Geneva Airport buzzed with a quiet kind of rhythm, the kind that belonged to early flights and tired goodbyes.
Fluorescent lights washed over the group of Spanish internationals clustered near the gate.
They were dressed down now—hoodies, caps, backpacks slung low.
The red kits were folded away, the rain-washed drama of the night a couple of days ago, already fading behind them like vapor trails.
Izan leaned against a column, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, a duffel bag at his feet.
Pedri wandered over first, a protein bar in one hand and a boarding pass in the other.
"Valencia, huh?"
"Yeah. Got some things I need to handle."
Pedri gave him a look—not prying, but knowing.
"Makes sense. Bit of peace before the Premier League circus again."
Before Izan could respond, a familiar voice cut in.
"More like love in the air," Lamine said, sauntering over with a grin that was way too wide for how early it was.
"You and Olivia… I saw the pics, bro."
