Djed was impressed, to say the least. Mesmerised by her raw and authentic energy. Before the event ended, she handed him her phone number on demand. The harmonious face features, locs and vibrant energy were enough to make her capitulate. Although she was clearly attracted to the man, she refused to put too much thought into it. If he calls back, good. If he does not, his loss. Djed texted her the same night. ”Did you make it home safely? It’s Djed! We met at the concert.”

The beginning of a roller coaster ride – she just did not know it back then. How could she? Google research should have stopped her. What did she expect from an athlete? Somehow she managed to convince herself that he is discreet. Contrary to his peers, he is rarely, if ever, on gossip pages. He seems religious, chill, and fun to be around. Everything seemed easy. Way too easy. Then reality hit. The first looping happened. A random girl that looked nothing like her sending her threats. Leave Djed alone. He’s mine, you ugly-ass bitch. 

She confronted him. He denied, wrapping his lies in honey topped up with sprinkles of promises. 

”So you don’t know her?”

”No, babe. You have my word. You’re the only one on my mind.”

Lies. Lies. Lies. Weirdly, she enjoyed the way they sounded. Coated in love confessions and promises.

The text message lights up the cardboard. It is clear. The name at the centre of their numerous disputes appeared on the screen once again. ”When are you coming over? I miss you, D❤️”

Djed rapidly grabs the phone as if it could delete what just happened. He feels her burning eyes on him but chooses to watch her building facade. The lyrics they were singing minutes ago suddenly feel like a slap in the face. The reminder of her reality. One where Djed might be lying to her, playing in her face like a kid playing marbles in the playground. Her throat burns, the rage piling up at the pit of her stomach. 

”Are you kidding me? You’re back on your shit again?”

”She probably made a mistake. I haven't been in contact with her for weeks.”

”Yeah, it’s never your fault. Of course. You know what? I’m not even going to bother tonight. I’m out.” With that, she exits the car, rearranging her tiny leather skirt in the process. The one she purposefully chose for him. The car door slams, followed by his footsteps. She can feel his presence behind her but plays deaf. The house keys have never been that out of reach, even in her mini designer bag he gifted her last month. Djed keeps repeating her name like the chorus of a pop song. She ignores. Her fingers bump against every corner of her bag until she feels the hard steel. 

He is so close that his cologne invades her senses. As she prepares to open the main door, Djed pushes the door. His movement is not aggressive, just perfectly firm. 

”If you ignore me, it’s very simple. I’m going to ring that door until your mother opens it so I can introduce myself to her.” She pauses, breathing out loud to regulate the boiling blood in her system. He knows that her mother would disinherit her if she ever learn about their relationship. If she could even put a name on it. Anger slowly rises as she quietly observes him. The more she stares, the more she feels like throwing her keys in his face. 

Her voice is barely a whisper when she responds, ”I dare you to, Djed.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll be disappointed to hear that her perfect Christian daughter is messing around with a Muslim. That she’s lying about lecturing teenagers to see me.” Her eyes express all the rage she cannot voice out without waking up the entire neighbourhood. 

”You don’t want her to know that you’re not only getting on your knees to pray.”

”Go to hell, Djed. You’re not the only one who can play this game. One interview is all it takes to destroy that pure image of the Muslim boy. Like that, both of our families are going to be very disappointed.” 

The tension heightens when she retaliates. Both of them leaning on the main door, the distance between their faces is ridiculous. She feels his hot breath on her when he leans in, his mouth timidly kissing her ear. 

”I won’t mind, babe. At least, we’ll rely on each other.” She wants to push him. Scream how much she hates him. In her head this is what she does. Reality is quite the opposite. She simply stands there, allowing his kisses to poison her mind. That scene feels like watching the same telenovela all over again. Djed gets bolder. His fingers gently grab her chin, tenderly closing the small gap between their faces. 

The text message replays on loop in her head. Today, something irritates her more than before. With a firm gesture, she rests her finger on his lips, refraining him from kissing her. She ignores her body begging for love and attention. Imploring to be touched, caressed and appreciated like it used to near Djed. 

”I should get inside.” She dryly cuts the conversation. Bombarding him with questions about that girl never worked before. Why would it suddenly change tonight? She is no longer that gullible girl he met at the beginning of their illusion of a relationship. 

”Oh, and this is how you say goodbye?”

”Yeah. I’m pretty sure you can get kisses and hugs from Kelly. Apparently mine aren’t enough anyway.” She concludes, her body rapidly moving away from him as she joins her building. End of the conversation. Tonight, she refuses to engage in the same circle. 

”Babe. Babe. Babe.” She ignores the number of times he repeated that word. Could have been fifty, could have been a hundred. It is none of her business. The second she crosses the entrance of her building, Djed becomes a second thought. After all, she has an image to maintain at home. As per usual, the seconds in the elevator feel like hours. Fifth floor, a rapid and precise glance just in case. No one, nothing to worry about. Only after that, she opens the small trapdoor. 

From now on, it is purely routine. The vibrations of her phone remind her to put it on do not disturb. She is not taking any risks. Her fingers dig every corner, ignoring the dust that stays on her skin until she finds the blue plastic bag. One of her biggest secrets. The plastic that often contained two parts of her identity: the parent-friendly one and the other. The sounds coming from the several apartments are not sufficient to stress her out. She is on a mission: looking like the stereotypical church girl. Which means no heels, mini skirts, décolleté, wigs or makeup.

If phones could speak, they would probably gossip about her. Having a blast, highlighting how ridiculous she looks, removing her makeup in front of her phone screen and going back to modest clothes. Once the mission is accomplished, another behind the door waits for her. 

The simple click of the door probably alerts her. She is right. The middle-aged woman she calls 'mother', calmly sitting on the sofa. By the way, she longingly inspects her frame; questioning is right around the corner. 

”You’re coming home pretty late from that lecture.” She remarks, her eyes glancing at the holy book in her hands. Lecture? More like reading through Djed’s nonsense. 

”Mom, come on. You know teenagers. They had one hundred questions.”

”What intrigued them today?” Not the reply she expected but she has to roll with it. 

”We talked about too many topics. It would probably take me all night long to summarise everything… All I crave is a good night of sleep.” 

Her mother nods, the braids on her head following her head movement. She finally smiles at her. The type of gesture that rarely ever fails to make her guilty. However, it is the only way. The concept of dating would go over her mother’s head. Life is made to be explored, and she is not intending to miss out on anything. 

”Good night, sweetheart.”

”Good night, Mom.” Without adding another word, she vanishes to her bedroom. That act is exhausting, but as she explained earlier, she needs to live her own life and protect herself. All of that by cautiously avoiding conflict with her mother. 

With a loud sigh, she throws her bathrobe on before falling onto her single bed. Like 80% of people, she casts a glance at her notifications and removes DND. Texts and missed calls flooded in within minutes, all of them from the same man: Djed. Any other day, she would have taken time to read and respond, but not tonight. Today is all about peace. If Djed wants to play stupid with Kelly, she will act accordingly. 

*****

Three days later…

Djed never stopped calling, texting or even bombarding her on Instagram. She misses him. Saying otherwise would be a blatant lie. Nevertheless, this time she barely has the energy to engage in another back and forth with him. She already gave too much. So much so, she has nothing left in stock. She is too exhausted to pursue or even pretend.

For the past days, her attention has been on this guy at her church. The one she plays the piano with. They have been interacting through texts, and she enjoys their conversations thus far. No inappropriate word, touch or gesture. A real gentleman. Even if she must admits, he is not as funny as Djed can be. 

She aimlessly scrolls on Instagram, looking for anything that could put her mind on pause. Stopping her mind from wondering why on earth Djed is always talking to that woman. As long as he is not honest about their situation, she will not talk to him. 

Speaking of the devil, there he is, calling her phone for the tenth time of the day. Like she has been doing for days, she declines. Her mind already knows he will try again. Wrong assumption. The next text forces her out of bed. ”I’m downstairs, doughnut. Come over.”

She cautiously walks to the window to check by herself. This is not a lie. His black Mercedes catches her attention. At that moment, the burning fire revives. The same one she tried to tame for the past week, an explosive mix of anger, sadness and confusion. 

Her fingers type as she tries to calm her hot breath. ”Fuck you. I’m not coming.” Before she could think, a loud groan slipped from her lips. He always finds a way to come back to her. His audacity is very impressive, she must admit. Another text. Less than thirty seconds after she sent hers. 

”It wasn’t a request. Come downstairs, or I’ll start honking and wake the entire neighbourhood up, including your mom.” Jumping from the window sounds more appealing than her mother finding out about her secret life. 

With an extreme eye roll, she wraps herself in a pink bathrobe, puts her pink furry slippers on to fight the small fall breeze and discreetly heads outside of the house. With each step, she prays her mother does not wake up. What kind of excuses could she give for going outside the house at such hours? Way past midnight. 

The fresh wind hits her face and naked legs, but she keeps walking, led by curiosity or hope. She cannot tell. After double-checking her environment, she gets into the black car. There he is, dressed in a cream tracksuit, white sneakers and a black cap. Of course, he had to be even finer than she could recall. Djed immediately leans in to kiss her cheek. She barely moves, completely ignoring him.

”I missed you, doughnut.”

”Don’t even try it, Djed. It’s not going to work this time.” He drives further to ensure their privacy. Somewhere near a park where no one could see them. A place where no one could spread rumours to her mother. The car stops, and he pulls out a white box. One she can recognise among many. 

”I brought your favourite pastries. I’ve stayed in line for an hour just to get these doughnuts for you.” She opened the box, revealing the crème brûlée doughnuts she loves so much. The attention is cute. Still not enough for her to forget about Kelly. The pending shadow over their supposed relationship or whatever. Nothing official except dates, feelings, great sex and a sprinkle of jealousy coming from both sides. 

”Am I supposed to forgive you because you brought food? Really, Djed? You’ve been spending way too much time watching those old-school video clips.”

He barely contains his amusement. ”For my defence, they never bring food. Only flowers, necklaces and stuff.” Under other circumstances, she would have laughed. Yet there is nothing to giggle about. Nothing about their situation is funny. The grin on his face rapidly vanishes when he notices her dark stare.

”What I mean is…” He pauses, his fingers playing with the fabrics of his joggers. ”I just thought you’d be happy. I like seeing you smile.”

She rolls her eyes in response, her eyes stealing a glance at the window. ”I’d be happier if you were good to me. And mostly honest.”

Djed groans after rubbing his eyes. ”I’m honest. Kelly isn’t my girl. We’ve been talking, flirting and intimate, but it was at the very start of our story.”

”Why is she always texting and calling you then? If you were really done, you wouldn’t be out there entertaining her. It makes no sense.”

”It makes absolute sense. We already had that conversation last month. Should I remind you what you told me?” He stares at her, looking for a reaction. Instead, she keeps looking at the fancy buildings near them. Her arms cross as she realises how uncomfortable that conversation is turning. 

”You told me for now you prefer to see where it goes. You’re not ready. I respect that, but you’re not going to get exclusivity without giving anything in return. This isn’t how it works.”

”I’ve said that because of that exact reason. If you’re always out there talking to somebody else, why would I decide to be exclusive with you? I refuse to be in the middle of a love triangle.” Her tone is cutting, accusatory.

”Oh, come on, man. You’re not even honest. How can you talk about Kelly when you’re talking to that fucking guy at church? Now who’s telling me you’re not talking to more men?”

Something gets her attention, forcing her to look at him in the eyes. They never talked about Khalil together. She can also swear on her own life that he never caught a text message or anything. Which leaves the door open only for one option. The silence in the car speaks for itself. The tension is at its peak.

The words finally come out. The decibels increasing in the small space. ”You’ve been stalking me? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

”I needed to make sure you’re good. You were ignoring me.” No smile on his face, only that small spark in his eyes as if he had accomplished something respectable. 

”It still doesn’t give you the right to fucking stalk me, Djed.” The tone of her voice keeps rising as she realises what is actually happening.

”I don’t like the idea of you talking to other guys. You’re supposed to be mine.”

“Supposed to be – you said it yourself.” She pauses before pursing, ”I’ll never be yours as long as you keep messing around with that other girl, Djed. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

In the calmest timbre, he says, ”You haven’t denied anything. I assume you’re talking to him.” One more frustration to add on her list. He does not even seem to care about stalking her. 

"Is that all you care about, Djed? Really? You’ve literally stalked me.”

He nervously laughs. His hands resting on his knees as he explains, ”It’s not stalking. I didn’t spend my entire day following you. I just went to your church to make sure you were attending. At first, I was happy to see you then that cunt appeared out of nowhere to whisper something in your ear. So yeah, I came back the next day to make sure I wasn’t misinterpreting anything. And I wasn’t.” 

By the time he finished his rent, she could feel the jealousy overflowing. The resentment in his voice. Although communication and maturity are advised, a part of her enjoys that situation. Mirror effect. Time to go through what he put her through. 

”As long as you’re not honest about what’s going on between you and that girl, I’m not saying anything.” This is her time to grin. 

The tension lightly decreases as he gently takes her hand. ”You’re making me go insane. She’s not my girlfriend. I’ve already told you. We had sex twice. That’s all.”

”Why don’t I believe that? She’s a nobody for you, but she’s always in your phone. You’re still fucking her; just be honest.”

”I’m honest. You’re overthinking.”

”No, I’m not. Don’t even try to gaslight me. You’re out there giving me all the reasons in the world to doubt. It’s all your fault, Djed.”

”How can you be mad at me when you’re talking to another guy? You’re a hypocrite. I’ve seen how you were sitting close to him, how his arm wrapped around your shoulders. I swear if you keep pushing me, I’ll spill everything about you at your church.”

”Spill what? That we’re speaking and learning piano together? Wow. Nobody fucking cares because we’re not doing anything wrong. It’s not a sin to talk to a man.”

”Flirting is.”

”Oh, really? I hope you keep the same energy next time we’re fucking because fornication is a sin too. Fucking clown. Committing every sin under the sun except eating pork doesn’t make you a good Muslim, Djed.”

“I’m not stealing or drinking alcohol, and I haven’t killed anyone yet.” She furrows her eyebrows. “Might kill whoever you’re speaking to at church tho.”

"Stop acting gangsta, you can barely fight. Calm the fuck down. Anyway, are we done? Because sleep sounds way more appealing than whatever you’re spewing.” Her hand rests on the handle, ready to exit at any time. He places a hand on her shoulder, another attempt to connect. 

”I was joking. You need to relax, doughnut.”

She loses patience once again. ”How do you want me to relax when you’re stressing me out?”

”What do you want me to say? Kelly isn’t my girl. We’re just talking.”

The anger she tried to contain for so long finally escapes. She is now almost screaming in the car with dramatic hand gestures. She wants him for herself and herself only.

”How do I know you’re not doing more than talking? Djed, we had an agreement… I swear on my life if you sleep with me and her at the same time… Pause. Why are you even talking to her? What are the reasons? I thought I was the one you wanted to be with. See? Only lies come out of that mouth… Am I supposed to fight or compete with her to be your girl? If that’s what you expect from me, I gladly suggest you go fuck yourself.” 

Before she could open the door, he pressed the button, locking them up inside the restricted space. She forces the handle as if it could change anything. He interrupts the short silence with a composed voice, ”No need to fight, doughnut. My heart already belongs to you. Except for my sister, you’re the only person I could spend an hour in line for, just for doughnuts.”

This time she cracks a weak smile. Although she hates herself for it. The attention is more than cute and very thoughtful. Yet, boundaries need to be set. “Good, because the heart isn’t all I want. I want your body to belong to me too. It means you stop talking to her and I stop talking to Khalil. Now if you lie to my face… We’re done, and I’m not playing this time.”

