England's Greatest-Chapter 142: Last Day

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..

October 5, 2014 – Morning...

Barbara stirred, her face pressing deeper into the pillow, reaching instinctively for warmth. Instead, her hand found empty space.

Her brows furrowed slightly, sleep slipping away as awareness settled in. Tristan wasn't there.

That was... strange.

She was used to now waking up wrapped in him—his arm draped over her waist, his chest warm against her back. Even in sleep, Tristan clung to her like he was afraid she'd disappear if he didn't.

But today? Nothing.

Barbara cracked one eye open, blinking against the soft morning light. The sheets beside her were still warm. He hadn't been gone long.

Her fingers reached for her phone on the bedside table. No messages.

That was even weirder.

Since they met in Milan, Tristan texted if he left early—sometimes just an update, other times just to tease her:

"Gone for a bit. Don't miss me too much 😘"

"If you wake up before I'm back, pretend I'm still there. Cuddle the pillow if you must."

But today? Silence.

Barbara sighed, rubbing her eyes before pushing off the covers. The cool air brushed against her bare legs as she padded across the floor, wearing only one of Tristan's oversized sweatshirts and shorts. Most of the time in that house, she just wore Tristan's clothes, they were comfortable.

She had barely made it halfway down the stairs when she heard it.

A sharp clatter. A frustrated sigh.

Then—

"Fuck me!"

Barbara paused mid-step, blinking.

What the hell?

Then, the unmistakable sizzle of something dangerously close to burning filled the air.

Her lips twitched.

She picked up her pace, rounding the corner into the kitchen—only to burst out laughing at the absolute disaster in front of her.

Tristan stood at the stove, black t-shirt clinging to his torso, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his damp curls slightly messy from his shower. He had a spatula in one hand and an expression of pure irritation as he glared at a questionable soufflé in the oven.

But the real crime?

The kitchen was a war zone.

Flour dusted the counter. A broken egg dripped down the side of the sink. A bowl of something that looked questionably liquid sat next to a plate of toast that was... more like a piece of burnt regret.

Barbara gripped the counter, laughter spilling out uncontrollably.

"You—" she gasped, pointing at the absolute disaster. "What is this?"

Tristan turned, brow furrowing. "Oi, what's funny?"

Barbara clutched her stomach, shaking her head between breaths. "You. This. Everything." She gestured at the counter. "It looks like a food crime scene."

Tristan huffed, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel like that would somehow fix everything. "It's called breakfast."

Barbara tilted her head, squinting at the pan of bacon teetering on the edge of charcoal.

"It looks like arson."

Tristan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "Alright, Gordon Ramsay."

Barbara, still grinning, stepped closer. "Where's Felix? Isn't he supposed to be cooking for us?"

Tristan scratched the back of his head, looking slightly sheepish. "I, uh... gave him the morning and lunch off."

Barbara's brow arched. "Why?"

Tristan met her gaze, his voice softer now. "Because I wanted to cook for you."

Her teasing faltered slightly. "You did?" she murmured, stepping closer.

Tristan leaned against the counter, watching her. "Yeah. It's our last morning together before you leave.Won't see you for a few weeks." A lazy shrug. "Thought I'd do something." He wanted to go to Hungary with her to celebrate her birthday together, but life sucks, as he had international duty.

Barbara exhaled, shaking her head fondly. "You're sweet."

Tristan huffed. "Don't sound so surprised."

Barbara smiled, tilting her head up as she pressed a slow kiss to his jawline.

"Not surprised," she murmured. "You're always sweet."

His hands found her waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of the sweatshirt, tracing warm circles on her skin. "Yeah? Thought I was the most thoughtful boyfriend ever?"

Barbara gave him a pointed look. "You're also the messiest cook I've ever seen."

Tristan groaned, throwing his head back. "Babe—"

Barbara nudged him aside with her hip, reaching for the spatula. "Alright, move over. Let me fix this before you burn the house down."

Tristan stepped back dramatically. "By all means."

Barbara inspected the damage, flipping the bacon.

"This is salvageable," she muttered. "But whatever that is..." She gestured to the failed soufflé.

Tristan scoffed. "That's art."

Barbara snorted. "That's inedible."

As she focused on the stove, Tristan came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

Barbara sighed. "Are you gonna help or just distract me?"

Tristan hummed against her skin. "What if I do both?"

Barbara tilted her head slightly. "Then you better at least be useful."

Tristan smiled, hands covering hers on the spatula, guiding the eggs as she stirred. His touch was warm, solid, and his breath skimmed her neck.

Barbara bit her lip, trying to focus. "You're—"

Tristan suddenly grabbed her cheeks, squishing them slightly.

"Cute."

Barbara swatted his hands away, laughing.

Tristan didn't respond, just reaching for a piece of bacon.

Barbara rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed firmly in place.

..

She sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, finishing off the last of her eggs while Tristan leaned against the sink, sipping his juice with a smug expression that was beginning to irritate her.

She narrowed her eyes, watching as he shamelessly reached over to steal the last piece of toast off her plate.

"Tristan."

He froze mid-bite, eyes darting toward her like a kid caught in the act.

"What?" he said, all fake innocence.

Barbara set her fork down slowly. "Put. It. Back."

Tristan chewed deliberately, staring her dead in the eye as he took another bite instead.

Barbara let out an exasperated sigh, hopping off the counter. "Oh, that's it—"

Tristan barely had time to react before she smacked his arm.

"Oi!" He laughed, dodging her second attempt. "That's unnecessary violence, babe."

"That was justice." Barbara crossed her arms, shaking her head at him. "I should've let you eat your burnt toast instead of saving breakfast."

