The only sound was the distant hum of city life far below, muffled and slow. You padded into the bedroom, your steps featherlight, a half-smile already tugging at your lips.

There he was — completely buried beneath the folds of the thick, cream-colored blanket, not a limb in sight. Only the crown of his dark curls peeked out, the subtle streaks of blonde catching the morning light like threads of sun.

His breathing was steady, deep, every inhale a whisper against the silence. You moved closer, crouching beside the bed, resisting the urge to run your fingers through the mess of his curls.

He looked like a boy, not the Barça wonderkind the world adored. Just Lamine — soft, sleeping, safe. You tilted your head and whispered his name, barely loud enough to stir the air.

He didn't move.

Of course he didn't. He had a day off — a rare one — and was clearly intent on wasting no second of it awake.