It wasn’t finished. It didn’t need to be. It was ready enough.

—

The apartment was dark when y/n returned that evening, the quiet different now from the morning’s controlled stillness. This was the quiet of absence rather than anticipation. They set their bag down by the door, slipped out of their coat, and stood for a moment without turning on the lights, letting the day settle into place. The coffee machine stayed off this time. One ritual per day was enough.

At the small kitchen table, y/n opened their phone and tapped on Jonas’ name. Best friend. Constant, even when everything else shifted.

y/n

First day done. Feels right. Busy. Different.

The reply came quickly.

Jonas

Of course it does. You always land on your feet.

Y/n smiled faintly, more at the certainty than the words. They didn’t expand. Jonas didn’t need explanations to understand tone.

—

The weeks that followed didn’t unfold in a straight line. National team work never did. There were periods of intensity—short camps where days compressed into long hours. Training sessions packed close together. Media duties layered on top of tactical meetings. The squad came together fully, then dispersed again, players returning to clubs, attention fragmenting across leagues and countries.

In between, there was preparation of a different kind. Y/n spent those quieter stretches refining. Updating documents. Monitoring coverage. Tracking form without drawing conclusions too early. They learned the team not just in person, but through patterns—who spoke openly in press, who deflected, who needed protection when club pressure mounted. When the squad reunited, something shifted each time. Small improvements. Cleaner communication. Greater ease in shared spaces. Familiarity built quickly when allowed to breathe rather than forced.

By late winter, routines had formed. Morning coffee. Calendar review. Media briefings before camps. Observation during training windows. Debrief after. Repetition didn’t dull the work. It sharpened it. Spring arrived almost without announcement. Light stretched into the evenings. Training sessions moved outside when weather allowed. The friendly was no longer a distant marker.

Barcelona

The name carried weight now, attached to dates, logistics, confirmed venues. Media interest increased accordingly, especially beyond Sweden. Y/n felt the shift in questions before they were asked. They adjusted their preparation, not fundamentally, but in detail. Spain was no longer hypothetical. Neither was the setting.

Y/n set the last coffee cup aside, drained and cold, and opened their phone again. A brief message to Jonas.

y/n

Barcelona is coming. Ready or not.

A reply came almost instantly.

Jonas

I know you’ll handle it. Just don’t forget to breathe.

They smiled faintly. The day’s events, the trainings, the routines, the observations—all fell into place in their mind. Everything was prepared. Everything organized. Yet the true test would not arrive until they were in Barcelona, standing at the edge of the field with the squad, media ready, the friendly looming.

Y/n leaned back, eyes on the faint glow of the evening light falling through the window. Tomorrow would be another day. Full of routine, yes—but also full of challenges waiting to be met. And somewhere in that anticipation, in that unspoken tension, lay the part of the job that made it alive, urgent, essential.

The light softened. Quiet and calm. Soon, the game would begin.

Chapter Two

[codiemarin]

Hang it in the Louvre

[alexbkrieger13]

[harderiksson]

[chaosqueen1998]

I'm just glad that Pernille was in the stadium yesterday and could be there for Magda 🥺❤️‍🩹

[idontknowwfc]

After 10 years together 💍

[kccisfuckingmagical]

Home Sweet Home

Stina Blackstenius x French!footballer!Reader

Stina Blackstenius x kid OC x Reader

Warning: alludes to death (reader’s sister passed away). But it will be mainly domestic fluff. Kid fic.

London's January air bites at your cheeks as you step off the plane, Aurélien bundles against your chest like a tiny, disgruntled burrito. His little face scrunches against the cold, nose pink beneath the woolen scarf you'd wrapped him in.

"Tatie, j'ai froid," he mumbles into your coat, fingers clutching at the fabric. (Auntie, I'm cold.)

You kiss the top of his head, adjusting your grip on your duffel bag. “Je sais, mon cœur. On y est presque." (I know, sweetheart. We're almost there.)

The airport buzzes around you, all hurried footsteps and echoing announcements, but your mind is elsewhere—on the pitch at Montpellier where you'd first met Stina, on the quiet evenings babysitting your nephew in your sister's house before everything changed, on the phone call with Renée that had thrown you this lifeline.

