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The tunnel lights hummed a dull electric thrum in the wake of the final whistle. The sting of the loss clung to his skin like a second jersey. Then he saw you—your laughter ringing out, too bright, too close to Haaland. The City player's hand rested on your shoulder. Everything narrowed to that point. Alejandro closed the distance in three long strides, his arm curling around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. His gaze, dark and unyielding, locked onto the rival. "We're leaving," he said, the words flat and final. His grip on you was iron, desperate. "Now."