Mariona Caldentey

a/n: just a small little thing! Also why do I feel so weird writing in first person omg, but it's nice to give it a try sometimes...

..

You don't cry when you close the door behind you.

You don't throw your bag or scream into a pillow, or collapse onto the floor in exhaustion

You just stand there, quiet and stiff, because your body is so tired of reacting. You've already spent the whole day clenching your jaw, blinking back frustration, pretending not to care when everything went wrong, over and over again. You hadn't texted her. You didn't need to.

She's already standing in the hallway when you turn around, wearing an old Arsenal hoodie. Her hair is tied up messily, like she's been home and cosy for a while, but her expression says she's been waiting for you, like none of that meant anything until you stepped inside.

"Hi," she says gently.

And that's all it takes.

The second she opens her arms, you fold into them like you were always meant to. She hugs you without pressure, without words, just the slow and steady rhythm of her breathing as your head finds its place on her shoulder.

One of her hands rubs up and down your back, the other rests on the back of your neck, her thumb brushing softly just beneath your hairline.

For the first time today, you let your lungs actually fill.

Mariona just says, softly, right near your ear, "You're home now."

You stay there for a long time–just breathing–and when your legs start to ache from standing still, Mariona kisses the side of your head and pulls back just enough to look at you.

"Arms up," she says, even softer than before.

You do as she asks, letting her lift your shirt over your head with careful hands, like she's afraid you might crack if she's too quick.

You don't even flinch when she reaches for your waistband; she's not trying to undress you in a way that feels invasive—it's tender. She trades your jeans for soft cotton pyjama pants, tugs the sleeves of a loose shirt over your arms like she's done it a thousand times before.

"Sit," she murmurs, guiding you gently by the waist until you're perched on a stool at the kitchen counter. The lights are dim. The stove's already on. The smell of garlic and olive oil is thick in the air.

And Mariona–quiet, warm, endlessly gentle–starts to cook. She talks the whole time. Not about you, not about your day, just about the world.

"I saw this dog earlier that looked so small," she says, smiling slightly. "Just... round. I wanted to take him home."

You smile a little. She sees it, but doesn't mention it.

Then she tells you about training, about how Kim was being a perfectionist again. She talks about how the new olive oil she bough is too fancy and makes everything taste rich.

You sit there, letting the sound of her voice fill the room, while the tension in your shoulders finally starts to melt away.

When the pasta's done, she brings it over in a warm bowl, sets it in front of you, and kisses your forehead.

"Eat," she says with a quiet smile. "You can tell me everything later. Or not. I've got you either way."

And you believe her.