The apartment was finally his, but Thiago still hadn't moved in. The boxes were stacked neatly against the wall, his contract signed, and the keys sat on the kitchen counter, glinting under the dim overhead light. The place smelled faintly of fresh paint and new wood, still untouched, still waiting. But for now, he remained in his temporary hotel—a small, rented space with mismatched furniture and a couch that sagged in the middle. Comfort wasn't urgent tonight.
Tonight, something else held his attention.
Thiago sat cross-legged on the couch, a worn-out blanket draped over his knees, eyes locked onto the TV screen. The glow of the match cast flickering shadows across the living room walls, painting his face in streaks of blue and white. Santos vs. Palmeiras. A classic. A derby. The kind of game that made his pulse quicken just by hearing the crowd roar through the speakers.
