Glass Witches

it’s really nice to talk to you, often in the sunset on the way home, with an apple cider bottle in your hand. which makes him question why your hair smells like fruit punch (it should smell like apple cider instead). confessing and confronting feelings he’s not quite sure of, afraid of what you think of him. why would he ruin this tender friendship when spending time with you now feels so safe? so comfortable? even if you’re just friends, you could be more than that. maybe it’s easier to pour all of his feelings into his games, to score goals and quietly dedicate them to you without you ever knowing.

and when you show up to his game the next week, he scans the crowd after he scores, just to find you already on your feet cheering the loudest for him.

he realises he’s lost the battle he’s been fighting.

because even if kenan swears he doesn’t even like you that much.

wait.

he does.

fuck.

and then there’s kenan, whose name gets dragged into tabloid headlines alongside whispers of the girls he was spotted with on the streets of turin. he knows what you think of him. or, at least, what he assumes you think. you keep your distance with a polite smile that drives him absolutely insane. whenever the families gather, you offer him a pleasant smile, a brief "congratulations on the season," and then you slip away. nothing more than a one-liner compliment instead of flattery like the girls on his social media. nothing like the days when you used to chase him around while he pretended to be spider-man.

that pisses him off.

he’s supposed to be the one who doesn’t care, right? he has the fame, the stadium cheering his name, the lifestyle most guys his age would kill for. he shouldn’t care that you treat him like background noise.

he cares. perhaps a little too much.

kenan finds himself consciously avoiding the girls who flock to him, pulling away from the easy, fleeting attention that used to be second nature, all because the thought of you hearing another rumour makes his stomach churn. he wants to prove to you the discipline it takes to stand where he stands, a passion for football that matches your own career-driven intensity, if only you’d look close enough to see it.

the kenan before and beneath all the stardom.

the next time the families meet for dinner, you’re standing by the balcony, the evening breeze catching your hair as you laugh with another family friend. he was like you. focused and ambitious. worst of all, he was totally your type.

kenan watches from across the room, the glass of water hard in his grip. the guy you’re talking to is leaning in close, his posture relaxed, his smile far too comfortable.

he doesn’t think twice. he moves through the living room with an intensity that makes people instinctively step aside. he reaches the balcony before he has a coherent plan, his hand closing firmly, though not unkindly, around your upper arm.

“excuse us,” kenan says, his voice low, and that shuts down your conversation with your friend instantly. he doesn’t wait for an answer. he steers you away from the party and into the shadows of the far corner of the terrace. your brow furrows as you pull your arm free, your expression shifting from amusement to confusion. “i was in the middle of a conversation.”

he stops, turning to face you. the silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and his own panic. now that he has your undivided attention, his bravado evaporates into the cool evening air. he’s standing there, caught in his own trap. he’s pulled you away, and he suddenly has no idea how to explain that he just couldn’t stand the way that guy looked at you.

he rubs the back of his neck, his jaw tight, his gaze dropping to the floor before flicking back to yours.

“i just…” he starts, then stops, his voice losing its edge. “i know you haven’t had the best impression of me.”

you blink, taken aback, but you let him continue.

“and i know you want nothing to do with me,” he mumbles, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. he looks smaller now, less like juventus' star boy and more like the boy who used to hide behind you during thunderstorms. “i get it. i’m a headache.” he looks up, his eyes filled with a sincerity that makes your breath hitch. “but i’m not that guy anymore, i’ve been trying to be someone you’d actually want to talk to for more than ten seconds.”

he reaches out, his fingers hovering briefly near your hand before he pulls them back, shy and uncertain. “i don’t you to avoid me. i want us to talk like we used to, when we were kids.”

it’s entirely undignified. it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to you. and as he stands there, fidgeting with his fingers, waiting for your rejection, he looks so painfully sincere (and adorable) that the walls you’ve been building start to crack.

he’s just entirely, hopelessly trying to be someone worthy of your time. and this is the last thing you expected from the kenan yildiz. you realise he’s been trying to change his ways, for you. you stare at him, your ambitions completely derailed by the way he’s looking at you. you’re not annoyed anymore. you’re terrified.

you crack a small smile before stifling a soft laugh. kenan furrows his brow in confusion, still anticipating your response. god, he looks so much like a kicked puppy right now.

“stop looking at me like that.” you look away, heat crawling up your cheeks.

“like what?” kenan leans closer with a raised brow, oblivious to your reaction. his presence is suddenly overwhelming. you can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne.

you’re standing on the pieces of a wall you once built to protect yourself from this. the principles you once swore you’d never betray, especially not for kenan. are you crossing your own line?

this was going to be a long night, and you can only smile.

----------------------------------------------

The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not. 

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.  “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk. 

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

You can feel him watching you again.

It's not new, not even surprising anymore. You’re used to the way his gaze always lingers on you like he’s trying to memorize every detail. But it’s different when it’s your lips. He stares with this quiet kind of intensity that makes it hard to keep a straight face.

You’re sitting on the couch in his apartment, tucked into the corner with a hoodie that definitely doesn’t belong to you. It’s one of his, oversized and worn soft at the sleeves, smelling like whatever cologne he spritzed on hours ago. You’ve got your legs pulled up, blanket over your lap, and you’re trying to focus on the movie playing on the TV.

Kenan is not helping.

At first, it’s subtle. His thumb traces along your hand, then your wrist, until his fingers are grazing your jaw. You glance at him, catching his eyes drop to your mouth again, and you let out a breathy laugh.

“You’re doing it again,” you tease.

His lips curve up into a slow smile, like he’s not even gonna try denying it. “Can’t help it,” he says simply, voice low, a little amused. “You make it impossible.”

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks go warm. “It’s just a mouth.”

He shakes his head like you’ve offended him. “It’s your mouth.”

“Oh, well. That explains everything,” you say dryly, but he just leans in like you’ve laid down an open invitation.

The kiss is soft. He always starts soft, like he wants to take his time, like he’s trying to savor something. And even though he’s kissed you a thousand times by now, each one still feels kind of sacred. Like he’s reminding himself that you’re real.

He pulls back after a moment, resting his forehead against yours. “I missed you today.”

“You saw me this morning,” you say, laughing a little, even though your heart does this dumb fluttery thing.

“Too long ago,” he murmurs, kissing you again, barely a brush this time. “And you wore that stupid lip balm that makes me think about you all day.”

Your laugh catches in your throat. “So now it’s the lip balm’s fault?”

“Mhm,” he hums with zero hesitation, and you bury your face into his shoulder to hide the smile threatening to take over.

This isn’t a one-time thing, either. You’ve caught onto his pattern.

Every time you talk too long, he ends up distracted, zoning out mid-conversation because your mouth moved a certain way. Every time you wear gloss, he kisses it off before you even leave the house. If you bite your lip out of habit, he stops whatever he’s doing to come over and kiss you like it’s urgent, like you’re some kind of problem he needs to solve with his mouth.

Even in public, he doesn’t hold back. A quick kiss before he heads to training. A longer one when he gets back, barely through the door before he’s pulling you close again. It’s like his lips have a magnetic field, and yours are the center of gravity.

You mention it one afternoon, curled up with him after he got home, legs tangled under the sheets and sunlight filtering in through the blinds.

“You’ve got an actual addiction,” you mumble, voice still sleepy.

Kenan grins, lazy and smug. “I’d say obsession. Sounds more romantic.”

“You kiss me constantly.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Romantic.”

You poke his chest. “Do I even get a say?”

“Too late,” he replies, dipping his head to kiss your collarbone. “You’re already mine.”

It’s even worse when he’s in a mood. After a good match, or a rough day, or any day that ends in y, really.

One evening, he comes back from a media event, looking exhausted, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled from running his fingers through it too much. You’re sitting on the counter eating strawberries when he walks in and sees you. Something in him softens immediately.

He doesn’t even say hi. Just drops his bag, walks straight over, and stands between your knees.

“I love you,” he says, voice a little rough.

You blink. “I love you too. You okay?”

He nods, already leaning in. “I just missed you.”

You taste the faintest hint of mint when he kisses you. It’s slow, deep, like he’s pouring everything he didn’t say today into you now. You slide your hands into his hair and let him take his time. When he finally pulls back, there’s a slight dazed look in his eyes.

“You’re so soft,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb across your lower lip. “It drives me crazy.”

“You’re actually insane,” you whisper, laughing.

“For you? Completely,” he says, and you don’t doubt it for a second.

Sometimes it’s not about needing. It’s about comfort.

Like when you’re quiet, withdrawn, and overthinking something. Kenan always knows. He doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, holds your hand, and waits.

And then, without fail, he kisses you.

A grounding one. Not heated or needy. Just lips pressed to yours, slow and reassuring. Like he’s saying, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how he always knows when to do it. You’ve stopped questioning it.

One night, it’s pouring rain, and you’re both wide awake for no reason. You’re standing by the window, watching droplets race down the glass, hoodie pulled over your head, your socks half-slipping off your feet.

Kenan walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and kisses your temple. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re sappy.”

“You’re mine,” he says against your cheek.

You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Are you ever gonna get tired of kissing me?”

He pretends to think about it for a second. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not even if I tried,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I think I was built to kiss you.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s hopeless. Your stomach flips anyway.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he teases, lips brushing against yours again. “You’re the one who started this.”

“I didn’t start anything.”

“You looked at me once,” he says seriously. “And now I’m doomed.”

“Doomed to kiss me forever?”

He nods solemnly. “It’s a burden I’ll gladly bear.”

You laugh into his mouth as he kisses you again, rain still tapping gently against the window, the world outside forgotten.

Let him kiss you all he wants. He’s never going to stop.

------------------------------------------------

The house smelled of garlic and slow-simmering tomatoes, the kind of warmth that wrapped around you the second you stepped inside. It was familiar, homey—but unexpected. Jude rarely cooked unless coerced, which meant one thing:

He had help.

Following the hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of pans, you stepped into the kitchen—and immediately stopped short.

Jude stood by the stove, stirring something that, shockingly, looked edible. Beside him, moving with effortless ease, was a second figure, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, chopping vegetables with practiced precision.

Your brows lifted slightly.

Kenan Yıldız.

You recognized him instantly—not just because of who he was, but because Jude never shut up about him. His name had been woven into conversations for weeks now. One of the best new signings at Madrid. Got along with Jude right away.

What you hadn’t expected was… this.