Djed leans closer, closing the small distance between them. He whispers ”deal” with a proud grin on his face. The contact of his fingers on her cheek extended that timid grin on her face. Her heart melted at that gesture and that look. Him gazing at her as if she is the most beautiful creation he has ever seen. 

”There she goes. My doughnut with the prettiest smile.”

”Stop calling me like that. Anyway, I should go back before my mom wakes up. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

”Wait… Five more minutes, please.” He pleads with that tone which makes her heart melt. ”I haven’t seen you for days. Come on.”

“Five, not one more.” She barely had time to finish her sentence that captures her lips like a starved man. Slowly, whatever they went through for the past weeks goes to the very back of her mind. There is no way she can think when his lips move that sensually and slowly against hers.

”Djed.” She moans when they split. Their eyes expressing a desire they cannot materialise tonight. This is what she thought until she felt his hand slowly but meticulously finding its way under the bathrobe. 

She repeats his name like a secret spell. ”Djed.” His eyes are still fixating on her as he pushes her panties to the side. 

”Stop me. Tell me to stop, doughnut.” Instead, she bites her lips. The reality is that she does not want him to stop. She wants it. She has been craving it for a few days now. Their surroundings slowly fade away as she focuses on the precision of his movements. Her head falling back on the headrest, eyes closing at the repetitive contact of the tip of his finger against her swollen bud.

”Ah! Dj..ed.”

They just getting started that the fire at the pit of her stomach already threatened to burn everything in its way. She gently tries to grab his wrist in vain. Nothing will stop him from pleasing her. The brown of eyes plunging into hers like his fingers slipping past her warm and wet walls. She squirms on the chair, spreading her legs wider for better access. 

”Hear how wet you are? Still going to deny that you didn’t miss me?” Words simply stayed stuck in her throat as the pace of his movement intensified, making the sloppiest sound in the car. At the moment, only moans make it past her lips. Her eyes closing each time he touches that spot. The one that often sent her over the edge. 

”Say it’s mine.” He grabs her cheeks with his free hand, forcing their eyes to meet again. Moans keep falling from her open mouth like pleas. Djed leans and captures her lips, aggressively almost claiming her mouth. Her wetness coating his fingers and seat. None of them cared. 

Tears gather at the corner of her eyes as he pushes his digits further. The movement of his fingers is torturously slow, rubbing against all her sensitive spots, just how she likes. She grabs his wrist, as if it could stop him from doing whatever he is doing. 

”Say it.”

She surrenders. “It’s…yours…Fucking…Yours.” 

”Good girl.” Her body breaks, crumbling under the pleasure. He never stops as she wets the seat and her bathrobe, her juices disrespectfully covering these surfaces.

”Djed. Fuck.”

He keeps going as if he wants to break her. His fingers rubbing continuously on that same spongy spot. Their locked eyes intensified the moment just like his hand on her cheeks. ”Are you coming to the stadium this weekend?” He knows exactly what he is doing.

”Djed…I…shit.”

He slows down, leaving her no other choice than agreeing. There is no way she could go back home with that fire in between her legs. ”You get to cum depending on your response, beautiful.”

One more time, she completely gives herself to him. ”Yes, yes, yes, I’m coming.”

”You’re so good to me, beautiful.” He claims her lips again, turning down the volume of her moans with his mouth. Just like that, he felt her walls clenching around him for the second time of the night. They split, and he licks his wet digits before wiping the rest on his joggers. 

”You’re so fucking nasty, Djed.”

”Oh, come on. You weren’t complaining two minutes ago.” He checks his phone, a grimace taking over. ”You should go back home. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I wish I had more time to make you feel good.”

Now everything comes back to her. She is outside in the middle of the night. If her mother ever wakes up, she will be in big trouble. Djed drives her back at home. A five-minute drive away. She hastily grabs her doughnut box, her mind still foggy. 

”Do you need help to walk to your apartment?” He grins as she almost stumbles while exiting the car. Her legs are still throbbing from the orgasm he gave her.

She replies, ”Take that smile off. You’re still on thin ice. Good night,” smashing the car door before waving at him and disappearing inside the building. 

****

It has been a month since their last fight. Probably their longest period without tumult. Dates, match nights, doughnuts delivered at the front door, sometimes Jamaican food, flowers, and rarely getaways in hotels. After all, she still lived with her mother, and creativity is mandatory to find valuable excuses. The name that poisoned their bond never appeared on his screen again or was mentioned. For once, she feels secure enough to let her guard down. Not completely, but enough to give them space to enjoy their moments.

Tonight is the type of night she wants to remember for the longest. The very first bond that united them in the first place solidifies their union today. Djed and her, shades on. Rapping to every single lyric of the famous Canadian rapper. The perfect companion for the occasion. This is probably what most people call cloud nine. Nothing else matters. Anyone could see them. She could not care less or stress out. Djed wraps his arms around her chest, earning a grin from her. Their eyes meet, and he leans in to rub their nose. 

”I’m so grateful for the time with you, doughnut.”

”Yeah, me too, babe.” The peck is rapid but full of secret declarations and promises. Her heart feels light, almost floating in the air. Djed is her person. Nothing could change it. Their beginnings were rough, confusing and unpredictable. The present seems safer, more comfortable, easier and tender. 

The crowd rushes through the exits. Djed and she do the same. Hands in hands walking outside of the VIP section that guaranteed a sense of privacy.

”Djed! I didn’t expect to see you here.” The woman says with great enthusiasm. The smile on her face illuminating the dark space. No need to stare. She could recognise the woman she has spent time looking at on Instagram and TikTok. The caramel-skinned woman wears a mini leather skirt, high-heeled boots and a denim jacket that barely contains her visible chest. 

The more she stares at her, the more she feels the heat growing inside her body. How is she supposed to take it? Djed staying in contact with a woman that fits the stereotype of an Instagram baddie. One thing is sure: she will never really understand men. Kelly bats her lashes at Djed before frowning at her. Anger keeps growing, but for the sake of her pride, she will control herself. 

”Hey, Kelly.” That small act flies out of the window when he places his arm around her waist. The atmosphere suddenly shifts. The sun vanishes. Things get cloudier until wind and small droplets of water completely cloud the sky. 

”Oh! Is that who I think it is?” She questions, already knowing the answer. A fake smile plastered all over her face. No matter how hard she tries to intimidate her, she refuses to flinch. Her mother raised her better than that. 

”In person, darling.”

Kelly gives a death glare before turning her attention back to Djed. ”You’re so handsome, love. I missed you.” The woman completely ignores her presence, treating her like dust in the air. 

”Kelly. Can we stop pretending?”

”Pretending what? That you really like the bitch standing right next to you?”

He takes a step forward, the protective side of him jumping out. ”I’m not going to allow you to disrespect my girl.”

”Your girl? Since when? I had no idea you had a preference for bones.” Kelly and the girls laugh out loud, adding weight to what feels like a humiliation ritual. 

”Shit, you always find a way to go lower than expected. Bones or not, I prefer mannerism, which is something you clearly don’t have.” 

No matter how much she wants to crack a smile at his rebuttal, her body refuses. That situation should never have happened in the first place. He lied. Contrary to what he said, Djed never truly cut ties with Kelly. 

”If she’s that good, why do you keep responding to my texts?”

Even turning around her face or body to face him feels unnecessary. All she wants to do right now is walk far away and go back home. Djed never mentioned her again, and her naive mind thought he brought closure to their relationship. God, how wrong she was. Djed feels her body tense and tightens his grip around her waist. She barely moves, ignoring the gesture that brought her comfort the entire night. Still, she resists giving Kelly that kind of satisfaction.

”I responded to ask you to leave me alone. Don’t try to turn the narrative around.”

Kelly takes one step forward, allowing her to stare at the round face. ”Is that why you never blocked me or keep opening the pictures I send you?” He lets out a loud sigh before gulping, his eyes avoiding her burning stare. She is saying the truth. If the ground could open up to engulf her, she would jump in. The belittling is what kills her. 

”Djed, if you want her that bad, block me. As long as you’re still open, you’re my man. I don’t care. And you, stay away from my man, you horny little slut.”

He hardly gets time to open his mouth before she defends herself. “It’s not my fault if your dear man keeps coming back to me, you desperate male-orientated bitch.” Kelly moves forward again, both of them staring at one another like lions in a cage. Djed firmly comes between them to separate them. Still nothing seems to stop the torrent. Kelly’s friends start to curse her out loud, calling her all kinds of names under the sun. She does the same, insulting each one of them, reading them out, using words to cut deep like it is a rap battle. The trembles of her body, a mirror of her anger and disappointment.  

One final sentence puts an end to the chaos. ”I’m not your man, Kelly. Never been and for sure never will be.”

It hits her like an unexpected slap in the face. Her surprise covered by a frown on her face. ”Oh really? Are we playing these games now? All of that because of your new whore?” The pitch of her voice causing people to turn around and observe the scene. Humiliation is one thing; embarrassment is another story. The type she will never entertain. Nothing in the world is worth going back and forth with that kind of individual. God, hold my heart as I walk away.

”There’s no need to play games, Kelly. He’s yours. All yours. Have him however you want.” She finally concludes and immediately walks away, leaving them stunned and confused. The sound of her heels clicking on the floor replaces the aggressive exchange that started taking place when she left. Although she wants to cry, there are no tears left inside of her. At least, not for Djed and his antics. One more time, he misled her, sold her a fantasy. She hates herself for even buying into it.

“Doughnut! Doughnut!” The pace of his feet quickly joins her own. Fear enveloping the pet name she secretly loves so much. He tries to touch her, but she loses it. With a swift and violent movement, she pushes his arm. As far as she could from her waist.

”You’re really a piece of shit, Djed. Women from nowhere are disrespecting me because of you. I love you blah blah… Fuck you! Is that how you treat people you care about? Look at the position you put me in… Your fling, link or whatever is trying to jump me because of you and your lack of honesty. I’m so done with you. I want nothing to do with you.”

”Please, let me explain to you. I swear, I haven’t done anything.”

A part of her wishes she could scream, but nothing. Only sharp whispers are coming out of her mouth. ”Why is she so confident calling you her man then? Why have you never blocked her? Why are you still looking at her pictures?”

”Don’t listen to her. She’s out of her fucking mind. I’m not her man, never been.”

Her eyes roll out of tiredness. Exhaustion from hearing one more lame excuse. ”Of course, she is. You’re never at fault, Djed. Go to hell, Djed. I don’t have time for any of this. I might not be that experienced, but I’m not stupid. You’re probably whispering the same sweet words in her ears. I’m done…done.”

“Doughnut, come on, listen to me. Please.”

"You have nothing worth listening to. Bye, Djed.” Walking away no matter how much it hurts. This is the path she chooses. Too many lies have slid, and she does not know what to believe anymore. Humiliation and embarrassment are an explosive cocktail she is not willing to taste all over again. Her heart aches, but she will be alright. She deserves more and better than a liar as a boyfriend. 

Maybe her mother was right. Dating inside the church is the answer. At the moment, only God knows how she manages to walk and find her way home.

****

Soca and dancehall blasted in the small basement, creating a festive and joyful environment. Grinding, breaking it, shaking, whining, she displays every movement in your book. The rhythm of the music completely taking her away. Transporting her in another universe, far away from the sea of frustrations and disappointment. Beads of sweat form on her naked back and forehead as she dances like her life depended on it. The soles of her feet hurt, but nothing could compare to the pain she experienced two days ago. 

Countless texts, calls on every app possible, e-mails, even PayPal with apologies and explanations. Nothing moved her. This time she is over it. The block button calls her. She hesitates but finally clicks. Peace over anything and everything. Handling her mother was complicated enough. Stratagems, cautious planning and blatant lies to get out of the house and experience the joy of carnival. The sweet taste of freedom, joy and festivities for a few hours. She could only pray no one from church or her family sees her. 

She lost count of how many times her hips grind against a crotch since the music has caressed her eardrums. No matter how hard she pretends, deep inside her heart still longs for one person. The only one her hips actually wish to grind on. One of her cousins, Nila, notices. The type of cousin her mother would not recommend spending time with. As a result, they rarely spend time together. When they do, nothing deep expect engaging in what her mother would label as debauchery. 

”Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah! Very happy to be there.“

“Good, because that boy you told me about isn’t worth your time.” Nila is right. She knows. Still, things are easier said than done. Due to her strict mother and her archaic Christian rules, she has barely developed meaningful friendships. That thought made her hate him even more. Djed knew that he was more than a lover. He was a friend, a confidant, the breath of fresh air she needed to escape her suffocating mother. Apparently knowing all these information did not stop him from disappointing her. 

”He deserves absolutely nothing. Screw him and his bitch.” Her cousin had no idea of Djed's identity. Only a vague idea of their bond and his physical appearance. Things were better that way. The shadow of betrayal never seems too far. Nila is right, fuck Djed. She is in the middle of Notting Hill Carnival. A moment to live and enjoy. No time to think about a man who clearly did not care enough to care about her. 

****

"Djed, is that your girl, bro?" He brushes his hand all over his face, leaning in to observe the phone screen. James was right. It was her shaking the round and plump behind nature gifted her. The glittery and metallic pink panties expose a plump bum. One he should be the only one seeing and touching. The sourness burns his throat. He expected anything else. Her moving her whining on another man in a bikini was not on the list. 

His best friend asks in all seriousness, “So…” It’s over, over, bro?”

”No, it’s not. The only reason why it ended is Kelly, bro. She can never keep her mouth shut. We were doing fine before she almost jumped her at Drake’s concert.”

Wilson's eyes widen, expressing the gravity of the situation. ”Excuse me? Jumped her?”

He sighs out of annoyance before telling his friend the entire story. How a dream date turned into a nightmare that removed her from his life. Wilson’s mouth stays slightly open as he grasps the situation.

”Bro, she has every right to be mad at you! She almost got jumped because of you. I’d never talk to you again either, bro.”

”I think I get it, thanks. I messed up, big time. Still, it’s not a reason for her to behave that way… She could get caught… It’s unacceptable.”

“Do you really care about her getting caught, or are you just jealous?” Wilson is right. Deep inside he did not care much about her getting caught. What infuriates him are the images of that man grabbing her waist. A gesture only he should be able to do. The burn at the back of his throat intensifies as the pair keeps watching Nila’s Snapchat story. More videos and images of her shaking what God blessed her with. The white crochet dress barely helps. Djed tightened his fist around the device. He replays the same images at least five times before rising from the sofa.

Wilson questions, “Where are you going, bro?”

”Make sure my girl gets home safely. We never know.” Of course, that is a blatant lie. Partly. He does care about her safety, but getting the chance to see her again and explain himself mattered as much. 

****

She rolls her eyes at the sound of Nila’s laughter. An exaggerated giggle for a very mediocre joke. Resolutely, 6’5, flawless dark skin and harmonious features do a lot. The fresh summer breeze hits her legs, adding to her annoyance. It never fails. The struggle to find a drive back home after a night out after Notting Hill Carnival. Contrary to Nila, she does not have the privilege of having an understanding mother. If something ever happens to them, she is in big trouble. God, please. Forgive me because I lied to my mother to engage in debauchery. Forgive me, holy father, but I need you to help me find a drive back home.

The second she finishes her prayer, a black Mercedes stops right in front of her. Evidently, God is trying to teach her a lesson. Anyone but him. Her heart drops in her chest when the window discreetly rolls down. 

”Get in. You’re not getting a taxi or Uber anytime soon.”

