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“that bad?” you ask from the couch.

“i think the coach tried to kill me.”

you laugh as he slowly collapses beside you, stretching his legs out with another groan.

“everything hurts.”

“poor baby.”

“especially my back and my arms.”

you glance at him before smiling. “come here.”

“what?”

“lay down.”

his suspicion turns into hope almost instantly. “massage?”

“maybe,” you grin.

less than thirty seconds later, désiré is face-down across the bed.

“if this fixes me,” he mumbles into the pillow, “i might marry you twice.”

“yeah?” you smile, hands settled against his shoulders first.

“oh fuck,” he groans.

“that tense?”

“i can feel heaven.”

you’ve always been weirdly good at massages, everyone says it but désiré especially acts like your hands perform miracles every time he’s sore after training.

you work slowly along his shoulders and upper back, pressing firmly enough to make him melt deeper into the mattress with every passing minute.

“you should’ve become a physiotherapist,” he mumbles sleepily.

“too much studying.”

“wasted talent.”

you smile to yourself while your hands move lower across his back carefully, his muscles tense underneath your touch.

“does this hurt?” you ask quietly.

“mhm.”

“good or bad?”

“good.”

his voice already sounds heavier now, completely relaxed under your hands.

eventually you move toward his arms.

this part might secretly be your favorite because désiré’s biceps are literally unfair.

you slide your hands slowly down his arm, massaging carefully while he lets out another groan into the pillow and turns on his back so you can massage his head, but your hands go lower.

“you like this too much,” he mutters suddenly.

“what?” you smile innocently.

“massaging me.”

“me?”

he turns his head slightly just enough to look at you suspiciously.

“you keep touching my abs like they hurt me.”

“there is a reason...”

every single time you massage him, your hands somehow end up lingering against his stomach longer than necessary, but it's not your fault he looks like that.

“you’re literally flexing and don't want me to touch them,” you accuse.

“you keep touching me so...”

“that’s the point of a massage!”

he’s smiling lazy and soft while your hands slide carefully across his stomach again.

his abs tense instinctively underneath your touch, you bite back a grin.

“see?” he says. “you’re enjoying this.”

“maybe a little.”

“creep.”

you laugh softly before continuing the massage slower now, thumbs pressing gently against his lower stomach while he exhales deeply.

he looks so relaxed.

“feel better?” you whisper.

“way better,” his voice sounds sleepy.

you continue rubbing slowly along his arms and stomach while he practically sinks into the mattress then he reaches blindly for your wrist, stopping your hand for a second.

“what?”

he opens one eye slightly, looking up at you. “come here.”

you barely move before he pulls you down carefully beside him, one arm immediately wrapping around your waist despite how tired he was two seconds ago.

“thought your body hurt.”

“still.”

he presses a lazy kiss against your shoulder before burying his face into your neck.

désiré makes the mistake of telling you he likes when you flirt with him.

he says it casually one night, half distracted, scrolling on his phone while you’re lying across his lap.

a slow grin spreads across your face.

big mistake because now it becomes your mission to make him regret admitting that.

the next morning, he’s in the kitchen making coffee, still sleepy, hoodie hanging on his shoulders while you sit at the counter watching him.

you rest your chin in your hand dramatically.

“you know,” you sigh, “you’re not just désiré by name. you’re the only thing i’ve been desiring all night.”

you bite back a smile.

“that was terrible,” he says after a second.

“and yet,” you reply sweetly, “you’re blushing.”

“i’m not blushing.”

he absolutely is, and you can see it in his ears.

désiré's reactions are always subtle, but never when it’s you.

he turns back toward the coffee machine, pretending to focus very hard on it while you grin to yourself victoriously.

“one point for me,” you whisper.

by the afternoon, he thinks you’ve stopped but he should know better.

you’re both on the couch now, his arm around your waist while he watches something on tv that you’re pretty sure he’s not even paying attention to anymore.

you tilt your head toward him innocently.

“hey baby?”

“hm?”

“i know you’re famous for being doué on the pitch…” you begin seriously.

he already narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“but i’m more interested in seeing how you use those talents off of it.” you say, passing your hand under his hoodie.

he slowly turns his head toward you.

“you rehearsed that, didn’t you?”

you gasp dramatically. “wow, accusing me of premeditated flirting?”

he shakes his head, trying to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

“these are so bad.”

“no, effective.”

he opens his mouth then closes it again because unfortunately, you’re right.

you notice immediately.

“oh my god,” you laugh. “they are working.”

“they’re not working.”

“désiré,” you say, sitting up slightly, “your ears are literally red.”

he groans softly, dropping his head back against the couch.

“you’re annoying.”

“but you love me.”

he mutters something under his breath that suspiciously sounds like obviously.

you smile proudly.

later that night, he’s lying in bed scrolling through his phone while you’re beside him, bored and full of terrible ideas.

you roll onto your side to face him.

“are you tired?”

he glances at you. “a little.”

you move closer slowly, voice lowering dramatically.

“how can you doué and désiré at the same damn time?”

he stares at the ceiling immediately and you burst out laughing.

“oh my god, you hate these.”

“i really do.”

“no you don’t.”

he finally looks back at you, eyes narrowed but softer than before.

“the problem,” he says quietly, “is that they sound stupid.”

“but?”

his hand slides around your waist, pulling you against him effortlessly.

“they still affect me.”

your smile widens instantly.

“aw, you’re obsessed with me.”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s no escaping it now, especially not when you lean in closer and whisper one last line directly against his ear.

“guess you could say to your parents i’m désiré-ing you.”

he actually laughs this time before grabbing your face gently and kissing you just to shut you up.