kylian.

kylian fucking mbappé.

his name runs through your mind like a bad trip, catching on every jagged edge, tearing through every carefully constructed wall you've built to keep him out. he's there with you even though he isn't, standing at the forefront of your mind, just as real as he was the last time you saw him.

it's funny, you think. how you're floating, high above the clouds, beyond the fucking stratosphere, and still, you aren't high enough. you're detached from it all—skin buzzing, blood humming, and thoughts spiralling, yet somehow, kylian is still right there; burned into the back of your eyelids, seared into every part of your brain, tattooed on your poor excuse for a heart.

every inhale feels like it should be lighter, easier, but instead, it's thick with the memory of him—looking like every bad decision you've ever made wrapped up in some nike merch and that damn hublot watch he always wears. the one you used to fiddle with when you'd kiss him, back when things were good. back when you didn't know any better.

and oh, you just want to be free.

you're on your second joint now, lips brushing the paper as you drag in that familiar, acrid taste. it burns down your throat, curls into your lungs, and for a moment, just a moment, it almost works. your head goes fuzzy, your vision blurs at the edges, and you almost forget him.

almost.

"you good?" it's your friend, leaning over, peering into your eyes like she's trying to read you, trying to find all the things you're not saying.

you merely nod, forcing a smile that barely reaches your eyes, because how the fuck do you explain that no, you're not good? that you're chasing this feeling, running from a boy who still owns too much of you? that even here, in this haze, in this fucking cloud of smoke, you're still not high enough to forget him?

"yeah, i'm fine," you lie, because you can't force your body to breath, to survive, let alone explain how the constant echo of his name in your head feels like dying.

you never thought kylian would be the one to haunt you.

when you first met him, he was nothing more than a face, a pretty boy with a cocky smile and eyes that seemed to see right through you. but somehow, he slipped in. got under your skin. made himself at home in places you didn't even know were empty until he filled them. and then, just like that, he was gone. no explanation. no goodbye. just a text that said, "football's my only priority right now."

you took it like a bullet. didn't even cry at first. just stared at the screen, rereading the words until they lost their meaning, until they were nothing but pixels on a phone. but the pain came later, slow and creeping, like the tide, pulling you under until you couldn't breathe. you tried everything to forget him, but it didn't matter — he was still there, lodged in your chest like a shard of glass, cutting deeper every time you inhaled.

you look up and there's suddenly some guy in front of you now, trying to spit game. he's smooth too, saying all the right wrong things, giving you that look that lets you know he thinks he's the one who's gonna take you home tonight. you almost laugh at how hard he's trying. it's cute, in a pathetic kind of way.

you tilt your head, pretending to listen, pretending to be interested. bleached hair. toned chest. caramel skin. aaron? or malcom? maybe zion? you can't even remember what he said his name was, and you are far too numb to care.

he continues talking, and you blink, realising you've been staring at him without really seeing him. "what?" you ask, and he laughs, but there's an edge of annoyance to it, like he's used to getting what he wants, and you're just another girl who's playing hard to get.

"i said, you wanna get out of here?" he repeats, leaning in closer, and you can smell his cologne, something expensive and woody. it's nice, but it doesn't make your heart race. doesn't make your pulse jump the way kylian’s did.

you should probably say yes. you should let him take you away, let him be a distraction, even if it's just for one night. but—

"i’m good." you say instead, because no amount of random boys with pretty smiles will ever be enough. no other guy will ever measure up. "maybe another time."

and as aaron-malcom-zion, whatever the hell his name is, turns to walk away, you reach for your joint again, fingers slightly trembling as you bring it to your lips, inhaling deep, holding it in until your lungs burn. until you're forced to exhale.

you tip your head back, music pounding in your ears, bass vibrating against your skin like a heartbeat that doesn't quite belong to you, and you wonder if this really is your life now. if you'll ever be free of him. if, no matter how high you get, you'll always land right back here, in this place where he still owns every part of you.

"you're quiet tonight." it's your friend again, her voice softer this time, the scent of her perfume cutting through the fog in your brain.

you merely shrug, murmuring a low, "just thinking."

