Unrivaled - Alessia Russo

The plane touches down smoothly at Heathrow, and I let out a slow breath as the seatbelt sign clicks off. London. Just past ten in the morning, but I'm not tired. If anything, there's this quiet energy thrumming in my chest, steady and certain, like something waking up inside me. It's been there since I boarded the flight, but now, standing at the edge of something familiar and unknown all at once, it tightens, sharpens.

I grab my bag and move on autopilot through the motions of travel, but my mind is already ahead of me—out there, searching for her.

The airport is busy, the low hum of voices mixing with the mechanical drone of announcements. I keep my cap pulled low, hood up, shoulders relaxed. Years of moving unnoticed make it easy, but it doesn't take long before I hear it—my name, murmured first, then louder.

"Izzi Charles?"

I glance up. A teenage girl, wide-eyed, clutching her phone like she's debating whether to ask for a picture.

I flash a small grin, keeping my voice low. "That's me."

That's all it takes. A small ripple turning into a wave—travelers pausing, heads turning. Fans who know my name, who show up every week, chant for me in stadiums. I sign a couple of shirts, take some quick photos. It's never a hassle. If anything, it's grounding. These are the people who remind me why I do this.

"Thank you so much!" the girl breathes, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Anytime," I say easily, shifting my bag over my shoulder. "Alright, gotta go before my ride leaves without me."

I weave back into the crowd, my steps quickening as I near the usual pickup area. And then—

Something shifts.

It's subtle at first, just an awareness curling at the base of my spine. But it spreads, tightening my chest, settling deep in my ribs.

She's here.

And then I see her.

Alessia stands near the entrance, wrapped up in a long black coat, her hair pulled back loosely, a crease between her brows as she scans the crowd. She shifts on her feet, glancing toward the doors like she's getting impatient.

She's looking for me.

She doesn't see me yet. She keeps searching, her fingers tugging at the strap of her bag, like she needs something to hold onto. And for a moment, I just stand there, watching her.

Because this is what home looks like.

Not a place, not a stadium, not a city. Just this. Just her.

Then, as if she feels me staring, her head turns.

Her eyes flick past me at first. Then they snap back, locking onto mine.

And just like that, she's moving.

I don't know who reaches who first. All I know is the second she's close enough, I reach for her—subtle, controlled. A hand at her waist, a small squeeze to her hip.

She exhales against my shoulder, a soft, shuddering breath, her whole body melting into mine.

I tighten my grip, keeping my head low, my face tucked close to hers like I'm just speaking quietly. But really, I just want to be near her. She smells like warmth, like something familiar and steady—like home.

Her arms wrap around me, fingers pressing into my back, just enough to tell me she missed me too.

Then, she shifts slightly, tilting her face up. Her lips brush the curve of my jaw—not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one.