Tristan grinned, finishing off the toast in one last dramatic bite. "Babe, it's called flavor."

"It's called incompetence."

Tristan rolled his eyes, setting his glass down before grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward him.

Barbara yelped, stumbling slightly before catching herself against his chest.

"Tristan!"

"What?" His hands rested firmly on her waist, thumbs brushing the hem of her sweatshirt. "You keep attacking me, so I had to neutralize the threat."

Barbara scoffed, palms flattening against his chest. "Neutralize? You're acting like I didn't just slap your arm—"

Tristan tilted his head, his grin widening. "Actually..."

Before she could process what was happening, his hand came down in a swift, playful smack against her ass.

Barbara gasped, immediately spinning around.

"Tristan!"

Tristan shrugged, completely unapologetic. "What? It's only fair."

Barbara narrowed her eyes at him, then—without hesitation—slapped his ass right back.

Tristan froze, mouth parting slightly, eyes flickering between amusement and sheer betrayal.

Then—

He burst out laughing, one hand on his hip, the other dragging down his face. "Alright, fair play."

Barbara smirked, clearly satisfied. "Damn right."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, reaching for her wrist again—but this time, he tugged her fully against him, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Alright, you little honey badger, let's calm down," His voice was low, amused, fingers skimming her lower back.

Barbara's grin softened, her hands finding their usual place on his chest. "I thought I would be something cuter than a honey badger.

Tristan huffed, kissing her temple.

"You are, just not now."

She sighed contently, but before the moment could settle, her brows furrowed slightly.

"Wait—what even were you trying to cook, anyway?" she asked, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.

Tristan hesitated.

Barbara arched an eyebrow. "Tristan..."

"Okay, fine." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It was supposed to be a soufflé."

Barbara blinked, staring at him for a solid three seconds.

Then—

She burst out laughing again.

"A soufflé? Tristan... that's like the most advanced—" She shook her head, wheezing, gripping his arm for balance. "You—oh my God, you thought you could just wake up and make a soufflé?"

Tristan rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched like he wanted to laugh, too. "Alright, alright, it was a bit ambitious."

"A bit? Babe, you don't even bake!"

"I know," Tristan deadpanned, "so I figured I'd start with the hardest thing and work my way down."

Barbara tilted her head, mockingly thoughtful. "Or—and hear me out—you could start with something you can actually make."

Tristan huffed, pinching her cheek lightly. "Shut up."

Barbara grinned, leaning into his touch. "Never."

"So ungrateful," he muttered.

Barbara shot him a cheeky grin. "Mmm, I don't know. I think I liked this little soufflé disaster. It was cute."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "It was a valiant effort, Barbara."

Barbara tilted her head smugly. "More like a noble failure."

Tristan groaned.

Barbara beamed, standing on her toes to peck his lips quickly before turning away to start cleaning up.

Tristan watched her for a moment. Then—

He grabbed a handful of flour from the counter and gently patted it onto her back.

Barbara froze mid-step, glancing over her shoulder.

Tristan, laughing, had already taken a step back.

Barbara narrowed her eyes, reaching for the bag of flour.

Tristan's eyes widened.

"Babe, let's think about this."

Barbara, holding the bag like a grenade, grinned.

"Nope."

Tristan bolted.

Barbara chased after him.

The kitchen was already a mess—what was a little more chaos.

..

After breakfast and the hilarious disaster that was cleaning up, Tristan insisted on helping Barbara pack.

His reasoning?

"The faster we finish, the more time we have to do whatever I planned for your early birthday."

Barbara had narrowed her eyes, arms crossing. "You keep saying that like you're not the most chaotic person I know."

Tristan, offended, placed a hand over his heart. "Chaotic? Me?"

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "You burnt toast this morning and made the kitchen a mess with all the flower.

Tristan sighed dramatically. "That was an artistic choice."

Barbara snorted, shaking her head.

"Tristan, I swear, if your 'early birthday surprise' involves something insane—like skydiving—I'm gonna lose my mind."

Tristan grinned, but his eyes stayed teasing. "I mean, I wasn't planning on skydiving, but now that you mention it..."

"No," Barbara cut in immediately, pointing at him. "Absolutely not."

Tristan chuckled, leaning forward on the couch, his hands resting lazily on her thighs.

"Alright, alright, relax. No skydiving. It's something you'll actually like."

Barbara stared at him, trying to read his expression. Nothing.

"You know I hate surprises, right?"

"Yeah, which is exactly why I'm making you wait." Tristan said back, chuckling a little at the faces Barbara was making.

Barbara huffed, leaning back against the couch.

Tristan just grinned, grabbing her hand and pressing a lazy kiss against her knuckles. "You'll survive."

Barbara rolled her eyes, but the small smile tugging at her lips gave her away.

After a beat, she nudged him. "So, what's the plan after we pack?"

Tristan tilted his head as if considering it. "Well, I figured we could do something chill before dinner."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Define chill."

Tristan sighed, exasperated. "Woman, you act like I'm about to take you bungee jumping."

"I wouldn't put it past you."

"Fair," Tristan admitted, grinning.

Barbara nudged him again, softer this time. "Alright, fine. I'll trust you."

Tristan leaned in, stealing a quick kiss before standing up. "Good. Now let's pack before you start overthinking my genius plans."

Barbara huffed a laugh, letting him pull her off the couch and towards the bedroom.

Now, they were on the bed, surrounded by clothes. Barbara was neatly folding while Tristan was... absolutely no help.

He was lying on his back, tossing socks in the air, catching them half the time.

Barbara side-eyed him, watching as a sock landed perfectly on his chest. "I feel like you're not actually contributing."