"about him?"

you don't answer, just tilt your head to the side, watching the way the embers burn bright at the end of the joint, glowing red before fading into ash.

"he's not worth it, you know.” she says after a moment.

and you want to believe her. you do. but it's hard to let go of something that felt so real, even if it was just for a moment. even if it was never yours to keep.

"i know," you whisper, but the words taste like a lie, even as they leave your mouth.

because the truth is, you'd take kylian back in a heartbeat. if he called you right now, if he said he needed you, you'd drop everything and run to him. because you've always been a little fucked up like that, haven't you? always been the kind of girl who runs toward the things that hurt, who dives headfirst into the fire just to see how long she can stand the heat.

"i hate him." you add, voice hollow.

"no, you don't." your friend counters, and you hate that she's right. hate that she sees through you so easily, that she knows you better than you know yourself sometimes.

you could never hate kylian, not really.

"i wish i did."

she reaches out, touches your arm, and it's the first thing that's felt real all night.

"one day, you will," she says, and maybe that's enough. maybe that's all you need right now. the hope that one day, you'll wake up, and it won't hurt anymore.

but you're not there yet.

tonight isn't that night.

—

ynusername

liked by yourbestie, yoursister, and 419 others.

ynusername i miss him sm y'all i'm about to die💔💔💔💔💔

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yourbestie still wearing the jewellery he bought is a little crazy idk

↳ ynusername it's my souvenir, don't judge✋🏽

yoursister sounds like he still has about 10 good chances left...

↳ ynusername he does😪

yourcousin let that shit go already (u look good)

↳ ynusername bro i'm TRYING (thanks x)

yourfriend stand up and stand on business!

↳ ynusername been trying to keep up my nonchalant gimmick with him but my affections are too great💔💔💔

yourexbf 😍🥲

—

it's been three weeks.

three long, drawn-out weeks of dragging your feet through each day, like you're walking through quicksand. it's almost funny how the days blur together now — classes, assignments, the mindless conversations with people you don't care about. everything feels muted, like the world around you is drained of colour, and you can't seem to get it back.

and kylian... well, he's still there. not in person, but in every breath you take, in every pause between the songs you play on repeat, in the spaces where you can’t escape your own thoughts.

you've tried, really. tried to focus on anything other than him. your thesis, for example, the one that's due in less than a month, the one you haven't even scratched the surface of because you can barely string a coherent sentence together lately.

you spent hours at the campus library earlier, staring at a blank google doc. three lines — three fucking lines — was all you could manage before you gave up, packed your things, and left. because how are you supposed to focus on academic bullshit when all you can think about is him? the way he used to kiss you slow, hands tracing every curve of your body like he was memorising you. like he couldn't get enough.

you shake the thought out of your head as you unlock the door to your apartment, kicking off your shoes and dropping your bag on the couch. it's late, but not too late. just dark enough that the streetlights outside cast long shadows against the walls, flickering in and out with the passing cars.

you're tired. exhausted, really. and yet, the idea of going straight to bed feels impossible. there's too much buzzing under your skin — too much tension you can't shake. so, you do what you always do when the world feels too heavy on your shoulders.

you run a bath.

it's a ritual now. the heat of the water, the quiet hum of the bathroom fan, the sound of your playlist filling the space with soft, old-school rnb. you let it all wash over you as you slip into the tub, your body sinking into the warmth, muscles relaxing for the first time all day. your bonnet is secured, and your satin robe waits for you on the towel rack, ready for when you come out, clean and soft and relaxed in ways you never feel outside of this space.

and then there's the wine.

you didn't plan on drinking tonight — told yourself you wouldn't, actually. but one glass turned into two, and now you're feeling a little lighter, a little less tied down by the weight of everything. the bottle sits on the edge of the tub, half-empty, and you laugh to yourself because it's so typical of you. always overindulging, always trying to fill the void with something, anything, other than him.

you stay in the bath until the water turns cold, until your fingers wrinkle, and the world outside the bathroom door feels a little more distant. when you finally drag yourself out, the air hits your skin, and you shiver, wrapping your robe around you, feeling the cool fabric against your damp skin. you take your time, moving slowly, savouring the moment of quiet, the way the wine makes everything feel just a little hazy.