"We'll make it work," Renée had said, her voice steady through the phone. "All of you."

And then—

There she is.

Stina Blackstenius, leaning against the arrivals gate like she's been waiting forever (she has—her texts had grown increasingly dramatic over the past hour, culminating in: If I die of Heathrow boredom, tell Aurélien I loved him more than football). Her beanie is pulled low over her ears, her shoulders hunched against the cold, but when she spots you, her whole face lights up.

Aurélien sees her first. “Stinaaaa," he breathes, like she's magic.

(She is, a little.)

She's already moving toward you, her hands steady as they take his weight. “Tu m'as manqué, mon petit," she murmurs into his hair, and you watch her throat tightens as she swallows hard. (I missed you, my little one.)

Then she turns to you, her free hand cupping your jaw, her lips warm despite the London chill. “Et toi aussi," she whispers against your lips. (You too.)

Behind her, the city stretches out—gray and busy and unfamiliar. But here, in the circle of her arms, with Aurélien's laughter ringing between you, it already feels a bit easier now.

The car ride to Arsenal’s training ground is quiet, Aurélien dozing against Stina’s shoulder, his tiny fingers still clutching the hem of her jacket. You watch London blur past the window—cloudy skies, red buses, the occasional flash of green from a park. It isn’t home, not yet. But Stina’s knee presses against yours in the backseat, steady and warm, and that is enough.

Renée Slegers meets the three of you at the entrance, her smile sharp but her eyes soft. "Right on time," she says, high-fiving Aurélien, who looks a bit chirpier now with fresh air. "We’ll keep today light—meet everyone, settle in."

Aurélien holds both your hand and Stina’s hand tightly, The moment you walk into the with locker room, the chatter dies down.

“Oh. My. God.” Caitlin Foord is the first to break the silence, eyes locked on the toddler hiding behind your legs.

Leah Williamson immediately crouches down to his level. “Hey there, little man,” she greets him softly.

Aurélien blinks up at her, then buries his face against your thigh.

“This is Aurélian. He doesn’t speak English yet,” you explain. You crouches down, and prompts him to say “hello”.

“-ellooooo!” Aurélien parrots back.

Instantly, the girls coo over him. And your new team captain Kim Little grins, rummaging through her bag. "Good thing toys are a universal language." She pulls out a mini Gunnersaurus plushie and holds it out.

Aurélien’s eyes goes wide. "Un dinosaure!" He gasps, snatching it eagerly.

Frida Maanum smirks, “Oh, so now he likes dinosaurs? Stina’s been trying to get him to say ‘Gunnersaurus’ for weeks."

Stina chuckles from her locker, “Aurie called it a ‘chicken’ last time when he saw a Gunnarsaurus on a team photo."

The entire team lost it.

Stina, leaning against her locker with her arms crossing, watches the girls interaction with Aurélian with a soft expression.

“Wait, hold on.” Katie stands, after shaking hands with Aurélien like he is an adult, looking between you and Stina. “Is he… yours?”

You nod softly, not wanting to shine more lights to the tragic situation of your sister’s sudden death.

Frida Maanum, as a good friend she is, diverts the attention, adds. “But yeah Katie, Stina’s basically his other mum.”

The locker room erupts.

“STINA? OUR STINA?!”

“I don’t even know you have a girlfriend, Stina!”

Stina rolls her eyes, but her ears are pink.

That night, you come home after finishing your newcomer physio session to find Stina on the floor, surrounds by crayons while Aurélien scribbles on a large piece of paper wildly.

“Qu’est-ce que tu dessines, mon cœur?" (What are you drawing, sweetheart?) you asks.

Aurélien holds up a chaotic green blob, “Gunnar… saurus!"

Stina bursts out laughing triumphantly. “Finally!"

Later, as you tuck Aurélien, who is clutching his new Gunnarsaurus plushie tightly, into Stina lingers in the doorway.

Stina recounts her evening with Aurélien, and tells you softly, “He asked if I’d read him a story tomorrow. In French."

“And?"

She steps closer, voice low. "I told him I’d read him a thousand."

You pull her into a kiss, heart full.

London may not be home yet, but you know you are already home when Stina is right beside you.