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By the time Francesco returned to the dressing room, it had thinned out. Some players were already gone. Others lounged on benches, scrolling through phones, reading messages from family, from friends, from people who'd watched from afar.
The morning did not arrive gently.
It crept in through the curtains instead, pale and insistent, thin bands of London light slipping through the gaps and laying themselves across the walls of the bedroom. The room was quiet in that way only early mornings could be with too still, too calm, like the world was holding its breath.
Francesco stirred before he fully woke.
His body shifted instinctively first, rolling slightly onto his side, arm reaching out across the mattress without his eyes opening yet. It was a half-conscious habit, muscle memory more than intention.
His hand met nothing but cool sheets.
That alone was enough to wake him properly.
He blinked, eyes adjusting slowly, the ceiling above him coming into focus. High. White. Clean lines and subtle recessed lights that had been turned off sometime during the night. The curtains were drawn but imperfectly, and the morning light leaked through anyway, stubborn as ever.
Leah wasn't there.
The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets rumpled but already cooling, the faint impression of her body lingering only in memory. Her pillow was untouched now, neatly set back into place. She must have been up for a while.
Francesco exhaled slowly and pushed himself up onto his elbows.
That was when it hit him.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
Just… wrong.
His head throbbed dully, like someone had wrapped a tight band around his temples and was slowly pulling. His limbs felt heavier than they should have, as if gravity had quietly doubled overnight. Even the act of sitting up made his stomach roll faintly.
He frowned.
"Great," he muttered under his breath.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the floor, expecting the familiar grounding sensation of cool marble beneath his soles.
Instead, a wave of warmth surged through him.
Not comfort.
Heat.
The kind that radiated from inside, pooling in his chest, his neck, his face.
He paused, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress, breathing slowly through his nose. His heartbeat felt louder than usual in his ears.
Then he heard it.
A sound from downstairs.
Soft at first. Easy to miss if you weren't listening for it.
The faint clink of ceramic.
The hiss of something cooking.
A drawer opening and closing.
Leah.
She was awake. She was moving around the kitchen. Making breakfast, by the sound of it.
That should have been comforting.
Normally, it would have been.
Instead, Francesco swallowed hard and brought the back of his hand up to his forehead.
Warm.
No, hot.
His brow was warm enough that he didn't even need to think twice about it. The heat lingered against his skin, unmistakable.
He pressed his palm there now, holding it longer, eyes closing briefly.
A headache.
A strange warmth in his body.
Heavy limbs.
He exhaled again, slower this time.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he murmured.
Fever.
The word settled into his mind with irritating clarity.
He stayed seated on the edge of the bed for a moment longer, gathering himself. His body protested when he shifted his weight again, muscles stiff and sore in that deep, unpleasant way that had nothing to do with training.
This wasn't post-match fatigue.
This was something else.
He stood up carefully, testing his balance. The room tilted slightly that not enough to make him stumble, but enough to make him stop and steady himself with a hand against the dresser.
Definitely something else.
He ran a hand through his hair, letting it fall back messily, then glanced toward the bathroom. The idea of a shower appealed instinctively with heat to match the heat already humming through him, something grounding, something familiar.
But before he could move that way, the smell reached him.
Eggs.
Toast.
Coffee.
The unmistakable aroma of breakfast drifting up from the kitchen below.
His stomach twisted, caught between hunger and mild nausea.
Leah had made breakfast.
That meant she'd assumed he'd be coming down soon.
Francesco sighed quietly and grabbed a light hoodie from the chair near the bed, pulling it on over his T-shirt. The fabric felt oddly heavy against his skin, like it clung more than usual. He didn't bother changing properly and just slipped into a pair of loose joggers and padded toward the door.
Each step down the staircase required more concentration than it should have.
The mansion was quiet otherwise. Too quiet for how large it was. The kind of silence that magnified every sound: the soft thud of his feet on wood, the faint creak of a step, the distant hum of appliances downstairs.
By the time he reached the bottom, the warmth in his body had intensified, a steady heat that made the air feel thicker than it was. His head pulsed in time with his heartbeat now.
The kitchen was bright.
Sunlight poured in through the wide glass doors that overlooked the garden, casting warm gold across the counters and the long island in the center of the room. The space smelled of coffee and butter and something faintly sweet.