”What in the world? Do you know all the taxis or Ubers in town? Wait… What are you even doing here?” The tone of her voice is barely controlled. Anger floods each syllable. 

He stays calm and even finds the strength to smile at her. ”I was worried about you. Nila and Wilson are friends on Snapchat. I didn’t stalk you. I’m not crazy.”

”Worried about me or worried about another man getting my attention?” Her arms crossed against her white crochet dress, a sign of her reluctance to dialogue. ”You know what? It doesn’t even matter. I’m not getting inside your car.” Once again she controls the decibel of her voice. She refuses to alert anyone around them. Djed is still a public figure after all. 

Nila interrupts their tense conversation. ”Oh my God, I thought we’d struggle more to find an Uber. God is really on our side tonight.” Before Nila reaches the handle, she blocks her hand with a brutal move.

”That’s not an Uber. We’re not getting in.”

She barely has time to explain anything before Nila is already looking through the slightly rolled-down window. Her eyes bugged out of shock. ”Oh my God! It cannot be who I think it is.” The grin on her face gets wider until she connects the dots. Her eyes going back and forth between Djed and her cousin. 

”Wait, you’re dating a baller? Spurs? Come on, girl. Arsenal is right around the corner. You should’ve been more ambitious. Traitor!”

“I’m still here, and I can hear you, Nila.” Djed cuts her off, very unamused by her comments. 

Nila nervously laughs. ”He knows my name. Of course, you had to talk about me. Anyway, is that the man you’re crying over? Block him. Girl, block him immediately. Ballers ain’t shit. Up to no good men. They deserve nothing. However, it could be better if you block him after he drives us home.”

”I’m not getting inside his car, Nila. Feel free to do so. I’m not.”

”Are you fucking crazy? Do you think I’d leave you out there waiting in the streets? It’s not safe. Get in! You’ll block him later. It’s a busy street. We’re not getting a ride back home anytime soon, and time is ticking. We have to be home in one hour before your mother calls the police.” 

Nila is right. Waiting for an Uber could take hours at this point. It seems like the Hunger Games at the moment. She might hate Djed, but he is her only option at the moment. She lets out a loud groan before placing her hand on the handle. “Deal, but don’t you dare talk to me, Djed. I want the ride to be quiet.”

”Deal, doughnut. Get in! It’s getting cold too.”

“Doughnut?” Nila asks, interrupting the small moment.

”It’s none of your business. Just get in.” Nila shrugs and does so. Of course, entering that car means nothing to her. The complete opposite of her. The car in which they shared many laughs, conversations, jokes, snacks, kisses and heated moments. Her heart swells in her chest as she settles in the vehicle.

”You’re beautiful.”

”Quietness is what you promised. Drive us home.” She notices the hurt behind his pupils but chooses to ignore. Now is not the time to flinch. Nila gently caresses her shoulder as they drive away, a sympathetic smile covering her face. She probably would be in for an intense interrogatory and reprimands when they get home.

****

The black Mercedes parks right in front of the brown brick building. Djed held his promise. No words were pronounced. However, the music he was playing certainly played a role in replacing the sentences that were never said. Nila is the first one to break the ice. 

”Thanks for bringing us home, Djed. You still ain’t shit tho.”

She warns, ”Nila.” 

”What? He needs to know.”

His tone is firm. ”I know. I don’t need you to remind me. Thanks. Can we talk, doughnut? Please.”

”You don’t know a freaking thing. Go play with the other slut. I don’t even remember her name. By the way, tell her if she lays one hand on my cousin or tries anything similar next time. I’m going to turn her life into a living hell. That’s a promise. We’re not playing these games around here.” 

”Nila! Let me handle this one, please. Wait for me inside. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

”Hum. You better not let him whisper sweet words into your ear.” Just like that, she exited the car, not without smashing the door. A heavy silence follows before he clears his throat. 

”I’m sorry, doughnut. Terribly sorry. I messed up big time.”

She closes her eyes, refusing to let her emotions take the best of her. He will not see her cry, not today.

”I don’t care about your apologies. I want the truth. Are you in a relationship with her? Were you texting her and staring at her pics after we agreed on exclusivity in that same car, Djed?”

He lets out a loud and defeated sigh. By his posture, she knows he is about to confess. Her heart sinks even further, but she tries to save face. ”I want nothing but the truth.”

His tone is as heavy as his guilt. ”I may have liked a few lingerie pics she sent me and complimented her. Then we interacted for a few days, but I stopped it all because I truly cared about us.” 

A frown appears on her face, then it turns into a nervous giggle. ”I’m so fucking stupid.”

”Don’t say that. It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is. You proved to me time and time again that you cannot be trusted, and I still choose to believe your lies. The same night we agreed on exclusivity, I blocked Khalil. He came to me at church, and I explained to him that I was seeing someone and it was serious. I did all of that only for you to keep contact with Kelly. I’m so naive.”

“Doughnut.”

”I gave you my heart, body and soul, Djed. You ruined them all… I guess this is what I get for fornicating.” Something breaks behind the veil of his eyes. Whether it is her thought process or his actions, she cannot tell. 

“It’s…ridiculous.You know that. It has nothing to do with God punishing you. I was just stupid.” Tears roll down her face as she stares at the window, consciously avoiding Djed’s glistening eyes. 

”Have you ever been in a relationship with her? Tell me the truth.”

”I’ve told you. I’m not lying. We’ve never been together. It was more of a situationship.” It does not even matter at this point. The first revelations were more than enough to break her heart into pieces. She wants to join her room to sob in peace. Somehow her body is unable to move. 

”Was I not good enough for you, Djed?”

He immediately shakes his head with vigour. ”No, I swear. You’re everything and even more. I messed up big time, but I never lied when I said I love you.” The exact words she wishes he never pronounced again. 

A deep breath to regulate her pain, and she finds strength to look at him in the eyes. ”It’s better if we…just…stay that way. I can’t do it anymore, Djed. I don’t think my heart can take another blow. On top of that I have to deal with my mother and stuff. I’m tired.”

“Doughnut… Please, just –” She cuts him off, one hand on the handle.

”Don’t make it harder, Djed. I’m begging you. Thanks for the ride. Have a great night.” Suddenly the cold air hits her face as she rapidly walks inside her building. Djed’s pleas and sad tone play on loop inside of her mind. Her body struggles still, but she finds a way to move forward. Nila observes her in silence, letting her deal with the obvious pain behind her eyes. The heavy breathing almost covers the loud mechanical sounds. 

The second they exit the restricted space, she lets it all out. Nila gently wraps her arms around her in the empty corridor. ”Come on, let it go. I’ve been there. I know how it hurts.”

She sobs, tears flooding her eyes and burning her cheeks. ”Why would he do that to me? Was I not good enough? I trusted him… I just wanted to be with him. I loved him… I even gave him my virginity… Fuck! I’m so so so dumb. My mother was right. I should’ve listened to her and followed the words of God.”

“No, she’s not. At the end of the day, it’s better to follow your own mind and heart so you can live your own experience. If you had blindly followed your mother’s word, you’d probably resent her at some point. Think about it. Love can be painful, yeah. It’s still better to have loved than never trying tho.”

No words come out of her mouth. The pieces of her heart are too shattered to do so. Nila adds, ”Take this as an experience. It might sound generic, but learn from it so you’re not repeating the same mistakes. I’ve been there. It’s going to be all right, I promise… Dry your tears. We never know if your mother is still up.”

She does so before handing a blue plastic bag to Nila. ”Outfits! We’re in big trouble if she sees us dressed like that.”

”I mean, my mom wouldn’t care. You’d be grounded for life tho so yeah, let’s switch to our modest outfits.” She cracks a weak smile. On top of her heartbreak, she has to deal with an over-controlling mother. This is her reality. Sometimes, she envies Nila and her freedom. From Manchester to London, without her mother batting an eye. If that were her, she would never have been allowed to travel to another city alone. However, she is there, stuck in the two-bedroom apartment with her nervous Christian mother. 

****

Two weeks later…

With trembling hands, she clicks on the only name that could bring her a source of comfort. Although she promised to leave him behind and never contact him again, there she is. Her heartbeat beating fast against her chest, prayers muttered under her breath while the beep slams her eardrum. 

”Djed?” She finally whispers after hearing his voice. By the panic behind her tone, he notices something wrong. ”My mother… She had a heart attack. I had no one else to call.” 

”I’m sorry, doughnut. Where are you? Give me an hour and I’ll join you.”

”Pick me up at the hospital. I’ll send you the address.”

”Fine, I’ll be there, doughnut.”

Promise held. An hour later, a black Mercedes stops at the front of the hospital. Without even checking, she gets in. Dark circles under the eyes witness her sleepless night. A loud sigh escapes as she sits down. Djed immediately sits down, the warmth of his arms bringing her the type of comfort she has been craving for days.

”We’re going back to my place. I can’t leave you alone.” 

In his arms, she lets it go. Tears gradually turn into sobs. She missed him. Two weeks without him felt like months. He gently caresses her back, murmuring sweet encouraging words into her ears. “I’m here for you, doughnut. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

****

The apartment still feels familiar even after months. The sheets' fresh scent comforts her. The memories of her numerous nights on that bed extracted her from the present. The shared laughter, dreams, fears, silent confessions, touches, caresses, kisses and orgasms. She remembers it all, every single detail. 

His voice immediately reminds her of the present and the stress that comes with it. ”Do you need anything? Are you sure you don’t want food?”

Her eyes are empty, puffy and reddened due to her continuous sobs. “I’m not hungry, Djed.” He sits by her side, secretly admiring how his t-shirt looks on her. Nothing sexual, simply appreciation for her natural beauty.

“You should at least drink water, doughnut.”

She refuses with a headshake. For the moment, her throat feels too tight, too restricted to let anything in. Djed understands and simply places a hand on her knee.

”What if she’s ill? She’s the only person I have left. I never knew my dad.”

”No, that’s cap. I’m here for you. You also have Nila.”

”She lives in Manchester, Djed.”

”It doesn’t change anything. I’m here for you, always will be.” 

He opens his arms, and she finds comfort there for the third time of the night. In her misfortune, behind her tears, a part of her heart seems satisfied to be reunited with Djed again. She should not believe him, but at the moment it feels like a lifebelt in the middle of the sea. His grip tightened around her, their bodies perfectly fitting together on the king-sized bed. 

”How about you pray for her? I’ll listen to you. Everything is going to be alright.” Different confessions, same purpose. Their most intimate act to this day but probably the most significant. Encouraged by his embrace, she closes her eyes and lets her heart speak for itself.

The vibrations of her phone force her out of a light and anxious sleep. It is the hospital. Her heart almost jumps out of her body as she accepts the call. Djed gently rubs her shoulders. A barely controlled anxiety in his touch. Both of them waiting for the sword of Damocles to either fall on her head or by her side. Prayers have worked. Her mother is alive and well. 

*****

Life has a funny way of operating. Ever since her mother had that heart attack, Djed and she have been closer than ever. No more lies, no more pride or ego to stop their love. Both of them were serious about their bond. However, since that incident her mother became an even more fervent believer. Their relationship only downgraded from there. More scrutiny, more control, less freedom. No more secular music, more hours in church, more Bible studies. Unfortunately for her, love makes you believe you can fly. Therefore, she planned smarter for each escapade, each sneak-out to see the man her heart had chosen. Until that night happens, the type of night she wishes to only imagine at the back of her mind.

“How was Bible study tonight?” She clears her throat, an attempt to erase the fact she was too busy studying Djed’s body instead. 

”Dynamic group, a bit more curious than usual.” With time she learns to lie without flinching. 

”Hum. It’s very funny because Mrs James from our church sent me a picture of you and a man with dreadlocks. According to her, he is a professional football player. Djed, isn’t it?” Her body freezes before she even has the time to think about a rebuttal. She is quicker. Within seconds the smartphone is almost in her face. The picture is clear. Djed hugging her from behind. The mini leather skirt and matching jacket with a décolleté displaying her assets is the cherry on top.

”Are you some kind of escort? Is that why you’ve been going out so much these days? Blatantly committing sin after sin? How dare you use Bible study to justify your profession?” Her words cut sharp, reviving a pain she tried to bury during her teenage years. She will never be good enough for her mother.

”I’m not an escort.”

”Why are you dressed like one then? This isn’t what God wants for you. This isn’t how I raised you.” Silence settles in. Game over. “I trusted you to make the best decisions, and this is what you do. Dating some useless ballers… God save her lost soul, I beg. A Muslim on top of that. I’m not even angry, just very disappointed.”

Looking at the floor sounds better than directly facing the stare of disappointment. ”Did you have sex with him? By the way you were dressed, I assume so.” She simply looks down. There is no more point to lie. She is too exhausted for it anyway. 

”Instead of opening the Bible, you’re out there opening your legs for a man that wouldn’t even attend your funeral if something happens tomorrow.” For the first time, she finds the strength to face her, to stand up for herself. The frown on her face fuels her anger. She has no right to judge Djed based on physical attributes or religious beliefs. 

”He was the one there for me, always. Even when you were too absorbed by your bible to notice that I was depressed after Drea passed away. Was there when you were at hospital. Maybe I wouldn’t have to do that if you treated me with kindness, love and empathy. Instead, all you have done since Drea passed is treat that holy book like your child. It can never replace Drea.”

She only feels it. The hand on her cheek, the sting. A lump forms at the back of her throat, but she simply swallows it. No, her mother will not get that satisfaction of seeing her down or crying. She had endured way too much. She has enough. Maybe she went too far, but she does not care. It had to be said. No faith or holy book could fill the void Drea, her little sister, left behind. 

”Don’t you ever talk to me like that ever again. A little whore isn’t going to tell me what to do or how to act under my roof.” She looks away, afraid that the fire behind her eyes would burn her own mother. As if what happened is not enough, she adds, “You have two days to break up with Djed. Say goodbye to him for good. If not, one phone call to the media and the world will deal with me.”

She furrows her eyebrows. ”What do you mean?”

”I will tell them how he manipulated and brainwashed you to have sex with you. Not very good for the first Muslim player in the England national team, right?” Her eyes widen out of shock. Never in her life did she think that her own mother could do such a thing.

”I… You can’t do that… He never did such a thing. I love him too. He never manipulated me or anything.”

”Sleep on it. Two days. After that, if you both insist, his name will be in the tabloids. You know how much they love a good story.”

”You can’t do that, Mom. He’s a Black player. You know how they treat him in the media here. It’s not fair… Djed worked hard to be where he’s at.”

”Let’s see how much you love him then.”

Once the bedroom slams, she slowly lets herself fall on the floor, sobbing like she never has before. Her body trembling under her sobs and heart jumps. Life is cruel. She just had found a balance with Djed. Sadly, she has to protect him. In no world will she let her mother do such a thing. It might mean leaving the love of her life behind, but his career, honour and integrity matter more than anything else. Sometimes, sincerely loving someone means leaving them behind to protect them.

****

”My mom knows. I cannot see you anymore.” The silence that follows is deafening. Djed tightly grips his wheel. His eyes looking for any signs or reactions from her.

”She called me a whore and other stuff. Anyway.”

”You’re not a whore. It’s ridiculous. She’s just trying to get inside your head.”

Her heart drops, but she has to break up. ”It doesn’t really matter, Djed. We can’t… You have to let me go.”

The young man furrows his eyebrows, anger slowly gaining him as his posture changes. He is more forward. The grip around the wheel tightened. ”So you’re going to let her dictate your life? No one should have that kind of power. You’re a human being, not some doll she can give orders to.”

