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The morning after Fernando Torres’s unexpected appearance, the training ground felt exactly the way it always did—ordinary, sunlit, and already full of the quiet certainty that belonged to Sergio and Luka’s version of normal.
Luka arrived early, as he always did. Sergio was already there, two coffees balanced on the low wall near the entrance, one marked with a messy black L in permanent marker. The second Luka stepped out of the car, Sergio’s entire posture changed. Shoulders dropped. The sharp edges he carried for the rest of the world softened. He closed the distance in three long strides and kissed him once, quick and warm, right there in front of the entrance cameras and whoever happened to be walking past.
“Morning,” Sergio murmured against his mouth. “Seven hours and nineteen minutes. I counted.”
Luka accepted the coffee and the second kiss that followed, this one pressed to the hinge of his jaw. “You always count.”
“Someone has to keep track of the important things.” Sergio’s hand slid to the back of Luka’s neck and stayed there, thumb stroking slow circles as they walked toward the pitch. “Did you sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Properly?”
“Yes, Sergio.”
“Good. Because I have plans for after training that require you to be fully rested.”
From behind them came a loud, theatrical groan.
“Dios mío,” Marcelo called, jogging past with his boots already laced. “It’s not even nine o’clock and they’re already like this. Some of us are still digesting breakfast.”
Casemiro, walking a few steps behind, simply shook his head. “At least they’re consistent. Predictable. Like the weather report, but stickier.”
Kroos, already stretching near the cones, didn’t even look up. “If they ever stop, I’ll start worrying that one of them is sick.”
Nacho, tying his laces on the grass, added mildly, “I give it until the first water break before Sergio invents a reason to stand closer than necessary.”
Sergio ignored all of them with the ease of long practice. His arm stayed draped across Luka’s shoulders until the moment Zidane blew the first whistle. Even then, he only stepped away far enough to begin the warm-up, glancing back every thirty seconds as if Luka might vanish if he looked away too long.
This was their normal.
On the pitch Sergio was loud, physical, constantly organising, constantly touching. A clap on Luka’s shoulder after a clean interception. A brief forearm slide when they crossed paths in a rondo. A low murmur of “good” when Luka threaded a pass between two markers that only the two of them could hear. Off the ball he drifted toward Luka the way water finds the lowest point—inevitable, automatic. No one on the squad commented anymore. They had long since accepted that the captain of Real Madrid was, in private and often in semi-public, a man who treated his boyfriend like the most valuable possession he had ever been allowed to keep.
During a water break Luka stood with Kroos and Casemiro, discussing the shape they wanted for the next drill. Sergio finished speaking with the coaching staff, turned, and immediately scanned the group until his eyes landed on Luka. The moment he saw him talking—perfectly ordinary midfield conversation—his expression did that familiar little shift: not quite a frown, more like a quiet inventory of who was standing how close.
Marcelo noticed and snorted into his bottle. “There it is. The radar.”
“Twenty seconds,” Carvajal predicted under his breath. “Maybe less.”
It took eighteen.
Sergio walked over, inserted himself into the small circle with zero subtlety, and rested his hand on the back of Luka’s neck again. “What are we talking about?”
“Passing lanes,” Luka said, calm as ever.
“Good topic.” Sergio’s thumb resumed its slow circles. He made no move to leave. Kroos exchanged a long-suffering look with Casemiro and simply continued the conversation around the extra body now attached to their Croatian midfielder.
This, too, was normal.
The squad had learned the signs years ago. Sergio’s jealousy was rarely dramatic and almost never angry. It was quieter, more possessive, and strangely transparent. When Luka spent too long speaking with an opposing player after a match—especially someone he had once shared a dressing room with at Tottenham or the Croatian national team—Sergio’s posture would change first. Shoulders a fraction tighter. Smile a fraction thinner. He would appear at Luka’s side within sixty seconds, hand finding the small of his back or the curve of his waist, and the conversation would somehow acquire a new participant who asked polite questions while standing just close enough to make his claim visible.
Everyone knew the script.
It played out with almost comic precision after a midweek Champions League tie against a side that included two of Luka’s former national-team colleagues.
The match itself had been typical: Real Madrid dominant, Sergio everywhere in defence, leaving a couple of pointed reminders on opposing forwards that earned him a yellow card and a long look from the referee. He played the way he always played against teams that contained people Luka knew—slightly sharper, slightly more physical, as if every duel carried an extra private meaning. The squad had stopped commenting on that particular habit as well. They simply accepted that when certain names appeared on the opposing teamsheet, the captain’s challenges acquired an extra half-second of follow-through.
The final whistle had barely finished echoing when Luka was pulled into a brief, warm embrace by one of the opposing midfielders—someone he had known for more than a decade. They spoke quickly in a mix of languages, smiling, exchanging the usual post-match words about family and form and the next international break. It lasted less than a minute.
From the centre circle, Marcelo turned to Carvajal.
“Three… two…”
Sergio was already moving.
He jogged over with the easy stride of a man who had every right to be wherever he wanted, clapped the opposing player on the shoulder with perfect sportsmanship, and then settled his hand on Luka’s lower back as if it had always belonged there.