Leah stood with her back to him at the stove, hair pulled up into a loose bun, wearing one of his oversized Arsenal hoodies. She moved easily, comfortably, like she belonged there which, in a way, she did.
She turned slightly, reaching for a plate.
And saw him.
"Morning," she said automatically, then paused mid-step.
Her expression shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
She set the plate down and turned fully toward him, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied his face.
"Fran?" she said. "Are you okay?"
He opened his mouth to answer.
Nothing came out.
He blinked once, processing that.
Then he cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just… tired."
The lie was weak even to his own ears.
Leah didn't buy it for a second.
She crossed the space between them quickly, one hand already lifting toward his face. Before he could protest, she pressed the back of her fingers against his forehead.
She didn't even need to linger.
Her eyebrows drew together instantly.
"You're burning up," she said.
Francesco winced slightly not at her touch, but at the confirmation. "I noticed."
"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, already steering him toward one of the stools at the island.
He allowed himself to be guided, sinking onto the seat with a quiet exhale. The moment he sat down, his body seemed to sag in on itself, like it had been waiting for permission.
"I only just woke up," he said. "You were already gone."
She gave him a look. "I was gone for twenty minutes."
"Still counts," he muttered.
Leah huffed softly but didn't push it. Instead, she reached for his wrist and pressed her fingers lightly against the inside, checking his pulse like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was fast.
Not alarmingly so, but quicker than it should have been at rest.
She let go and sighed.
"Of course," she said quietly. "Of course you get sick the day after that."
Francesco managed a faint smile. "Timing's impeccable."
She slid a mug of coffee toward him out of habit, then stopped herself halfway and pulled it back again.
"Actually, no. Not yet."
He watched her move around the kitchen, efficient, focused now in a different way. She poured herself a glass of water instead and handed it to him.
"Drink," she said. "Slowly."
He obeyed, taking a few careful sips. The coolness helped, even if only a little. It eased the dryness in his throat and gave him something solid to focus on.
Leah leaned against the counter across from him, arms folded loosely, studying him again.
"You played ninety minutes against Bayern Munich," she said. "Scored twice. Gave a speech. Did interviews. Celebrated. And then came home and didn't stop talking until… what, two in the morning?"
He shrugged weakly. "Worth it."
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real irritation in it. "Your body disagrees."
He rested his elbows on the island, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips. The headache flared in response, sharper now, forcing him to stop.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Feels like it's punishing me."
Leah stepped closer again, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.
"You need rest," she said. "Actual rest. Not 'sit on the sofa and scroll through your phone while pretending you're relaxing' rest."
He glanced up at her, corner of his mouth lifting. "You know me too well."
"I really do," she replied dryly.
She reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a thermometer, holding it up pointedly.
"No arguing," she added.
He sighed but didn't protest.
When the thermometer beeped a few seconds later, she checked the reading and grimaced slightly.
"Yep," she said. "Fever."
"How bad?" he asked.
"Terrible," she replied. "And enough to made you not doing anything today."
He opened his mouth to object automatically.
She raised an eyebrow.
He closed it again.
"Okay," he conceded. "I'll… not doing anything today."
"That includes training," she said immediately.
He winced. "The gaffer's not going to love that."
"He'll love you collapsing from exhaustion even less," she shot back. "And so will the medical staff."
She wasn't wrong.
He knew she wasn't wrong.
That didn't make it easier to accept.
Francesco leaned back slightly on the stool, eyes drifting toward the garden outside. The morning sun lit the grass beautifully, dew still clinging to the blades. It looked peaceful. Inviting.
He felt anything but.
His body buzzed with heat and fatigue, his thoughts slower than usual, edges dulled.
"Sorry," he said suddenly.
Leah looked at him. "For what?"
"For ruining breakfast," he said. "And… today."
She stared at him for a moment.
Then laughed softly.
"Fran," she said. "You just knocked Bayern Munich out of the Champions League. I don't care if all you do today is lie in bed and complain."
He smiled faintly at that, the expression costing him more effort than it should have.
She nudged the plate of food toward him anyway. "Try a little. If you feel sick, stop."
He nodded and picked at the toast, chewing slowly. His appetite was muted, but the warmth of the food helped ground him.
