Lovers Rock by TV Girl on Repeat

Percy becomes ridiculously attentive in small ways.

He’ll casually suggest sitting down before you even realize you need to. “Hey, c’mere, just for a second,” like it’s nothing, like he’s the one who needs the break, easing you down beside him without ever making it feel like you’re fragile.

If you get dizzy? His hand is already on your back.

If you forget to hydrate? He’s pressing a water bottle into your hand with a lazy grin like, “Doctor’s orders.”

(He is not the doctor. But he says it anyway.)

He hates it when you try to tough things out alone. And not in an angry way (never that), but there’s this silent frustration that slips through when he realizes you didn’t tell him you weren’t feeling well.

In his mind, it’s not a burden. It’s not something you have to handle by yourself. It’s just… you. And he wants to take care of you the same way you take care of everyone else.

Bad days hit him harder than he lets on.

He always stays calm for you. Steady voice, ready to catch you if needed, helping you through it without a second thought. But afterward? When you’re okay, when things settle, he kind of lingers.

Sits a little closer. Keeps a hand loosely wrapped around yours. Watches you like he’s memorizing the fact that you’re still here.

Sometimes he’ll press his forehead against yours and just… stay there for a second. Not saying anything. Just breathing with you.

Percy absolutely learns your limits, and respects them. He’s never the type to push you past what you can handle, even if it means adjusting plans or slowing down. If anything, he gets a little stubborn about it.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he’ll mutter, half-serious, half-soft, when you try to brush something off. And if anyone else does push you?

Yeah. No.

They’re getting a very firm, very protective Percy Jackson shutting that down immediately.

On lighter days, though? He makes it feel normal. Not something that defines you. Not something that overshadows everything else.

You’re still laughing with him by the lake, still getting pulled into stupid arguments, still dealing with his sarcasm and seaweed brain moments. He doesn’t treat you differently; he just loves you better in the ways that matter.

And when you apologize, because sometimes you will, even if you shouldn’t–

It’s written into him at this point. Hours on the field, relentless training, a body built to endure, to push, to dominate space without trying.

One hundred ninety-one centimeters of solid muscle isn’t something you just forget about.

He towers over most people without effort, and when you’re out, especially somewhere loud, crowded, a little too close for comfort, it feels like cheating. Like you’ve hacked the system.

All it takes is one look at him standing behind you (broad shoulders, relaxed posture, that deceptively calm expression) and suddenly no one’s brushing past you too close, no one’s lingering too long.

Scary dog privileges.

And Bunny plays into it, too. Not in an aggressive way, he’s not starting fights, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in the way he rests his hand on your waist, or lets his chin hover just over your shoulder, like he’s reminding the room, this one’s mine.

But the second you’re home? All of that shifts.

Because Bunny isn’t just big. He’s clingy. And you are, very unfortunately, his favorite thing to cling to.

It always starts the same way.

You’ll be doing something normal, whether it'd be washing dishes, scrolling on your phone, or standing at the counter half-focused on whatever you were in the middle of, and then suddenly–

He’s there.

No warning or sound. Which is ridiculous, considering his size, but somehow he manages it anyway.

Arms sliding around your waist from behind, pulling you back into him before you can even react. His chest presses flush against your back, and there’s this familiar weight to him, mostly comforting...

–for about half a second.

Before he fully leans. Like his bones just decided to give up.

All of his weight drops onto you at once, and you barely manage to catch yourself before you’re pinned between him and the counter, the edge digging into your hips as your breath leaves you in a sharp, startled wheeze.

“Cariño,” he murmurs into your hair, voice soft and entirely too pleased with himself, “gravity turned off. I can’t stand anymore.”

“Bunny–” you choke out, hands immediately pushing at his forearms where they’re locked around you, “you are lying, get off–”

He doesn’t. If anything, he relaxes further, like your protests are just background noise to whatever affection this is supposed to be. And the worst part? He’s warm. Safe in a way that makes it impossible to actually be mad about it. Even when you’re being actively suffocated.

“You’re crushing me,” you try again, weaker this time, because your strength is already giving out.

A pause. Then, thoughtfully, like he’s really considering your words...

“…Mm. No.”

You don’t even have the energy to argue. This is just how he is. And it’s not just the kitchen.

If you’re on the couch, he’ll fold himself over you like you’re some kind of personal pillow, limbs everywhere, heavy and unrelenting until you’re half-trapped beneath him. If you’re sitting, he’s draped over the back of you. If you’re standing, he’s leaning. If you’re walking–

God help you if you’re walking.

Because he’ll hook an arm around your shoulders and drag you into his side, all easy affection and casual strength, like you’re just something he’s meant to carry around with him.

And it shows most when he’s tired. Which is when he’s at his absolute worst.

Because if you’re already in bed when he gets home (fresh off a run, skin still warm, hair damp, energy not quite burned out yet) you get maybe a second. Two, if you’re lucky.

The door opens, you look up, and then he drops.

Not gently. Never gently.

The mattress dips hard under his weight as he either full-on body slams onto the bed with you caught underneath him, or just collapses directly on top of you like gravity hit him all at once.