Kenan fit into the kitchen like he had been coming to your house for years. The smooth rhythm of his hands, the clean efficiency as he gathered greens in his palm before tossing them into a bowl—it was clear he knew what he was doing. He didn’t even look up at first, simply remarking,

“You must be Jude’s sister.”

His voice was warm, rich, touched with something amused—like he already knew you.

You blinked. “And you must be the new recruit.”

That got his attention. He looked up then and—okay, wow.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome; that was a given. It was how he carried himself—calm, unhurried, effortlessly present, as if he didn’t need to take up space to be noticed. His dazling green eyes met yours, gaze steady, warm, quietly amused. Like he was taking you in, waiting to see what you’d say next.

Jude, oblivious to the shift in the air, barely looked up. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s not helping.”

Kenan scoffed, feigning offense. “Excuse me? I’m doing all the hard work.”

“You’re cutting vegetables,” Jude deadpanned.

“With flawless precision,” Kenan shot back.

You leaned against the counter, watching them, amused despite yourself.

“You actually cook?” you asked, directing the question at Kenan.

He nodded, as if it were obvious. “Of course.”

Jude let out a disbelieving snort. “He’s lying.”

Kenan pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “What’s with the judging, Judy?”

“You literally looked up a tutorial on TikTok when you picked up the knife.”

Kenan smirked. “And? I’m a quick learner.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Unexpected. Kenan’s gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, his expression softened.

Clearing your throat, you fought to regain the upper hand. “So, you’re just here to show off, then?”

Kenan shrugged. “Figured I should try my best to impress the sister I’ve heard so much about.”

You tilted your head. “Are you this smooth with everyone, or am I just special?”

His smile was slow, a little surprised—like he wasn’t expecting you to match him but found that he liked it.

“A little of both,” he admitted. “But mainly the latter.”

Jude groaned, dramatically turning away from the stove. “Oh my days. Don’t make me wack you with this spatula Kenan.”

Kenan smirked. “No worries, bro”

Yet he was still watching you, eyes glinting, something unreadable flickering behind them—like he wasn’t sure what to make of you yet.

You stretched out comfortably in the kitchen chair. “I think I’ll just sit here and watch. This is way more entertaining than I expected.”

Kenan chuckled, reaching for another onion. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

The worst part? You did.

Jude, still focused on the pan, added, “For the record, Kenan practically begged to be invited over.”

Kenan exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a dramatic way to put it.”

You arched a brow. “So what’s the less dramatic version?”

Kenan wiped his hands on a towel, leaning back against the counter. “I mentioned I had nothing to do tonight, and your brother insisted I come over.”

Jude scoffed. “You asked what I was making for dinner and then said, That sounds nice. I wish I had plans.”

Kenan shrugged, utterly unbothered. “And you invited me. So, really, this is on you.”

You hummed, amused. “Strategic play.”

Kenan’s lips twitched. “Can you blame me? Good food, good company…” His eyes flickered to you for half a second before he added, “I think I made the right call.”

Jude, oblivious, just shook his head. “Right. Well, you can do the dishes, then.”

Kenan sighed, dramatic as ever. “That’s not how guests should be treated.”

You smirked, shaking your head at him.

Jude barely paid attention, focused on stirring the pan. “Kenan’s alright,” he muttered. “One of the only friends I actually trust with my life.”

Kenan looked over at him, a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting the sentiment to be voiced so easily.

Jude continued, utterly unfazed. “That being said—just so you know—same rule applies to him as everyone else.”

He finally turned, fixing Kenan with a pointed look. “She’s off-limits.”

The air shifted.

Your expression twisted immediately. “Excuse me?”

Jude didn’t even glance at you. His focus remained on Kenan, casual but firm. It was clear he didn’t think twice about saying it, just like he had with every other teammate, every other friend. It was instinct.

Kenan, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He held Jude’s stare for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his expression before it turned into a friendly smile.

“Duly noted.”

Jude gave him a little slap on the back, before turning back to the stove. 

“Not that I don’t trust you, man. Just needed you to know.”

And then, just as effortlessly, just as naturally as if this were all a game only he knew the rules to—

Kenan winked at you.

You wanted to throw something.

Kenan just chuckled under his breath, tossing a handful of chopped parsley into the dish.

Jude, completely oblivious, still hunched over the stove, stirring like nothing had happened.

You exhaled slowly, chest feeling tighter than before.

This was going to be a problem.

…

The night was already borderline ridiculous before you even set foot on the course.

Disco golf.

Who in their right mind came up with this?

The artificial grass glowed with neon strips, fluorescent obstacles scattered across each hole like some kind of fever dream. Overhead, strobe lights pulsed in sync with a painfully bad club remix blaring from the speakers. It was an assault on the senses in every possible way.

And yet, somehow, this group made it work.

You barely had a chance to breathe before Antoine Griezmann materialized out of nowhere, his signature shit-eating grin firmly in place.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, flipping a golf ball between his fingers like it was a poker chip. “Look who finally showed up.”

“I was literally five minutes late.”

Antoine was as predictable as ever—an insufferable smooth-talker, equal parts charming and irritating. He had tried it with you once, a half-baked attempt at flirting that had crashed and burned spectacularly. Instead of being embarrassed, he had turned it into a long-running joke at your expense. Or at least, he claimed it was a joke. 

You rolled your eyes. “I see Jude didn’t immediately chase you out of here. He must be in a good mood.”

Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Why do people assume your brother hates me?”

“Because he does,” a new voice chimed in.

Vini Jr. 

The responsible one. The glue that held the group together. He was calm, steady, unbothered—unless you insulted his dance routine, in which case, he suffered more than anyone you knew.

Vini clapped Antoine on the back, his expression completely deadpan. “And for good reason.”

Antoine scoffed. “You wound me, bro.”

Before Vini could respond, a golf club swung dangerously close to both their faces.

“Boys, boys,” Arda Güler interrupted, dramatically flourishing his club like he was starring in a medieval jousting match. The lovable idiot, always at the center of chaos. His entire personality was built on making bad decisions and hoping for the best.

“This is a game of precision, not violence.” He spun his club around before dramatically planting it into the ground. “And I will emerge victorious.”

“You say that every time,” Vini muttered.

Arda ignored him.

A hand clapped down on your shoulder, and you turned to find Julián Álvarez standing beside you, unreadable as always.

“Should I even ask why you agreed to this?” he asked, voice low, amusement barely detectable.

Julián was the quietest of the group—the type who didn’t say much but noticed everything. He never inserted himself into drama, but if you needed advice, someone to talk to, or a brutally honest reality check, he was the guy.

You shrugged. “Morbid curiosity.”

Julián hummed, unconvinced.

The group started pairing up, and you had already resigned yourself to being stuck with Jude, as always. But before you could even move, Arda slung an arm around Jude’s shoulders.

“I’m with Jude,” he announced decisively, leaving no room for argument.

Jude shot him an incredulous look. “Since when?”

“Since now,” Arda said, already dragging him toward the first hole. “You’re good at this, right? Because I refuse to lose.”

You barely had time to process the betrayal before Julián and Vini shuffeled a little closer together as well. 

Great. That left you with either Antoine or Kenan.

Your eyes flickered toward Antoine, who was casually flipping his golf ball in one hand, smirking like he was already planning something insufferable.

Without a second thought, you turned to Kenan instead.

He was already watching you, utterly unbothered, twirling his club with the same easy confidence he carried in everything.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said, handing you your ball.

Your fingers tightened around it as you met his gaze.

“Lucky me.”

Kenan’s lips twitched, just slightly. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Jude, too preoccupied with arguing with Arda over proper golf technique, hadn’t even noticed—let alone the way heat crept up your neck as Kenan watched you with quiet amusement.

…

The first few holes passed in a blur of neon-lit obstacles and questionable golf techniques. Arda was taking things far too seriously, Jude was arguing about angles like this was an actual competition, and Antoine had already managed to cheat twice—though no one could prove it.

Kenan, to your mild surprise, was actually decent at it. Not overly competitive, but smooth, precise. Effortless.

Annoyingly so.

You, on the other hand, were not having as much luck. Your shots weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t particularly impressive. And Kenan, who had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing every single attempt, was clearly enjoying himself.

By the fifth hole, you were losing patience.

Kenan leaned on his club, watching as your ball veered slightly off-course. “Not bad,” he mused. “But I think you’re gripping the club too tight.”

You shot him a look. “Thanks, coach.”

He grinned. “Anytime.”

You exhaled, adjusting your stance before trying again. The ball rolled forward, making it past the obstacle this time but still stopping just short of the hole.

Kenan made a thoughtful sound. “Better.”

You turned to him, exasperated. “Do you actually have tips, or are you just enjoying watching me struggle?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Little bit of both.”

You huffed, shaking your head as you lined up for another shot. But before you could take it, you felt him step closer.

Too close.

Kenan reached out, adjusting your grip on the club before you could protest. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low enough that Jude—still distracted by Arda—wouldn’t hear. “You’re overthinking it.”

Your pulse jumped.

You were sure he knew exactly what he was doing. The proximity, the subtle amusement laced through his words—it was intentional.

You rolled your shoulders, pretending the heat creeping up your neck was from frustration. “Are you showing off again?”

Kenan smirked. “If I were showing off, you’d know.”

Before you could come up with a response, he took a step back, gesturing toward the ball. “Try again.”

You did. And, to your surprise, it went in.

You blinked at the hole, momentarily stunned.

Kenan’s smirk deepened. “See? All you needed was the right guidance.”

You turned to him, unimpressed. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, all faux innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You exhaled sharply, turning back to the course.

…

The next morning, you sat across from Jude at your favorite café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries curling around you like a comforting embrace.

Brunch had become a ritual—a chance to catch up, talk nonsense, and, more often than not, for Jude to rant about something that had deeply offended his very specific worldview that week.

Today, that thing was Antoine Griezmann.

You weren’t even five minutes into your meal before Jude leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and let out a deep, dramatic sigh.

“I hate him.”

You didn’t even have to ask who he was talking about.

Still, you took a slow sip of your coffee, humoring him. “Antoine?”

Jude scoffed. “Obviously Antoine.”

You hummed in amusement, cutting into your pancake. “What did he do this time?”

Jude leaned forward, elbows braced against the table. “What did he do? He was one second away from licking your face off, did you miss that?”

You snorted. “He was annoying, but I wouldn’t say that.”

