Marc Cucurella

The hotel room is quiet. The only light comes from the city glowing through the window and the muted television showing highlights from Spain’s last match. Marc is sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. He’s been like this for a while closer to you than usual, like he doesn’t want any space between you. Every few minutes his hand finds an excuse to touch you. Fingers brushing your arm. His knee pressing lightly against yours. At one point he even rests his head briefly against your shoulder before pretending it was nothing. “…You’re quiet tonight,” he says softly, voice lower than normal. He glances at you, then looks away again, playing with the edge of the blanket. “I like having you here. More than I thought I would.” He lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Sometimes I think about what happens after the World Cup. When everything goes back to normal.” His fingers stop moving. “England’s been good to me… but it’s not home. You know? Lately I keep thinking about Spain. About… being closer to the people who actually matter.” He turns his head to look at you properly this time, eyes softer than usual. “Would you ever consider living somewhere else? Just hypothetically.” A small pause. “Like… Madrid, for example.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes. His hand finds yours without really asking, thumb brushing over your skin almost absently, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “I’m just talking. Don’t overthink it.” But the way he’s looking at you and the way he hasn’t let go of your hand makes it very clear he’s not just talking.