your playlist continues in the background as you sit at your vanity, massaging lotion into your skin, the smell of cocoa butter filling the air. it's a comforting routine that makes you feel more like yourself, even when everything else feels like it's falling apart. you move on autopilot, letting the music and the wine lull you into a state of calm, until—

"damn," you mutter under your breath, pausing as the next song comes on. it's one of those songs, the kind that hits you right in the chest, reminding you of the nights spent tangled in kylian’s sheets, of the way his breath would hitch when you'd kiss him slow, when you'd pull him closer, fingers caressing his neck, bodies pressed together like you were made for each other.

and that's when the thought hits you.

you shouldn't.

you know you shouldn't. you've been good this past week — no snooping, no scrolling through his socials from your burner just to see if he's out there, living his life without you. you've done everything right. deleted all traces of him from your gallery, blocked his number, told yourself a thousand times that he wasn't worth the heartache.

but now, here you are, your phone in your hand, your mind clouded with too much wine and too much of this damn playlist, and suddenly, all those reasons don't matter anymore.

you unlock your phone, your fingers moving on their own, guided by the familiar ache in your chest, the one that refuses to go away, no matter how hard you try to drown it.

you unblock him.

there's a small rush of adrenaline when his contact reappears, that stupid little profile picture of him smiling like he knows exactly what kind of power he holds over you. your heart skips a beat, and you bite your lip, hesitating for just a moment, just long enough to tell yourself that you can still stop this.

but you won't.

your fingers hover over the screen for a second before you type out the text.

"missing you tonight. wet and lonely :("

it's pathetic. you know that. but it's the truth, and the wine makes it easier to admit it, to send it without thinking too much about how desperate it makes you seem.

you hit send, your heart racing as the message goes through, and then—before you can overthink it, before the regret sets in—you block him again.

the phone slips from your hand, landing on the vanity with a soft thud, and you stare at yourself in the mirror, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind spiralling with the what-ifs.

the silence in your room feels louder now, pressing in around you as the music continues to play in the background, and you feel the weight of your actions settling over you like a heavy blanket.

you told yourself you were done with him. you promised yourself you wouldn't go back, wouldn't fall into the same pattern, wouldn't let him have this much control over you.

but here you are. again.

and as the minutes tick by, as you sit there, staring at your reflection—your tormented reflection—you realise the truth.

you're not over him.

not even close.

you never were.

and no matter how many times you block him, no matter how many glasses of wine you drink, no matter how hard you try to distract yourself with meaningless nights out — you know you'll always come back to him.

because kylian fucking mbappé is the one thing you can't quit.

the one thing you'll always crave.

the thing about dating you is that kylian stopped asking questions a long time ago.

at first, he did.

“is that another one?”

“yes.”

“didn’t you just finish one?”

“yes.”

“okay.”

and that was usually where the conversation ended because there wasn't much else to say.

you liked smoking. that was it.

you weren't sneaking around. weren't hiding it. weren't pretending it was something you only did every now and then.

no.

you smoked before a movie.

after a movie.

while deciding what movie to watch.

sometimes you'd roll a joint, forget where you put it, then spend ten minutes looking for it while it was sitting right behind your ear.

kylian once found your vape in your book cabinet. to this day, neither of you know how it got there.

“you scare me,” he'd told you.

you'd smiled.

“thank you.”

—

right now, you're laid across the couch, legs thrown over kylian's lap while he watches football highlights on the tv.

or at least, he's trying to. but he’s distracted because you've been staring at the same commercial for damn near ten minutes on your ipad. completely mesmerised.

“baby.”

silence.

“baby.”

nothing.

“mon amour.”

you blink. slowly. “hm?”

kylian pauses the highlights.

“you good?”

“yeah.”

“you've been staring at an advert for toothpaste.”

“so?” you look offended. “it's a very good advert.”

he snorts, shaking his head. “you're so gone.”

you roll your eyes. or attempt to. it takes a little longer than usual. “you're rude.”

“you're high.”

“shut up.”

kylian sighs. the long-suffering kind. the kind that says this is his life now. then he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“God help me.”

you grin.

“he can't.”