Jude shot you a deeply unimpressed look. “He was testing my patience.”

You arched a brow, feigning innocence. “So… your patience is thin, then?”

“My patience doesn’t exist when it comes to my friends hitting on my sister,” he stated, as if it were fact.

“Technically, he didn’t hit on me,” you pointed out.

Jude’s glare was immediate. “He was setting up for it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. You know I’d never reciprocate anything anyway, right?”

“You better not.”

You exhaled through your nose, reaching for your coffee.

Because this was just Jude. Overprotective, borderline ridiculous, but never in a way that truly irritated you—because you knew it came from a good place.

Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t overdoing it.

Jude took a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “It’s a hard rule. No friends of mine. Ever.”

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then, slowly, you leaned back in your chair. “Aren’t you going a bit far?”

“It’s for the best.”

“It’s insane.”

Jude crossed his arms. “You know footballers. You know I’m right.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Because, unfortunately, he had a point. You weren’t blind.

You had spent enough time around Jude and his teammates to know how they moved—always on the go, always in a whirlwind of temporary flings, casual connections, never really rooted anywhere.

Still, your mind drifted to Kenan, who did not give you that impression at all.

You eyed him, unimpressed. “So what are you aiming at? Immediate death if they look at me?”

Jude barely hesitated. “Immediate exile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “A bit dramatic.”

“I think it’s still very generous.”

You sighed, knowing this was an argument you wouldn’t win.

…

The house was alive.

Music pulsed through the walls, the bass thrumming beneath your feet like a second heartbeat. Laughter spilled from the kitchen, where a group of guys were debating whether or not vodka actually made you better at beer pong. The air smelled of alcohol, sweat, and something vaguely burnt—probably whatever disaster Arda had left in the oven.

It was the kind of night that blurred at the edges, full of bad decisions and good memories. The kind of night where anything could happen.

And yet you barely registered any of it.

Because he was here.

You felt Kenan’s presence like static in the air, a pull that had been getting harder and harder to ignore. It had been this way all night—glances exchanged across the room, fleeting, lingering.

He was talking to someone, laughing at something Arda had said, but even as he smiled—as if nothing in the world was out of place—

You knew better.

Because he kept looking at you, too.

Short, quick glances that made your pulse kick up a notch.

You tore your gaze away, turning your attention to the nearest distraction.

Unfortunately, that distraction came in the form of Antoine Griezmann.

“Well, well,” Antoine drawled, appearing beside you with his usual brand of obnoxious charm. “If it isn’t my favorite Bellingham.”

You sighed, already bracing yourself. “Oh, God.”

Antoine grinned. “Did you miss me?”

“No.”

“Lies. Say it again, maybe I’ll believe you this time.”

You turned to face him, unimpressed. “Antoine, it’s physically impossible for me to miss you when you’re always finding new and creative ways to bother me.”

Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, feigning heartbreak. “Always so feisty.”

You didn’t even bother responding.

Suddenly his hand landed on your waist.

Casual. Uninvited.

Before you could even react and push him back, Jude was there, looking very angry. Oh god. 

His voice was sharp, unamused, cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Antoine.”

Antoine turned, lazy grin still in place. “Jude. Nice house party.”

Jude’s jaw ticked. “Get your hand off my sister.”

Antoine raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just saying hi.”

Jude’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Say it differently.”

Antoine smirked. “Don’t be so pressed.”

Jude now looked ready to commit an actual crime.

And just like that, you’d had enough.

You weren’t about to stand around while Jude and Antoine had another one of their pissing contests.

“You boys have fun,” you muttered, pushing past them before either could stop you.

You felt Jude’s glare follow you.

You didn’t care.

You weaved through the crowd, exhaling slowly, trying to shake the tension tightening in your chest.

Suddenly, a hand brushed against yours. Barely there. Just enough to make you notice.

Before you could process it, fingers wrapped around your wrist. Light, but firm. A silent don’t go that way.

No words. Just a pull—smooth and effortless—like he had already decided you were coming with him.

You didn’t fight it. Just let Kenan steer you through the crowd until the heavy bass dulled and cool night air brushed your skin.

Only then did he let go.

Kenan exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “You okay?”

Your arms crossed over your chest. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "Why?"

"Because you just dragged me out of a party without saying a word."

Kenan smirked. “You followed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not the point.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes flickered back toward the door—checking. Not for just anyone. For one person in particular.

Your stomach flipped at the realization. 

"Antoine gets on your nerves that much?" you asked, tilting your head.

Kenan sighed, leaning against the railing. "You could say that."

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingertips barely brushing his forearm. A fleeting touch, light as air, easy enough to pass off as nothing.

Kenan went completely still.

His green eyes flickered down to where your skin met his before slowly dragging back up to your face, something dark and unreadable swimming in them.

"You really care about that?" you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Kenan’s lips quirked, but his voice was steady. "Should I not?"

You held his gaze, pulse quickening. You knew damn well it was never just about Antoine. 

It was about you.

It was about the way Kenan had been watching you all night, the way he kept finding ways to be near you, the way his eyes dipped to your lips before flicking away like he hadn’t just done that.

You swallowed hard.

“We can’t do this,” Kenan murmured, but he didn’t move back.

He was still standing too close, still looking at you like he was already too far gone.

And you, reckless, breathless, said the words before you could stop yourself.

"I think it’s too late for that."

A flicker of something passed through his expression—uncertainty, hesitation, but that disappeared when he closed the space between you, his lips meeting yours.

It was slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was really allowed to, like he thought you might push him away. His lips brushed against yours once, twice—light, barely there, testing. But then you exhaled against him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and that hesitation unraveled.

His hand found your waist, gripping just firmly enough to keep you anchored as his other slid up, fingers skimming along your jaw before cupping your face, tilting it up to him. The railing pressed into your back, cold against your skin, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was the warmth of him, the way his lips pressed deeper against yours, like he was memorizing the way you felt, the way you fit against him.

A slow, lingering drag of his mouth over yours, a quiet hitch of breath as your fingers twisted tighter into his shirt. When you tilted your head just slightly, letting him deepen the kiss, a quiet sound rumbled from his throat—a low, pleased hum that sent heat coursing through your veins.

It was a mess of pent-up frustration, of every unsaid thing, every stolen glance that had led to this exact moment.

And you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were supposed to go off inside your head. 

You chased it, chased him, let him pull you closer, let the weight of his body press against yours until—

The door creaked open.

You and Kenan broke apart instantly, breathless, heat still prickling under your skin.

Julián stepped onto the terrace, stretching.

You forced your breath to slow, straightening slightly.

Kenan rubbed the back of his neck, looking too casual.

Julián barely glanced at either of you. “Too loud in there,” he muttered, yawning.

Your heart was still pounding.

Julián paused, frowning slightly. “Why do you two look so—”

“Weird lighting,” Kenan cut in smoothly.

Julián squinted, then shrugged before turning away again. "Huh. Cool."

You risked a glance at Kenan.

And even though neither of you said anything, you both knew. This was far from over.

…

The morning after a party was always far too quiet.

The kind of quiet that exaggerated every tiny sound—every creak, every rustle—as if conspiring to remind you of all your questionable choices. Choices like sneaking onto terraces. Choices involving certain footballers whose names started with ‘K’ and ended with ‘enan.’

Yes, questionable indeed.

At breakfast, you tried to appear casual—a tall order given your current mental spiral. You clutched your lukewarm coffee like a lifeline, while across from you, Kenan sat annoyingly unbothered, spreading butter on toast with the ease of someone who had never had a scandalous terrace rendezvous.

Your narrowed eyes did nothing to shake his composure.

And because the universe loved tormenting you, Jude entered the kitchen at that precise moment, looking impressively disgruntled for someone still wearing last night’s hoodie. He slammed a plate down with the melodrama reserved for mornings after.

"Antoine Griezmann," he began, as if invoking an arch-nemesis, "is the biggest dickhead I’ve ever met."

Kenan, infuriatingly calm, took a sip of coffee. "Good morning to you too, Jude."

"Unbelievable," Jude muttered, turning to you. "That man has zero sense of boundaries."

From beside you came Arda’s voice, muffled by his folded arms. "For the love of God, lower your voice."

"You didn’t even drink," Jude shot back.

Arda lifted his head slightly, wincing. "The drinks weren’t the problem. The nachos, on the other hand…"

No one disagreed. The faint scent of burnt tortilla chips still lingered accusingly.

"Anyway," Jude continued, undeterred, "Antoine is officially banned from future gatherings."

You sighed. So much for hoping he’d drop the issue overnight.

"He put his hands on you," Jude emphasized. "I should’ve decked him."

"Jude. He barely touched me."

Jude scoffed. "Barely? You’re seriously defending him?"

"I’m not defending him. He’s a prick, but you’re overreacting."

Jude muttered something darkly under his breath.

Arda, finally awake enough to contribute, chuckled. "Antoine thinks he has a chance with everyone."

"Exactly!" Jude pointed triumphantly. "This is why—"

You braced yourself.

"No friends of mine. Ever."

There it was. Jude’s favorite rule, delivered with his usual finality.

Across from you, Kenan finally broke his silence, eyes amused above his coffee cup. "Are you always this intense before noon?"

"Don't start," Jude shot back.

Arda sighed. "Jude’s still recovering from his Antoine-induced rage episode."

"It wouldn’t be necessary if people listened to me," Jude muttered, sitting heavily with his breakfast.

You kept your focus on your now-cold coffee, resisting the urge to grimace. The last thing you needed was Jude sensing anything off.

But the silence stretched. You caved—stealing a quick glance across the table.

Kenan was already watching you.

Not brooding. Enjoying this. The way his gaze lingered was insufferable—calm, playful, like he knew exactly what was on your mind.

Your brows lifted. What?

The corner of his mouth curved—barely. A quiet tease. A private acknowledgment of shared misbehavior.

Your cheeks warmed. You turned back to your coffee.

Kenan cleared his throat softly, hiding his amusement with another slow sip.

It was going to be a long breakfast.

…

The living room was a battlefield of discarded hoodies, half-empty snack bags, and abandoned water bottles—the kind of war zone that only a FIFA night in full swing could create.

Jude was perched at the edge of the couch, controller clutched in both hands, his entire body tense with single-minded focus.

Julián, annoyingly composed, sat next to him, casual but lethal, dismantling the opposition with the kind of effortless precision that made everyone else look bad.

Arda, however, was mid-meltdown.