Tristan, still not looking up, grinned. "Moral support."

Barbara scoffed, reaching over to smack his stomach. "You're so full of it."

Tristan chuckled, catching her wrist before she could pull away. With a slow, deliberate movement, he brought her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against her palm.

"Mmm," he hummed lazily. "You were saying?"

Barbara, momentarily thrown off, narrowed her eyes. "Flattery will not get you out of work, Tristan."

Tristan sighed dramatically, finally sitting up. "Fine. Tell me what to do."

Barbara eyed him, suspicious. "You actually gonna listen?"

Tristan placed a hand over his heart. "When have I ever not listened to you?"

Barbara just stared at him.

Tristan groaned. "Okay, fine. Just assign me a task, woman."

Barbara laughed, shaking her head. "Alright, fold those tops."

Tristan grabbed a hoodie from the pile, inspecting it like it was some foreign artifact.

"You know I just roll mine into a ball, right?"

Barbara gasped, horrified. "You—you what?"

Tristan shrugged. "Saves space."

Barbara looked personally offended. "Do not roll my clothes!"

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Tristan grinned, "Chill, I was just joking, I'm civilized."

Barbara threw a shirt at his face. "Just fold before I call your mom."

Tristan chuckled, peeling the fabric off his head. "Yes, ma'am."

Packing had been going smoothly.

Too smoothly.

Tristan had actually been folding (for once), focused enough that he hadn't noticed right away.

But then—something caught his eye.

Barbara, standing by his closet, was casually shoving one of his black hoodies into her suitcase.

His brows furrowed instantly.

"Oi."

Barbara froze mid-zip, her expression the picture of innocence.

"What?"

Tristan set his shirt down, pointing at her like a detective cracking a case.

"Did you just—are you stealing my hoodies?"

Barbara pursed her lips, slowly zipping up the pocket like that would somehow erase the crime.

"Stealing is a strong word."

Tristan narrowed his eyes.

"That's my hoodie."

Barbara shrugged, completely unbothered, as she reached for another one.

"It was your hoodie."

Tristan gasped, deeply offended.

"Oh, I absolutely can't allow this."

Then—he lunged.

Barbara yelped, dodging him at the last second, laughing as she scrambled across the bed, hoodies clutched to her chest like trophies.

But Tristan was faster.

Just as she thought she had made her escape, his arm wrapped around her waist, and with perfect execution—

He slammed her onto the bed, WWE-style.

(He was careful not to hurt her, of course.)

Barbara let out an overly dramatic gasp, arms flailing.

"TRISTAN!"

Tristan grinned down at her, one arm braced beside her head, his body caging her in.

"Caught red-handed, Palvin."

Barbara giggled, wriggling underneath him.

"No evidence."

Tristan arched a brow, glancing at the hoodies scattered around them.

"The six stolen hoodies say otherwise."

Barbara pouted, then—

She lunged.

Tristan let out a grunt, caught off guard as she wrapped herself around him like a koala, legs locked, arms tightening around his neck.

"Give. Them. Back."

Tristan laughed, falling back onto the bed with her.

"Babe, at this point, you own half my closet."

Barbara, completely smug, cupped his face, squishing his cheeks together.

"And?"

Tristan, expression forced into a ridiculous pout, sighed dramatically.

Barbara leaned in, pressing a playful kiss to his squished lips.

"You be fine, just ask Nike for more hoodies."

Tristan rolled his eyes but didn't stop her."

He thought that was the end of it—until he saw it.

Barbara snatched his favorite hoodie off the pile.

Tristan groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

"Babe. Not that one."

Barbara clutched it dramatically to her chest.

"It's mine now."

Tristan sat up so fast that Barbara barely had time to react before—

He flipped them over again, pinning her down.

"You are NOT taking that hoodie."

Barbara grinned up at him, smug as ever.

"You can't stop me."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, forehead resting against hers, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against her waist.

"You are so much trouble."

Barbara beamed, sliding her arms around his neck.

"What are you going to do? Beat me up?"

Tristan groaned, dropping his head into her neck, completely defeated.

"Fine. Take it. Just don't lose it."

Barbara grinned in victory, kissing his cheek before hopping up to finish packing.

Tristan, meanwhile, lay sprawled out on the bed, staring at the ceiling like he had just lost a championship match.

"I need new hoodies."

Barbara zipped up her suitcase, smug as ever.

"No, you don't."

She flopped down beside him, propping herself up on one elbow.

"Alright, mystery man. Packing's done. What now?"

Tristan turned his head toward her, his lips curling into a knowing smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Barbara groaned dramatically, throwing herself onto her back. "Ugh. You're insufferable. Just tell me already."

Tristan rolled onto his side, looping an arm around her waist and tugging her closer until she was half on top of him.

"Where's the fun in that?" he murmured, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against her stomach through his sweatshirt.

Barbara squinted at him. "You do realize my flight isn't until late tonight? We have the entire day. I should at least know what I'm agreeing to."

Tristan hummed, pretending to think before finally shaking his head. "Nah. Too easy."

Barbara let out an exaggerated gasp, propping herself up and poking his cheek. "You're actually evil."

Tristan arched a brow, rolling her onto her back so he hovered over her.

"Oh, really?" His fingers skated over her ribs in warning.

Barbara squeaked, attempting to squirm away. "Tristan—"

"You stole six of my hoodies, Palvin. I feel like I'm owed a little payback."

Barbara laughed, struggling beneath him. "Okay, okay—one, they were donations. Two, you're still not telling me where we're going."

Tristan kissed her forehead, then sat up, dragging her with him.

"Come on. We've got places to be."