—

the funny thing is that kylian genuinely doesn't care. people assume he would, assume there'd be arguments. lectures. ultimatums. but there never are. because he knows you, knows your habits, knows the difference between you relaxing after a long day and something actually being wrong.

he trusts you. and more importantly, he trusts that you'll tell him if you need help. so mostly? he just adapts. keeps snacks in the house. reminds you where your stuff is. finds your vape when you've somehow misplaced it for the fifth time that week.

“check your pocket.”

you check.

it's there.

kylian shakes his head. “every time.”

“thought it disappeared,” you pout.

“yeah,” he deadpans. “a ghost stole it.”

“that's possible.”

“no.”

“you don't know that.”

“i do.”

“you don't.”

he pinches the bridge of his nose. “i'm tired of you.”

“you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

—

there’s times where he catches moments that make his chest ache. the good kind of ache, of course.

little things. tiny things. like finding you asleep on the balcony chair, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, music still playing softly through your headphones.

or watching you laugh so hard at something completely stupid that tears gather in your eyes.

or the way you automatically reach for his hand whenever he's close enough.

those moments. the quiet ones. the ones that have nothing to do with smoking at all.

because that's the thing. you could quit tomorrow, never touch another joint, never buy another vape, and you'd still be you.

still talk too much when you're excited.

still fall asleep halfway through movies.

still ‘accidentally’ steal his hoodies and insist they somehow ended up in your closet on their own.

and kylian loves all of it.

every ridiculous part.

even the parts that drive him insane.

especially those parts.

you notice it early. the energy he moves with. something about him, the way he walks like he owns the ground under him, the way he watches you when you talk—like he’s assessing, deciding what he will and won’t tolerate. you’re not used to that. men usually scramble to impress you, crack jokes, try too hard. aurélien just… looks. unfazed. maybe even unimpressed. and you feel it in your gut, that instant irritation because who the fuck does he think he is?

but that irritation, it burns too close to curiosity. because if he isn’t pressed, if he isn’t eating out of the palm of your hand, then what does he know that you don’t?

you find out real quick.

“fix your face.”

you blink, genuinely thrown off. “excuse me?”

aurélien doesn’t even look at you. just tugs you in closer, fingers pressing into your waist, easy like he’s done it a hundred times before, like he’s sure of his place there. he’s warm, solid, smells like that expensive cologne you like—the woody, deep kind that lingers on your skin when he holds you too long, the kind that sneaks into your clothes and makes you smell like him when you’re lying in bed hours later.

“you heard me.” he says it slow, weight behind every syllable, like you don’t actually have room to argue. “been pouting since we left the restaurant.”

you scoff, shifting against him, but his grip stays firm. “because i wasn’t ready to leave.”

aurélien exhales, not quite a sigh, but close enough. his jaw ticks, that small, barely-there movement, like he’s holding something back. you know he wants to say something smart, something that’ll get under your skin. you feel it—the way his fingers flex against your side, the way his pace slows just enough to make you match him, step for step.

“we had dinner. a whole three hours in there.”

“and? i was enjoying myself.”

and then he stops. right there, mid-sidewalk, like the conversation demands his full attention. his hands at your waist, his jaw tight, that serious, unreadable expression that makes your stomach twist up in ways you don’t want to unpack.

“don’t do that.”

you squint up at him. “do what?”

“act like a brat when you don’t get your way.”

and listen—nobody talks to you like this. ever. men don’t check you. they don’t hold you accountable. they either kiss up to you or tap out when you push too hard. so the fact that aurélien is standing here, chest rising slow and controlled, his grip still on your waist, holding you in place like he knows you’re about to start acting up, has your stomach twisting up in knots.

because you want to act up. you want to be difficult. you want to push. test him. step into his space, tip your chin up, press your finger against his chest and dare him to hold his ground. you want to see if he’ll push back. if he’ll match you, keep up, take whatever attitude you throw his way and give it right back.

but then he tilts his head, slow, eyes dragging over your face with a look that knocks the air from your lungs. and suddenly, you feel—small. not in a way that makes you retreat, not in a way that makes you fold in on yourself, but in a way that makes heat bloom at the base of your spine, makes your breath hitch, makes your lips part just slightly, like your body is reacting before your mind can catch up. because he has no business standing this close, looking this good, making you want things you should not be wanting right now.

you fold your arms instead, drop your gaze, shift your weight between your feet. “whatever,” you mutter, annoyed. “can we just get in the car already?”