”Djed, I choose my mother. We only have one mother. God commands you honour your parents. I don’t have the choice.” She barely believes what she says, but there is no other choice. The second he suspects anything, he will make things harder. 

“Doughnut, are you serious right now?”

”Djed, come on. It was cute while it lasted, but it’s not like we were going to get married anyway. You’re a Muslim, and I’m Christian. Let’s live in our truth.” She sees the hurt behind his eyes. It was intentional. The only way to save faces and protect him.

A silent prayer: may God give her the strength to say goodbye. She could not risk his career. ”I’m sorry, Djed. If you really love me, never contact me again. Go live your life. Just know that somewhere in London, a young woman will always pray and secretly root for you. I hope you’ll find the strength to forgive me one day.” 

He pleads, “Doughnut.” 

It is too painful. Before he can even move his head to kiss her, she jumps out of the vehicle. Tears rolling down her face as she walks away from Djed. No last stare, nothing. From outside, she spots her mother smiling with a bible in her hand. It was the only way… Even if it cost the most beautiful thing that happened to her the last few years. May she pay for the pain she has caused and keeps causing, Lord.

Hugo rubbed his hands together, grinning widely. "Mama Mabel, this too much. You cook like you feed army."

"Only way I know how to cook. Besides, look at you—all skin and bones. Can't have you wasting away while you're trying to sort out your love life."

Heat crept up Hugo's neck. "I am not—"

"Boy, please. Don't insult my intelligence." Mama Mabel gestured for him to sit down, already loading his plate with enough food for three people. "Been bringing that girl lunch every other day like some lovesick teenager. If that's not trying to win someone over, I don't know what is."

Hugo accepted the overflowing plate, inhaling the rich scents that reminded him of his grandmother's kitchen back in Cameroon. Different spices, same love cooked into every bite.

"Is complicated," he mumbled.

"Good things usually are. Question is, what you planning to do about it?"

The first bite of curry goat nearly made Hugo moan out loud. Tender, falling apart, spiced perfectly—it tasted like home and comfort and everything he'd been missing without realizing it.

"Jesus, this is incredible."

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain at my table," Mama Mabel scolded, but she was smiling. "Though I appreciate the sentiment."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Mama Mabel watching with satisfaction as Hugo demolished everything she put in front of him. The house felt warm, lived-in, full of the kind of comfort that came from decades of family meals.

"You remind me of my grandson," she said eventually. "Lives in Toronto now. Good boy, but carries too much on his shoulders. Always thinking he's got to save everyone else before he can be happy."

Hugo paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Is that what I do?"

"What you think?"

Hugo considered it, thinking about the way he'd been approaching things with Y/N. All the careful gestures, the respectful distance, waiting for her to figure things out on her own.

"Maybe," he admitted.

"Sometimes people need a push. Not a shove, mind you—a push. Gentle-like, but firm enough to get them moving."

"And if push hurts someone?"

"Then you'd better make sure you're pushing for the right reasons."

Training Monday morning was brutal. Slot was in one of his moods about something—probably the way they'd played in the last match—and everyone was feeling it. Hugo threw himself into every drill like his life depended on it, which earned him some sideways looks from his teammates.

"You trying to impress someone or just working out your frustrations?" Jeremie asked during a water break, noting the way Hugo had been attacking every exercise.

"Training hard is good," Hugo replied, downing half his bottle.

"Training angry is different. What's eating you?"

Hugo looked at his teammate. Jeremie was one of the few people who understood what it was like being young and foreign and trying to figure out how to build a life somewhere new. They'd bonded over late conversations about missing home and the weird loneliness that came with success.

"Woman troubles," Hugo said finally.

"Ah. The furniture shop lady."

"Florian talks too much."

"Florian's worried about you. We all are. You've been..." Jeremie paused, searching for the right word. "Different lately."

"Different how?"

"Like you're carrying something heavy. Happy but stressed, you know?"

Hugo knew exactly what he meant. Ever since meeting Y/N, he'd felt split between two versions of himself—the successful footballer who had everything sorted, and the mess of a man who was completely at the mercy of feelings he couldn't control.

"She has boyfriend," Hugo said simply.

"Shit one?"

"Very shit one."

"And you want to be the not-shit one."

"I want to be whatever makes her happy."

Jeremie was quiet for a moment. "You know what you're getting into?"

"No. But I know what happens if I do nothing."

"Which is?"

"Regret. For the rest of my life, wondering what if."

"Then I guess you better figure it out."

**********************************************************

Friday night, and Jeremie had somehow convinced Hugo to go out. The club was too loud, too crowded, full of people pretending to have more fun than they actually were. But after a week of intensive training and overthinking everything, Hugo had to admit it felt good to lose himself in mindless conversation.

They'd found a corner table where they could actually hear each other, sharing a hookah that tasted like apple and mint. Jeremie was telling some ridiculous story about a teammate back in Germany when Hugo spotted him.

Myles, holding court at a VIP table across the room, surrounded by his usual crew of hangers-on. That wasn't what made Hugo's blood run cold.

It was the way Myles had his hands all over some bottle service girl who definitely wasn't Y/N.

Hugo watched, jaw clenching, as Myles whispered something in the woman's ear, his hand sliding down her back in a way that was anything but innocent. The girl giggled and leaned into him while his friends cheered them on like they were watching a show.

"Fuck," Hugo muttered.

"What?" Jeremie followed his gaze. "Who's that?"

"Y/N's boyfriend."

Jeremie studied the scene with the critical eye of someone who'd seen enough club drama to recognize trouble. "The one with his tongue down that girl's throat?"

"The very same."

"While his girlfriend's at home."

"Oui."

"What a piece of shit."

Hugo felt rage flash hot in his chest. This was the same man who'd gotten territorial at the pub when Hugo had done nothing but be polite? Who made Y/N feel guilty for accepting lunch from a friend? Who demanded to know where she was and who she was with like he owned her?

And here he was, hands all over another woman, acting like the single man he clearly wished he could be.

"I should tell her," Hugo said, voice tight.

"Should you?"

"She deserves to know."

"Does she? Or do you want her to know because it makes things easier for you?"

The question hit like a slap. Hugo turned to stare at Jeremie, who was watching him with that steady expression that meant he was about to say something Hugo didn't want to hear.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means that telling someone their boyfriend's cheating isn't always about protecting them. Sometimes it's about getting what you want."

"You think I would lie?"

"No, I think you'd tell the truth for the wrong reasons. And that makes you just as bad as him."

Hugo stared across the room where Myles was now practically kissing the girl's neck while his friends took photos. The sight made him physically sick.

"So I say nothing? Let her stay with that?"

"You keep doing what you're doing. Show her what she deserves, let her figure out she's not getting it. Don't be the one to blow up her life—be the one who's there when it blows up on its own."

Hugo hated that Jeremie was right. Y/N was smart. She'd figure out what Myles really was eventually. And when she did, Hugo wanted to be someone she could trust, not someone who'd manipulated the situation.

"Fine," Hugo said reluctantly. "But I'm keeping this."

"For what?"

"For when she needs to know. When she's ready to hear it."

"That's the difference between being patient and being passive."

Hugo filed the image away—Myles with his hands all over another woman, acting single while Y/N sat at home thinking she was in a committed relationship. It burned like acid, but Jeremie was right.

When the time came, Hugo would be ready. But not before.

The restaurant Hugo picked was small, intimate, the kind of place where you went when you wanted to actually talk to someone instead of being seen. He'd called ahead, made sure they got a corner table away from the main dining room.

Y/N arrived exactly on time, and Hugo stood when she approached, forgetting for a moment how to breathe normally.

"You scrub up well," she said, taking in his button-down and the way he'd styled his hair.

"You look beautiful."

"Flattery again."

"Truth again."

They fell into easy conversation over wine and starters, Y/N telling him about her week while Hugo shared training stories that made her laugh. Something was different tonight—she seemed more relaxed, less of that careful distance she usually maintained.

"Can I ask you something?" Y/N said as their mains arrived.

"Always."

"Why Liverpool? I mean, you could've gone anywhere after Frankfurt."

Hugo cut into his steak, thinking about how to answer. "Slot, mostly. He has this way of making you believe you can be better than you think you are. And the city's honest. People tell you what they think, good or bad."

"You like that?"

"I prefer honesty to politeness. Even when it hurts."

Y/N went quiet, something thoughtful crossing her face. "That's unusual."

"What is?"

"Most people want to be told what makes them feel good, not what they need to hear."

"Maybe that's why so many people are miserable. They choose comfortable lies over difficult truths."

The words hung between them, heavy with implications neither wanted to examine too closely. Y/N took a sip of wine, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Speaking of truths," she said eventually, "my birthday's in a few weeks time."

"When?"

"September thirteenth."

Hugo's face lit up. "Virgo."

"How'd you guess?"

"You are very... particular. Everything has to be just right."

Y/N laughed. "Nice way of saying I'm a control freak."

"Nice way of saying you care about details. Most people don't notice details."

"The best women are Virgos," Y/N said with mock seriousness.

"This is true. Beyoncé is Virgo, so must be accurate."

Y/N's eyebrows shot up. "You know Beyoncé's birthday?"

Hugo felt his neck heat up. "Maybe."

"Hugo Ekitiké, are you a Beyoncé stan?"

"Everyone loves Bey," Hugo said defensively. "Is not crime to appreciate good music."

Y/N dissolved into giggles, the sound bright and infectious. "I cannot believe you just said that."

"Said what?"

"'Everyone loves Bey.' You sounded like my mate from uni."

"I have good taste in music."

"Do you know the words to 'Crazy in Love'?"

Hugo's silence was telling. Y/N's laughter got louder.

"Oh my God, you do!"

"Maybe some words," Hugo admitted.

"This is the best thing I've learned about you."

"That I have good taste?"

"That you're not afraid to like things that make you happy, even if people might think it's weird."

Something in her tone made Hugo look at her more closely. "Is that unusual?"

"In my experience? Yeah. Most men I know are so worried about their image they won't admit to liking anything that might seem... I don't know, soft."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is." Y/N's smile faltered. "Being with someone who's constantly worried about what other people think instead of just being themselves."

The comment felt pointed, personal. Hugo reached across the table and took her hand.

"For what it's worth, I think you should be with someone who makes you laugh. Someone who's not afraid to be silly."

Y/N looked down at their joined hands. "Hugo..."

"Yes?"

"This can't keep happening."

Hugo's chest tightened. "Why not?"

"Because I'm starting to feel things I shouldn't. When I'm with you, I forget all the reasons this is complicated." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I think I'm falling for you, and that's not fair to anyone."

"Y/N—"

"I should go." She started to pull her hand away.

"No." Hugo's grip tightened slightly. "Don't go. Not yet."

"This is exactly what I mean. I can't keep doing this."

"One more minute. Give me one more minute."

Y/N looked at him, then nodded.

Hugo stood and moved around the table until he was standing beside her chair. Y/N tilted her head up, confusion and hope warring in her expression.

"I've been patient," Hugo said quietly. "Tried to be respectful, not push, let you figure things out. But Y/N..."

"What?"

"I'm falling for you too. Have been since the day we met. And I can't pretend this is just friendship anymore."

Y/N's breath caught. "Hugo—"

"I know you have a boyfriend. I know this is complicated. But you deserve someone who sees how extraordinary you are. Someone who takes care of you because they want to, not because they want something back."

"You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand."

Y/N stared up at him, breathing uneven. "If I do this—if I let myself feel this—I can't take it back."

"I don't want you to."

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Of making the wrong choice. Of hurting people. Of wanting something so much I make stupid decisions."

Hugo reached out slowly, cupping her face in his hands. "What if it's not wrong choice? What if it's the only one that makes sense?"

Y/N's eyes fluttered closed. "You make it sound simple."

"Maybe it is. Maybe we complicate things because we think we should."

When she opened her eyes, there was something different there—a kind of resolve that made his heart race.

"Hugo?"

"Oui?"

"Kiss me."

Hugo didn't need to be asked twice. He leaned down, giving her every chance to change her mind, and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was soft at first, careful, like they were both testing something they'd been denying for weeks. Then Y/N's hands fisted in his shirt and pulled him closer, and it deepened into something that felt like coming home and falling off a cliff at the same time.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Hugo rested his forehead against hers.

"Simple enough?" he asked.

Y/N laughed, breathless and slightly wild. "That was the opposite of simple."

"But?"

"But I don't care anymore. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this."

As he sat back down, something fundamental had shifted. The careful distance was gone, replaced by the kind of electric awareness that came with acknowledged desire.

Y/N was still scared—Hugo could see it in the way she kept glancing around like someone might have witnessed their moment. But she was also lighter, like a weight had been lifted.

"So," she said, voice not quite steady, "what happens now?"

"Now we figure it out," Hugo said, reaching for her hand again. "Together."

And for the first time in weeks, that felt like enough.

The thing about kissing someone who wasn't your boyfriend was that it made everything else feel like a lie.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat of Hugo's car three days after their dinner, watching him navigate Liverpool traffic with the kind of easy confidence that seemed to define everything he did. They'd just finished another one of their "not-dates" at a small café in the Georgian Quarter, and she could still taste the coffee on her lips, could still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers when he'd reached across to tuck a stray braid behind her ear.

"You are very quiet today," Hugo said, glancing at her as they stopped at a red light. "Everything okay?"

Y/N wanted to tell him that nothing was okay, that she felt like she was living a double life, sneaking around with him while Myles sat at home completely oblivious. That every lunch Hugo sent to her work, every casual touch, every look that lasted too long was slowly dismantling whatever was left of her relationship.

"Just thinking," she said instead.

"About what?"

About the way you kiss me. About how I haven't felt guilty enough about any of this. About how I'm falling for you so hard it's terrifying.

"Work stuff," she lied.

Hugo's expression suggested he didn't believe her, but he didn't push. That was another thing about him that was different from Myles—he seemed to understand that sometimes people needed space to work through things on their own.

When they reached her building, Hugo parked and turned to face her fully. "Y/N."

"Yeah?"

"I know this is complicated. I know you are worried about... everything. But I want you to know that I am here, whatever you need."

The sincerity in his voice made her chest tight. "Hugo—"

"I am not going anywhere," he continued softly. "Take whatever time you need to figure things out. I will wait."

Before Y/N could respond, Hugo leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that it nearly broke her heart.

"See you tomorrow?" he asked.

"You don't have to keep bringing me lunch, you know."

"I know. I want to."

After Hugo drove away, Y/N stood on the pavement for a long time, watching his taillights disappear into traffic. The guilt was there, sitting heavy in her stomach, but it was accompanied by something else—a kind of warm contentment that she hadn't felt in months.

When she finally made it upstairs, Myles was sprawled across the sofa playing FIFA, a half-empty beer on the coffee table and the remnants of a takeaway scattered around him.

"Alright?" he said without looking up from the screen. "How was work?"

"Fine."

"Good. Can you grab me another beer from the fridge? And maybe order some proper food—this Chinese was shit."

Y/N stared at him for a moment, taking in the casual way he'd dismissed her day, the assumption that she'd automatically cater to his needs. When was the last time he'd asked about her university courses? When was the last time he'd shown any interest in her life beyond what she could do for him?

"Get it yourself," she said, heading toward the bedroom.

"What's got into you?" Myles called after her.

Everything, Y/N thought. Everything's got into me.

The day of Myles' trial, Y/N found herself sitting in the stands of Oldham Athletic's training ground, trying to focus on her boyfriend's performance while her mind wandered to entirely inappropriate places.

Specifically, to the way Hugo's lips had felt against hers, the way his hands had cupped her face. She should be concentrating on Myles, should be willing him to succeed, but instead she was replaying every stolen moment from the past week.