Barbara groaned, pulling a pillow over her face. "Too early."

Tristan grabbed the pillow, tossing it across the room. "Babe. It's noon."

Barbara mumbled into the mattress. "Still too early."

Tristan chuckled, grabbing her wrist and yanking her upright until she stumbled into his chest.

"Alright, let's go. Get dressed. I have things to show you."

Barbara sighed dramatically, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "Fine, but if this surprise isn't amazing, I'm stealing even more of your clothes."

Tristan's grin turned way too smug, way too quickly.

"Deal."

Barbara froze mid-step, narrowing her eyes. "Wait. That was too easy. What are you up to?"

Tristan winked, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her toward the dresser. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see."

Barbara let out a mock scream of frustration, but before she could press further, Tristan was already escaping down the hallway.

"TRISTAN!"

"Better hurry, babe. Clock's ticking!"

Barbara groaned, already regretting agreeing to his mystery plan.

But knowing Tristan?

It was going to be worth it.

..

Barbara still had no idea what Tristan had planned when he led her into a quaint, tucked-away café in the heart of Leicester's city center. The kind of place you'd only know about if someone personally recommended it.

The warm glow of hanging lights, rustic wooden tables, and the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee made it instantly inviting. A pastry display at the counter gleamed under the morning sun, filled with perfectly arranged croissants, tarts, and cakes that looked too pretty to eat.

Barbara's lips curled slightly as she took it all in. Okay, maybe this wasn't a bad start.

Tristan, looking entirely too smug, guided her to a cozy two-seater near the window.

Barbara arched an eyebrow as she slid into the chair. "I was bracing for something chaotic, not... this."

Tristan grinned, casually picking up the menu. "So you admit you underestimated me?"

Barbara huffed, but the amusement in her eyes gave her away. "I just assumed you'd drag me to a football store."

Tristan set his menu down, hand over his chest in mock offense. "Babe. First of all, wow. Second of all... I only do that when I need new boots."

Barbara rolled her eyes just as a waitress approached. She blushed slightly when she recognized Tristan but remained professional.

"Can I start you off with drinks?"

Barbara ordered a chai latte, and Tristan went with black coffee.

As the waitress walked off, Barbara rested her elbow on the table, chin in her palm. "Alright, mystery man. What's the plan? Why are we here?"

Tristan leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily. "We're getting brunch."

Barbara squinted at him. "You don't even like brunch."

Tristan smirked. "I like it when I'm with you."

Barbara blinked. Her brain short-circuited for exactly two seconds.

Then, as if to cover up how easily he could fluster her, she picked up a sugar packet and flicked it at him. "Shut up."

Tristan caught it effortlessly, chuckling as he set it down. "What? It's true."

Barbara ignored him, skimming the menu instead. "French toast with strawberries for me."

Tristan nodded. "Figures."

Barbara narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean?"

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "Means you have a weakness for anything drenched in sugar."

Barbara giggled, shaking her head. "What are you getting?"

Tristan tapped his fingers against the table, pretending to think. "Full English breakfast. Protein, carbs, all that."

Barbara smirked. "You mean 'food.'"

Tristan flicked a sugar packet at her. "You're seconds away from losing your brunch privileges."

She kicked his foot under the table. "Try me."

Their food arrived quickly, and Barbara had to admit—it looked incredible.

Of course, the moment her plate landed, Tristan's hand shot out like a thief in the night, stealing a strawberry.

Barbara froze mid-cut. "Tristan Hale."

Tristan, completely unbothered, popped it into his mouth. "What?"

Barbara's jaw dropped. "You—you just—"

Tristan chewed, licking syrup off his thumb. "Mmm. Good strawberry."

Barbara's chair scraped back. "Oh, you're done."

"Babe, babe—" Tristan held up his hands. But it was too late. She had already speared a piece of sausage from his plate.

Tristan nearly choked on his coffee. "Did you just—"

Barbara smirked, chewing slowly, deliberately. "Sharing is caring." She flicked a bit of powdered sugar in his direction.

What they didn't realize?

People were taking pictures. Fans sitting at nearby tables, subtly snapping shots of Tristan and Barbara acting like a literal rom-com in real life.

Within minutes, their pictures were all over Twitter and Instagram.

@irelandSucks

"Tristan Hale and Barbara Palvin seen again together? And now there are pics of them leaving the same house? I saw a article Tristan moved out of his parent's house and they are living together. 👀 This man's not even being subtle anymore."

@MarkisAGooner

"The way Tristan looks at her... this man is FINISHED. He's not coming back from this. 😭❤️"

@PLT

"Football fans, hear me out. If they ever break up, Tristan is turning into a supervillain. MARK MY WORDS."

Barbara, still blissfully unaware, focused on cutting her French toast—until she noticed Tristan staring at her.

She blinked. "What?"

Tristan, resting his chin on his hand, looked her up and down. "Nothing. Just wondering how I got so lucky."

Barbara groaned, tossing a napkin at him. "Stop."

Tristan caught it easily, grinning. "Make me."

Barbara shook her head, hiding her smile in her coffee cup.

After brunch, Barbara had exactly five seconds of peace before Tristan grabbed her hand and started leading her toward the shopping district.

Barbara planted her feet, tugging back with a glare. "Tristan, I swear to God—"

He didn't even break stride. "Babe, you stole six of my hoodies this morning. You are in no position to say you don't need more clothes."

"That's different." Barbara let him pull her forward a few steps, still acting like she was resisting.

Tristan gave her a sideways glance. "How?"

Barbara smirked. "Yours are better."

Tristan exhaled, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." Before she could escape, he threw an arm around her shoulders, tugging her inside a store like a man on a mission.