“you finished sulking?”

you scoff, but it’s weaker now, more for show than anything real. still, you nod, half-hearted, just barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

he tilts his head. “yeah?”

you nod again, slower this time, lips pressing into something that’s still too pouty, still carrying the ghost of your attitude.

and that’s when he leans down, voice dipping lower, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “then act like it.”

you shudder. literally. a whole-body reaction that you couldn’t even stop if you tried.

—

the thing about aurélien is that he doesn’t let shit slide. he’s fun, sweet, spoils you because he can, but he doesn’t do games. not the ones you’re used to playing. he won’t chase you around a problem. won’t feed into your dramatics. if you try to stir shit up, he’ll sit you down and say, “what’s wrong with you?” real calm, real straight to the point, and it’s annoying because now you have to actually think about why you’re upset instead of just making noise about it.

you test him. a lot. just to see if he’ll bend. if he’ll let you get away with things like everybody else does.

but he never does.

“nah, you’re not wearing that.”

you pause mid-lip gloss application, spinning around in front of your mirror. aurélien’s on your bed, laid out in sweats, scrolling on his phone like he didn’t just say that with his whole chest.

“excuse me?”

he glances up. “you heard me.”

you huff, turning back to the mirror. the dress is short. tight. you love it. it’s your favourite one. and now, just because he wants to say no, you wanna wear it even more.

“i don’t need your permission, you know.”

aurélien doesn’t respond right away. just sighs real slow, drags his hand over his face, then sits up.

“c’mere.”

you roll your eyes, but you step over to him anyway.

he sits at the edge of the bed, knees spread, hands at your thighs as he looks up at you. “you need me to explain why it’s a no?”

you open your mouth, then close it.

because it’s not that he’s trying to control you. he’s never done that. he hypes you up when you dress pretty, buys you the things you like, never tells you what you can and can’t do. but this is different. the dress is too much. you know it, he knows it, and now he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it.

and you do.

with a soft little ‘hmph’ and a turn on your heel, pulling the dress up over your head and tossing it onto the bed. you dig through your closet for something else, ignoring the way aurélien leans back on his hands, watching you with that smug little smirk like he knew you’d listen.

you kinda hate him for it.

but also, you like him for it.

—

it’s the way he carries himself. like a man that’s sure. steady. unwavering. he doesn’t ask for respect, he just moves like he already has it. like he deserves it. and you, for all your attitude and your sharp mouth and your need to be in control, you respond to it. you respond to him.

and he knows it.

you give him hell sometimes, just to keep things interesting. just to see if he’ll snap. but aurélien never crumbles under pressure. he just gives you that look, voice low and rough when he says, “you done?” and suddenly, you are.

it’s confusing. it’s intriguing. it’s something you’re still figuring out.

but if there’s one thing you do know, it’s that you’ve never met a man who could handle you like this. who could match your energy without letting you steamroll him. who could let you be a little reckless, a little loud, a little too much—without ever making you feel like you had to shrink yourself.

who could put you in your place when you needed it, without making you feel small.

and you think maybe, just maybe, you love that shit.

—

your mom does too, apparently, because when you bring aurélien to your childhood home a few weeks later, she watches in shameless amusement. her eyes flick between you and him like she’s studying a live experiment, trying to make sense of the hold this man has on you.

and you know exactly what she’s thinking. because never—not once—has a man sat at this table and made you sit still. never have you brought someone home and actually let them speak.

no, usually you were cutting them off mid-sentence, rolling your eyes, barely pretending to care. usually, your mom was giving you that look—the one that meant why did you even bring him here if you were just gonna act like this?

but tonight, she doesn’t need to say a word.

because tonight, you’re sitting right next to aurélien, eating your food like a civilised person, letting him talk without jumping in, glancing at him every now and then just because you like hearing him speak.

and your mom is eating it up.