“This game is rigged,” he groaned, throwing his arms up as the ball sailed over the goal, missing by an embarrassing margin.

Vini barely spared him a glance. “You guys just suck.”

Arda let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto the couch. “Next round, we’re switching teams.”

And then, of course, there was Kenan. Lounging back against the cushions, controller resting lazily in his hands, watching the chaos like it was free entertainment.

His lips twitched slightly when he noticed you standing near the doorway. A quick once-over, deliberate, measured.

You ignored the way your stomach tightened under his stare.

"You guys still at this?" you asked, stepping further inside.

Jude didn’t even look up. " Vini’s on some demon mode tonight."

Vini smirked, glancing at you. "It’s not my fault everyone else is bad."

Arda, ever dramatic, flopped across the couch like a fallen soldier. “This is what I get for believing in myself.”

Kenan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe next time, Arda."

Arda shot him a glare before tilting his head toward you.

"Are you keen on joining, or do you have more productive things planned?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’m getting water and then I need to finish my paper, unfortunately ."

...

The second you stepped into the kitchen, you exhaled, pressing your hands against the countertop.

You just needed a moment. A pause. A second to collect yourself..

But apparently, tonight wasn’t going to grant you that luxury.

Footsteps.

"It’s really cute how you get all flustered."

His voice was softer this time, teasing but not sharp, laced with something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

You turned slowly.

Kenan stood by the counter, one hand resting lightly against the surface, his posture relaxed in a way that felt entirely deliberate. His gaze swept over you—not just playful, not just amused. Knowing.

"You followed me," you murmured, willing your voice to stay steady.

Kenan tilted his head slightly, an easy smile playing at his lips. "Felt like the right direction to go."

Not a denial. Not an admission. Just a quiet, magnetic pull in the form of words.

"You need to stop looking at me like that," you muttered.

Kenan raised an eyebrow, gaze steady. "Like what?"

You swallowed.

He was too close. Close enough that you caught the faintest trace of his cologne, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you in ways you didn’t have the strength to ignore.

"Like you want to kiss me," you said, quieter this time.

Something flickered in his expression—brief but unmistakable.

"I do," he said simply.

The air between you shifted.

He wasn’t smirking now. He wasn’t toying with you.

"You can’t say things like that," you murmured.

"Why not?"

You opened your mouth, but you struggeled to find words.

Because what were you supposed to say? That he made it impossible to think straight? That you had spent the entire morning replaying the way he kissed you last night? That if you let yourself, you might start thinking about how much you wanted him to do it again?

"Because Jude—"

There it was.

The reason why you should be walking away right now.

Kenan sighed, running a hand through his hair. The teasing was gone now, something quieter settling in its place.

"You think I don’t know that?" he muttered.

Your breath caught.

Kenan took another step forward.

The kitchen felt smaller. The air, heavier. A quiet moment stretched between you. Not tense. Not uncertain. Just… waiting.

His gaze flickered to your lips for a fraction of a second.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time.

His hands found your waist first, pulling you against him with quiet urgency, like he had been holding back for far too long.

Your breath caught, fingers gripping the front of his hoodie as he deepened the kiss, steady and deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. Like he wanted to savor every second of it.

His fingers pressed against your back, firm, grounding. Your heart stuttered as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you onto the counter like he had been meaning to do it all along.

Your legs parted instinctively to let him step between them.

And when his lips left yours, trailing down, brushing along your jaw, then lower—

A quiet sigh escaped before you could stop it.

Kenan smiled against your skin, pressing another slow, lingering kiss just below your ear.

You barely had the presence of mind to cling to him, hands twisted in his hoodie, breath uneven.

He stepped away, leaving behind the faintest trace of warmth where his hands had been. Not far. Just enough for you to feel the absence of his warmth. 

Your pulse was a mess, your mind struggling to keep up. 

His lips brushed your ear, voice barely above a whisper.

"I really like you."

The shift was instant, the absence of him unsettling in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

You blinked, fingers still curled against the counter, as if letting go might send you tumbling into something you weren’t ready to name.

Kenan smirked—subtle, something almost teasing but not quite.

Then, with a lingering glance, he winked and walked out.

Like this hadn’t just changed everything.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the empty doorway, thoughts colliding too fast to make sense of.

Because Kenan Yıldız liked you. And you we’re definitely enjoying his company too.

It took a full minute before your body caught up with your brain.

Even as you stepped forward, something felt off—like you were still hovering in the space Kenan had left behind, the ghost of his hands on your waist lingering longer than they should. You inhaled sharply, straightened your shirt, and walked out of the kitchen with a carefully practiced ease.

Past the living room. Toward the stairs. Just a few more steps and you’d be free.

When all of a sudden Jude looked up. His brows immediately pulled together. "You look like shit."

You halted mid-step. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, studying you like some kind of medical anomaly. "Did you die in the kitchen? What’s wrong with you?"

From the couch, Arda barely lifted his head, his voice dry. "Maybe she saw whatever’s still in the oven. That alone could ruin anyone’s night."

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. "You guys still haven’t cleaned that?"

Jude didn’t blink. "Right. Well, hope you’re okay." His suspicion deepened, his gaze lingering a second too long.

Your eyes flicked to Kenan.

He was leaning back against the couch, controller in hand, seemingly absorbed in the game. Nothing about his expression gave anything away, but you noticed his almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. A silent reminder of what had just happened.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, heat creeping up your neck as you tore your gaze away before he could make things worse.

…

If someone had told you a few weeks ago that you’d be sneaking around behind Jude’s back, stealing glances and secret touches with his best friend, you would have laughed.

But here you were. And you weren’t stopping.

At first, it had been subtle. Little things that could be dismissed as nothing if anyone noticed.

The way Kenan’s knee would press against yours when you sat side by side, lingering a second too long before shifting away—always with that small, knowing smile. 

The way he’d find excuses to touch you in passing—a hand grazing the small of your back, fingers brushing against yours when he handed you something, the steady warmth of his palm resting on your waist as he leaned in to whisper something only you could hear.

You hadn’t been sure if it was intentional. If he was testing the limits.

Then came the car rides.

Kenan had convinced Jude that carpooling to training made sense, especially on days when Jude had plans afterward and wouldn’t be heading straight home.

And suddenly, Kenan was picking you up after work, dropping you home after practice, stretching the moments when it was just the two of you for as long as possible.

The car was dangerous. No one else around. No one to stop things from slipping past the point of denial.

Like the first time he had reached over—mid-traffic—to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

His fingers barely skimmed your skin, but the feeling traveled everywhere.

Or the time you had been venting about something Jude had done, and Kenan had just… reached over and taken your hand.

No smirk. No joke. No performance.

Just a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles, his eyes still on the road, completely at ease in a moment that made your stomach twist into knots.

You just let him hold your hand all the way home.

And then there were the kisses. Stolen between car doors, in the quiet seconds before you had to pretend you weren’t completely unraveling for him. Kisses that left you breathless.

You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how you had gone from avoiding him to falling straight into something neither of you could escape. The guilt of lying to Jude being overwhelmed by the joy you found whenever you two were together.

…

You were really not that much of a club goer. You hadn’t even planned on coming tonight.

But Jude had insisted, dragging you out with the usual crew, declaring that it had been far too long since your last proper night out. Maybe that should have been the first red flag.

Second red flag was Antoine. Obviously. 

He had been circling all night, hovering just close enough to make his presence known, just persistent enough to keep himself within your reach. Jude, already too deep into his drinks, was in no state to notice, leaving you to deal with him alone.

"Come on," Antoine leaned in, breath warm against your ear, his confidence as misplaced as ever. "Just one dance?"

You took a step back, trying to create space. "No, thanks."

If he heard the sharp edge in your voice, he chose to ignore it.

"Don’t be like that," he coaxed, grinning, still far too close.

Before you could respond, a presence settled beside you, calm and steady. Kenan.

He didn’t push, didn’t pull you away, didn’t do anything that could turn this into a scene. Instead, his fingers brushed against your wrist, light but deliberate, just enough to remind you he was there. That he had seen. That he wasn’t going to let this happen.

Antoine stiffened slightly. His smirk faltered, just for a second, before something sharp flickered in his gaze.

His hand lingered, his fingers warm against your skin, and suddenly Antoine decided he wasn’t so interested anymore.

"Didn’t realize you had another bodyguard," he muttered before stepping back, disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response.

Kenan’s fingers squeezed yours for just a moment longer before he let go, as if anchoring you before he released you completely.

Away from the worst of the noise, he turned to face you. "You okay?"

You exhaled, forcing the tension from your shoulders. "Yeah. Antoine is just—"

"A problem?"

"My most annoying problem."

Kenan smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice low enough to send heat rushing to your face. "Am I your favorite problem?"

The question made something flutter in your chest, but before you could answer, he kissed you.

There was nothing rushed about it. His lips met yours like he had been waiting all night for this. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing just enough to keep you there, like letting go wasn’t an option he was considering.

Your breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, his smile pressing into yours when you tugged him closer, the warmth of his mouth making it impossible to think about anything else.

"Kenan!"

The sound barely registered before Kenan was being yanked away, leaving you momentarily dazed, still gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Arda, far too exasperated to even recognize you in the dimmed lights, clung to Kenan’s shoulder like a lifeline.

"Bro, you gotta come quick."

Kenan blinked, still slightly dazed himself. "What?"

"Jude. Russian shots. It’s bad."

Kenan let out a slow, exhausted sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. " Scheiße."

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

He hesitated for a second, gaze flickering back to you, something tender in his expression.

Then, leaning in just enough that only you could hear him, he murmured, "I’ll see you soon, baby."

And with that, he let himself be dragged into whatever disaster Jude and Arda had created, disappearing into the chaos of the club, leaving you standing there, still catching up.

…

Jude was dead weight against your shoulder, his entire body slumped into yours as you half-dragged, half-guided him through the front door. His hoodie was pulled up over his face, barely concealing the mess of curls spilling out, and his sneakers scraped lazily against the floor as he mumbled nonsense under his breath.

It had been a long night.

You should have known this would happen—should have expected that your always-overdoing-it brother would push himself too far, too fast, too recklessly, just because he could.

The others had offered to help, but you had waved them off, insisting you had him. And you did. Even if he was an absolute nightmare to get through the door.

You exhaled sharply as he nearly collapsed onto you.

"Jude," you muttered, shifting his weight. "Come on, just a little further."