Barbara barely had a chance to browse before Tristan suddenly plucked a dress off the rack and held it up.

"This."

Barbara's gaze flicked toward the sleek, silky black dress. She raised a brow. "You want me to wear that?"

Tristan stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Yeah. For me."

Her heart stuttered. The way he said it—low, certain—should've been illegal.

She rolled her eyes to cover up how easily he could fluster her. "Subtle, Hale."

Tristan grinned, unbothered. "Never claimed to be."

Fine. If he wanted to play that game...

Barbara scanned a nearby rack, eyes gleaming as she spotted something. A moment later, she shoved a pair of fitted, gray sweatpants against his chest.

"Try these on."

Tristan blinked, inspecting them. "Babe, I already own sweatpants."

Barbara tilted her head, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Yeah, but I wanna see if these make your ass look better."

Tristan nearly choked. "What—?"

Barbara patted his chest. "Fitting room. Now."

Tristan stared at her for a solid five seconds before shaking his head.

Barbara wasn't sure what reaction she expected when she stepped out in the dress, but Tristan freezing mid-motion, like someone had hit pause on him? That was new.

His lips parted slightly, his gaze dragging over her, slow and deliberate.

"Holy shit."

Barbara folded her arms, shifting her weight. "That bad?"

Tristan let out a slow exhale, shaking his head like he was physically trying to recover.

"Babe, I think I just ascended."

Barbara rolled her eyes, but her face was on fire. "Dramatic."

Tristan wasn't even paying attention to her teasing anymore. He stepped closer, hands finding her waist, fingers grazing over the smooth fabric.

"This should be illegal," he muttered. "See? You got the dress, I got the sweats. We're even."

Barbara sighed. "We're buying these, aren't we?"

Tristan kissed her temple, smug as ever. "Obviously."

Barbara's eyes flickered toward Tristan's hand hovering over his wallet, already reaching for his card.

Before he could even think about paying—she snatched it.

Tristan blinked, processing.

"...Excuse me?"

Barbara grinned, holding it behind her back. "I pay for my own stuff."

Tristan crossed his arms, brows furrowing. "You literally let me pay for food all the time."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, because I eat half of yours anyway."

Tristan let out a long, deep sigh, rubbing his forehead. "Babe."

Before he could attempt a counter-attack, Barbara swiftly handed her card to the cashier, flashing a triumphant smile.

Tristan, watching the transaction happen in real-time, dragged a hand down his face. "This is so offensive."

Barbara, smug, casually tossed his wallet onto the counter. "You'll live."

Tristan, still frowning, picked it up like it personally betrayed him. "I don't like this."

Barbara tilted her head, amused. "You'll get over it."

Tristan grumbled, but the spark of amusement in his eyes gave him away.

Barbara patted his chest. "Come on, big guy. Let's go before you start crying about it."

Tristan rolled his eyes, grumbling dramatically as he threw an arm over her shoulders.

Barbara laughed, leaning into him.

Of course, this entire exchange was captured by fans in the store, with pictures and videos going viral as well.

Later that evening Tristan led Barbara through Leicester's lively streets, their fingers laced together as the weekend crowd bustled around them. The air was crisp, filled with the hum of conversations and the distant melodies of a street performer strumming his guitar.

Barbara glanced up at him, curiosity flickering in her blue eyes. "Are you finally going to tell me where we're going, or are we just walking until I figure it out?"

Tristan smirked. "Patience, babe."

Barbara huffed, pretending to be annoyed, but she let him lead.

When they stopped in front of Imperial 喜粵, a renowned Chinese restaurant known for its upscale ambiance and authentic cuisine, Barbara's brows lifted slightly.

"This place..." she murmured, eyes scanning the elegant exterior adorned with red and gold lanterns.

Tristan nudged her inside before she could finish. "It was my favorite growing up," he admitted. "Really expensive, though, so my family only came here for special occasions."

Barbara's lips curled into a small smile. "And now you're bringing me?"

Tristan pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "Special occasion, isn't it?"

A hostess, who recognized Tristan immediately, greeted them with a polite but slightly flustered smile. She led them to a private table near the window, where the city lights cast a warm glow against the deep red walls and golden décor. Soft traditional music played in the background, adding to the intimate atmosphere.

Barbara settled into her seat, tucking her legs comfortably underneath the table. "Okay, I'll admit it—I'm impressed."

Tristan smirked as he picked up the menu. "You always are."

Barbara rolled her eyes, though she couldn't deny he had a point.

As Tristan scanned the menu, Barbara noticed a few diners discreetly glancing their way, phones subtly lifted. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.

"I think we have an audience."

Tristan barely looked up. "Let them have their fun."

Barbara shook her head, amused, but focused back on her menu.

"You're gonna let me order this time?" she teased.

Tristan snorted. "Nope." He signaled the waiter and, without hesitation, ordered their meal. "We'll have the Peking duck, dim sum, beef chow fun, and dumplings."

Barbara arched a brow. "That's half the menu."

Tristan shrugged, sipping his water. "You're leaving tonight. Gotta make sure you're properly fed."

Barbara kicked him lightly under the table. "You love acting like I don't eat."

Tristan grinned. "Not true. I just love watching you eat."

Barbara narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched. "You're weird."

Their food arrived not long after, and soon, they were immersed in easy conversation between bites.

"So," Barbara began, picking up a dumpling with her chopsticks (barely), "international duty starts tomorrow. Are you excited?"

Tristan leaned back in his chair, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers. "Yeah. Two qualifiers. First one's against San Marino, which—let's be honest—is basically a warm-up game."