The secret dinners where Hugo would pick her up from work and drive her to small restaurants where they could talk for hours without interruption. The way he'd started showing up at her work when Myles forgot to pick her up, never making a big deal of it, just quietly being there when she needed him.

The afternoon he'd spent helping her with a university assignment, explaining concepts she'd been struggling with in a way that made everything click. The way he'd looked at her when she'd finally understood, like her success mattered to him personally.

"Come on, Myles!" she called out, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice as she watched him receive a pass from midfield.

But even as she cheered, Y/N could see what the coaches were seeing. Myles' first touch was heavy, his passes were going astray, and he looked a step behind everyone else on the pitch. She'd tried to talk to him about his preparation—the late nights, the smoking, the casual attitude toward what was supposed to be the most important opportunity of his career—but he'd brushed off her concerns.

"It's League Two, babe," he'd said. "It's not exactly Real Madrid, is it?"

Now, watching him misplace another simple pass while the coaches exchanged looks, Y/N felt a familiar mix of frustration and sadness. This was what happened when you didn't take things seriously, when you thought success would just happen without effort.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Hugo: Thinking of you today. However it goes, you'll be okay.

Y/N stared at the message, warmth spreading through her chest. He wasn't wishing Myles luck—he was thinking about her, about how she'd feel regardless of the outcome. It was such a small thing, but it highlighted the difference between someone who saw her as a person and someone who saw her as an accessory to their own life.

The trial went about as well as Y/N had expected. Myles struggled through the drills, looked lost during the small-sided games, and generally confirmed what everyone watching already knew—he wasn't ready for professional football, even at League Two level.

*************************************************

The drive home was painful. Myles sat in the passenger seat radiating fury and disappointment, occasionally muttering about biased coaches or unfair treatment. Y/N kept her eyes on the road and tried to think of something comforting to say.

"Maybe this is just motivation to work harder," she offered eventually. "There'll be other opportunities."

"Work harder?" Myles turned to glare at her. "I work plenty hard. It's not my fault they were looking for a certain type of player."

"What type?"

"You know what type."

Y/N did know, and it made her stomach clench. Myles had a way of blaming everyone but himself when things went wrong—the coaches were biased, his teammates didn't pass to him enough, the system was rigged against players like him.

"Maybe if you'd prepared differently—"

"Don't," Myles snapped. "Don't you dare start with that shit. I don't need my own girlfriend telling me I'm not good enough."

"I'm not saying you're not good enough. I'm saying maybe staying out all night and smoking weed the week before a trial wasn't the best preparation."

The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable. Y/N could practically feel Myles' anger radiating across the car, the way it always did when she pointed out something he didn't want to hear.

When they reached her flat, Myles slammed the car door hard enough to make Y/N wince. She followed him upstairs, already dreading whatever argument was about to unfold.

"You know what your problem is?" Myles said as soon as they were inside. "You're not supportive. You're supposed to be on my side, but all you do is criticize."

"That's not fair—"

"Isn't it? When was the last time you actually supported me? When was the last time you acted like a proper girlfriend instead of my fucking mother?"

Y/N felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I support you all the time. I come to your matches, I listen to you complain about everything, I make excuses for—"

"You make excuses? For what?"

For your laziness. For your attitude. For the way you treat me.

"Nothing," Y/N said instead. "Forget it."

"No, go on. What do you make excuses for?"

Y/N looked at him—really looked at him. At the man she'd been with for two years, who she'd built her life around. When had he become someone she had to make excuses for?

"Your birthday's cancelled," Myles said suddenly.

Y/N blinked. "What?"

"Your birthday. Next week. It's cancelled. You don't deserve a celebration right now."

The words hit like a physical blow. Y/N stared at him, trying to process what he'd just said.

"You're cancelling my birthday?"

"Yeah. You're not being a good girlfriend. You're not supporting me through my struggles. So no, you don't get to have a party and get presents and act like everything's fine when you've been a shit partner."

Something cold and final settled in Y/N's chest. "Get out."

"What?"

"Get the fuck out of my flat."

Myles laughed, but it sounded forced. "You can't be serious."

"I'm dead serious. Get your stuff and get out."

"You can't kick me out. We live together."

"No, we don't. My name's on the lease. I pay the bills. This is my flat, and I want you gone."

The reality of the situation seemed to hit Myles then. He looked around the living room—at the furniture Y/N had chosen, the bills she paid, the life she'd built that he'd simply inserted himself into.

"Fine," he said, his voice taking on a nasty edge. "But don't think this is some big loss for me. No one wants your uptight ass anyway."

Y/N watched him throw clothes into a duffel bag, moving through her space like he was dismantling something that had never really been his to begin with. When he reached the door, he turned back with one final parting shot.

"You're a stuck-up bitch, you know that? Good luck finding someone who'll put up with your shit."

The door slammed behind him, leaving Y/N alone in the sudden silence of her flat.

She stood there for a long time, waiting for the tears or the regret or the panic to hit. Instead, she felt something she hadn't expected—relief. Like a weight she'd been carrying for months had finally been lifted from her shoulders.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Hugo: How did today go? Here if you need anything.

Y/N stared at the message, then typed back: Can you come over? I need to see you.

His response was immediate: On my way.

Hugo arrived twenty minutes later with a bag from the Chinese place she liked and concern written all over his face. He took one look at her expression and set the food aside, pulling her into his arms without a word.

"What happened?" he asked softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"It's over," Y/N said into his shoulder. "With Myles. It's over."

Hugo pulled back to look at her face, searching for signs of tears or distress. "Are you okay?"

"I think so. Yeah, I think I'm okay."

They sat on her sofa while Y/N told him about the trial, about the argument, about Myles cancelling her birthday like it was something he had the right to take away. Hugo listened without interrupting, his jaw tightening at certain parts of the story.

"He said no one would want me," Y/N finished with a hollow laugh. "Like I should be grateful he was putting up with me."

"He is idiot," Hugo said firmly. "And he is wrong."

"Is he? Maybe I am difficult. Maybe I am too demanding."

Hugo turned to face her fully, taking her hands in his. "Y/N, listen to me. You are not difficult for want of being treated with respect. You are not demanding for expecting your partner to support your dreams. You are not too much for want someone who sees your worth."

The sincerity in his voice made her chest tight. "Hugo—"

"You deserve someone who celebrates your birthday like it is national holiday. Someone who brings you soup when you sick and listens when you talk about your day. Someone who thinks you are the best thing that ever happened to them."

"Someone like you?"

"Someone exactly like me."

Before Y/N could second-guess herself, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was different from their previous kisses—less careful, more desperate, like she was drowning and he was air.

Hugo responded immediately, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her back with a fervor that made her dizzy. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Y/N felt like something fundamental had shifted.

"I want to be with you," she said simply. "Properly. No more sneaking around. Just us."

Hugo's smile was radiant. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

"Your birthday," Hugo said suddenly. "I will make sure it is everything you deserve. The best birthday you have ever had."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to. I want to give you everything, Y/N. Everything he was too stupid to see you deserved."

Y/N felt tears prick her eyes, but they were good tears. Happy tears. "Thank you," she said.

Hugo's face went soft. "You’re welcome, chérie."

They kissed again, deeper this time, full of promise and possibility. Y/N felt like she was finally breathing properly for the first time in months.

********************************************************

The next day, Hugo visited Y/N at work. Y/N had been struggling to concentrate all morning, replaying the previous night's events and trying to process the magnitude of what had changed.

When Hugo arrived with lunch—as he always did, but now without the weight of guilt—Y/N felt her face light up in a way she couldn't hide.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, setting the containers on the table and immediately reaching for her hands.

"Free," Y/N said honestly. "Scared, but free."

Hugo leaned down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, then finally her lips. It was a soft, claiming kiss that made Y/N's toes curl.

"Not here," she said halfheartedly, even as she leaned into him.

"Why not? You are single now. I am single. We can kiss wherever we want."

The freedom of it was intoxicating. Y/N reached up to cup his face, marveling at the fact that she could touch him openly now.

"I can't believe this is real," she murmured.

"Believe it," Hugo said, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "You are mine now, and I am going to spend every day proving you made the right choice."

"Kiss me again," Y/N said, and Hugo was happy to oblige.

Neither of them saw Sarah's eyes widen as she watched them through the gap in the door, her expression shifting from curiosity to shock to something that looked suspiciously like malicious glee.

But in that moment, wrapped up in each other and the promise of a future they could finally build together, Y/N couldn't bring herself to care about anything else.

It was a rainy night in the Spanish capital, with wind whistling through the streets. People hurried home under umbrellas as their damp clothes clung to their skin. Inside Eduardo’s apartment, the steady and relentless rain faded into a soothing melody. The Frenchman had just returned home from the international break and was spending the evening with his girlfriend, Maeve.

After two weeks away from her, he couldn’t wait to see her once again. Despite their long FaceTime calls, it wasn’t enough for him. Hearing Maeve’s voice through a screen could never replace the sweetness of her physical warmth, and he needed to feel it more than anything. He wanted to hold her close, to tell her how much he loved and missed her.

He wanted to grab her face and see her eyes shine with adoration, something that had never lost its charm, and that Eduardo would never tire of seeing. And now that she was finally back by his side, he was ready to enjoy a peaceful time with her. But that idea quickly became a distant hope when he found himself carving pumpkins in his kitchen instead.

“What is this?” Maeve pointed at his pumpkin, slightly confused by its unique shape. Eduardo looked up at his girlfriend and sighed. After nearly three years of dating, he had accepted his fate and gone along with almost everything she proposed. Once autumn arrived, he knew better than to argue because nothing he could say would change her mind. Which was exactly how he ended up in this situation.

Although Eduardo confidently thought he would do a great job, he regretted his earlier optimism because he struggled to shape the pumpkin as he had intended to, and it didn’t look remotely close to his inspo picture.

“It’s supposed to look like a cat…” he replied, annoyed as Maeve bit her lip, unable to contain her laughter.

“Next time you want to do this, count me out.” Eduardo continued with a serious expression, but he couldn’t keep it for long. Maeve rolled her eyes, not believing a single word he just said. His ego was too big to give up so easily, and she knew it more than anyone else.

“Right,” she chuckled and shook her head. “If you’re done, can you help me clean up this mess?” Eduardo nodded, stood up from his chair, and placed a kiss on her cheek.

Later that evening, once they finished cleaning the kitchen, they decided to watch a movie. Maeve lay on top of Eduardo, her head resting on his chest, her breathing syncing with his slow rise and fall as she fought the urge to sleep while listening to his heartbeat. However, the way he rubbed her back was so relaxing, she gave up and slowly let herself drift away. Eduardo looked down at her, a soft smile displayed on his face. He didn’t move, not wanting to wake her up. Instead, he scrolled through his social media just to keep up with everything he missed throughout the evening, while the movie continued to play in the background. He clicked on her story, showing him struggling with his pumpkin. Despite his slight annoyance, he couldn’t help but chuckle and went to his gallery.

Eduardo wasn’t the type to post a lot about his private life. Everyone knew he had someone in his life, although he never talked much about it, and it wouldn’t change anytime soon. However, at that very moment, he wanted to show off his girlfriend to the world, the one who made his heart skip a beat every time he saw her, the one who saw through him and let him go at his pace. She never rushed anything and did her best to make things work despite their fights and sometimes the distance. His love for Maeve was beyond imagination, and he was grateful to have this girl in his life, and he wanted to let everyone know who was making him happy.

“Have you ridden a scooter before?” Xavi asked, an eyebrow raised. Maiya slowly shook her head in response, then looked down at the vehicle, her heart pounding.

“Just hang on to me. “I promise you will be okay,” he leaned closer to her ear, chuckling. Shivers ran through Maiya as she climbed in behind him. Shortly afterwards, they were driving around the streets of Santorini.

The wind brushed Maiya’s face and whipped her hair back as she held on to Xavi, afraid she might fall. She buried her head in his shoulder and breathed in his cologne, wishing this moment could last forever, rather than being her last hours with him. She sighed. What started as a simple girls’ trip to Greece suddenly turned into a month-long summer fling. Was it love at first sight? Perhaps. But Maiya wanted to ignore that, at least for the moment. She had already made up her mind. Tomorrow, this entire thing would become nothing but a story of the past, a memory she would cherish forever.

A faint smile appeared on her face. She remembered the first time they met, a month ago. It was at a party on the beach. Her friends insisted that she should talk to him after he bought them drinks. Although she was reluctant about the idea, she still did it. They danced together all night, stealing kisses between songs and trying to push each other into the water. She had caught his eye, and Xavi didn’t fail to remind her how incredibly stunning she looked in the black satin dress she wore.

After that night, they were inseparable, and they developed feelings for each other that remained unspoken. Their short time together never allowed them to talk about this, but they were aware of it. However, there was no point in trying to force a long-distance relationship. Xavi already had an erratic lifestyle, and Maiya didn’t want to become a burden to him on top of everything else. She was ready to let him go, even if it compromised her happiness.

Maiya lifted her head and looked at the landscape. She watched the sun sink silently below the horizon. Suddenly, she was in her bubble, alone with her thoughts. The only sound she could hear was the scooter’s engine. She recognized most of the places they drove past; the ice cream shop she loved so much, or the pottery place where Xavi took her on their first date. The Dutchman drove by these places, determined to make all their moments spent together memorable one last time, as he reminisced about everything that happened this month. A bittersweet taste in his mouth. He didn’t want this to end. 

Finally, he stopped at the beach, where it all started. He slowed the engine and helped Maiya off the scooter. They walked on the warm sand, holding hands, thinking about everything and nothing at once. Luckily for them, the beach was empty, a forsaken paradise they both needed. It was quiet enough to hear the waves lapping uninterrupted at the shore. They climbed up the bluffs and over the dunes, like they did the first time they met, until they found the perfect place to sit.

“Can I ask you something?” Maiya broke the silence. She sat and took a breath of salty air.

“Yes, of course,” Xavi replied, his voice breaking a little. He turned his gaze to the ocean, incapable of facing Maiya.

“What will happen to us once we return to our respective lives?” Xavi stayed silent. He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t want to answer because that would mean he would have to face a reality he hadn’t fully accepted yet. He sometimes regretted buying Maiya and her friends drinks. He regretted falling in love with her because she lived far from him. He hated himself for this self-inflicted pain because he could have prevented it.

✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨

The video was thirty seconds long, filmed on a phone by someone who knew where to stand. A rooftop party, colored lights blooming into the London night, a hum of too-loud bass and laughter that sounded expensive. Xavi leaned into a woman in a cut-out dress, close, too close, mouth to ear, the intimacy of a secret passed between strangers.

No kiss. No hands. Just enough.

By the time Jada woke, the clip had already rinsed through the internet three times and come back saltier. Her notifications were a stack of emergencies, text chains like ambulance sirens. Sis is this you? Tell me this is old. Girl, he is NOT serious. A DM from a stranger: You deserve better.

She turned off the phone and set it face down on the table. The kettle hissed like it had been waiting to judge her. Outside, the city blinked awake, buses exhaling, delivery vans braille-tapping over cobblestones, the thick Thursday sky resting in that color between steel and bruise.

She made tea the way her mother had taught her: two minutes steep, no more, no less. She tried to let it cool, then drank it anyway when it burned. She put on an oversized sweater like armor and brushed her edges into shape. Control in the small things.

She’d left agency life two years ago, but the reflexes lingered. Polite crisis management, the art of staying composed while something leaked. It served her well, even now.