A sleepy, unintelligible grumble was the only response before you finally managed to maneuver him onto the couch. His body melted into the cushions immediately, limbs sprawled in every possible direction, completely unaware that you had just spent the last of your strength hauling him inside.

"Never drinking again," he mumbled.

You rolled your eyes, pulling a blanket over him. "Uh-huh."

His breathing had already slowed, the heavy pull of sleep dragging him under. Then, just as his consciousness slipped entirely, his voice came—soft, barely audible.

"I’m glad you’re here."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Jude wasn’t sentimental. Not like this. 

Not when he was awake, anyway.

You wanted to brush it off, let it roll past you like the other half-coherent things he had been mumbling all night.

But the words settled somewhere deeper than you expected.

Your phone buzzed against your palm.

One new message.

Kenan: Can I see you?

…

You cracked the door open, the cool night air whispering against your skin. Kenan stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze steady—warm, waiting. The streetlights cast a soft glow along his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the quiet hesitation in his expression.

He wasn’t pushing. Wasn’t asking for anything more than what you were willing to give. But he was here.

You hesitated for only a second before stepping aside, letting him in.

Kenan moved past you, slow, deliberate, his presence filling the space effortlessly. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air—warm, clean, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. The door clicked shut behind him, closing the rest of the world out.

Something between you felt different now, heavier with everything unspoken.

"You didn’t have to come," you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Kenan’s lips curved slightly, but the teasing edge was softer this time.

"I wanted to." His gaze searched yours, careful, intent. "I kept thinking about you. And I didn’t want to fall asleep wishing I was here instead."

Your fingers curled at your sides, gripping at nothing. "That’s..." You trailed off, words failing you. "That’s really sweet."

His smile deepened, laced with something warmer, something almost adoring. "I was worried I’d crossed into ‘hopelessly obsessed’ territory."

"Never said those things are mutually exclusive."

Kenan laughed. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant at first—like he was giving you an out, a final moment to stop this before the line blurred beyond return.

You let his touch linger, let his fingers curl loosely around yours, warm and steady.

His voice was softer now. "I’m really glad to see you."

Your chest tightened. The weight of his words settled deep, making it harder to ignore what you already knew.

Your pulse quickened. Swallowing, keeping your voice low, careful, you murmured, "We should go upstairs. Before we wake Jude."

Kenan didn’t move right away. His fingers squeezed yours just slightly, his grip steady, anchoring himself to this moment.

"Lead the way," he murmured.

…

You woke up to warmth.

Not the usual, oh, the blanket’s cozy kind of warmth—but the very specific kind that came from having a large, slightly inconvenient man wrapped around you like a human radiator.

Kenan’s arm was heavy around your waist, his chest pressed firmly against your back, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck.

For a blissful, fleeting moment, you didn’t think.

You just existed in the warmth of him, in the steady way he held you, like even in sleep, he wasn’t willing to let go. It was grounding, disorienting, and honestly very distracting.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Your heart stopped.

"Hey, you up?" 

Jude’s voice. Groggy. Unmistakable.

Kenan went completely still behind you.

Your stomach plummeted at the exact same speed panic shot through your veins.

You twisted, shoving at his shoulder, whispering urgently, "Go hide. Now."

Kenan groaned into the pillow, voice rough with sleep and entirely unbothered. "What’s going on?"

"Closet! Hurry up!" you hissed, already untangling yourself from the sheets, frantically smoothing out the blankets.

He cursed under his breath before rolling—not gracefully, not remotely smoothly—off the bed, landing with a muffled thud that had you cringing. You barely had time to gawk at his ridiculous lack of stealth before he scrambled toward the closet, slipping inside just as the doorknob turned.

You flipped onto your back, throwing an innocent expression onto your face so forcefully it was probably suspiciousas Jude poked his head in.

He blinked. Then squinted. Then held up a plate.

"As a thank you for dragging me home," he announced, completely unprompted. "I brought breakfast."

You stared at him, still trying to calm your breathing. "Wow. How sweet of you."

Jude frowned, stepping inside, eyeing you like you’d been caught committing tax fraud. "Why are you being weird?"

From inside the closet came the softest possible shuffle. You ignored it. Barely.

"I’m not," you said far too quickly.

Jude narrowed his eyes, the skepticism radiating from him palpable. "You definitely are."

The silence stretched.

Kenan was absolutely in that closet grinning. You just knew it.

“Just a bit sleepy, still need to wake up a bit.” You said, not even sure if you could convince yourself. 

After a painfully long beat, Jude finally left. "Take your time. I’ll be in the living room."

The moment the door clicked shut, you collapsed against the pillows, exhaling sharply.

From inside the closet, Kenan’s voice came far too smug for someone who had nearly blown his own cover.

"I think he’s onto you, baby."

Your eyes snapped to the closet. "Shut up and get out before he comes back."

Kenan slipped out, grinning like he had won something. His hair was already an absolute mess, and as he tugged his hoodie back into place, he looked disgustingly pleased with himself.

"Still worth it," he muttered, far too casual for someone who had just been shoved into a closet like a scandalous love affair in a bad rom-com.

You glared, unimpressed. "You’re the worst."

Kenan leaned down, tilting his head just slightly, voice low and teasing. "Go cuddle with Antoine then."

Your mouth opened, ready to deliver something truly scathing, but before you could—

He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek and slipped toward the window.

…

The stadium buzzed with anticipation, the crisp night air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the more questionable aromas of stadium food—the kind that always smelled five-star but tasted like regret. Fans waved scarves and banners, their collective energy contagious, a living, breathing force of excitement.

You, Vini, and Julián had arrived early, settling into your usual seats in the VIP box, which offered a prime view of the pitch. Jude, Kenan, and Arda were warming up, all sharp movements and pre-match focus. Vini, still sidelined with his injury, lounged comfortably like a man who had fully embraced the perks of forced rest. Julián, meanwhile, had no real stake in this game—his Atlético Madrid loyalties firmly intact—but had shown up under the universal rule of football friendships: when your boys play, you support.

It should have felt normal—just another match, just another night watching your brother do what he did best. But from the moment the whistle blew, your gaze found him. Not Jude, not the movement of the game as a whole—but Kenan. 

You told yourself you were just watching the match, same as everyone else. But the way your eyes tracked Kenan’s every step made it painfully obvious that this had very little to do with football.

Watching him play like this—so completely in his element, entirely untouchable—felt a little like staring directly at the sun. You weren’t supposed to. It was bad for you. But even knowing that, you still couldn’t look away.

And then—Kenan broke loose.

A perfectly timed run, the ball practically glued to his foot, the entire pitch stretching open before him like a red carpet moment he had scripted himself. His acceleration was sharp, effortless, the kind of movement that made defenders rethink their entire career choices. One quick feint, a clean turn, a final ruthless touch—

And the ball was in the back of the net.

The stadium detonated.

Kenan’s name thundered through the stands, fans losing their collective minds, his teammates swarming him in celebration. Hands ruffled his hair, clapped his back, pulled him into the chaos—except Kenan barely acknowledged any of it.

Because Kenan wasn’t looking at them.

His gaze was already cutting through the noise, through the bodies, through the absolute carnage unfolding around him—until it found you.

With all the casual confidence of a man completely unbothered by the tens of thousands of people currently watching, he held your stare for just a second longer than necessary, before lifting his fingers to his lips, sending a small, knowing kiss in your direction.Not exaggerated. Not over-the-top. Just a little something to make sure you saw. A little something to make sure you knew.

And oh, you knew.

Your stomach twisted. Heat crept up your neck. You could feel yourself reacting before you could stop it, before you could school your expression into something resembling normal.

Too late.

Julián, seated next to you, hummed. Low, amused. Maybe even delighted.

And just like that the match was no longer your biggest concern.

…

The hallway outside the locker rooms was a chaotic mix of movement and noise, players filtering in and out, staff giving hurried instructions, and media figures darting around like they had somewhere important to be.

You, Julián, and Vini lingered near the entrance, waiting while the rest of the group finished changing before heading out for dinner.

Vini scrolled through his phone, completely uninterested in anything happening around him.

Julián, however? Julián was watching you.

You pretended not to notice, shifting your weight slightly, fixing your gaze on anything else—the floor, the ceiling, a scuffed mark on the wall that was suddenly very interesting.

But, of course, he wasn’t going to let you off the hook that easily.

"You know," he said casually, shoving his hands into his pockets, voice just low enough to be intentional. "You could just tell him."

Your body went rigid.

"Tell who what?" you asked, feigning confusion as if you didn’t immediately know where this was going.

Julián gave you a look. Not just any look—the kind of look that translated to: don’t even try it.

You swallowed, forcing a nonchalant shrug. "You’re being cryptic."

"And you’re being too obvious," he countered without missing a beat, eyebrow lifting in quiet amusement.

He wasn’t wrong.

Before you could even begin crafting some kind of defense, he sighed, the teasing edge in his voice softening.

"Listen," he said, quieter this time, like he was letting you in on something no one else was supposed to hear. "If you’re happy, you should just be honest."

You hesitated.

Julián wasn’t usually like this. He wasn’t the type to meddle, to pry, to offer unsolicited advice unless he genuinely meant it.

And the fact that he was saying this now—that he was looking at you like he had already figured out everything you were trying so hard to keep to yourself—made something tighten in your chest.

" Julián —"

"Jude will understand," he said simply.

And just like that, your heart stopped. That cracked open something you weren’t prepared to confront yet.

…

Post-match dinners were tradition—good food, good company, and Arda laughing at himself while everyone else berated his more questionable decisions.

But tonight, something felt... off.

And if you had to pinpoint why, it would be the warm weight of Kenan’s hand resting on your thigh under the table.

The restaurant buzzed with post-game energy—clattering plates, bursts of laughter, the scent of grilled meat and fresh bread.

For a while, everything felt normal.

You and Kenan were just sitting next to each other. It wasn’t unusual. No one had batted an eye when you slid into the seat beside him. There was no reason to think twice about the way his knee brushed against yours a little too often or how, at some point, his hand had found its way to your thigh. The contact was warm, steady, deliberate in a way that made it impossible to ignore, but subtle enough that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone not looking for it.

Jude wasn’t suspicious. At least, not yet.

You frowned as Kenan stole a fry from your plate, grinning at your outraged expression as he dodged your attempt to swat at his hand. 

Somewhere between that and the next bite, you had started laughing a little too much, leaning in a little too easily.