Barbara smirked. "Wow. So humble."

Tristan laughed. "Babe, it's not arrogance. It's facts." He took a sip of his drink, a glint of determination in his eyes. "The real test is Estonia after that."

Barbara watched him, a soft smile on her lips. "So what's the goal? A hat-trick?"

Tristan smirked. "At least. Maybe an assist or two for Vardy and Rooney."

Barbara hummed. "I'll be watching."

Tristan's expression softened slightly. "Yeah?"

Barbara nudged his foot under the table. "What else am I going to watch?"

Tristan exhaled, his smirk turning into something more genuine.

She watched as he reached for more duck, but before he could grab it, she swiped it off his plate.

Tristan huffed, shaking his head. "I should've seen that coming."

After a moment, he poured her a cup of tea, his tone casual. "So, while I'm out here saving England, what's the grand plan for your birthday?"

Barbara exhaled, taking a sip. "Honestly? Nothing. Just relaxing at home with my family. No work, no events. Just peace and quiet in the countryside."

Tristan raised a brow. "You? Doing nothing? Sounds fake."

Barbara laughed, shaking her head. "Shut up. It's happening."

Tristan tilted his head, curiosity in his gaze. "So, no cameras? No parties?"

Barbara smiled. "Nope. Just tea on the porch, feeding the horses, maybe some home-cooked meals."

Tristan sighed dramatically. "Sounds painfully wholesome. I still can't believe you grew up on the countryside."

Barbara smirked. "It is. You'd hate it."

Tristan pretended to consider. "I mean... depends. Do I get to see you in farm boots?"

Barbara threw a napkin at him. "Behave."

Tristan didn't even respond to that.

Then, Tristan cleared his throat and reached into his jacket.

"Speaking of your birthday."

Barbara blinked as he pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the table.

She frowned slightly. "What's this?"

Tristan nodded toward it. "Open it."

Barbara arched a brow but obeyed, carefully tearing the envelope open.

Inside?

Four tickets to Disneyland Paris.

Barbara's jaw dropped.

She stared at them for a second, processing, then slowly looked up. "Tristan—"

Tristan grinned. "You said you wanted to go with your family someday. So, now you are."

Barbara covered her mouth, eyes shining with emotion. "You didn't have to—"

Tristan reached across the table, tugging her hand away so he could see her face. "I wanted to."

Barbara blinked rapidly, overwhelmed. "You already do too much for me."

Tristan's voice was softer now. "And I'll keep doing it."

Barbara exhaled sharply, shaking her head in disbelief.

Then—she got up.

Tristan blinked. "Babe, what are you—"

Barbara walked around the table, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Tristan's arms circled her waist, pulling her closer. "Anything for you, birthday girl."

Barbara kissed him—slow and sweet, her fingers tangling in his curls.

Tristan sighed into it, melting completely.

Barbara grinned against his lips.

.....

As they finished up, Tristan suddenly stood, tapping a fork against his glass.

Barbara frowned. "What are you doing?"

Tristan smirked. "What does it look like? Singing to my girlfriend in a fancy restaurant."

Barbara's eyes widened. "Tristan—"

But it was too late.

Tristan stood up and started singing Happy Birthday—loudly, confidently, and completely off-key.

Other diners joined in, some pulling out their phones.

Barbara, face burning, hid in her hands. "I hate you."

Tristan laughed, pulling her hands away. "No, you don't."

Barbara groaned. "This is so embarrassing."

Tristan kissed the top of her head. "It's cute."

Barbara sighed dramatically. "You're lucky I like you."

Tristan grinned. "I really am."

By the time they left, social media was already flooded with videos.

@XisATraitor

"THE WAY HE SANG TO HER. IF THEY BREAK UP, I'M RIOTING."

@ForTheCause

"Tristan Hale out here setting the bar way too high. Take notes, boys."

Barbara and Tristan?

They had no idea.

But they were too busy making memories to care.

Barbara scrolled through her phone, groaning as she read the latest tweets. "You made us go viral. Again."

From the driver's seat, Tristan grinned, completely unbothered. "You're welcome."

Barbara shook her head, amused, but as she looked over at him—his hand resting over hers, his fingers lazily brushing her knuckles—she knew.

The drive to the airport was quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable—just the kind of quiet that lingers when two people are trying to hold onto the moment for as long as possible.

The hum of the city filtered in through the slightly cracked window, streetlights flickering across the windshield. Tristan's hand remained on Barbara's thigh, thumb tracing soft, absentminded circles over the fabric of her jeans. Barbara leaned into his side, playing with his fingers, her gaze flicking between him and the passing cityscape.

He was focused on the road, but every now and then, he'd steal a glance at her—quick, fleeting, like he was trying to memorize every detail before she left.

Barbara finally sighed, tilting her head toward him. "You're awfully quiet, Tristan."

Tristan exhaled through his nose, eyes still fixed ahead. "Just thinking."

She smiled, nudging his arm. "About what?"

His grip on her thigh tightened slightly. "How much I don't want you to leave."

Barbara's chest ached in that familiar way—the way it always did when it came time to part with the people you care for. But instead of letting it show, she laughed softly, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. "It's just a couple of weeks."

Tristan shook his head dramatically. "An eternity."

Barbara snorted. "You'll survive."

Tristan sighed like the most burdened man in the world, leaning his head back against the seat as they hit a red light. "Doubt it."

Barbara turned slightly in her seat, watching him. He looked good in the dim glow of the dashboard, jawline sharp under the passing streetlights.

"You have England duty," she reminded him, reaching over to trace a finger along his wrist. "A match in a few days. An entire country watching you. You'll be fine."

