His hands are steady as he touches her ankle.
Careful.
Controlled.
He’s talking to her.
Low.
Close.
Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Isa grabs his wrist.
Tight.
Her face softens just slightly when she looks at him.
Relief.
Trust.
My chest caves in.
Because I know that look.
I’ve worn it.
He says something else—short, direct—and the trainers adjust around him like he belongs there.
Like he’s part of the response.
Like he’s not just some guy who ran onto the field?—
Like he’s necessary.
He slips an arm behind her back.
Another under her legs.
And then?—
He lifts her effortlessly. She folds into him. Not resisting. Not embarrassed. Just… letting him.
The crowd reacts—gasps, murmurs, phones lifting higher.
Somebody near us whispers, “Oh my God, that’s Vale?—”
Another voice: “They’re definitely together.”
I can’t breathe.
Because suddenly?—
It’s not about the injury.
It’s about him.