“Good game,” Sergio said, voice friendly, eyes not entirely matching the tone. “You still cover the half-spaces the same way. Annoying as ever.”
The other player laughed, shook Sergio’s hand, and after another thirty seconds of polite conversation, drifted away toward his own teammates. The moment he was gone, Sergio’s hand slid fully around Luka’s waist and stayed there.
Luka glanced up at him, expression mild. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“The thing.”
Sergio made a low, unimpressed sound. “He hugged you for four seconds longer than necessary.”
“It was two seconds, maximum.”
“I counted.”
From a few metres away, Benzema called out without turning around, “He always counts.”
Casemiro added, “And then he sulks for the entire bus ride unless someone feeds him.”
“I do not sulk,” Sergio protested, already guiding Luka toward the tunnel with the kind of proprietary steering that made several of the younger players hide smiles. “I simply prefer when people keep their hands to themselves.”
Luka let himself be steered. He always did. Outside the dressing room he paused long enough to murmur, just for Sergio, “You know I’ve never looked at anyone else the way I look at you, right?”
Sergio’s expression softened instantly, the sharp edge of jealousy melting into something almost shy. “I know. I just… like reminding the rest of the world.”
“The rest of the world already knows,” Luka said. “The squad has known for over a year.”
As if to prove the point, the moment they stepped into the changing room the commentary began.
Marcelo dropped onto the bench opposite them, already half-undressed, and announced to the room at large, “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s performance: Captain Ramos, ninety minutes of pure violence against the opposition, followed by the softest man in Spain the second the door closed. Place your bets on how long before he steals Luka’s hoodie.”
Carvajal, peeling off his socks, raised a hand. “I’ve got ten euros on forehead kiss before we leave the stadium and stolen hoodie by the hotel.”
Nacho, ever the voice of reason, added, “Make it a public forehead kiss. He always does the public one when he’s been jealous.”
Sergio pointed a warning finger in their general direction while simultaneously pulling Luka’s training top over his head for him with the kind of automatic care that made the teasing somehow worse. “You lot are unbearable.”
“We’re accurate,” Kroos said from his corner, already scrolling through his phone. “You left a stud-mark on their number eight and then spent the walk to the tunnel looking like someone had personally offended your entire bloodline because Luka said hello to an old friend. The contrast is impressive, even for you.”
Benzema, towel around his neck, grinned. “On the pitch: ‘I will end you.’ In the dressing room: ‘Please let me carry your boots and also kiss your forehead in front of everyone.’ It’s art.”
Sergio opened his mouth, closed it, and then—exactly as predicted—leaned in and pressed a brief, deliberate kiss to Luka’s forehead right there in the middle of the room. The cheer that went up was immediate and shameless. Marcelo actually applauded. Carvajal held out a hand for his imaginary winnings.
Luka, for his part, simply accepted the kiss, accepted the arm that immediately slid around his waist again, and gave the rest of the squad a look that was equal parts fond and resigned. “You’re all worse than he is.”
“Impossible,” Casemiro said. “No one is worse than he is. We’ve measured it.”
The bus ride back to the hotel followed the established pattern with almost boring accuracy. Sergio claimed the window seat and immediately pulled Luka against his side, one arm heavy across his shoulders, the other hand loosely laced with Luka’s on the armrest. Luka rested his head against Sergio’s shoulder after twenty minutes and closed his eyes. Sergio spent the rest of the journey alternating between quiet conversation with whoever sat nearby and pressing occasional kisses into Luka’s hair whenever the bus hit a smooth stretch of road.
No one commented. They had seen it too many times.
At the hotel the final predictions came true. Sergio disappeared into Luka’s room with a borrowed hoodie that definitely would not be returned. The next morning at breakfast he appeared wearing it, sleeves pushed up, looking entirely too pleased with himself while Luka sat beside him drinking coffee and pretending not to notice the squad’s knowing looks.
Marcelo dropped into the seat across from them, stole a piece of toast from Sergio’s plate, and said cheerfully, “You two are disgusting. Never change. Also, for the record, the stud-mark on their number eight was excessive even by your standards.”
Sergio’s only reply was to lean over and kiss the corner of Luka’s mouth in full view of half the team.
Luka, under the table, found Sergio’s knee and left his hand there for the rest of breakfast.
This was their normal.
The jealousy would flare again—after the next match against a side that contained someone Luka had once played with, or when a journalist lingered too long on questions about Luka’s future, or when a teammate from another club sent a perfectly innocent Instagram message. Sergio would go quiet and close and then reappear at Luka’s side with a hand on his back and a smile that said mine. The squad would exchange glances, place quiet bets, and carry on with their day, secure in the knowledge that the captain’s heart had only one permanent address and that address currently answered to the name Luka Modrić.
And Luka, who had long since stopped finding any of it surprising, would let Sergio pull him close, answer the silent question with a look or a touch or a quiet sentence meant only for the two of them, and watch the tension leave Sergio’s shoulders the same way it always did.
They had a system.
It worked.
And every single person who shared a dressing room with them had already memorised the entire routine by heart—including the part where the same man who treated opposing forwards like personal enemies turned into pure, unfiltered softness the moment the door closed and Luka was within reach.
They teased him for it relentlessly.
They also never, ever tried to change it.