Tristan turned toward her then, his green eyes glinting with something softer. "Yeah, but who's gonna keep me in check?"

Barbara hummed, pretending to think. "Vardy?"

Tristan scoffed. "Babe, that man is the opposite of keeping people in check."

Barbara laughed, leaning in to kiss his jaw, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her. "Then I guess you'll just have to behave all on your own."

Tristan turned his head slightly, catching her lips for a brief, lingering kiss. When he pulled back, his lips curved into something lazy, something that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's asking a lot."

Barbara sighed dramatically. "Then I guess I shouldn't leave you unsupervised."

Tristan nodded immediately. "Exactly."

She shook her head, but before she could tease him again, she noticed the airport lights glowing in the distance.

They were almost there.

Barbara's fingers curled tighter around Tristan's hand.

Tristan pulled up to the drop-off area, but instead of idling like a normal person, he put the car in park.

Barbara blinked. "Wait—you're coming inside?"

Tristan scoffed, already unbuckling his seatbelt. "Obviously."

Barbara fought back a smile as she watched him step out. "Clingy."

Tristan leaned back in through her open door, grabbing her chin between his fingers. "And proud."

Barbara's heart flipped at the way he said it, low and sure, but she quickly recovered, smirking. "Alright, then come carry my bags, strong man."

Tristan complied, pulling her suitcase out of the trunk.

They made their way into the airport at a pace slower than necessary, stretching out every last second. The bustling terminal buzzed with activity—families heading out on vacations, business travelers rushing to their gates, couples saying their own goodbyes.

Barbara glanced at Tristan, tugging him by his hoodie to get his attention. "Hey."

Tristan looked down, raising a brow. "Yeah?"

Barbara stepped in closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I'm gonna miss you, you know?"

Tristan's arms instinctively locked around her, one hand cradling the back of her head as he exhaled against her hair. "Good," he murmured. "Because I'm gonna miss you more."

Barbara bit her lip, resting her head against his chest for a moment. She was excited to go home, to be with her family, but leaving Tristan? That part sucked.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes scanning his face. Then—an idea struck.

Tristan immediately noticed the mischief. "Babe... Whatever you're thinking—"

Too late.

Barbara grabbed his face with both hands and started peppering kisses all over—his cheeks, forehead, nose, chin—everywhere but his lips.

Tristan burst out laughing, trying to pull away. "Babe—what the hell—"

Barbara giggled between kisses, ignoring the click, click, click of phone cameras from bystanders.

"Barbara," Tristan groaned, voice muffled as she kissed his jaw. "You—"

Barbara finally leaned back, admiring her work.

His entire face was covered in red lipstick marks.

Tristan blinked. "Did you just—" He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, but that only smeared it further.

Barbara smirked. "You better not let me see you with any other girls while I'm gone." She traced a finger over one of the lipstick stains. "You're mine, Tristan."

Tristan exhaled sharply, his grip on her waist tightening.

"I don't think anyone would want me looking like this," he muttered, before lifting her off the ground.

Barbara shrieked as he spun her around in the middle of the airport, laughing breathlessly.

People turned to stare. A few even took videos.

@James94

"Bro, I just saw Tristan Hale get absolutely destroyed by his girl at Heathrow. Lipstick all over his face. Man looked helpless 💀."

@Map69

"Barbara Palvin and Tristan Hale's airport goodbye? ICONIC. She kissed his entire face and now he's covered in lipstick. Fans are losing it."

@MarkISonaList

"Footballer Tristan Hale and model Barbara Palvin spotted at Heathrow. He looks absolutely down bad. Hope she never breaks his heart fr 😭."

Tristan finally set her down, his forehead pressing against hers. His voice dropped to a murmur.

"You're mine too, you know."

Barbara softened, cupping his jaw. "I know."

Then—she kissed him.

Slow and deep, fingers threading through his curls.

Tristan sighed into it, one hand splayed against her lower back, pulling her as close as humanly possible.

An announcement rang over the speakers—her flight was boarding soon.

Barbara pulled back slightly, lips brushing against his. "I should go."

Tristan frowned. "No."

Barbara laughed, pressing one last peck to his lips. "Yes."

Tristan groaned but grabbed her suitcase, rolling it toward check-in.

Once her bag was taken care of, Barbara turned to face him one last time.

"You're gonna text me when you land?" Tristan asked, his voice quieter now.

Barbara nodded. Who else was she supposed to text?

Tristan pulled her into a final hug, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Stay safe, okay?"

Barbara smiled, hugging him tighter. "You too, and don't do anything stupid."

Tristan pulled back, running a thumb across her cheek. "Have fun in Hungary."

Barbara nudged his chin playfully. "Don't miss me too much."

Tristan scoffed. "Impossible."

Barbara took a few steps back toward security, blowing him a kiss.

Tristan caught it dramatically, pressing it to his heart.

Barbara giggled before finally turning away.

As she disappeared through the gates, Tristan sighed, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

His phone buzzed.

Barbara: My lipstick better still be on your face when you get home. 😘

Tristan laughed, shaking his head.

Tristan: It's stained into my soul at this point. 😩

Barbara: Good. ❤️

Tristan chuckled, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

A few fans were still lingering nearby, sneaking glances at him.

One girl, clutching her phone, hesitated before finally calling out, "Excuse me, can I get a picture?"

Tristan ran a hand through his curls, completely forgetting about the lipstick. "Yeah, of course."

The girl's eyes widened. "Oh my God, it's still all over your face."

Tristan groaned, dragging a hand down his cheek. "Yeah. I'm aware."

@Thomas_ProudGooner

"Tristan Hale taking pictures with fans with Barbara's lipstick marks still on his face is sending me 😭."