An email from a client wanted last-minute changes to a campaign before lunch. She opened the file and moved the logo two pixels to the left.

At 9:20, the door code beeped. He didn’t bother with stealth.

“J,” Xavi called, like this was normal, like the air wasn’t raw. He stepped into the living room with hood up, a cap pulled low. Even silenced, he carried attention like static. Under the hat, he was just Xavi: sleep-creased, jaw unshaven, the left ankle he’d been rehabbing stiff from the weather.

He was younger by a few years, the kind of age gap that hadn’t mattered until it suddenly did. She’d told herself she could handle his spotlight, that her steadiness might even anchor it. But stability doesn’t trend.

“Morning,” she said. Her voice was clean. She didn’t give him anything else.

He stood by the door as if gravity had shifted and he needed a new relationship to the floor. She realized he smelled like her laundry detergent. It made her dizzy.

“I didn’t,” he began, then sighed. “It’s -.”

“Complicated?” she said. “Unfair? A misunderstanding?”

He lifted his head, eyes on hers. Always those eyes, that unfortunate kindness that made people forgive him before he knew he needed forgiving. He pushed his hands into his pockets and took one step forward, a careful approach, like she was the edge of a cliff and he finally respected heights.

“It was a party after an award thing,” he said. “She’s the agency’s person. We were shouting over the music. That’s all.”

“Sounds like a tightrope,” Jada said. “Lots of balance. Beautiful view. No safety net.”

He tried a smile. It died unplaced on his face. “J.”

“You know what I hate?” she asked. “Being looped in late to my own life.”

He looked around like the room might offer him better lines. Their plants sat smug and watered. The gallery wall of their vacations, the villa by the sea, the Ghana trip where the sun decided they were both edible, the Christmas selfie when his hair was too long and hers was freshly braided with gold thread, watched with quiet interest.

He came closer. “I wanted to tell you last night. I got in late. I was going to wake you and –” He stopped, swallowing the sentence. “I should have told you sooner.”

“Like I was a stakeholder,” she said, and the old muscle memory of her corporate years flickered back. She could still speak deck. “Upfront transparency. Scope control. Mitigation plan. Look at me, Xavi. I am the plan.”

He laughed once, a surprised bark that crashed into the floor between them. “You’re not a plan, J. You’re…” He shook his head. “You’re the only place I ever feel human. The rest is noise.”

He was telling the truth. Jada knew truth not by content, but by the way his shoulders caved when he got there. It almost got her again, the part of her that wanted to fold, to take his face in both palms and inhale the life they’d built past other people’s eyesight. But she had also learned to separate honesty from accountability. People could be both honest and wrong.

She sipped her tea, now lukewarm and honest about it. “There’s a video,” she said. “You, whispering into some woman’s ear.”

“She was telling me where the bathroom was.”

“You’re bad at lying, Xavi. You should’ve hired someone for that too.”

He looked down, then up. He took another careful step, close enough that she could see the nick on his jaw from a rushed shave and the little scar under his left eye from when he’d collided with a goalpost at eighteen. The world has a greed for people like him: handsome, high-performing. He knew how to deliver. He did not know how to be held accountable without thinking it might break him.

“I hate this,” he said, near a whisper. “I hate that a stranger can post a thing and suddenly…” He gestured helplessly. “This.”

“You’re not the first, Xavi. Trust me, the list is long.”

He tried again. “You know me.”

Oh, she thought. There it is. As if familiarity were an absolution. As if proximity were proof. She put the cup down carefully on a coaster, the quiet click a full sentence.

“I know the man who falls asleep on my chest with podcasts still playing,” she said. “I know the man who remembers my cousins’ names and sends them new boots for school. I know the man who can’t stand watch straps because the feeling of being tethered makes him itch.”

He exhaled. “That’s me.”

“And I also know the man who walked into a room last night and forgot what fidelity looks like in public. You don’t get to be both victim and main character. Pick one.”

He flinched, small but real. He pushed a hand through his hair, the curl pattern rebellious from a hat-compressed commute. “I didn’t cheat on you.”

“Breakup math isn’t always about bodies,” Jada said. “Sometimes it’s about dignity. Mine has limits you pretend not to see.”

The kettle clicked again in the kitchen, a phantom memory. Or maybe the ghost of a better morning. She moved around him to the hallway closet and reached up for the storage boxes. She pulled one down, brown cardboard, lid soft from years of being asked to hold more than it should.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice hitting a new key.

“Packing what doesn’t belong here anymore,” she said.

She began folding his hoodies, the training gear he’d left in her laundry basket, the charger that only fit his phone. A bottle of cologne. A spare pair of slides. The kind of items people leave behind when they think they’re staying.

He stood still because he knew if he moved he would ruin something he could never buy back. “J, please. Don’t.”

“Stop,” she said, without volume but with the weight of a gavel. “Every time I’ve ever had to forgive you, it’s because you were late to the truth. I’m tired of you running behind. I want a life that doesn’t require clean-up. That’s not even asking for perfect, it’s asking for the bare minimum.”

He blinked at the floor. “You think I’m a mess.”

“I think you’re a public asset with private chaos,” she said. “And I’m a woman who likes soft mornings and boring evenings and small, loyal facts.”

“What does that mean for us?” he said, and it wasn’t a question so much as a last prayer.

“It means you’ll be okay,” she said. “You were designed to be okay. You’ve got the team, the trainers, the chef, the social media girl who makes you look approachable. The sponsors will frown and renew. The networks will cut to you looking solemn before next week’s match. You’ll raise your hand to the crowd and mean it.”

She’d built brands out of chaos for a living. She knew the cycle: scandal, statement, rebrand. But she was done living like a campaign.

“And you?” he asked, standing with nothing in his hands.

“I will not tweet about it,” she said. “I won’t post a breakup playlist. I won’t sub a single exhale. I’ll go to work and choose fonts. I’ll visit my mother on Sundays. I’ll stretch at night and stop sleeping lightly. I’ll delete your mother’s birthday from my calendar when I’m ready. I’ll give myself a white bathrobe and new sheets and let the silence be comfortable.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, like he could press reality out of his skull. “I don’t want to do this without you.”

“You have been doing this without me,” she said, and in saying it, she realized it was true. He had been living a life optimized for cameras while assuming she would edit around the glare.

He crossed the room in two strides, stopped short. He raised a hand like he might touch her cheek and then didn’t. “Tell me what to do,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

She thought of all the times she’d handed him script and plan, how easily he’d read it and earned applause. She could do it now: give him a checklist, a path from apology to absolution. She could create leverage documents, PR statements, a video with a lower third reading Personal Statement. She could fix it, the way women have historically been asked to turn disaster into furniture.

“I am not your fixer,” she said, and felt the relief of it all down her spine. “If you want to change, you’ll have to author it yourself.”

He stepped back like she’d pressed a palm against his chest. The quiet held, thin and strong. Outside, somewhere, sirens moved toward a stranger’s emergency. The city didn’t notice the small apocalypse in their living room.

“What do I tell the press?” he asked finally, because even now his mind was a procession of press cycles. He was a product with embedded disclaimers.

“You tell them nothing,” she said, voice gentle now because gentleness was a resource she still owned. “You learn how to close a door without narrating it.”

He nodded. His hands shook.

She handed him a jacket from the closet, the one he always said made him feel like a dad in an advert.

He didn’t move to put it on. “Will you come to the next home game?” he asked, and then he flinched at his own stupidity. “Sorry. That’s –forget I asked.”

“I won’t be in the box,” she said. “I might be on my couch. I might be out for dinner. I might be asleep during halftime. It’ll all be fine.”

He nodded again. He seemed dazzled by this idea, a world that proceeded without his presence or her witness.

“Jada,” he said. Just her name. He said it like a landmark he was trying not to forget.

She went to him, but not to kiss. She adjusted the line of his hoodie, smoothed the edge of the cap. He always dressed like he didn’t know how to be held by fabric. She had taught him softness that didn’t scream. She did it now one last time because ritual had its own mercy.

“You’ll be late for physio,” she said.

“I can cancel.”

“You won’t,” she said. “You have to learn to show up for the things that make you better.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh and wasn’t a sob. He bent forward slightly, forehead near her shoulder, not touching. The urge to comfort him was a muscle memory. She kept her hands at her sides.

When he finally straightened, he looked older in a way that suited him. “Can I call you?”

“You can send things you need me to have,” she said. “Keys. There’s a plant I gave you for your birthday that you never watered. Bring it. I’ll rescue it.”

This time he smiled, small and real. “It looks like a fossil now.”

“Figures.”

He picked up the box. He stood there, the profile of a man holding proof of victories that suddenly weighed differently. He looked at the photo wall again. The light whooshed across the frames as clouds moved, there and then not.

“I love you,” he said.

She thought about the first time he’d said it, in an Uber on their way home from a cheap Lebanese place in Kilburn, the driver singing along to a ballad on Capital XTRA. How those words had hit like surprise rain in a heatwave.

She stepped back to make space for the door. “I know.”

He left. The door closed behind him with the soft cadence of expensive carpentry. The space he vacated didn’t whine or warp. It was just space.

Silence settled. A real one, not the strategic hush of PR. She went to the window. The city was in full performance now, horns, the scrape of a bike chain, someone arguing cheerfully into an AirPod. Across the street, two builders in fluorescent vests were laughing about something she couldn’t hear. The world kept its cadence without asking how she felt. She appreciated the audacity of it.

Her phone, facedown, buzzed weakly against the table. She turned it over and looked at the notifications like they were unfamiliar artifacts. She pressed her thumb to the screen and opened Messages. Her mother had sent a voice note. Her best friend had sent a photo of her dog wearing a worried sweater.

She typed into the group chat: I’m okay. I won’t be answering questions. I love you. She muted the chat.

In her inbox, the client’s email waited, indifferent to personal disruption. She opened the file again and fixed the spacing on a tagline. She sent it back with comments in clean bullet points. She answered three more messages with sentences that started with Per our conversation and Following up on the deliverables.

She cleaned the kitchen. She opened the window and let the cold air make statements. She pulled the plant from the sill that had always looked like it held its breath when Xavi was near, watered it until the soil sighed.

She took a shower. She put on lotion like a ceremony. She wrapped a silk scarf around her hair. She chose earrings the size of small moons. She looked at herself in the mirror until she recognized the face not as something to present but as something to keep.

When her phone buzzed again, she nearly didn’t check it.

A text from an unknown number: Hi Jada, this is Marisol from PR. We’d love to align on a narrative. Timing is sensitive. Can we hop on for fifteen?

She smiled, just a little. The machine was already spinning up a redemption arc. She typed: I won’t be participating. Wish you well. Then added a period because boundaries deserved proper punctuation.

At noon, her mother called again. Jada answered and said, “I’m alright.” Her mother hummed doubt, then said, “Good. Eat something.” They stayed on the phone long enough to talk about hair oils and TV dramas and the neighbor who’d started singing gospel on the balcony. They didn’t talk about Xavi. It was a relief so crisp it tasted like mint.

After the call, she made a sandwich that had exactly what she wanted in it and nothing else. She ate it at the table in complete silence and realized her body was unclenching parts it had kept tight for months.

Around four, a courier arrived with an envelope. Inside: a set of keys, a folded list of bank transfers, a solitary Polaroid of them from three summers ago, all cheeks and sweat and bodies collapsing into each other on a stranger’s couch. On the back, he had written in that too-neat handwriting: I’m sorry. I’m trying to learn. No signature. None required.

She placed the keys in a small bowl. She put the Polaroid in a box with other artifacts of previous lives, a ticket stub, a friendship bracelet from a festival where it rained and the mud tried to swallow their trainers. She kept the note out and slid it under a magnet on the fridge like it might help her remember the lesson she was already making hers.

Evening came on like a bruise fading. She closed her laptop. She turned off the big light and turned on the small ones. She put on a record that sounded expensive and timeless and let it fill no empty spaces, because there weren’t any. Just new ones, unclaimed.

When the night finally poured itself into the corners of the room, Jada stood at the window again. A slice of moon hung low and patient. No cameras. No captions. Just breath and the sound of sirens far away, getting closer to someone else’s storm.

She didn’t need revenge. She didn’t need witness. She needed the clean line of a boundary observed and the softness beyond it.

She turned off her phone, left it on the counter, and went to bed in fresh sheets. The quiet was not dramatic. It was competent. It knew its job and did it well.

In the dark, she let the day pass through her like water through clean fabric. Somewhere out there, Xavi would be practicing an apology for a camera, or sitting in his car with the engine off, listening to the heater click. She wished him the kind of peace that didn’t depend on applause. She wished herself the kind that arrived without asking.

No parade. No puns. No performance.

Hugo had bought you a necklace, it was gold plated, fearing that flowers was too cliche at this point. It was after all your birthday and he wanted to celebrate you.

He dropped it at your apartment before heading to training, hoping that it would make you smile as you started your day.

But to his surprise, you called him up thanking him for something he had never bought you--roses, red to be exact.

"hugo," he hears your sweet voice at the end of the line. "thank you so much".

"no problem," he smiles. "as long as it made you smile".

"you really know me, red roses, and all" you say causing him to sit straight.

"red roses?"

"yeah, found it in front of my door, I mean the necklace was really great but the roses really did it for me" you tell him.

There was a pause on his part.

"Hugo?" She repeats. "Are you still there?"

"yes, I didn't send you roses"

"oh"

"gotta go, have a great day though".

He cuts off the line as fast as he called, you stand there speechless, observing the roses as you pick up a card. "Love you, your ex".

Your mouth opens in a shock, as you read the words a second time.

Trying your luck, you dial Hugo three more times, not really sure what it was you wanted to tell him. But on the third dial, when he didn't answer you stopped.

You didn't know how to fix this, whether you had made things awkward.

"ahhhhhhhhhhhhh"

You groan into your pillow, a mix of anger, guilt, and something else, you were glad that he cared enough to get jealous of the idea of another man sending you flowers.

You pick of your phone and arrange someone to send the roses back, adding a message to your ex never to contact you again or you would take legal actions.

After that, till late evening you don't really hear from Hugo again. Not until, you hear a knock at your door and go to open.

The festivities were taking place inside your apartment, your friends had decided to go all out and organise something, it was supposed to be a small 'thing' until about more than fifty people showed up.

Your eyes lit up as your saw him. "Hugo? You actually came?".

Then your eyes went to the bouquet of flowers in his hands. "Think I'd miss this?".

You turn around hearing your friends blasting 'hit em up' by 2pac, at the loudest volume yet. You liked the song but why it was played on your birthday you didn't no.

"Trust me, you might just want to".

Hugo pushes the braids out from your face, and smiles. "I'd never miss your birthday silly," he says shaking his head. "never, not even for a world cup final".

You shook your head laughing. "Come in".

He hesitates. "Just one second"

Your door opens a second time, and you're just about to tell him that you hoped he didn't bring more people, your apartment could barely contain anymore.

But what happened next surprised you, probably the greatest gesture anyone has ever done for you.

Hundreds of flowers passed through your door, the party by now was blasting a song by megan thee stallion but no body was listening or paying attention.

Everyone's attention was on counting the number of red roses passing through your door, some brought out their phones to video it, others eyed hugo, some marvelled at how their own girlfriends/boyfriends never did the same for them.

You just watched with awe as the flowers were being delivered. In the end, you had managed to count up to a hundred and five roses, you were pretty sure by then it was more ain't no way you counted everything.

Your eyes landed on hugo, at this point you didn't even realise you had started crying, "you didn't have to do this".

He cleans off the tears. "But I want to. I wanted to make you smile on your birthday not start crying though".

