The next morning, Izan slept longer than he usually allowed himself.
The blackout curtains had kept the sun at bay, but when he finally stirred, blinking away the weight of travel and triumph, the faint hum of life downstairs drew him out of bed.
His body felt heavy, not sore exactly, just worn.
It was the kind of exhaustion that only ca after nights like Paris.
Dragging himself into a shirt, he padded barefoot down the stairs.
The air slled faintly of toasted bread and coffee, but what caught his eye was the quiet scene at the glass island in the kitchen.
Hori sat perched on one of the glass stools, a bowl of fruit cereal in front of her, spoon lazily clinking against the ceramic as she scrolled on her phone.
The glow of the screen lit up her face, the faintest frown of concentration pinching her brow.
Izan stopped for a mont at the threshold, watching her.
A small part of him couldn’t quite believe she was sitting there, completely unbothered, when he’d just carried Arsenal into a Champions League final.
He shook his head, slipped into the kitchen, and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.
Then he turned back, leaning on the counter, taking a sip.
His eyes inevitably drifted to Hori again, who finally noticed the weight of his stare. She glanced up, spoon halfway to her mouth.
"...What?" she asked, suspicious already.
Before Izan could answer, movent caught his eye to the right.
Olivia had padded in, hair still a little tousled from sleep, wearing one of his old shirts like it belonged to her.
She, too, paused at the doorway, her gaze locking on Hori at the island.
A faint smirk tugged at her lips before she shot a questioning look at Izan, who sighed, setting the water down.
Without a word, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to his mother’s number and tapped the call button.
Hori, now properly alert, tilted her head, watching him with narrowed eyes as she slid off the stool, bowl in hand, following him into the living room like a cat stalking prey.
The call clicked through.
"Sí?" his mother’s voice ca warm, curious.
"Mamá," Izan began in rapid Spanish, voice full of mock outrage.
"Do you know what your daughter is doing? She didn’t go to school. She’s sitting here, middle of the morning, eating fruit cereal like she’s the one who scored a hat trick last night. Do you rember what I got when I was her age? A hot packet shoved into my hands on the way out the door. I went to school, rain or shine, football or no football. But her? She eats like a queen, calm as you like, as if she’s—"
"¡No escuches!" Hori cut in, setting her bowl down on the coffee table with a clatter.
She bounded forward, springing onto Izan’s back before he could sidestep.
"You talk like you are that old, but it is only a 2-year gap," she said as he staggered under the sudden weight, still clutching the phone, as she clamped a hand over his mouth.
"He’s lying, mamá! This is what brothers are supposed to do: annoy sisters. Don’t listen to him!"
And before he could fight her off, she snatched the phone from his hand and jabbed the red button, and the call ended.
She turned with a victorious grin, chest heaving a little from the tussle, then tossed the phone back at him.
Triumphant, she strutted towards the stairs, pride on her face as she turned towards her brother.
Izan straightened, glaring at her retreating figure. "Don’t you dare—"
"Bitch," she sang over her shoulder before bolting, her phone clutched to her chest.
Izan’s jaw dropped, but only for a second.
Then he was sprinting after her, two steps at a ti.
From the bottom of the stairs, Olivia leaned against the wall, shaking her head with a laugh.
"Don’t kill her!" she called after him, but a second later, Hori’s high-pitched shrieks filled the upstairs, mixed with bursts of helpless laughter.
"Okay, okay! I won’t do it again!" Hori squealed, her voice breaking with giggles.
"I swear, I’m close to peeing!"
Olivia chuckled to herself, then turned back to the abandoned bowl on the table.
She picked it up, gave it a small, exaggerated nod.
"Hello, beautiful," she murmured at the cereal, amused.
One spoonful in, she raised her eyebrows, genuinely impressed.
"She’s actually good at this."
Carrying the bowl with her, she settled onto the couch.
With a click of the remote, the opaque glass expanse of the living room window turned clear, revealing Hampstead basking in late-morning light.