Then came the real mistake.

Without thinking, without even realizing what you were doing, you reached over and fed Kenan a piece of food from your plate.

He didn’t bat an eye, didn’t move to stop you. He just took the bite like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The moment your fork landed back on your plate, Jude’s eyes found yours.

His brows furrowed. His gaze narrowed, expression shifting as though his brain was struggling to make sense of something that wasn’t quite clicking.

You could almost see it happening in real time, the slow mental process of realization beginning to piece itself together.

And in a moment of sheer, blind panic, Kenan—quick as ever—turned to Arda and, with zero hesitation, lifted a forkful of food to his mouth.

And fed him a bite straight from his plate. With complete eye contact. A hand under his chin for dramatic effect. Like he had been planning it all along.

Arda, to his eternal credit, didn’t miss a beat.

He sighed dreamily, tilting his head slightly as if this was some grand romantic moment before murmuring, “Finally, some love and appreciation.”

The entire table erupted into laughter. And just like that—crisis, momentarily avoided.

Jude, momentarily thrown off the scent, shook his head and rolled his eyes. "God, you two are annoying."

You exhaled.

Kenan’s hand, still resting on your thigh, squeezed once before relaxing again.

Suddenly, with loud steps, Antoine walked in.

Late as usual, he carried himself with the kind of lazy confidence that came from always assuming he was welcome, flashing his signature smirk as he slid into the empty seat across from Kenan. His gaze flicked across the table, already amused, already scanning for his next source of entertainment, before landing directly on you.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked, tone casual, but his eyes sharp.

Vini barely looked up. "You missed Kenan and Arda having a moment."

Arda, ever the performer, turned toward Kenan, winking like they had been caught in a scandalous affair.

"I’d happily do it again."

Antoine’s brow lifted in mild curiosity. "Do I want to know?"

"No," Julián muttered before taking a sip of his drink.

Antoine smirked, leaning forward slightly.

And then—he turned to you.

"Good to see you again," he said, tone just smooth enough to be irritating. "Didn’t know you were coming tonight."

Your body reacted before your mind did, the subtle shift of tension tightening across your shoulders, the momentary hesitation before you answered. It was small, barely noticeable, but enough for Kenan’s fingers to flex against your thigh under the table.

Antoine, oblivious, continued.

"Been a while, huh?" His voice had that same practiced charm, the kind that could talk its way in and out of just about anything.

You forced a polite smile. "Not long enough."

Arda snorted into his drink.

Antoine, entirely unbothered, let his grin stretch wider. "Whatever you say, beautiful."

The words settled over the table like a misplaced knife, sharp, unnecessary, and completely unwelcome.

You felt Kenan’s grip on your thigh tightening—not possessively, not obviously, but enough. Enough that you knew this was the exact moment his patience expired.

Antoine, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

"You know, I was thinking—"

"You? Thinking?"

Kenan clearly wasn’t the only one who had lost his patience for Antoine.

Jude’s voice sliced through the conversation like a cold blade, stopping whatever Antoine had planned to say before it even left his mouth.

Antoine blinked, caught off guard.

The shift in Jude’s demeanor was immediate, the air around him suddenly weighted with something just serious enough to silence whatever playful deflection Antoine might have had planned.

"Clearly you can’t, or you’d remember she’s off-limits."

The weight of the words hung between them, unchallenged.

Antoine scoffed. "Oh, come on—"

"I don’t care." Jude’s voice never wavered.

Antoine stiffened, his usual lazy confidence faltering.

Arda, ever the hero, ever the breaker of tension, propped his chin on his hand and made a kissy face at Jude.

"Thank God there’s another Bellingham who isn’t off-limits."

It took a second, but then the entire table exploded into laughter, the relief of the tension being broken visible on all faces.

Even Jude, despite himself, exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Antoine, thoroughly humiliated, sank into his seat.

Kenan reached for his drink, finally looking at peace.

And you?

You just exhaled, yet the weight on your shoulders hadn’t fully dissolved yet. 

...

The night air had a crisp edge to it, the kind that made everything feel a little more defined, a little more present. The streets had quieted, save for the occasional burst of laughter from passing groups and the distant hum of traffic rolling through the city. A leftover energy from the match still clung to the air, lingering in the spaces between streetlights and the faint glow of shop windows.

Jude had just left for some girl’s place, tossing you a lazy wave over his shoulder before sliding into the backseat of a taxi, completely unaware of what—or rather, who—he was leaving behind.

Now, it was just you and Kenan.

The two of you walked in sync, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the pavement, the kind of silent coordination that came naturally when you spent enough time around someone. Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was settled, familiar, charged in a way that didn’t require words.

Kenan was the first to break the silence.

“You know,” he mused, his hands shoved in his pockets, his voice carrying that usual casualness, though there was something softer beneath it, something more careful. “I realized something tonight.”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “And what’s that?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “I don’t actually know how you see the world.”

The comment made you blink, caught off guard. “What?”

Kenan smirked, but it wasn’t teasing—not in the way he usually was. “I know how you react. I know how you argue. I know the way your mind works when you’re scheming something, the way you roll your eyes when you think someone’s being an idiot. But I don’t know what you dream about. I don’t know what you think about when it’s just you and your own thoughts.”

His words sent something warm curling through your chest, something that felt an awful lot like being seen in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching. “That’s already quite the character study. What else is left?”

Kenan’s grin widened. “That you’re stubborn, that you were a menace growing up, and that you have god-awful taste in movies.”

You gasped, scandalized. “First of all, I do not have god-awful taste in movies—”

Kenan hummed, feigning deep thought. “You like that one rom-com with the guy who—”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, and you will respect it,” you shot back, jabbing a finger at his chest.

His laugh was warm, deep, cutting through the cool night like a melody you’d heard before and wanted to hear again.

But then, after a beat, his voice softened. “I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “Tell me about you.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to, but because no one ever really asked. Your entire life had existed in orbit around someone else’s story, in the shadow of football pitches and expectations, always introduced as Jude’s sister before being anything else.

But standing here, under the dim glow of streetlights, Kenan wasn’t looking at you like someone else’s sister.

He was looking at you. Like he wanted to know. Like he wanted to understand who you were beyond the spaces you filled for other people.

So, you told him.

About your dreams, your ambitions, the things you wanted that had nothing to do with football or being tethered to a world you hadn’t exactly chosen. About how you had always been restless, always searching for something that felt just out of reach, never quite sure what it was supposed to be. About the weight of constantly being seen as an extension of someone else instead of just you.

And Kenan listened.

Not in the way most people did, waiting for their turn to speak, but fully, completely. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t tease, didn’t try to fix anything. He just walked beside you, nodding now and then, his expression unreadable but focused, present, engaged.

Then, when you finally ran out of words, when you had spilled more than you had planned to, he stopped walking.

You turned to face him, and his gaze didn’t waver.

There was something warm in his eyes, something deliberate, something that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t sure you could name.

“I don’t want to keep sneaking around,” he said, straightforward, unwavering.

Your breath caught. The easiest response would have been to joke, to throw back something sarcastic, something that made this feel less serious than it was.

But you couldn’t. Not this time.

Instead, your voice came out quieter than expected. “Me neither.”

Kenan exhaled, like he had been holding onto that breath for too long.

He stepped closer, slow and measured, his presence surrounding you in a way that made the rest of the world fade into background noise. “We’ll tell him,” he murmured. “After this weekend.”

You hesitated—not because you weren’t sure, but because—

“Jude’s going to kill you,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile playing at your lips.

Kenan tilted his head, grin forming. “Think he’ll make it quick?”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Probably not.”

“Damn,” he sighed, like he was genuinely considering the odds. “Guess we better make the most of it while I still have my limbs.”

…

The morning unfolded slowly, wrapped in that golden kind of stillness that came after a night where nothing was rushed, nothing was hidden, and nothing felt like a mistake.

You stirred awake gradually, the soft glow of daylight stretching through the curtains, dusting the room in muted warmth. The duvet was tangled around your legs, the air comfortably heavy, and Kenan’s arm draped over your waist, solid and warm, his grip loose but unwavering.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Still caught in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, your mind felt foggy, your body relaxed, completely enveloped in the weight of him against your back. His breath was slow and steady, lips barely grazing your bare shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his chest in perfect rhythm with yours.

There was something easy about it. Something natural, like neither of you needed to rush back into reality just yet.

Like the rest of the world could wait.

Kenan stirred behind you, inhaling deeply as he shifted, his fingers pressing lightly against your stomach before relaxing again—like his body refused to let go, even in sleep.

Then, soft and half-mumbled against your skin, a voice still thick with sleep—

“Mmm… morning, baby.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the way his lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, the drowsy heaviness still clinging to his green eyes, barely open, barely awake.

“Morning,” you murmured, voice quieter than intended.

Kenan exhaled a slow, contented sigh before burying his face into the crook of your neck, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for just a moment, as if delaying the inevitable need to get up.

Neither of you moved for a while, tangled in the sheets, limbs draped over each other in a way that didn’t feel stolen or temporary anymore—just right. The silence was filled with soft sighs, half-hearted murmurs about starting the day, Kenan groaning dramatically every time you even suggested getting up.

It took twenty more minutes of coaxing, a promise of coffee, and an absurd amount of effort to finally untangle yourself from him.

Which somehow led to Kenan, standing in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up lazily, completely in your space—eerily familiar to the first time you two met.

"You just gonna stand there and look pretty, or are you actually going to help?" you teased, casting him a glance over your shoulder as you reached for the pan.

Kenan smirked, arms crossed over his chest, the definition of amused. “I thought I was the guest here.”

You rolled your eyes. “I must have missed the part where guests show up like stray cats and never leave.”

Kenan snickered, stepping closer, his presence pressing against yours without even touching you.

"Can’t help it," he muttered, reaching past you to grab a knife from the counter, his hand grazing yours in the process.

Your breath hitched.

It was such a small thing—barely even a touch. But the air between you shifted, thickened, like neither of you quite knew how to handle it now that there were no rules left to break.

Kenan didn’t move away.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you, something soft and unreadable flickering behind his expression.

“I like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

He glanced around—at you, at the kitchen, at the quiet ease of the morning—before a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“This,” he murmured. “Mornings with you.”