There is an entire empty half of the bed that he completely ignores.

You’re squished beneath him in seconds, a startled laugh punching out of you as you try to shove at his shoulder.

“Bunny–there’s space–”

“Mm,” he hums, already settling in, cheek pressed somewhere near your collarbone. “This is better.”

Of course it is.

His arm wraps around you, pulling you closer, like that was even necessary, and then his hands start wandering. Not in any rushed or suggestive way, just… habit.

Slipping under your shirt, palms warm against your skin as he keeps you pinned beneath him, like contact alone isn’t enough unless it’s skin to skin.

You squirm, half-heartedly trying to free yourself. “I can’t breathe–”

“Sí puedes,” he murmurs, voice lazy, teasing. “You’re talking.”

“That’s not the same thing–”

He shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head, looking down at you with that soft, amused expression that tells you he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“¿Qué dijiste?” he adds, switching languages mid-sentence like it’ll somehow absolve him. “I don’t understand, cariño.”

You stare at him. “You’re literally fluent.”

A beat before with zero shame

“…No.”

And that’s it. You, slowly being crushed into every available surface. And him, pretending gravity is a personal problem he can’t fix.

The second time meeting Vivien Hugo, you decided fate had a twisted sense of humor.

Because, really, what were the odds?

A sponsored visa for a sudden opportunity you were sort of unqualified for to do a temporary position working with the French U-20 team that came into your life so abruptly, you barely had time to process it before you were back on a plane. It had felt like luck, like something was finally going your way.

Right up until you walked into the training facility and saw him.

Vivien didn’t even look surprised. That was the worst part. While you felt the jolt of it, all he did was tilt his head slightly in your direction, as if your presence was nothing out of the ordinary.

There was no double take, no flicker of confusion that would reflect your own. Just that same certain gaze settling on you, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, like he had been expecting this all along.

“See?” he’d said, casual as anything, like he was pointing out the weather. “I told you.”

The clipboard in your hands had nearly thudded on the ground.

It was clear to him that this wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t chance. It was reinforced proof. Another piece of whatever narrative he’d already built in his head, one where the two of you inevitably circled back to each other.

And somehow… he only got more insufferable after that. Not exactly loud about it. Not obnoxious in the way you expected.

Just… quietly persistent.

Little comments during training. Offhand remarks slipped between drills, like of course you’re here, like this was always going to happen. Never pushing too far, never crossing the line into something you could outright reject, but always there. Always present.

Like he was waiting.

The third time you met Vivian Hugo (really met him, outside of schedules and obligations and that thin barrier of professionalism) was the moment something shifted.

A week into the job. Long enough for the novelty to wear off, for that tired feeling to settle in your bones. You’d been running around all day, stuck doing the kind of work no one notices unless it goes wrong. Carrying equipment, organizing paperwork, making sure everything stayed moving.

And of course, it happened when your hands were full. The box too heavy, your grip already slipping, attention split in too many directions at once.

'The paperwork needs to be delivered next. Then maybe going on–"

Your foot caught on nothing. Or maybe everything. The world tilted, and instead of the hard, cold ground–

–you hit something solid. Something a little too warm.

Your breath stuttered as the impact knocked the air from your lungs, the box in your hands jostling dangerously before a second pair of hands steadied it.

“Careful.”

That voice. The one that had been as persistent as a fly lately. Of course he'd be the one.

You didn’t even need to look up to know.

“Are you serious?” you muttered, still caught somewhere between embarrassment and irritation as you straightened, fingers tightening around the edge of the box. “Do you just linger around corners waiting for me to show up, or is this a scheduled thing?”

There was a brief pause, just long enough to register, and then a quiet huff of laughter, softer than you expected. Something that you'd never really thought could come out of him.

When you did look up, Vivien was already watching you. Close. Too close. His hands still lightly braced against the sides of the box, like he hadn’t fully decided whether to let go yet.

“I wasn’t waiting,” he said evenly, though there was a faint thread of amusement beneath it. “You just have bad timing.”

You scoffed, trying to ignore the way your pulse hadn’t quite settled yet. “Right. My bad for almost eating concrete.”

“Mm.” His gaze flickered briefly over your face, quick but thorough, like he was checking for something. An injury, maybe, or something less obvious. “You didn’t.”

“Thanks to you,” you shot back dryly. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

That earned you a look. Not offended, he never seemed to be, but more focused. Interested.

“It was already there,” he replied simply.

God.

You should’ve rolled your eyes. Walked away. Said something dismissive and ended it there like you always did. There was no way his 'destiny' talk was right.

Instead, you lingered.

Just for a second, long enough to notice that he hadn’t stepped back, that his attention didn’t waver or drift the way most people’s did. It stayed on you, like he was actually seeing you.

Not the position. Not the role. Not the temporary label attached to your name.

Just seeing the person in front of him and waiting for them to look back.

“…You’re really serious about that, aren’t you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His head tilted slightly. “About what?”

You hesitated, then quieter, “The whole… us thing.”