They sat like that for a few minutes in companionable silence.
The mansion felt different in the daylight.
Less grand.
More lived-in.
Finally, Leah spoke again.
"I'll text the club doctor," she said. "Just to let them know. They'll probably want to check you later."
He sighed, rubbing his face. "I hate being sick."
"I know," she said gently. "But even you aren't invincible."
He glanced at her, something thoughtful passing behind his tired eyes.
"I don't need to be," he said quietly. "Just… present."
She softened at that and reached out, brushing her thumb lightly along his jaw.
"You are," she said. "Even now."
He leaned into the touch without thinking.
Francesco stayed leaning slightly into Leah's touch for a second longer than he meant to.
It wasn't dramatic. Just a quiet pause. One of those moments where the world narrowed to the warmth of a familiar hand and the steady presence of someone who wasn't asking anything of him.
Then something tugged at the back of his mind.
A loose thread.
His brow furrowed faintly.
"…I forgot something," he said.
Leah tilted her head. "What?"
He straightened a little on the stool, the movement costing him more effort than it should have. The room swayed again, subtly, just enough to make him blink and steady himself.
"I haven't called Arsène yet," he said. "He'll be expecting me at training, or at least a message."
Leah's expression shifted instantly into understanding. She nodded once, already moving toward the hallway.
"Your phone's upstairs," she said. "On the nightstand?"
"Yeah," he replied. "Left side."
"I'll grab it. Don't move."
He gave a faint, amused huff. "Wasn't planning on it."
She disappeared up the stairs, her footsteps light and quick. Francesco stayed where he was, elbows resting on the island now, fingers loosely interlaced. The kitchen felt very bright all of a sudden. The sunlight seemed harsher, like it was pressing against his eyes.
He closed them briefly.
His body felt… strange.
Not painful, exactly. Just off-balance. Like his internal rhythm had been knocked half a step out of time. His skin was still warm, heat humming beneath the surface, and his head throbbed dully with every heartbeat.
He took another sip of water, then another, slower this time.
In his mind, images from the night before flickered in fragments.
The roar of the Emirates.
The weightless moment after the ball left his foot.
The way the crowd surged as one, noise collapsing into pure feeling.
Wenger's face on the touchline, focused, proud but restrained.
All of it felt both incredibly close and strangely distant now, like it belonged to someone else.
He heard Leah coming back down the stairs before he saw her. She rounded the corner into the kitchen, phone in hand, and slid it across the counter toward him.
"Here," she said. "Battery's still fine."
"Thanks," he murmured.
His fingers curled around the phone, thumb hovering over the screen for a second before he unlocked it. Notifications crowded the display immediately.
Messages.
Missed calls.
Mentions.
Congratulatory texts from teammates, former teammates, friends, family. Headlines already being pushed by sports apps. Pundits arguing, praising, speculating.
He ignored all of it and went straight to his contacts.
Wenger.
The name sat there, simple, understated, as it always had. No emojis. No embellishments.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then pressed call.
The line rang once.
Twice.
He pictured Wenger already awake, already dressed, already thinking about the next session, the next opponent, the next detail to refine. He always was.
The call connected.
"Bonjour, Francesco," Wenger said, his voice calm and warm through the speaker. "I was just about to send you a message."
Francesco smiled faintly despite himself. "Morning, boss."
There was a pause. Not long. Just long enough.
"You do not sound like you usually do in the morning," Wenger observed gently.
Francesco huffed quietly. "Yeah. About that."
Leah leaned against the counter nearby, arms folded, watching him with that same attentive focus she'd had all morning.
"I woke up with a fever," Francesco continued. "Headache, body's… not great."
Another pause. This one heavier.
"I see," Wenger said. "When did this start?"
"This morning," Francesco replied. "I was fine last night. Just exhausted."
"That does not surprise me," Wenger said dryly, and Francesco could almost hear the faint smile beneath it. "After the week you have had, and the match last night, your body has finally asked for its due."
Francesco sighed softly. "Yeah. It seems that way."
Wenger didn't rush him. He never did. He let the silence sit, gave Francesco space to say what he needed to say rather than pushing him toward it.