…

By noon, Kenan was lacing up his shoes, bag slung over his shoulder, the usual ease in his movements feeling just a little more forced. Neither of you had said it out loud, but the reluctance hung between you, stretching out the seconds, making something as routine as leaving for training feel heavier than it should.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, watching him stall in the smallest ways—adjusting his bag, running a hand through his hair, double-checking his phone. It wasn’t subtle, and you weren’t about to call him out for it, because truthfully, you didn’t want him to go either.

His hand reached for the door handle, fingers grazing the cool metal, but instead of pushing it open, he hesitated. The pause wasn’t long, but it was enough.

He turned back.

His gaze settled on you, lingering for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable in his expression. Without a word, he stepped forward, his fingers curling lightly under your jaw, thumb tracing absently along your cheekbone.

He slowly leaned in, lips warm against yours, moving with easy confidence, unhurried but unwilling to be cut short. His palm moved to your hips, pressing lightly against, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull you closer but knew he shouldn’t.

When he pulled back, his gaze flickered over your face, taking in every detail before a small, quiet smirk ghosted across his lips.

"You make it really hard to leave," he murmured.

A quiet exhale slipped past your lips. "Then don’t."

Kenan let out a soft laugh, more resigned than amused, like he knew exactly how impossible that suggestion was. His fingers lingered against your skin for just a second longer before he pressed a final kiss to your forehead.

Neither of you noticed the figure standing just a few feet away.

Neither of you caught the subtle shift in Kenneth’s expression, the way his arms crossed over his chest, gaze locked onto you both with an undeniable edge of amusement.

But when he saw Kenan kiss you—

Something clicked.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

And just like that—

A plan was beginning to form.

…

Vini Jr’s birthday getaway was supposed to be a break—one night away from the noise, the obligations, the endless cycle of training and matches. Just twenty-four hours to indulge, unwind, and embrace the illusion that their schedules weren’t already mapped out for months in advance.

And for the first few hours, that’s exactly what it was.

The cabin was absurdly over-the-top, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Nestled deep in the countryside with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a valley, it had everything—an infinity pool, a sauna, a hot tub, and a very charming fire pit outside. Every detail had been planned with precision, a testament to the fact that Vini took his birthdays far too seriously.

It was meant to be a night of doing absolutely nothing except lounging around, eating too much. It was one of those nights that felt effortless, where nothing needed to be said aloud because the comfort of familiarity spoke for itself. The kind of night where everything felt easy—like nothing could go wrong.

And then, Vini Jr—sentimental by nature, twice as bad when exhausted and warm from whiskey—sighed, stretching his legs toward the fire.

“This group means a lot to me,” he murmured, gaze flickering across the room before settling on the flames. “You guys are like my family.”

There were a few small nods of agreement.

Julián, reclining comfortably in an armchair, gave a lazy smile. “Yeah. Feels that way, doesn’t it?”

Arda, sprawled across half the couch with a blanket tangled around his legs, let out a sleepy chuckle. “If we’re family, does that mean I get to be the favorite child?”

“No,” Julián said flatly.

The laughter was soft, easy, unforced—

Until Antoine, sitting just slightly apart from the group, his usual smirk in place, twirling his whiskey glass idly between his fingers, decided to ruin it.

"You’d be surprised how close some people are."

The shift was instant, subtle but undeniable—like the air had dropped a degree.

Jude, who had been half-drowsy, half-listening, barely reacted at first, brows knitting slightly as he processed the words, turning them over in his mind.

“What?” he asked, tone absentminded, not yet realizing he had just stepped into a landmine.

Antoine leaned forward, setting his glass down with slow, deliberate ease, his gaze flicking toward you, then Kenan, then back again.

“Oh, nothing,” he mused, stretching out in his seat. “Just thinking about how you never really know what’s going on right under your nose.”

Your stomach plummeted.

Jude’s expression barely flickered, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, subtle but unmistakable, a sign that he had just caught up to the conversation a second too late.

Vini Jr must have sensed it too, because his voice cut through the air, sharp and warning.

"Antoine."

But Antoine, who had an unsettling grin plastered on his face, wasn’t finished.

“I meant to come apologize after dinner the other night,” he continued, voice mocking, syrupy-slow, words laced with the kind of satisfaction that made your stomach churn.

And then, with a casual, effortless cruelty—

"But then I saw Kenan making out with your sister."

Silence.

Like the room itself had just swallowed all the air.

Jude didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even react.

Just sat perfectly still, eyes locked onto nothing in particular, face so unreadable it almost looked blank.

Like his brain had short-circuited, too stuck between disbelief and fury to process anything at all.

When he looked up his eyes met yours. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack under the pressure. 

"Tell me he's lying."

His voice was quiet, low—but lethal.

A final chance.

A last, desperate lifeline—one last opportunity to prove that Antoine was just being a smug, conniving bastard.

But you had nothing to give him.

"Jude, I—” You faltered, voice paper-thin, cracking under the weight of what was coming. “There… might be something going on.”

Another silence.

But this one was worse.

Thicker.

Final.

Like the ground itself had just cracked open beneath your feet.

Jude’s expression didn’t shift. Didn’t change. Didn’t flicker. It was still terrifyingly blank.

"Oh, come on, Jude," Arda groaned, breaking the tension like he hadn’t just stepped into the eye of a hurricane.“Don’t be mad, they’re actually kinda cute.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter skated across the room.

Vini Jr sat up, clearing his throat. “Kenan’s a good guy, man. You know that.”

Jude’s head snapped so fast you almost thought he’d get whiplash. His gaze darted from Arda to Vini Jr to Julián, like he was waiting for someone—anyone—to tell him he wasn’t crazy.

That he had every right to feel betrayed.

That this was completely, utterly wrong.

But no one did.

His voice came out sharp, brittle at the edges. "So, what? You’re all just fine with this?”

Julián hesitated before exhaling heavily. “Well… yeah?”

Jude blinked. Slowly.

Like he was waiting for the universe to right itself.

It didn’t.

Arda, shooting Kenan an empathic look, sighed. “I mean, it’s not like they killed someone, Jude.”

"That’s not the point!" Jude’s voice rose suddenly, snapping with a rough edge. “I had one rule. Just one.”

The words hit you square in the chest, knocking the breath out of you.

And then—

Something shifted in his face.

Like a much, much worse realization had just landed.

His jaw locked, eyes narrowing.

"Wait."

The single word was a trigger, a warning, a countdown to something that was about to explode.

His gaze flickered across the room. “Did you guys already know?”

Silence.

And then—

Julián sighed. “I mean…”

Arda awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “I might have figured it out.”

Vini Jr, ever the most unbothered, hummed. “I had my suspicions.”

Jude inhaled sharply.

"You—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening like he was physically forcing himself to stay composed.

And then—

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

Bitter. Cold.

"Unbelievable."

His gaze snapped back to Kenan, something dark flashing through it.

"You. You knew how I felt about this. About my teammates—my friends—going near her."

Kenan’s jaw was tight, his entire body tense, rigid.

"I didn’t plan for this to happen," he said, evenly, carefully.

“So?” Jude scoffed. "That makes it better?"

Kenan hesitated. Then, softly, quietly—

“No. It doesn’t.”

Jude let out a sharp, unsteady breath, pushing up from his seat so fast that the blanket draped over his lap slipped to the floor.

“I need to clear my head.”

And just like that—he walked out.

The room stayed frozen, the embers in the fireplace popping softly, the only sound breaking the crushing weight of his absence.

Kenan didn’t move.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Just sat there, hands clasped in front of him, staring at the door Jude had disappeared through like he was already mourning something he couldn’t bring back.

Finally he exhaled. “I should go.”

“No.” Vini’s voice was firm.

But Kenan just shook his head, already rising to his feet.

“He’s my friend,” he said simply, voice quieter now, the tension in his body starting to unwind into something that looked an awful lot like regret.

“And I crossed a line. I don’t want to stay here and make it worse.”

Vini sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

Then—his eyes flickered to Antoine, and his entire expression changed.

“You, however?” His tone turned sharp, unforgiving. “You can get the hell out.”

Antoine scoffed. “Oh, come on—”

“I mean it,” Vini snapped, patience gone. “You don’t get to sit here and act like this wasn’t a game to you. You wanted to cause damage—and you did."

Antoine rolled his eyes, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

And then, with one last lingering glance at you and Kenan—

He was gone.

The silence around the now nearly burned-out fire was deafening. 

Arda exhaled. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

Julián gave you and Kenan a sympathetic look. “For what it’s worth, we never thought it was wrong. Just… complicated.”

Vini clapped Kenan on the shoulder. “Jude will come around. He just needs time.”

Kenan didn’t say anything.

Just nodded, his jaw tight, gaze distant.

Then—he turned to you, eyes softening for just a second.

“I’ll pack my bag.”

And with that, he was gone too.

…

The warmth of the day had long faded, leaving behind a crisp chill that clung to your skin, but you barely felt it.

You sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself, staring out at the darkness beyond the trees, replaying every second of what had happened inside.

The way Jude had looked at you—like he didn’t recognize you.

Your stomach twisted painfully. You and Kenan had agreed—you would tell Jude together, do it the right way. But now, the choice had been ripped from you. Antoine had done it for you, cruelly, deliberately, stripping you of any control. Instead of sitting Jude down, instead of explaining it carefully, you had been exposed—caught like some dirty little secret.

Now, it was out in the open. And everything felt ruined.

The door creaked open behind you. Footsteps on the wooden planks.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

Kenan settled beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth without touching. For weeks, he had made you feel safe. But tonight, there was no safety. No reassurance. Just the wreckage of what you had built.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“I should have told him right away,” Kenan murmured.

You swallowed hard. “We both should have.”

Kenan exhaled sharply. “I knew exactly how this would go. I knew how he’d react, and still—I let myself believe it would be fine.”

His gaze was locked on the horizon, jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists. “Maybe Antoine did it to be an ass, but it doesn’t change the fact that I let this happen. That I knew this could ruin things, and I…” He inhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

His voice broke slightly.

And you knew—he wasn’t just talking about Jude.

Kenan exhaled, finally turning his head to look at you.

And your stomach dropped.

Because for the first time in weeks, he looked conflicted. Not just guilty. Not just sorry. But like he was standing on the edge of something and deciding whether to jump—or walk away.

“I love you.”

Soft. Barely a whisper. But it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Because this wasn’t how he was supposed to say it. Not like this. Not in the quiet of the aftermath, when everything was already slipping away.