There it was, the line you’d been skirting around since the day you met him.

Vivien didn’t answer right away. For once. But when he did, there was no hesitation left in his voice. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Simple. Direct. Unapologetically him.

And somehow, that was worse than if he’d joked.

The grip on the box shifted, your gaze dropping briefly before lifting again, searching his face for any sign of doubt. Any crack in that certainty.

There wasn’t one.

“You don’t even know me,” you said, softer now. Not defensive, just… honest.

“I know enough.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is for me.”

That doesn't surprise me, you almost said.

Because that’s who he was.

Vivien Hugo didn’t seem like the type to hesitate. Didn’t second-guess. He saw something, wanted something, and moved toward it like it was already his.

Like failure wasn’t part of the equation. Like you weren’t something uncertain. And maybe that should’ve scared you.

Maybe it did, a little.

But in the current moment, standing there, something else slipped in too. Something that felt..comfortable and weirdly right.

For all his absurdity, for all the confidence that bordered on delusion, he hadn’t been wrong so far.

You were here. You had met again. And now, you were still standing in front of him.

“…You’re ridiculous,” you murmured.

A small beat passed. Then, shifting the box in your hands, your voice a touch lighter than before, you added, “Yeah… but I guess I can give you a chance.”

Not a confession. Not quite acceptance. But not rejection, either. He at least deserved a chance.

And for the first time, Vivien smiled. Just a certain small smile.

Emotionally, he’s not equipped in the way most people would want. He doesn’t soften his words, doesn’t circle around a point to make it easier to hear. If anything, he strips things down to their most efficient form, truth. It's delivered plainly, regardless of how it lands.

And that can hurt. A lot. There’s no instinct in him to immediately soothe or backtrack, because in his mind, honesty is the most useful thing he can offer you. If it stings, then it’s something you’ll adapt to, the same way he has adapted to everything else in his life.

And football (his football) will take priority in ways that aren’t always fair. During something like the World Cup, during training blocks, during periods where he’s chasing improvement with that almost obsessive focus… he will disappear into it. Not physically, necessarily, but mentally. You’ll feel it in the way his attention shifts, the way conversations get shorter, the way his world narrows down to the field and nothing else.

Depending on who you ask, that alone is enough to walk away.

But here’s the thing, Noel isn’t careless. He’s selective.

He doesn’t give his time freely. Every second of his day is accounted for, weighed against whether it makes him better or more efficient. So if he chooses to spend that time on you, if he lets you exist within that structure he’s built so meticulously, it’s not casual. It’s not temporary.

By the time he calls you his, he’s already decided you’re worth the investment long-term. You don’t become part of his life unless he’s already envisioned you staying there.

Because once you’re in, he doesn’t waver.

He’s loyal in a way that isn’t loud or showy, but absolute. Fame, attention, people constantly orbiting him, it doesn’t matter. None of it holds weight compared to what he’s already decided is his. And when he decides that includes you, it’s not something he treats lightly.

Not with his past.

Not with the way he had to build everything from nothing, with discipline instead of comfort, with effort instead of luck. It’s easy to imagine that he didn’t have many things that were just his growing up. So now, the things he does have? He keeps them. He cares for them.

And that’s where his version of love shows up.

Not in confessions. Not in long conversations about feelings. But in attention.

He learns you.

Not surface-level things, not just your favorite color or what food you like, but patterns. He catalogues it all, quietly, the same way he studies opponents or analyzes his own performance.

So when you talk, he understands. Conversations feel easy, not because he’s expressive, but because he’s already done the work to meet you where you are.

And then there are the things he does without saying anything.

You’ll notice it slowly. Things being handled before you even think to ask. Your preferences being accounted for in ways you never explicitly explained. It’s subtle, almost to the point where you could miss it if you weren’t paying attention, but it’s constant.

He won’t tell you he’s been thinking about you all day. But he’ll show up exactly when he said he would. Every time.

He won’t say he misses you. At least, not often. But his hand will find you instinctively.

He won’t open up about what’s weighing on him. That part of him stays locked down. But if you talk? If you let your thoughts spill out, your feelings, your worries, he’ll listen. Fully. No distractions, no half-attention. Just quiet, like he’s storing every word somewhere safe.

And then there are the things he definitely won’t admit unless you corner him with it.

Like the album on his phone.

Something simple. Probably titled Mon amour, or something just as straightforward. You wouldn’t even know it existed unless you went looking, but it’s there. Filled with photos of you. Not just the obvious ones either. Candid shots. Blurry ones. Ones you didn’t even remember taking. Pictures you sent him at random times, saved without comment.

And in between them, other things.

A cat he passed on the street. A flower growing through concrete. A sunset he barely had time to look at.

If you ever asked him why those were in there, he wouldn’t hesitate. Wouldn’t get flustered. Wouldn’t try to brush it off.

“It reminded me of you.”

No embellishment. No attempt to make it sound prettier than it is. Because to him, it doesn’t need to be.

And maybe that’s the point. With him, love isn’t something he performs. It’s something he permanently integrates into the way he lives his life.