“so, aurélien,” she starts, reaching for another helping of mac and cheese. “what exactly is it about my daughter that made you wanna stick around?”

you shoot her a look. she shrugs, shameless. “what? it’s a valid question.”

your dad chuckles under his breath. your little sister is too busy kicking her feet under the table, admiring the tiny paper crown aurélien made her out of a napkin to care about anything else.

and aurélien? aurélien doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t even pause. he wipes his mouth with a napkin, sets it down, and shrugs like he saw the question coming from a mile away.

“she keeps things interesting,” he says simply.

your mom laughs. your dad raises his brows. you huff, elbowing him in the side. “that’s it?”

he tilts his head like he’s thinking, dragging it out just to make you impatient. “mhm, and i like her attitude. most of the time.”

“most of the time?”

“yeah,” aurélien glances at you, something amused in his gaze. something smug. “sometimes, she gets a little carried away.”

your mom snorts. your dad shakes his head, mouth twitching like he’s fighting off a smile. “oh, we know.”

your jaw drops. “okay, wow.”

aurélien chuckles, squeezes your thigh under the table. a silent relax.

you cross your arms, lips twisting to the side. you don’t like being ganged up on, but you do like how he handles it. how he’s not thrown off by your family. how he fits in like he was meant to be here.

your mom notices. watches the way you lean into aurélien even when you’re pretending to be mad. the way he doesn’t flinch when you get defensive. the way his hand never really leaves your leg.

she smiles to herself, sips her wine.

because, yeah. she gets it now.

—

your little sister is obsessed. full-blown, starry-eyed obsessed with aurélien.

she’s been stuck to him all evening, trailing after him like a shadow, tugging at his sleeve every time he so much as shifts in his seat. she climbs onto his lap like he’s some kind of jungle gym, asks a million questions about football, makes him retell the same story twice just to hear him say it again. and, of course, aurélien indulges her.

right now, he’s got her perched on his knee, small hands fisting his hoodie while he helps her tie her shoe.

“i like your nails,” she chirps, pointing at his hand.

aurélien grins, flexing his fingers. “yeah? they’re just regular nails, though.”

“you should let me paint them,” she says, big eyes blinking up at him.

he hums, like he’s actually considering it, lips twitching. “what colour?”

“pink!”

you snort, arms crossed over your chest. “please let her. that would be hilarious.”

aurélien flicks his gaze up to you, narrows his eyes in a way that’s more playful than threatening. then he turns back to your sister, voice softening. “maybe next time, yeah?”

she pouts. “promise?”

he chuckles, brushing a strand of her braids from her face. “promise.”

and you—you just watch. watch the way she settles against him, tiny fingers still gripping at his hoodie, head resting against his chest like she’s found her favourite place in the world. watch the way aurélien adjusts without even thinking, tilting his body so she’s more comfortable. something warm settles in your stomach. it’s unfamiliar, kind of startling, but it’s there. and it stays, lingers, makes itself at home in your chest.

you didn’t think you had a thing for seeing a man be good with kids, but maybe you do. because aurélien, like this—soft-spoken, careful, letting your baby sister treat him like her own personal jungle gym—is doing something to you. something that makes your breath catch, something that makes your fingers tighten where they rest against your arm.

your mom is watching, too. you don’t even realise until she leans in, voice dipped low, amused. “he’s good, huh?”

you swallow. nod before you even think about it. “yeah.”

she smiles, all-knowing. “figured.”

and you have no idea what she means by that, not really, but the warmth in your chest spreads, seeps into your skin like something permanent. like something you won’t be able to shake.

—

when it’s time to go, your little sister throws a fit.

arms crossed, face scrunched up, tears welling—the whole nine yards. her tiny fingers curl around aurélien’s hand in a death grip, like she can physically hold him in place if she tries hard enough.

“do you have to leave?” she whines, her voice wobbling.

aurélien chuckles, crouching down to her level with the easy patience he seems to have for her. “i gotta take your sister home.”

she scowls immediately, eyes darting to you like this is your fault, like you’re the villain in her little story.

you hold your hands up. “don’t look at me, girl. you can have him.”

your mom smacks your arm, murmuring your name in that warning tone, but aurélien just laughs, shaking his head.