Your breath hitched, vision blurring slightly, but you forced yourself to swallow past the lump in your throat. If this was the end—if you had to let him go—then at least he would know

You reached out, fingers trembling slightly as you cupped his face, memorizing the warmth of his skin.

“I love you too.”

Kenan exhaled, ragged, forehead pressing against yours. His hands cradled the back of your neck like he couldn’t quite believe what you had just said.

For a few stolen seconds, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Just sat there, foreheads touching, eyes closed, existing in the space of what could have been.

Then Kenan pulled back, and you felt it.

“I don’t want you to pick between me or your family,” he murmured.

Your chest caved in on itself. “Don’t say that.”

Kenan let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Come on, baby.”

He called you that one last time, like he knew he wouldn’t be saying it again. His thumb brushed your cheek, one final touch, like he was committing the moment to memory.

“You should stay.”

Your stomach plummeted.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head, tears well and truly spilling over now.

Kenan smiled, but it was small, sad, something entirely different from the ones he used to give you. “You know I’m right.”

You bit your lip, shaking your head, desperate. “I don’t care.”

Kenan exhaled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for it to hurt.

“You do,” he murmured against your skin.

And that was the worst part—because he was right.

Kenan had known what this would cost before you did. And that was why he was doing what you couldn’t bring yourself to do, why he was making the choice you refused to face.

A lump formed in your throat. “This isn’t fair.”

Kenan’s smile barely touched his lips. “Nothing about this was ever fair.”

You shut your eyes, but it didn’t stop the warmth trailing down your cheek. Kenan caught the tear with his thumb, unbearably gentle, as if this moment wasn’t already unraveling you.

And then—he stepped back.

And you knew.

This was it.

The moment he walked away.

Kenan adjusted his bag, glancing at you one last time before slipping his hands into his pockets and making his way down the steps. His shoulders were tense, his pace unhurried, but he didn’t look back.

And if you had glanced up, just for a second, you would have seen the faint glow of light filtering through the open window above the porch.

Would have seen Jude lying awake in bed, unmoving, his expression unreadable.

He had heard every word.

…

The stadium pulsed with energy—chants, stomping, the distant crackle of flares. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, laced with smoke drifting from the passionate sections of the crowd.

To most, this was just another match. Another ninety minutes under the floodlights.

For you, it was something else.

The first game since everything had fallen apart. Since Kenan walked away. Since you let him.

You sat stiffly in the private box, wedged between Vini Jr. and Julián, a cup of cold coffee cradled between your hands. Your eyes weren’t on the game.

They were on him.

Kenan stood on the pitch, clad in his Real Madrid kit, shoulders squared. To the world, he looked composed. You knew better. His jaw was too tight, his shoulders held tension that shouldn’t be there.

His gaze swept the stands until it found you. A fraction of hesitation. A flicker of something before he forced himself to turn away.

Julián muttered, “You’re staring.”

You blinked. “Was not.”

“Right,” he drawled. “And I’m a Barcelona fan.”

Jude hadn’t really spoken to you since that night. He had seen it—the way you barely ate, stayed in your room too long, weren’t yourself. Watching you now, staring at Kenan like you had already lost—he knew.

And on the pitch, it showed.

Kenan was off. His passes lacked precision, his movement hesitated. Jude, too. He wasn’t playing poorly, but you saw the difference.

Vini exhaled. “This isn’t them.”

You weren’t just watching two footballers struggle. You were watching two boys trying to push through something bigger than the game. And failing.

…

Halftime.

Kenan barely made it three steps into the tunnel before a hand gripped his arm, pulling him to a stop. His entire body tensed, bracing instinctively for a confrontation, expecting a sharp word, maybe even another shove.

But when he turned and met Jude’s gaze, something in him stilled.

Because Jude didn’t look angry.

He didn’t look like he was about to start another fight, didn’t look like he was holding onto resentment or betrayal.

He just looked… tired.

Kenan swallowed, exhaling slowly as Jude crossed his arms, studying him like he was weighing something in his head.

"You care about her."

It wasn’t a question.

Kenan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded without hesitation.

"I do."

Jude didn’t blink. His expression remained unreadable, sharp but not hostile, as if he was searching for any sign of doubt, any hesitation, anything that would confirm his worst fears.

"No, I mean, you really care about her."

Kenan’s chest tightened, his pulse drumming against his ribs.

But still, there was no pause when he spoke.

"More than anything."

Jude let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face like this realization had just knocked the wind out of him.

"I was an idiot," he muttered, shaking his head. "I should’ve known earlier. She’s been miserable all week. So have I. And so have you."

Kenan didn’t answer.

Because there was nothing to say.

Jude sighed again, quieter this time, voice losing its edge.

"Listen to me," he said, meeting Kenan’s eyes with a look that left no room for misinterpretation. "If you ever mess this up—if you ever hurt her—" he paused, letting the weight of it settle, "you are done for."

Kenan nodded immediately. "I won’t."

Jude held his gaze for another long moment, assessing, deciding.

Then, finally, finally, he nodded.

"Then you have my blessing."

The words hit harder than Kenan expected.

His shoulders relaxed instantly, the tension he had been carrying for weeks lifting all at once, and for the first time in days, he could actually breathe.

The relief was overwhelming—so much so that before he could even think, before he could talk himself out of it—

He pulled Jude into a hug.

Jude stiffened immediately.

Then—he sighed. Loud. Dramatic. "Alright, alright, enough of this."

Kenan grinned, pulling back, the tightness in his chest easing completely.

Jude gave him a long-suffering look before muttering, half amused, half resigned—

"Kind of glad it’s you if it has to be any of my mates." A pause. "Still kinda weird, though."

Kenan laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks.

And just like that, the weight of everything else—the tension, the guilt, the uncertainty—faded into the background.

Jude clapped him on the shoulder, nodding toward the tunnel. "Go play like yourself."

…

Where the first half had been marked by hesitation, the second half ignited with purpose. The tension that had clouded the match lifted, replaced by a sharp, relentless drive. And at the center of it all—Kenan.

From the moment the whistle blew, he was everywhere. Every pass landed with precision, every touch carried confidence, every movement had the unmistakable ease of a player who had just remembered exactly who he was. It was as if something inside him had settled, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally lifted.

Jude’s words in the tunnel had done more than clear the air. They had set him free.

Kenan played like a man with nothing to hold him back, his rhythm returning in full force. His movements were sharp, impossible to predict, his speed cutting through defenders before they even knew what was happening. The energy was infectious—his teammates fed off it, the crowd roared for it, the entire game shifted because of it.

Two minutes left on the clock. One last counterattack.

The stadium held its breath as Kenan surged forward, the ball at his feet, his body moving with instinctive precision. The defenders scrambled to stop him, but he was faster, sharper, weaving past them with practiced ease.

The goal was right there.

He didn’t hesitate.

One clean, powerful strike—

The ball sailed past the keeper.

And hit the back of the net.

Kenan barely had time to react before his teammates crashed into him, grabbing at his jersey, shaking him, shouting in pure elation. The weight of the game, of the past few weeks, of everything—gone in an instant.

And you?

You didn’t even realize you had jumped to your feet, hands pressed over your mouth, laughter spilling out in pure, unfiltered exhilaration. Your heart was pounding, the adrenaline coursing through you as you stared down at the pitch, at him.

Kenan turned, still surrounded by his teammates, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. But he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking for you.

And the second his gaze found yours, the rest of the world fell away.

His hands lifted, his fingers shaping a heart.

Right at you.

Your breath hitched, something flipping violently in your stomach, the moment pulling so tight you could feel it in your bones.

A hundred thoughts flashed through your mind. Jude. What if he saw? What if—

But then Jude jogged over to Kenan and patted him on the back, before tilting his head up to the box—

And smiling at you.

The tightness in your chest unraveled, the last few weeks dissolving in an instant.

Jude was telling you, without words, without spectacle, in the quietest, most Jude way possible that everything was okay.

The final whistle blew, Real’s victory confirmed, and the stadium exploded into celebration.

Your feet carried you down the stands before you could talk yourself out of it, weaving through the crowd, pushing past security, slipping through the barriers until your shoes hit the pitch.

The world around you was a blur of flashing cameras, roaring fans, falling confetti—

None of it mattered. You only saw one thing.

Kenan.

Still in the center of the pitch, still wrapped in the aftermath of victory—teammates cheering, hands clapping against his back, voices shouting over each other in celebration.

But Kenan wasn’t listening.

His eyes were searching.

And the second he saw you, everything else became secondary.

He moved through the crowd with quiet determination, each stride measured, gaze fixed on you like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be. There was no hesitation, no doubt—just certainty.

The second he reached you, his hands found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your jacket, warm and steady. His forehead brushed against yours, the ghost of a breath passing between you, his grip anchoring you to him like he had no intention of letting go.

And then—his lips were on yours.

There was nothing tentative about it, no room for second-guessing.

The way he kissed you was deliberate, like he had been craving this moment long enough and wasn’t about to waste it. He tasted like adrenaline and triumph, his fingers tightening against you as though to make sure you were really there.

The stadium noise melted into something distant, unimportant. It was just the two of you, caught in the heady mix of exhaustion, relief, and something deeper—something neither of you could deny anymore.

Still breathless, you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, the flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips.

“So, since we’re all feeling sentimental, should I kiss you too?” Arda stood a few steps away, grinning as he clapped Jude on the shoulder, eyes alight with mischief.

Jude recoiled instantly, baffled. “Absolutely not.”

Arda clutched his chest in exaggerated offense. “Wow. Rejected just like that. No hesitation.”

Laughter rippled through the team, light and easy, the weight of the last few weeks dissolving into something less complicated.

Jude exhaled, shaking his head.

But this time he was smiling.

it’s really nice to talk to you, often in the sunset on the way home, with an apple cider bottle in your hand. which makes him question why your hair smells like fruit punch (it should smell like apple cider instead). confessing and confronting feelings he’s not quite sure of, afraid of what you think of him. why would he ruin this tender friendship when spending time with you now feels so safe? so comfortable? even if you’re just friends, you could be more than that. maybe it’s easier to pour all of his feelings into his games, to score goals and quietly dedicate them to you without you ever knowing.

and when you show up to his game the next week, he scans the crowd after he scores, just to find you already on your feet cheering the loudest for him.

he realises he’s lost the battle he’s been fighting.

because even if kenan swears he doesn’t even like you that much.

wait.

he does.

fuck.