"So," Francesco said finally, choosing his words carefully. "I wanted to ask for a couple of days. Two, maybe three. Just to get this out of my system."
"Of course," Wenger replied without hesitation. "That is not a problem."
Francesco blinked, surprised despite himself. "Just like that?"
"Yes," Wenger said simply. "You have earned it. And more importantly, you need it."
Leah's shoulders relaxed slightly at that.
"I will inform the staff that you will not be in today or tomorrow," Wenger continued. "We will monitor how you feel after that."
"Thank you," Francesco said, genuine relief creeping into his voice. "I didn't want to leave you guessing."
"I appreciate you calling," Wenger replied. "And I would rather you miss three days now than three weeks later."
Francesco grimaced. "Me too."
"I will send the club doctor to check on you," Wenger added. "Just to be safe."
Francesco glanced at Leah, who raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"Actually," he said, "Leah's already contacted them. They're coming this afternoon."
"Very good," Wenger said. "Then we are aligned."
There was another brief pause, softer this time.
"Francesco," Wenger said, his tone shifting slightly. "Last night was… special. For the club. For the team. And for you."
Francesco swallowed. "It felt that way."
"But," Wenger continued, "what matters now is that you recover properly. Football will wait a few days. Your body will not."
"I know," Francesco said quietly.
"Good," Wenger replied. "Rest. Hydrate. Do nothing that requires effort."
Francesco almost laughed. "I'll try."
"And tell Leah I am grateful she is taking care of you," Wenger added.
Leah smiled faintly at that, even though Wenger couldn't see her.
"I will," Francesco said.
"Très bien," Wenger concluded. "We will speak soon. Take care."
"You too, boss."
The call ended.
Francesco set the phone down on the counter and leaned back against the stool again, letting out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Well?" Leah asked.
"He said okay," Francesco replied. "No training for a few days. Club doctor's coming later, but you already handled that."
She nodded once, satisfied. "Good."
She pushed away from the counter and stepped closer, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders.
"You look relieved," she said.
"I am," he admitted. "Still don't like it, though."
"Of course you don't," she said. "You hate not being useful."
He snorted softly. "That obvious?"
She smiled. "Painfully."
She squeezed his shoulder gently, then gestured toward the hallway.
"Come on," she said. "Back upstairs. Bed. Properly this time."
He hesitated. "What about breakfast?"
"I'll bring you something light," she replied. "Later. Right now, you need to lie down."
He considered protesting.
His body shut that idea down immediately by sending another wave of heat and fatigue through him.
"Okay," he conceded.
She helped him up from the stool, keeping a steadying hand on his arm as they moved toward the stairs. He hated that he needed it, but he didn't pull away. Pride wasn't worth collapsing over.
The climb upstairs felt longer than before.
By the time they reached the bedroom again, Francesco felt wrung out, like the simple act of moving had drained whatever energy he had left. Leah guided him to the bed and pulled the covers back.
"Shoes off," she said.
He complied, toeing them off and sitting down heavily on the mattress. The room was dimmer than the kitchen, curtains filtering the sunlight into something softer, kinder.
He lay back slowly, careful not to let his head hit the pillow too hard. The mattress cradled him instantly, familiar and grounding.
Leah pulled the duvet up around him and adjusted the pillows so his head was supported properly.
"There," she said quietly.
He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, breathing evenly.
The headache was still there.
The heat still hummed beneath his skin.
But being horizontal helped. A little.
Leah sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, brushing his hair back gently from his forehead.
"You really scared me for a second downstairs," she admitted softly.
He turned his head slightly to look at her. "Sorry."
"I know," she said. "Just next time, say something sooner."
He nodded. "Deal."
They fell into a comfortable silence again, broken only by the distant sounds of the house settling and the faint noise of traffic far beyond the garden walls.
After a minute, Leah stood. "I'll bring you water and some paracetamol. And then I'll let you sleep."
"You don't have to hover," he said weakly.
She smiled down at him. "Yes, I do."
She returned a few minutes later with a glass of water and the medication, making sure he took it properly. Then she set the glass on the nightstand within easy reach.
"I'll be downstairs if you need me," she said. "Doctor should be here around three."
He nodded, eyelids already growing heavy.
As she turned to leave, he spoke again, his voice softer now.