You laugh at his helpless looks, and he smiles back unknowingly. "This aren't tears, they are tears of joy though".

"I thought the roses would be cliche, and wanted to give you something else not knowing that my girlfriend might like a little cliche" He says.

You laugh at his words. "Yeah, yeah" but all is being said with love from your heart, you hadn't told him yet but soon...

"I might have gone a little overboard-"

"really? you think?" you said teasingly causing him to shake his head.

"but it all sterns from the fact that I like you" he tells you. "I really do".

You gaze into his eyes. "And I like you too".

He was absolutely, definitely going to hell for plotting to steal another man's girlfriend. But then again, that's probably why his grand-mère was always praying for him in her texts—she'd always had an uncanny ability to sense when he was about to do something that required divine intervention.

The rational part of Hugo's brain knew this was a terrible idea. Y/N was in a relationship, however shitty it might be. Getting involved would be messy and complicated and probably end with everyone getting hurt. He should walk away, focus on settling into Liverpool, maybe find someone who didn't come with a possessive boyfriend and a complicated emotional situation.

But the rational part of Hugo's brain had been steadily losing ground to the part that remembered how Y/N had laughed at his terrible jokes, how she'd looked at him. The part that knew she deserved better than someone who made her apologize for accepting help from a friend.

Hugo had always been methodical about the things that mattered to him. On the pitch, he studied opponents until he could predict their movements, learned their weaknesses, found the perfect moment to exploit them. Off the pitch, he approached challenges with the same systematic patience.

Y/N wasn't an opponent, but she was definitely a challenge. And Hugo was very good at challenges.

The plan, such as it was, had started forming the day after they were at the pub. Ramses and Dushane had spent their entire weekend offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions about how Hugo should "make his move," ranging from showing up at Y/N's flat with flowers (too obvious) to accidentally running into her at various locations around Liverpool (too stalkerish).

But it was Mama Mabel who'd given him the real inspiration, in her typically roundabout way.

"That girl needs someone who sees her for who she is," she'd said while loading his basket with ingredients for what she claimed was a foolproof curry recipe. "Not who she thinks she needs to be for some boy who don't appreciate her."

"How do I show her that?" Hugo had asked.

"Baby, you been showing her that every time you talk to her. You listen when she speaks. You help when she needs it. You make her laugh." Mama Mabel had given him one of her knowing looks. "What you need to do is give her reasons to keep choosing you instead of him."

Which was how Hugo found himself sitting outside a furniture shop with chicken curry and mango lassi, trying to work up the courage to walk through those doors and officially begin his campaign to steal someone's girlfriend.

His phone buzzed with a text from his grand-mère: Je prie pour toi, mon petit. Be good.

Hugo laughed despite himself. Even from thousands of miles away, she knew when he was up to something.

I'm trying, Grand-mère, he texted back. But sometimes being good is complicated.

He looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Training had run late, and he was still wearing the new Adidas x Liverpool FC tracksuit, the white and red making his skin look warmer. His hair was a disaster—he'd taken his braids out the night before with every intention of getting them redone, but he still hadn't found a hairdresser in Liverpool he trusted. Now his hair was a mass of loose curls that he'd tried and failed to tame with water and prayer.

"Fuck it," Hugo muttered, grabbing the food containers and heading toward the shop.

The little bell above the door chimed as he entered, and immediately he was approached by a woman he didn't recognize—petite, blonde, wearing a smile that was friendly bordering on predatory.

"Hello there," she said, looking him up and down with obvious appreciation. "I'm Sarah. How can I help you today?"

"I am looking for Y/N," Hugo said politely. "Is she here?"

"Y/N's on her break," Sarah replied, stepping closer. "But I'd be happy to help you with whatever you need. Are you looking for anything specific? Maybe something for the bedroom?"

The way she said it made Hugo's eyebrows raise slightly. "I am just here to see Y/N."

"Are you sure I can't interest you in anything else?" Sarah persisted, trailing her fingers along a nearby dresser in a way that was clearly meant to be seductive. "I'm very good at helping customers find exactly what they're looking for."

Hugo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Where is Y/N?"

"She's in the back, but—"

"Thank you," Hugo said, already walking toward the employee area before Sarah could finish whatever sales pitch she'd been building up to.

He found Y/N in a small break room, laptop open on a table covered in interior design textbooks and coffee cups. She was completely absorbed in whatever she was working on, one hand absently twirling a braid while she typed with the other.

Hugo knocked gently on the doorframe. "Y/N?"

She looked up, and her face went through several expressions in quick succession—surprise, confusion, and then something that looked like pleasure before settling into wariness.

"Hugo? What are you doing here?"

"I was nearby," Hugo said, which was technically true if you considered "a twenty-minute drive from the training ground" to be nearby. "Thought I would... come through. Have you eaten yet?"

Y/N glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's only four-thirty."

"Oui, but you have been working all day. I bought curry from the Indian place." Hugo held up the containers. "Chicken curry, rice, naan. And mango lassi."

Y/N stared at him like he'd just announced he was from Mars. "You brought me food?"

"Is that... weird?" Hugo asked, suddenly second-guessing his entire plan.

"No, it's just..." Y/N closed her laptop and rubbed her eyes. "Nobody's ever done that before. Just showed up with food because they thought I might be hungry."

The casual way she said it made something twist in Hugo's chest. "Well, someone should have."

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, something soft and vulnerable in her expression, before gesturing to the empty chair across from her. "Sit. Let's see if this curry's any good."

Hugo distributed the containers between them, pleased when Y/N made a small sound of appreciation at the first bite.

"This is proper good," she said around a mouthful of rice. "Where'd you get it?"

"Mama Mabel recommended it. Said they make everything fresh."

"Mama Mabel?"

"She is... how do you say... she adopted me at the market. Makes sure I eat vegetables and do not waste away."

Y/N laughed. "That's sweet. Everyone needs a Mama Mabel."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Y/N occasionally making small sounds of contentment that did absolutely nothing to help Hugo maintain his composure. When she reached up to tuck a stray braid behind her ear, her eyes landed on his hair and widened.

"Your hair is so curly," she said, almost wonderingly.

Hugo felt heat creep up his neck. "Oui, is... disaster right now. I need to get it braided again, but I have not found hairdresser here yet."

"It's not a disaster," Y/N said quickly. "It's actually really nice. All these loose curls..." She trailed off, her gaze still fixed on his hair in a way that made Hugo want to run his hands through it just to see her reaction.

Instead, he bit his lip nervously, a habit he'd never been able to break. "Is too much. Makes me look like I stick finger in electric socket."

Y/N's eyes dropped to his mouth when he bit his lip, and Hugo watched her pupils dilate slightly. When she looked back up at his hair, there was something different in her expression—softer, more intimate.

"Can I..." she started, then stopped, her hand halfway raised toward his head.

"Can you what?" Hugo asked softly.

"Can I touch it? Your hair?" Y/N's voice was barely above a whisper. "I just... it looks so soft."

Hugo's breath caught. "Oui. Yes."

Y/N reached out slowly, giving him time to change his mind, before threading her fingers gently through his curls. Her touch was feather-light, exploratory, and Hugo had to grip the edge of the table to keep from leaning into it like a cat.

"It's even softer than it looks," Y/N murmured, her fingers combing through the strands. "These curls are beautiful, Hugo. You shouldn't hide them under braids all the time."

"Is practical for football," Hugo managed, though his voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "Keeps it out of face during matches."

"Mmm." Y/N was still running her fingers through his hair, seemingly fascinated by the texture. "But it's so pretty like this."

The word 'pretty' sent an unexpected jolt through Hugo's system. He'd been called many things—talented, fast, strong—but pretty wasn't usually one of them.

"I really do need to get it braided though," he said, reluctantly pulling back from her touch. "Cannot go to training looking like this."

"I could do it," Y/N said without thinking, then immediately looked like she wanted to take the words back.

"You know how to braid?"

"Yeah, I... I used to do my friend's hair. And my own, obviously. I know loads of different styles." Y/N was picking at her sleeve again, nervous energy radiating off her. "I mean, if you want. I could come round yours after work, if you like."

Hugo felt his pulse quicken. Y/N in his house again, her hands in his hair, the two of them alone for however long it took to braid all of his curls. It was better than anything he could have planned.

"You would do that?" he asked carefully.

"Course. It's not a big deal."

"It is to me," Hugo said quietly, and something in his tone made Y/N look up at him with those wide brown eyes that always made him feel like he was drowning.

"Yeah?" she asked softly.

"Oui."

They stared at each other across the small table, the air between them thick with something that felt dangerous and necessary. Y/N's lips parted slightly, and Hugo found himself leaning forward without meaning to.

"Y/N!" Sarah's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "Your break's been over for ten minutes!"

Y/N jerked back, the spell broken. "Right, sorry, I'm coming."

She started gathering up the empty containers, movements quick and flustered. "I should... I have to get back to work."

"Of course," Hugo said, standing as well. "Thank you for having lunch with me."

"Thank you for bringing it. That was..." Y/N paused, meeting his eyes again. "That was really thoughtful."

"So," Hugo said carefully, "tonight? For the braids?"

Y/N hesitated for just a moment, and Hugo could practically see her weighing the decision. "Yeah. Tonight." Y/N was almost to the door when she turned back. "Hugo?"

"Yeah?"

"Your hair really is beautiful like this. Don't let anyone tell you different."

She disappeared before Hugo could respond, leaving him standing in the empty break room with his heart hammering against his ribs and the smell of her perfume still lingering in the air.

***********************************************************

Hugo's house had never felt so inadequate.

He'd spent the two hours between leaving the furniture shop and Y/N's arrival cleaning obsessively, rearranging furniture that didn't need rearranging, and generally acting like he was preparing for a royal visit instead of having a friend over to braid his hair.

Friend. Right.

Mama Mabel had texted him twice during his cleaning frenzy, first to ask how the curry mission had gone (It went well) and then to remind him to "be respectful but let her know you interested." As if Hugo could forget that he was interested, when every interaction with Y/N left him more convinced that she was exactly what he'd been looking for without knowing he was looking for anything.

The knock on his door came at exactly seven o'clock, because of course Y/N was the type of person who showed up precisely when she said she would.

Hugo opened the door to find her standing outside with a bag slung over her shoulder, looking somehow both nervous and determined. She'd changed out of her dress into jeans and a soft green jumper.

"Hi," she said simply.

"Hi," Hugo replied, stepping aside to let her in. "Come in."

Y/N walked into his living room and immediately began studying everything with the critical eye of someone who worked in interior design for a living.

"This still looks good," she said, running her hand along the back of the sofa she'd helped him choose. "Really homey. But Hugo..."

"Yes?"

"You need art on your walls. It's like living in a magazine spread—beautiful but cold."

Hugo looked around his living room, trying to see it through her eyes. She was right—the furniture was perfect, but the walls were stark white and completely bare.

"I do not know what to put up," he admitted. "I am not good with... artistic things."

Y/N moved to one of the empty walls, holding up her hands to frame different sections. "You need something personal. Something that speaks to you. Color, emotion, something that makes you feel at home when you look at it."

"You could pick something out," Hugo suggested, and Y/N turned to look at him with surprise.

"Me?"

"Oui. You have good eye for these things. I trust you."

The way he said it—simple, matter-of-fact, like trusting her was the most natural thing in the world—made Y/N's breath catch.

"You trust me?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," Hugo said, his voice dropping to that lower register that always made her pulse quicken. "I do."

Y/N stared at him for a moment, something complicated flickering across her features, before she cleared her throat and hefted her bag higher on her shoulder.

"Right then. Hair first, art shopping later. Where's your bathroom?"

Hugo led her down the hallway, hyperaware of her presence behind him. When they reached the bathroom, Y/N immediately began unpacking supplies from her bag—combs, hair ties, some kind of cream that smelled like coconut.

"Sit," she instructed, gesturing to the closed toilet seat.

Hugo sat, trying to ignore how domestic this felt. Y/N moved closer to him, and he caught her reflection in the mirror—focused, professional, beautiful in the soft bathroom lighting.

"Your hair's longer than I thought," Y/N said, running her fingers through his curls to assess the length. "How do you usually wear it braided?"

"However you think is best," Hugo said, and immediately regretted it when Y/N's hands stilled in his hair.

"Hugo, it's your hair. You must have a preference."

"I have had same style since I was teenager," Hugo admitted. "Maybe is time for something different."

"Something different," Y/N mused, her fingers resuming their gentle exploration of his scalp. "I could do twists instead of braids. They'd show off your curl pattern more, and they're easier to maintain."

"You choose," Hugo said, closing his eyes as Y/N began sectioning his hair. "I trust you."

There was that phrase again. Y/N's hands paused briefly before continuing their work.

"Tell me about your grandmother," Y/N said as she began working product through his hair. "The one who prays for you."

Hugo's eyes opened in surprise. "What do you—"

"You mentioned her earlier. Said she always knows when you're up to something." Y/N's reflection smiled at him in the mirror. "Sounds like she knows you pretty well."

"Oui, she does. She raised me and my brothers when my parents were working. Taught me to cook, to be respectful, to think before I act." Hugo paused. "Though I think I disappoint her with that last one sometimes."

"Why, what do you do that requires so much prayer?"

Hugo met Y/N's eyes in the mirror. "Make decisions that are probably not smart but feel necessary anyway."

"Like what?"

"Like liking women who belong to other people."

The words were out before Hugo could stop them, hanging in the air between them like a confession. Y/N's hands stilled completely in his hair, and Hugo watched her face in the mirror, trying to read her expression.

"Hugo," Y/N said quietly.

"I am sorry," Hugo said quickly. "I shouldn't say that."

"No, it's..." Y/N resumed working on his hair, but her movements were more careful now, more deliberate. "It's complicated."

"I know."

"You don't know everything," Y/N said, and there was something sharp in her voice that made Hugo look at her more closely in the mirror.

"Then tell me."

Y/N was quiet for a long time, focused on twisting sections of his hair with practiced precision. Hugo thought she might not answer, but then she spoke, so softly he had to strain to hear her.

"Myles wasn't always like this. When we met, he was different. Gentler. He made me feel safe when everything else in my life was falling apart."

Hugo wanted to ask what had been falling apart, but he sensed that pushing would make her shut down completely.

"But people change," Y/N continued. "Disappointment makes them bitter. Makes them blame everyone around them for their own failures. And I..." She trailed off, her hands going still again.

"And you what?"

"I don't know how to leave someone when they need me," Y/N whispered. "Even when staying is slowly killing me."

Hugo felt something crack open in his chest at the pain in her voice. He turned slightly on the toilet seat so he was facing her directly, ignoring the fact that his half-finished hair probably looked ridiculous.

"Y/N," he said gently.

"I know what you're going to say," Y/N said, not meeting his eyes. "That I deserve better, that I shouldn't have to fix someone else at the expense of myself. And you're right. I know you're right. But knowing something and being able to act on it are different things."

Hugo reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and took her hands in his. Her fingers were soft, warm, slightly sticky from the hair product.

"You are not responsible for other people being happy," Hugo said quietly. "Especially not when they make you not happy."

"I know that," Y/N said, but her voice was thick with unshed tears.

"But you do not feel it yet."

"No," Y/N admitted. "I don't."

Hugo squeezed her hands gently. "That is okay. Feelings take time to catch up with thoughts. But Y/N..."

"Yeah?"

"When you are ready to feel it, I will be here."

Y/N looked at him then, really looked at him, and Hugo saw the exact moment when his words hit her. Her eyes filled with tears that she blinked back quickly, but not before one escaped and tracked down her cheek.

