September 2nd —
London, Izan's Apartment
There was a particular kind of chaos that came with packing fifteen minutes before a scheduled airport pickup.
Izan's suitcase lay open on the bed, half-zipped, with socks sticking out like they were trying to escape.
He was shirtless, squatting on the floor and trying to match the right kind of sock with its counterpart.
His phone buzzed twice — first from Miranda confirming the car was on its way, and again from the national team group chat, where someone had just sent a meme of Lamine Yamal dunking on everyone in training.
"Where's my charger?" Izan muttered, lifting a pile of clothes like he expected it to be hiding under his jeans.
From behind him, Olivia walked into the room with a tote bag in one hand, and a stuffed duffel slung over her shoulder.
"I'm ready," she said.
Izan didn't look up. "Cool. I'll be done in five."
"You don't get it."
He finally turned.
Olivia dropped the duffel next to his suitcase.