@IrishChaf

"This man is so finished. Wrapped around her finger. Done for. RIP Tristan Hale 2014-forever."

As he walked back to his car, Tristan shook his head, still grinning like an idiot.

...

Next Day

Tristan stepped onto the training pitch at St. George's Park, boots sinking into the grass. The second he walked out of the tunnel, it started.

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

"Oi, lover boy's here!"

Tristan barely had time to react before a football smacked against his calf. Not hard—just enough to get his attention. He turned to see Rooney grinning at him.

Tristan honestly thought their relationship would sink after that 7-1 loss but it was still going strong somehow.

"Tell us, Tristan—how does it feel to be the most whipped man in England?"

The entire squad erupted into laughter.

Tristan rolled his eyes, bending down to pick up the ball. "Jealous, are we?"

Vardy, leaning against Joe Hart's shoulder, smirked. "Not jealous, mate. Just impressed. You managed to be everywhere yesterday." He pulled out his phone, swiping through Twitter. "Brunch, shopping, dinner, then a full-on airport rom-com scene—do you even get tired?"

Wilshere cackled, jogging over. "Bro, you had her kissing all over your face in the middle of Heathrow! We all saw it."

Tristan sighed, running a hand through his curls. "You lot have too much time on your hands."

"Apparently, so do you," Daniel Sturridge added, shaking his head in amusement. "Man had time to go viral like five times in one day."

Sterling, already stretching near the center of the pitch, laughed. "Even the Disneyland Paris account tweeted you. That's a new level of finished, bro."

Tristan huffed, dribbling the ball under his foot. "Alright, get it out of your system."

Cahill chuckled, patting him on the back. "In all seriousness, congrats, mate. Everyone's buzzing for you two."

Henderson nodded. "Yeah, man. You look happy. And she seems class."

Tristan exhaled, the teasing fading into something more genuine. "Yeah. She is."

Rooney smirked, wrapping an arm around Tristan's shoulders. "Listen, just don't start slacking in training now that you're in love. The whole country's depending on you, yeah?"

Tristan rolled his eyes but smirked. "Relax. I'll still carry you lot this week."

The team groaned collectively, while Rooney ruffled Tristan's curls in retaliation.

"Alright, alright, enough," the coaching staff finally called out. "Let's get to work."

The lighthearted banter faded as the team fell into training mode.

Training had started off the same as usual—passing drills, small-sided games, sharpness exercises. But the moment the full training match began, everyone noticed it.

Tristan was demanding the ball more.

And not just in his usual areas.

He wasn't floating around, waiting for the game to come to him. He was dictating where it went, calling for it in tighter spaces, dropping deeper than usual to collect possession, then driving forward like he had something to prove.

"Man's feeling himself today," Welbeck muttered as he jogged back into position.

Henderson passed it sideways to Wilshere, who barely had time to turn before Tristan cut in front and took the ball himself.

Wilshere raised a brow. "Alright, then."

Two touches later—one to set, one to shoot—Tristan ripped a shot from way outside the box.

The ball flew past Hart, smacked against the underside of the crossbar, and bounced in.

"Fucking hell," Cahill muttered, shaking his head.

Tristan didn't celebrate. He jogged back into position, already pointing at Sterling and Rooney.

"Faster transitions. Get it forward quicker."

Rooney, watching him closely, nodded.

The next time England had possession, Milner worked it wide to Baines. Normally, Baines would wait for support, maybe recycle the ball back inside.

But Tristan was already there, gesturing for it, calling for it.

Baines hesitated for a split second—Tristan didn't usually ask for it this deep—but then—

"Give it."

Baines slid the ball through.

Tristan took one touch, just enough to shift his body toward goal, and—

Another shot.

This one curled perfectly into the top corner.

Hart barely reacted.

Once it became obvious that Tristan was taking over, the team adjusted.

Henderson and Oxlade-Chamberlain stopped looking for sideways passes first. Now?

They looked for Tristan.

At one point, Rooney even gave him the ball in a spot where he would usually take the shot himself.

"Go on, then," Rooney muttered.

Tristan took it, dragged it onto his left foot, and lashed another strike toward the top corner.

Hart barely got a fingertip to it, pushing it over.

But the message was clear.

Tristan was England's best player.

And the squad was adapting to it in real-time.

As soon as they left the pitch, Vardy jogged up beside Tristan, slapping a hand on his shoulder.

"You gonna tell us what's got you moving like prime Zidane today?"

Before he could reply, Wilshere chimed in.

"Maybe he's showing off for his missus."

That was all it took.

Tristan groaned, rubbing his face. "Oh my god."

As the squad jogged off the pitch, Hodgson clapped his hands together. "Good session, lads."

The players nodded, some chatting amongst themselves as they grabbed water bottles and towels. Tristan was rolling his shoulders, stretching out his legs, when he heard his name.

"Tristan, stick around for a sec."

He wiped the sweat off his forehead as the rest of the squad filtered out, a few of them shooting curious glances his way.

Hodgson approached, his expression thoughtful. "You're playing sharper. More direct. Demanding the ball more."

Tristan met his gaze, voice steady. "I'm ready to take on more responsibility."

Hodgson studied him for a long moment, nodding slightly. "That's what I like to hear. Keep this up, and there won't be a limit to what you can achieve." His tone was measured, but serious. "You can be the best player in the world, so don't get distracted."

Tristan held his gaze. No hesitation. "That's the goal."

Hodgson gave him a firm clap on the shoulder. "Then keep working like this. It's only a matter of time."

As the coach walked away, Tristan exhaled, rolling his neck before grabbing his water bottle.

....

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