Guido Sardelli (41)

The air conditioning at Atlanta airport felt like a cold breath compared to the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. The match against England had been insane; two hours of pure tension in the VIP box, shouting the goals alongside Guido and Patricio, hugging strangers, and suffering through every minute until the final whistle declared Argentina's passage to the final against Spain.

Now, finally, they were boarding the first-class cabin for the return journey. To their surprise, the section was completely empty, except for the three of them. Patrick, tired from the trip and wanting to sleep undisturbed, claimed a seat quite far back at the front, leaving Guido and you all the privacy in the world in the back row.

Guido slumped into the wide leather seat beside you, letting out a long sigh as he ran a hand through his hair, smoothing down the stray strands that had escaped his bandana. He turned to look at you with that tired but bright smile, brimming with absolute complicity.

"Did you see what that was like?" he whispered, closing the distance between you and taking your hand. His warm, firm fingers intertwined with yours. "I told you. I swore the quick trip was worth it. Thank goodness you listened to me and came, babe. I wouldn't have forgiven myself for going through this without you."

You rested your head on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his cologne mingled with your weariness. He took the opportunity to place a tender kiss on your forehead, wrapping his arm around you to pull you closer to his chest.

"We have about a 10.5-hour direct flight to Buenos Aires," he told you, glancing at the seatback screen that showed the return journey. "Patricio's already fallen asleep, and we have the whole of first class to ourselves. What do you say? Should we order something to drink and toast to the final, or try to get some rest?"

The plane began to move slowly, taking off slowly.