"You can't just say things like that to me," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Hugo asked, his thumb brushing across her knuckles.

"Says the fact that I have a boyfriend who would lose his mind if he knew I was here with you right now."

"Maybe," Hugo said carefully, "you should think about why you are here with me right now and not home with him."

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, her breathing slightly uneven. Then she pulled her hands free of his and stepped back.

"Turn around," she said, her voice barely steady. "Let me finish your hair."

Hugo turned back to face the mirror, and they didn't speak again until Y/N had finished the intricate pattern of twists she'd been creating. When she was done, Hugo hardly recognized himself—the style was better than his usual braids, showed off his bone structure, made him look older and somehow more himself at the same time.

"What do you think?" Y/N asked, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

"I think," Hugo said, meeting her eyes in the mirror, "that you are very good."

"Good," Y/N said softly. "That's what matters."

But as Hugo looked at their reflection—Y/N standing next to him, her hands on his shoulders, both of them looking like they belonged together—he thought that maybe what mattered was something else entirely.

Something that felt dangerous and necessary and worth whatever prayers his grand-mère was sending up for his soul.

Because Hugo was definitely going to hell for what he was about to do.

Three days after the hair braiding incident, Hugo was back at the market with Mama Mabel, trying to focus on selecting plantains while she gave him a lecture about patience.

"You can't rush these things, baby," she was saying. "Good things take time to develop proper."

"I know," Hugo said, though his mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was stuck on the way Y/N had looked at him in the bathroom mirror, the way she'd pulled her hands away like touching him had burned her.

"Do you know? Because you got that look again."

"What look?"

"That look like you trying to solve world hunger with your brain alone." Mama Mabel dropped some peppers into his basket with more force than necessary. "What you really need to be thinking about is how to show that girl what she worth."

"I bring her food yesterday," Hugo offered.

"Food is good. Food is basic human kindness. But what else?"

Hugo thought about it as they moved through the market stalls. What did Y/N need that she wasn't getting? What could he give her that would make her see the difference between settling and being cherished?

"She works too much," he said finally. "Always tired, always stressed about school and work and..."

"And that boyfriend who don't appreciate nothing she do," Mama Mabel finished. "So what you gonna do about it?"

Before Hugo could answer, his phone buzzed with a text from Florian: Training's cancelled. Slot’s got food poisoning. Wanna grab lunch?

Hugo stared at the message, an idea forming. "Mama Mabel, where is best place in Liverpool for lunch? Somewhere... special?"

Mama Mabel's smile was knowing. "Now you're thinking like a man with sense."

Twenty minutes later, Hugo was standing outside Home & Heart with takeaway containers from the fancy Italian place on Duke Street—the kind of restaurant that made you feel sophisticated just for walking through the door. Through the shop window, he could see Y/N helping an elderly couple choose a dining set, her professional smile firmly in place despite the obvious exhaustion in her posture.

When she spotted him through the glass, her expression shifted to something between pleasure and exasperation.

"You've got to stop doing this," were the first words out of her mouth when he walked in.

"Do what?"

"Showing up here with food like some sort of... lunch fairy."

Hugo grinned. "Lunch fairy. I like this."

"It's not funny, Hugo. People are starting to notice."

"What people?"

Y/N glanced around the shop, where Sarah was pretending to arrange throw pillows while obviously eavesdropping. "My coworkers. They're asking questions."

"What questions?"

"About who you are. Why you keep coming by. Whether we're..." Y/N trailed off.

"Whether we are what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Y/N took the takeaway containers from him before he could argue. "What is it today?"

"Risotto. And tiramisu." Hugo watched her face light up despite her protests. "Bacino on Duke Street."

"Hugo, that place is proper expensive."

"Is good food. You deserve good food."

There it was again—that phrase that seemed to undo something in Y/N's carefully constructed defenses. She looked at him for a long moment, something soft and vulnerable in her expression.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because is true. Because someone should say it to you every day."

Y/N's breath caught, and Hugo saw the exact moment when his words hit their target. She glanced around the shop again, noting Sarah's continued attention and the way other customers were starting to stare.

"Come on," she said quietly. "Let's go to the back."

The employee break room felt smaller with both of them in it, the air thick with the scent of Y/N's perfume and something Hugo was beginning to recognize as the particular tension that existed between them. Y/N busied herself opening the containers, making small sounds of appreciation that did nothing for Hugo's ability to think clearly.

"This smells incredible," she said, taking her first bite of risotto. "How did you even know I like mushroom risotto?"

"Lucky guess."

"Bullshit. You asked someone, didn't you?"

Hugo's silence was answer enough. Y/N shook her head, but she was smiling.

"Who?"

"Sarah," Hugo admitted. "I asked what your favorite foods were."

"When?"

"Yesterday. When you were with customer."

Y/N paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. "You asked Sarah about my food preferences."

"Oui."

"And she told you?"

"She told me many things. Too many things." Hugo's expression darkened slightly. "She is very... helpful."

Y/N snorted. "Sarah's been trying to get in your pants."

"I noticed."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Aren't you interested? She's pretty, she's available, she wouldn't come with all the complications I do."

Hugo looked at Y/N across the small table, taking in the way she was picking at her food now instead of eating it, the careful way she wasn't quite meeting his eyes.

"Are you trying to talk me to date someone else?" he asked softly.

"Maybe."

"Why?"

"Because it would be easier. For everyone."

"Easier?"

Y/N was quiet for a long moment, twirling risotto around her fork without eating it. "Easier for me."

"Why would it be easy for you?"

"Because then I could stop feeling guilty about wanting things I can't have."

The admission hung between them like a confession. Hugo felt his pulse quicken, but he kept his voice carefully neutral.

"What things?"

Y/N finally looked up at him, and Hugo saw something raw and honest in her expression that made his chest tight.

"You know what things."

"I want to hear you say it."

"Hugo—"

"Say it."

Y/N stared at him, her breathing slightly uneven. "I want you to keep bringing me lunch. I want you to keep showing up here with terrible excuses. I want to touch your hair again and not feel guilty about it. I want..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"What?"

"I want to know what it would feel like to be with someone who actually sees me. Who thinks about what I might need or want. Who doesn't make me feel like I'm asking for too much just by existing."

Hugo felt something crack open in his chest. "Y/N—"

"But I can't have any of that," Y/N continued, her voice getting stronger. "Because I have a boyfriend. Because I made a commitment. Because good people don't just abandon relationships when something better comes along."

"Even when he make you you sad?"

"Especially then. That's what commitment means, doesn't it? Staying even when things get difficult."

Hugo was quiet for a moment, studying Y/N's face. She looked like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

"What if," he said carefully, "staying is not good? What if staying is just... fear?"

"Fear of what?"

"Fear of being alone. Fear to start over."

Y/N's jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"When last time Myles brought you lunch?"

"That's not—"

"When last time he asked how your day was and actually listened to answer?"

"Hugo—"

"When last time he made you feel like you matter?"

"Stop." Y/N's voice was sharp now, defensive. "You don't understand the situation."

"Then explain to me."

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, something complicated flickering across her features. Then she stood up abruptly, gathering the empty containers.

"I have to get back to work."

"Y/N—"

"Thank you for lunch. It was lovely. But Hugo... this has to stop."

"What has to stop?"

"This. Whatever this is. I can't keep letting you do things for me when I can't give you anything back."

Hugo stood as well, moving closer until he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. "I'm not ask you to give me anything back."

"Yes, you are. Maybe not consciously, but you are. And it's not fair to either of us."

"What would be fair?"

"You finding someone who's actually available. Someone who can appreciate all this without feeling like they're betraying someone else."

Hugo was quiet for a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two tickets. He placed them on the table between them.

"Liverpool versus Arsenal. Saturday."

Y/N's eyes widened. "Hugo, I can't—"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't go to football matches. Because Myles would lose his mind. Because this is exactly the kind of thing that makes everything complicated."

"Do you want to come?" Hugo asked simply.

Y/N opened her mouth to say no, then closed it again. Hugo watched her wrestle with the answer, saw the moment when honesty won out over obligation.

"Yes," she said quietly. "But wanting something doesn't mean I should have it."

"Why not?"

"Because I have a boyfriend."

"Do you want to stop this?" Hugo asked, echoing their conversation from the bathroom. "Really want to stop it?"

Y/N met his eyes, and Hugo saw the conflict there—want warring with guilt, desire fighting against duty.

"I should want to stop it," she said carefully.

"But do you?"

Before Y/N could answer, Sarah's voice cut through the tension.

"Y/N? You've got a customer asking about bedroom sets."

Y/N jerked back like she'd been caught doing something wrong. "Right. Coming."

She grabbed the tickets from the table and shoved them into her bag before Hugo could protest.

"Take a friend," Hugo said quickly as she headed for the door. "If you come, bring someone with you. That way it's not... whatever you're worried about."

Y/N paused in the doorway, looking back at him. "And if I don't come?"

"Then you don't come. But tickets will be there."

"Hugo—"

"I send you something for lunch tomorrow," Hugo said before she could finish whatever she'd been about to say. "I have long training."

Y/N's forehead wrinkled. "What?"

"I have something delivered for lunch tomorrow. Training runs late, you will be hungry."

"Hugo, you don't need to—"

"What time is your break?"

Y/N knew she should shut this down. Should tell him to stop bringing her food, stop showing up at her work, stop looking at her like she was something precious he wanted to protect. Should remind him that she had a boyfriend, that this whole situation was getting out of hand.

Instead, she heard herself say, "One o'clock."

"I have it delivered then."

And before Y/N could argue, Hugo was gone, leaving her standing in the doorway with the tickets burning a hole in her bag and the taste of tiramisu still sweet on her tongue.

Saturday afternoon found Y/N sitting in the passenger seat of Zara's car, staring up at the towering facade of Anfield while thousands of Liverpool fans streamed past them toward the entrances.

"Last chance to bottle it," Zara said, though her tone suggested she hoped Y/N would do no such thing.

"Maybe I should. This is mental."

"Since when do you do sensible things?"

Y/N shot her best friend a look. "I always do sensible things. Sensible is my middle name."

"Right. That's why you're about to watch your fit footballer friend instead of sitting at home with your increasingly useless boyfriend."

"Myles isn't useless."

"Babe. He's been unemployed for eight months and spends most of his time getting stoned with his mates. If that's not useless, I don't know what is."

Y/N wanted to argue, but she couldn't find the words. Because Zara wasn't wrong, was she? When was the last time Myles had contributed anything meaningful to their relationship beyond drama and complications?

"Come on then," Zara said, getting out of the car. "Let's go watch some football."

The stadium was unlike anything Y/N had ever experienced. The noise, the energy, the sheer passion radiating from thousands of people all focused on the same thing. Their seats were incredible—close enough to see individual players clearly, expensive enough that Y/N felt slightly sick thinking about what they must have cost.

When the players came out for warm-ups, Y/N found herself scanning the Liverpool team until she spotted Hugo. He looked different on the pitch—more focused, more dangerous, moving with a kind of controlled power that reminded her why he was paid obscene amounts of money to play this game.

As if sensing her attention, he looked up toward their section and smiled. Not a general acknowledgment of the crowd, but a specific, personal smile directed right at her. Y/N felt her stomach flip in response.

"Well," Zara said, following her gaze, "he's definitely gorgeous. And he definitely knows you're here."

The match itself was intense from the first whistle. Arsenal came out aggressive, clearly determined to disrupt Liverpool's rhythm, but Hugo was everywhere—intercepting passes, organizing the defense, making the kind of perfectly timed tackles that drew appreciative roars from the crowd.

Y/N found herself completely absorbed, shouting along with the crowd when Liverpool scored, wincing when Arsenal came close to equalizing. She'd never understood football before, had always found it boring when Myles insisted on watching. But seeing Hugo play—seeing the intelligence and athleticism he brought to every moment—made her understand why people loved the game.

Liverpool won 1-0, and as the final whistle blew, Hugo looked up toward their section again. This time, he pointed directly at Y/N before disappearing into the tunnel with his teammates.

"Right," Zara said as they made their way out with the celebrating crowd, "that was definitely not just friendship."

Y/N's phone was buzzing with a text from Hugo: Thank you for coming. Made everything better knowing you were watching.

She stared at the message, her heart doing complicated things in her chest, before sliding the phone back into her pocket without replying.

The drive back to her flat was quiet, both women lost in their own thoughts. Y/N felt like something had shifted during those ninety minutes, like watching Hugo in his element had crystallized feelings she'd been trying to ignore.

"You going to tell me what you're thinking?" Zara asked as they pulled up outside Y/N's building.

"I'm thinking," Y/N said slowly, "that I'm in more trouble than I thought."

"Good trouble or bad trouble?"

Y/N looked up at the windows of her flat, where she could see lights on and shadows moving. Myles was home, probably settled in for an evening of FIFA and takeaway and complaints about how the ref had been biased against Arsenal.

"I don't know yet," she said honestly.

The smell hit her as soon as she opened the door.

Stale beer, old takeaway, and underneath it all, the unmistakable sweet scent that meant Myles and his mates had been smoking again. Y/N stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene—pizza boxes scattered across her coffee table, beer cans on every surface, crisp packets and cigarette papers littering the carpet like confetti.

Three of Myles's friends were sprawled across her furniture, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, looking like they'd been there for hours. The TV was on, some match highlights playing, but nobody was really watching.

Myles was on the sofa, joint hanging from his lips, grinning at something Danny was saying. When he spotted Y/N in the doorway, his smile widened.

"Alright, babe? How was your day out with the girls?"

Y/N stared at him, at the mess, at his mates who hadn't even bothered to look up when she walked in. "What the fuck are you high for?"

The room went quiet. Myles blinked at her like she was speaking a foreign language.

"What?"

"You heard me. What are you smoking for? You've got that trial next week—they're gonna drug test you."

"Nah, they won't," Myles said with a dismissive wave, taking another drag. "It's just Oldham Athletic, innit? League Two. They're not gonna bother with all that professional shit."

"League Two is still professional football, Myles."

"Barely," Danny snorted. "My cousin plays in League Two. Says half the lads are on something or other."

"See?" Myles gestured at his friend like he'd just provided expert testimony. "It'll be fine."

Y/N felt something cold and sick settle in her stomach. This was his chance—maybe his last real chance—to make something of himself as a footballer. And he was sabotaging it before he'd even walked through the door.

"You said you were going to the pub after the match," she said, trying to keep her voice level.

"We did. Place was shit though, wasn't it lads? Came back here instead. More comfortable."

More comfortable apparently meant turning her living room into a squat and hotboxing the place until the air was thick enough to cut.

"Right," Y/N said, setting her bag down by the door. "Well, I'm going to bed."

"Already? It's only half nine."

"I'm tired."

"Tired from what? Shopping?" Myles's tone had an edge to it now, the lazy good humor shifting into something sharper.

Y/N thought about the afternoon at Anfield, about Hugo pointing at her in front of fifty thousand people, about the way her heart had raced every time he'd made a tackle or started an attack.

"Yeah," she said simply. "Shopping."

But as she escaped to the bedroom, Y/N knew she was lying. She wasn't tired from shopping. She was exhausted from pretending that this—the mess, the drugs, the complete lack of ambition or consideration—was something she should be grateful for.

Her phone buzzed with another text from Hugo: Hope you enjoyed the match. Sweet dreams.

Y/N stared at the message for a long time, listening to the laughter and music drifting through the thin walls, smelling the smoke that seemed to permeate everything.

Then she typed back: Best match I've ever seen.

Because it was true. And maybe it was time to start acknowledging what was true, even when it was complicated.