“i’ll come back soon.” he reassures her, soft and warm, like he’s making a vow instead of a simple promise.

“promise?”

he nods, tapping the tip of her nose with his finger. “promise.”

she pouts, wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, then lets go of his hand with great reluctance, like she’s doing it against her better judgment.

when aurélien stands, stretching to his full height, his eyes flicker to yours—bright, amused, knowing. he’s wearing that little smirk, the one that always makes you roll your eyes because he’s so him about everything.

“yeah, yeah,” you mutter, shaking your head. “everybody loves you. i get it.”

his grin deepens, and before you can blink, he’s slinging an arm over your shoulder, tugging you into his side like it’s second nature. like he’s done it a thousand times before, will do it a thousand times again. his lips ghost over your temple, not quite a kiss, not quite not one.

it’s true. everybody does love him. your parents. your sister. your friends.

and maybe—just maybe—you do too.

you knew what it was the second he handed you the itinerary.

no museums. no hiking. no historic landmarks. just “villa check-in” and “spa day” written in his sloppy ass handwriting.

and he was smiling like he didn’t just drop 200k on a trip just so he could fuck you uninterrupted.

“this is ridiculous,” you said, flipping through the pages. “you didn’t even pretend to plan activities.”

he leaned back on the couch, sweatpants snug on his hips, one hand down his waistband. “i planned one,” he said, tilting his head, “you just didn’t read far enough.”

you flipped to the last page.

activity: fuck you stupid. daily.

you threw the binder at him.

and two days later, you were pressed against a glass window in a villa that overlooked the ocean, with his dick so far in you that you couldn’t even find the energy to be mad.

he did this on purpose.

booked the most expensive suite on the property. picked the one with mirrors on the ceiling, a balcony big enough to host a small wedding, and a bed that squeaked when he really got in his rhythm. and he did. over and over. every day.

day one, he took you on the floor. hardwood. knees burning. cheek pressed to the cold surface while he fucked you from behind, palm flat on the back of your head to keep you still.

"that’s how you like it, yeah?" he panted, sweat dripping from his chest onto your back. “face down like a nasty lil’ thing.”

and you did. you liked it like that. with your ass in the air and his dick hitting your g-spot with every single stroke. no rhythm. no mercy. just the sound of your pussy getting wetter with every slap of his hips.

he came without warning. deep and rough, pulling out only to nut across your ass, thick and warm, groaning your name into the crook of your neck like it hurt to hold it in.

and you? you just laid there. pussy twitching. drooling onto the floor.

you slept for four hours after that.

—

he was a demon in the mornings. always hard, always needy. the kind of dick that woke you up out of your sleep. the kind of dick that pressed against your thigh under the silk sheets, thick and leaking and already sliding between your legs before you could even open your eyes.

“jus’ wanna put the tip in,” he whispered, kissing the back of your shoulder, “won’t even move.”

liar.

he moved the second he felt you clench. shallow strokes at first. slow. like he was trying to savour it. but then you rolled your hips back into him, and he lost control. started grabbing at your waist, teeth at your neck, muttering shit under his breath like fuck, this pussy’s too good.

it was. you knew it was.

you made hugo fold every single time. no matter how many times he touched you, he always acted like it was new. like your pussy had him under a spell. like he was trying to memorise it from scratch.

"you’re always so wet for me." he said once, watching your slick drip down his dick as he pulled out, rubbing the head against your clit just to tease you.

"cause i like you in it," you whispered, mouth open, toes curling.

he liked himself in it too, which is exactly why he grabbed your throat. spit in your mouth. fucked you harder than he ever had.

and afterwards, when your voice was hoarse and your legs were shaking, he picked you up like nothing happened and carried you to the shower, humming some french tune while he washed your thighs.

—

day three, he made you sit on his face.

not asked. made.

laid back in the centre of the bed, head propped up on a pillow, hair messy from the way your fingers had been tugging at it all day.