"Leah?"
She paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Thanks," he said. "For everything."
She looked at him for a long moment, something warm and fond in her expression.
"Always," she said.
The door closed quietly behind her.
Left alone, Francesco let his eyes drift shut.
The morning light still filtered through the curtains, painting faint patterns on the wall. His body still burned with fever, his head still ached, but beneath it all was a strange sense of calm.
He'd done what he needed to do.
He'd told the people who mattered.
Now, for once, there was nothing left to push through.
Sleep came slowly, not the deep, dreamless kind he was used to after matches, but something lighter, fragile, filled with drifting thoughts and half-formed images.
Sleep didn't take him all at once.
It hovered first.
That strange in-between state where thoughts still drifted, half-formed and loose, untethered from logic. Francesco floated there, aware of the weight of the duvet, the warmth pooling in his chest, the dull ache behind his eyes. Sounds came and went without shape. The house settling. A distant car. Somewhere far away, a door closing.
Then even those slipped.
Time lost its edges.
When he surfaced again, it was gradual, pulled upward by sensation rather than intention.
A hand on his shoulder.
Gentle, but insistent.
"Fran."
His brow creased faintly, lips parting as he breathed out a low sound that wasn't quite a word. His body felt heavy, sunk deep into the mattress, like gravity had decided to keep him exactly where he was.
"Fran," the voice said again, softer now.
Leah.
He knew it before he opened his eyes.
"Mmm…" he murmured, turning his head slightly toward the sound. His eyelids fluttered, resisting. Everything felt warm. Too warm. The kind of warmth that wrapped around you and refused to let go.
"Hey," Leah said quietly. "Wake up for me, okay?"
He forced his eyes open.
The room was dimmer than before. The sunlight had shifted, angling differently through the curtains, turning the walls a softer shade of gold. Afternoon, then. He'd slept longer than he thought.
Leah sat on the edge of the bed beside him, one hand still resting on his shoulder, the other holding a glass of water. Her expression was calm, but focused in that way that told him she was paying attention to every little thing.
Behind her.
Another figure.
A man in a dark jacket, medical bag set neatly at his feet, standing just inside the bedroom door.
The club doctor.
Francesco blinked again, slower this time, his brain catching up piece by piece.
"Oh," he rasped. His throat felt dry, like he'd been breathing desert air. "Hey."
The doctor smiled politely and stepped closer. "Good afternoon, Francesco. Sorry to wake you."
Francesco dragged a hand up to his face, rubbing his eyes and then his forehead. The heat was still there. Persistent. Annoying.
"It's fine," he muttered. "I was… out."
Leah helped him push himself up into a half-seated position, arranging the pillows behind his back so he wasn't straining. The simple act left him breathing a little heavier than usual.
The doctor watched carefully, noting everything without making it obvious.
"How are you feeling right now?" he asked.
Francesco considered the question honestly.
"Like I played Bayern again this morning," he said. "And tired."
Leah huffed softly despite herself.
The doctor smiled faintly. "Any dizziness?"
"A bit," Francesco admitted. "Mostly when I move."
"Headache?"
"Yeah."
"Sore throat?"
"Dry. Not sore."
"Muscle aches?"
He gave a tired laugh. "I'm a footballer. Always."
The doctor nodded, unfazed. He reached into his bag and pulled out a thermometer, a blood pressure cuff, and a small pulse oximeter.
"Alright," he said. "Let's have a look."
Leah shifted slightly but stayed close, her presence steady and reassuring. Francesco leaned back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded now, conserving energy.
The thermometer beeped softly after a few seconds.
The doctor checked it and raised an eyebrow. "Still running a fever."
"How bad?" Francesco asked.
"Not alarming," the doctor replied. "But not something we ignore either."
He wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Francesco's arm next, inflating it slowly. Francesco winced slightly at the pressure, then relaxed again as it deflated.
"Blood pressure's a little elevated," the doctor said, more to himself than anyone else. "Pulse?"
He clipped the oximeter onto Francesco's finger.
The numbers blinked, then steadied.
"Oxygen's fine," he said. "Heart rate's up, but expected given the fever."
Leah watched all of this intently, arms folded loosely, jaw set. Francesco caught her eye and gave a faint, reassuring shrug that didn't convince either of them.
