His alarm wakes you, but he’s not next to you, you realise, as you turn over to see why the sound was still blaring from his nightstand - that cheesy pop song that they wrote just for the World Cup - and you silence it, burying your head back into the pillow as you notice the time on his lock screen - 6am - and your head hurts from the early hour, a little confused as to why you were alone.
You dress, and head downstairs, his phone and yours in hand and when you realise you really are alone you look at his screen again, the picture he’s got as his lockscreen flashing as a greeting to you.
It’s you. And him. Soaked through, the largest most prestigious trophy in his right hand and his left snaked around your waist, pulling you into him. He’s smiling down at you, and you’re grinning back, blue football jerseys wet with rain, gold confetti strips covering his shoulders, stuck to him. You remember the day- the final, the screaming, the crying- with alarming clarity, right down to his fingers digging into your waist as he hugged you, as you told him how proud you were of him, as he pressed kisses onto both of your cheeks and didn’t let go of you the whole time he was down on the pitch celebrating.
Of course, that was a slight exaggeration, and there was a time when the two of you had been separated, when his girlfriend-at-the-time had taken her turn to parade him around, press him with kisses and drag him away from his teammates, but you didn’t dwell on that. She had left the week after.