She tucked her legs under herself, let the spoon clink softly against the bowl, and flicked on the TV.
Upstairs, the commotion carried on, but down here, in the calm of the open living room, it almost felt like life was perfectly, absurdly normal.
...
Hori had plopped herself onto one of the couches now, bowl of cereal abandoned, her hand patting dramatically at the little red spot on her forehead.
Her lower lip was pushed out in exaggerated misery.
"You absolute donkey!" she yelled toward Izan, glaring like he’d committed so life-threatening cri.
"What if this scars? Huh? Then what? You want your sister walking around with a permanent dent on her head because you can’t control your caveman hands?"
Izan, standing by the counter with a half-devoured loaf of bread in his grip, only grinned.
He tore off another chunk with his teeth, chewed, and shrugged like it was nothing.
"If it scars," he said around a mouthful, "I’ll buy you that bag you’ve been begging for. The one you keep putting in my face every ti I scroll through Instagram."
"That doesn’t cut it!" Hori shot back imdiately, sitting upright now, her hands flailing like she was delivering a courtroom argunt.
"A bag is the bare minimum. This is my face we’re talking about."
Izan rolled his eyes, finally dropping the bread onto a plate.
With a sigh that sounded more theatrical than genuine, he pulled out his wallet. "Alright, lawyer, what do you want then?"
She smirked at the sight of it, already leaning forward like a vulture circling prey.
When he fished out one of his cards and held it up between his fingers, she didn’t even blink.
"Not that one," she said sweetly, shaking her head.
"The silver one. The one with no limit."
Izan let out a dry laugh, shaking his head like he was the unluckiest brother alive.
"You’re insane, you know that?"
But still, he slid the silver card free and handed it over, palm open in defeat.
The mont it touched her fingers, Hori’s entire face lit up.
She clutched it to her chest like it was sacred treasure, giggling in a way that was half-mad, half-childish.
"Oh, this is dangerous," she sang, twirling the card between her fingers. "Don’t worry, Onii-san. I won’t spend much."
Izan narrowed his eyes at her tone.
"That’s exactly what soone says right before they burn down Selfridges."
Ignoring him, Hori spun on her heel toward Olivia, who had been lounging comfortably on the sofa, half amused by the entire exchange. Hori pointed dramatically.
"You! Your punishnt for eating my cereal is to drive to King’s Road. I need my loyal subject behind the wheel."
Olivia pressed her hand against her chest, bowing her head with mock seriousness as she rose to her feet.
"As you wish, my queen."
The two of them exchanged a grin, and without another word, Hori scurried off upstairs, still clutching the card like a golden ticket, Olivia following right behind her with a small shake of her head and a quiet laugh under her breath.
Izan leaned back against the counter, watching them go, muttering to himself, "I’ve created a monster."
Then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he reached for his bread again.
He was just about to sink his teeth back into the bread when his phone buzzed on the counter beside him.
A short vibration.
A text first.
He glanced at it, but before he could even swipe the screen, the phone lit up again, this ti buzzing insistently with an incoming call.
The corners of his mouth pulled upward as soon as he saw the na flashing across the screen.
He didn’t even hesitate.
"Knew you’d call," Izan said as he slid his thumb across to answer, voice laced with that mixture of amusent and certainty reserved for only a handful of people in his life.
On the other end, there was a chuckle, familiar and sharp, carrying the kind of energy that always made him sit a little straighter.
"Of course I’d call. Soone has to remind you that in a few weeks, you’re going to be crying on the pitch when we lift that trophy over your head."
Lamine Yamal’s voice ca through clear, youthful and cocky, and Izan couldn’t help but laugh under his breath.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in mock defiance as if Lamine were right there in front of him instead of on the other end of the line.
"Ready to lose the Champions League final, Izan?" Lamine pressed, words dripping with playful venom, the kind of jab that carried as much warmth as it did challenge.
Izan leaned back against the counter, bread forgotten, smirk widening.
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