The doctor straightened and looked at him properly now.
"Have you had anything to eat since this morning?" he asked.
"Toast," Francesco replied. "A bit."
"And fluids?"
"Water. Some."
The doctor nodded. "Good. Keep that up."
He closed his bag halfway, then paused.
"Any chest pain?" he asked.
Francesco shook his head. "No."
"Shortness of breath?"
"No."
"Nausea?"
"Earlier. Not now."
The doctor nodded again, satisfied.
"This looks like a classic post-exertional viral response," he said. "Your immune system took a hit after a very intense period, and your body's reacting."
Francesco frowned slightly. "So… flu?"
"Possibly," the doctor replied. "Or just a general viral infection. We'll keep an eye on it. The important thing is rest."
Leah glanced at Francesco pointedly, like she'd been saying that all day.
"No training," the doctor continued. "No gym. No cardio. Nothing that raises your heart rate for at least forty-eight hours. Ideally seventy-two."
Francesco opened his mouth.
Leah shot him a look.
He closed it again.
"Hydration," the doctor said. "Light food. Paracetamol for the fever. If it spikes or you develop new symptoms from chest pain, persistent vomiting, anything like that, you call immediately."
"Understood," Francesco said quietly.
"I'll check in tomorrow morning," the doctor added. "And again the day after if needed."
He glanced toward Leah. "Thank you for acting quickly."
She nodded. "Of course."
The doctor packed his things efficiently, then paused at the door.
"Oh," he added. "And Arsène asked me to tell you, no heroics."
Francesco managed a weak smile. "He knows me too well."
When the doctor left, the room felt quieter again.
Leah sat back down on the edge of the bed, letting out a breath she'd clearly been holding.
"Well," she said. "That could've been worse."
Francesco shifted slightly, wincing as his muscles protested. "I hate this."
"I know," she said gently. "But you heard him. Rest."
He leaned his head back against the pillows, eyes drifting closed again. The fever made everything feel fuzzy around the edges, like his thoughts were wrapped in cotton.
"Did I sleep long?" he asked.
"Couple of hours," Leah replied. "You needed it."
He nodded faintly.
There was a pause.
Then he spoke again, quieter now.
"I dreamed about the match."
Leah smiled softly. "Good dream or bad?"
"Neither," he said. "Just… loud."
She reached out and brushed her thumb lightly along his wrist, feeling the warmth of his skin.
"You don't have to think about football today," she said.
"I don't know how not to," he replied honestly.
"I do," she said. "I'll help."
She stood again and reached for the remote, lowering the blinds a little more until the room was comfortably dim. Then she moved around quietly, straightening the duvet, adjusting the bedside lamp so it cast a softer glow.
"Try to sleep again," she said. "I'll bring you soup later."
"Sounds good," he murmured.
She hesitated, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. He barely felt it through the heat, but the intention landed all the same.
"Hey," she whispered. "You're allowed to be human, you know."
His lips twitched. "Dangerous concept."
She smiled and left him to rest.
This time, sleep came easier.
Deeper.
His body sank into the mattress again, but now without resistance. The headache dulled to a distant throb. The heat remained, but it felt less oppressive, like it had stopped climbing.
He drifted through fragmented dreams.
The pitch under his boots.
The sound of the crowd swelling and breaking like waves.
Leah's voice somewhere close, calling his name.
Wenger standing at the edge of the technical area, hands in his coat pockets, watching.
Faces blurred together.
Time slipped sideways.
When he woke again, it was to the smell of something warm and familiar.
Chicken broth.
He cracked one eye open and saw Leah sitting in the armchair by the window, phone in hand, a bowl resting on the side table beside her.
"You're awake," she said softly, immediately standing.
"Smells good," he said hoarsely.
She smiled. "Doctor-approved."
She helped him sit up again and handed him the bowl, careful not to spill. He ate slowly, methodically, savoring the warmth more than the taste. Each spoonful settled something inside him.
"How's your head?" she asked.
"Better," he said. "Still there, but quieter."
She nodded. "Good."
They stayed like that for a while. No rush. No agenda. Just existing in the same space.
Outside, the light continued to fade, the afternoon sliding toward evening. The world moved on without him, and for once, that didn't feel like failure.
It felt like permission.
Francesco finished the soup and leaned back again, exhausted but calmer now.
"Hey," he said suddenly.
Leah looked up. "Yeah?"
"Thanks for not letting me be stupid today."
She smirked. "Any day."
His eyes closed again, not fighting it this time.
Night came quietly, almost politely.
It didn't crash in with darkness or announce itself with ceremony. It simply arrived the way it always did at the mansion with light thinning until the windows reflected the inside more than the outside, the garden beyond dissolving into shadow, the house settling into its lower, slower rhythm.
Francesco slept through most of it.
Not deeply, not cleanly, but enough. Enough to take the sharpest edge off the fever, enough to quiet the constant noise in his head. His breathing evened out, chest rising and falling steadily beneath the duvet, sweat cooling slightly on his skin.
Leah moved through the house softly.
She checked on him every so often, pressing the back of her fingers to his forehead, adjusting the covers when he shifted, making sure the glass of water on the nightstand was always full. She didn't wake him unless she had to. She knew better than that.
Around eight in the evening, her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen, then toward the bedroom.
A message from Sarah.
We're outside.
Leah exhaled quietly and typed back a quick response before slipping her phone into her pocket.
She went upstairs again first.
Francesco was half-awake now, drifting somewhere near the surface. His eyes opened when she touched his arm lightly.
"Hey," she said. "Your parents are here."
He blinked, processing the words slowly.
"…Both of them?"
"Yes," she replied. "Your mum insisted."
A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Of course she did."
"Do you feel okay enough to see them?" Leah asked gently.
He considered it, then nodded. "Yeah. I think… yeah."
She helped him sit up again, adding another pillow behind his back. He winced slightly but didn't complain.
"I'll bring them up," she said. "Just… don't try to be brave."
He gave a weak snort. "That ship sailed this morning."
Downstairs, the front door opened quietly.
Mike stepped inside first, tall and broad-shouldered, movements calm and measured. He wore a simple jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, his expression already halfway to concern despite his efforts to keep it neutral.
Sarah followed immediately behind him.
She didn't bother taking in the house.
Didn't pause to admire the space, or comment on the quiet, or ask how Leah was.
Her eyes were already scanning, already searching.
"Where is he?" she asked, voice tight.
Leah smiled softly. "Upstairs. Bedroom. He's awake."
Sarah was already halfway to the stairs before Leah finished the sentence.
Mike shot Leah an apologetic look and followed.
The bedroom door opened slowly.
Francesco looked up at the sound, eyes focusing with a little more effort than usual.
"Mum," he said softly.
Sarah crossed the room in three quick steps.
"Oh, my baby," she said, already sitting on the edge of the bed, hands immediately on his face, his hair, his arms. "Look at you."
"Mum," he repeated, a little embarrassed but too tired to resist. "I'm fine."
She pressed her palm to his forehead, then to his cheek. Her brows knit together instantly.
"You're burning," she said. "Why didn't you call me?"
He sighed. "Because you would've driven here immediately."
She looked at him.
He closed his eyes briefly. "Which you did anyway."
"Yes," she said firmly. "Because you're sick."
Mike stood a little further back, arms folded loosely, watching quietly. His gaze moved over Francesco with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen enough injuries and illnesses to know what mattered.
"You look exhausted," Mike said.
"Feel it," Francesco replied honestly.
Sarah turned on him. "Leah said you knocked Bayern Munich out of Europe and then decided to collapse."
"That's… not how I'd phrase it," Francesco muttered.
Leah lingered near the door, giving them space but staying close.
Sarah's voice softened slightly as she looked back at her son.
"How long has the fever been there?"
"Since morning," Francesco said. "Doctor's been. Says it's viral."
Sarah exhaled through her nose, a mixture of relief and lingering worry.
"And you're resting?"
"Yes."
"And not training?"
"No."
"And eating?"
He hesitated.
Sarah raised an eyebrow.
"…Soup," he said.
She nodded. "Good."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle of something herbal, holding it up like evidence.
"I brought this," she said. "Just in case."
Mike chuckled quietly. "You brought half the pharmacy."
"You never know," Sarah shot back, then turned her attention fully to Francesco again.
She brushed his hair back gently, fingers lingering at his temple.
"You scared me," she admitted quietly.
"I know," he said. "Sorry."
She sighed and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"Don't apologise for being human," she said. "Even if you seem to forget that sometimes."
Leah smiled faintly at that from the doorway.
Mike finally stepped closer, placing a hand on the bedframe.
"The club handling it?" he asked.
"Yeah," Francesco replied. "Wenger gave me a few days. Doctor's checking in tomorrow."
"Good," Mike said. "Listen to them."
"I am."
Mike raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
"Okay," Francesco amended. "I'm trying."
That earned him a faint smile.
They stayed for a while.
Not talking much.
Sarah sat beside him, occasionally adjusting the blanket or touching his arm like she needed the physical reassurance that he was really there, really okay. Mike stood or sat nearby, asking the occasional practical question, grounding the room with his presence.
At one point, Sarah glanced at her phone and frowned.
"What?" Mike asked.
She turned the screen toward him, then toward Leah.
"They've already listed him on the club website," she said.
Leah stiffened slightly. "Already?"
Sarah nodded. "Injury update."
Francesco groaned softly. "Please tell me they didn't use the word 'injury.'"
Mike leaned over and read it aloud, voice steady.
Francesco Lee has been ruled out of training after developing a fever following last night's UEFA Champions League fixture. The club's medical staff are monitoring his condition closely and expect him to make a full recovery within four to five days.
He looked up. "Could've been worse."
Francesco stared at the ceiling. "I've officially made the injury list because of a fever."
Sarah clicked her tongue. "Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not," he said. "This is deeply embarrassing."
Leah stepped closer. "It's not."
"It is," he insisted weakly. "I never get sick."
Mike nodded thoughtfully. "That's exactly why this makes sense."
Francesco frowned. "How so?"
"You're eighteen," Mike said. "You've played almost every minute of the season. League, Europe, cups. Training. Media. Travel. Pressure."
Sarah chimed in. "Your body finally said no."
Francesco went quiet at that.
He hadn't thought about it like that. Or rather, he had but only in fragments he'd pushed aside.
Leah picked up Sarah's phone and scrolled.
"Fans are already talking about it," she said.
"Of course they are," Francesco muttered.
She hesitated, then read a few aloud.
"Some are shocked," she said. "They're saying you've never been sick. That this is the first time since your debut season."
Francesco smiled faintly. "I also had fever that year."
Sarah winced. "That was awful."
Leah continued. "Others are saying it's completely understandable. That you're still young. That your body's been overworked."
Mike nodded. "They're right."
Leah glanced at Francesco. "Some are even defending you from… yourself."
He huffed softly. "That's new."
Sarah set her phone aside and leaned in closer.
"Listen to me," she said firmly. "I don't care what fans say. I don't care what the papers write. I care that you rest and recover properly."
He met her eyes. "I will."
"Promise?" she pressed.
"I promise," he said.
She held his gaze for a second longer, then finally seemed satisfied.
They stayed another half hour.
Talking about small things.
About the match, briefly. About how proud they were, quietly. About home. About nothing at all.
Eventually, Sarah stood and smoothed her jacket.
"We should go," she said reluctantly. "Let him sleep."
Mike nodded. "We'll check in tomorrow."
Sarah leaned down and kissed Francesco's forehead again.
"Call me if you feel worse," she said. "Even in the middle of the night."
He smiled faintly. "I know."
They hugged him carefully, mindful of his fatigue, then followed Leah back downstairs.
When Leah returned, the house felt quieter again.
She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him for a moment.
"Feeling overwhelmed?" she asked.
"A bit," he admitted. "But good overwhelmed."
She nodded. "That means people care."
"Yeah," he said softly.
She reached for his hand and squeezed it once.
"I'll stay with you tonight," she said. "Just in case."
He smiled, eyes already drifting closed again.
"Good," he murmured.
Outside, somewhere far beyond the walls of the mansion, the world kept talking.
Fans debated.
Pundits speculated.
Headlines were written and rewritten.
But inside, the noise faded.
Francesco slept again, feverish but safe, surrounded by the quiet certainty that even when his body finally forced him to stop, he wasn't alone.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 37
Goal: 59
Assist: 3
MOTM: 8
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9