“sit, baby,” he said, tapping his tongue against his bottom lip. “wanna taste.”

and you hesitated. not because you didn’t want to, but because every time you sat on his face, he acted like he didn’t need to breathe.

but you did it anyway. lowered yourself down, one hand on the headboard, the other clutching at the back of his head as he pulled you down further, tongue already inside you before you even got fully comfortable.

he didn’t ease into it. he went straight to sucking, licking, moaning like he needed it to survive. like your pussy was water and he’d been parched since birth. every time you lifted your hips to breathe, he pulled you back down, nose buried in your folds, humming against your clit until your legs gave out.

and when you came — twice, shaking and screaming — he still didn’t let up. kept licking until you begged him to stop, until you were damn near crying, nails digging into his scalp.

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiled, and said, “you taste like heaven.”

—

by day four, it got a little more reckless.

no more decorum. no more patience. he ate you out on the balcony with the door wide open while the villa staff walked around beneath. let you ride him in the kitchen while the private chef was knocking on the door. fucked you against the window at midnight, one hand on your throat, the other pressed flat against the glass.

and you loved it. loved being his. loved the way he whispered filthy things in your ear like you weren’t already gone for him.

"you think they can hear you?" he said, dick deep inside you, each thrust sending a shock through your spine. “think the staff know who this pussy belong to?”

"yes," you gasped, gripping his forearm. “they know.”

"good," he hummed, fucking you harder. “let ‘em hear.”

you came so hard you damn near passed out.

—

last night there, he made it romantic.

lit candles. played d’angelo. had rose petals scattered across the bed and a little note on your pillow that said thank you for letting me ruin you this week.

you turned to look at him, smiling.

“you’re insane,” you said.

“and you like it,” he replied, already pulling you into his lap.

he fucked you slow that night. missionary. deep strokes. staring in your eyes the entire time. kissing you with every thrust. telling you you were the best thing that ever happened to him. telling you how pretty you looked with his dick inside you. telling you he wanted to do this for the rest of his life.

“i love you,” he said when you came.

and he meant it.

you said it back. mouth open. tears slipping down your cheeks as your legs shook and your back arched and his cum filled you up again, warm and thick and full of everything that made him him.

you don't even like parties like that.

birthday, baby shower, graduation, whatever kind of party it is—you always find yourself standing near the exit, picking at the edge of your cup, smiling when expected, but never really there. even at church gatherings, when aunties are fanning themselves, talking about the goodness of God, and cousins are running around sticky-mouthed from too much cake, you're somewhere on the sidelines, nodding along but never fully melting into the moment.

it's not that you completely hate them. it's just that they've never felt like you.

you don't do the loud music, the heavy bass that rattles your chest. don't like the way people move in dim lighting, hands wandering, voices slurring, bodies pressing too close. don't care much for the mindless small talk, the smell of liquor clinging to the walls, the fake love that seems to ooze from everybody's mouth after their third drink.

it's not you.

and yet, somehow, you're here. at some house party that has absolutely no business being this packed, clutching a red cup full of something you aren't even sipping, standing by the porch like you're waiting on God himself to send you a sign that it's time to leave.

you should've stayed home, but your friend begged and begged, said you needed to get out, live a little, loosen up. said it like you were some wound-up little thing, too afraid to step outside the lines drawn for you.

so you borrowed one of her dresses. it's tight, clings to you in places you don't usually let yourself acknowledge. it's not short, not inappropriate, but it shows off the curve of your thighs, the softness of your waist, enough to make you feel like maybe you should've thrown a sweater over it before leaving. you tug at the hem, shift from foot to foot, take another glance at the gate like maybe—maybe—you should just call it a night.

and then, he walks up.

casual. easy.

he moves like the world bends for him, like he's used to doors opening before he even knocks. like he expects it. welcomes it. like he thrives in it. and maybe he does—because he's jude bellingham, and his name rings bells far beyond this crowded house, far beyond this city.

he's the guy whose face you've seen on billboards, stretched across stadium screens, flashing in sports headlines your daddy flips past in the morning paper. a name your little cousins scream when they're dribbling in the backyard, pretending they're him, tongue poked out, eyes locked on a goal that doesn't even exist.

you know who he is.

he looks like money. like fame. like a world you don't belong to. he looks like the kind of guy your daddy would pray for you to stay away from. there's something about him that screams worldly, that tells you he's seen too much, had too much, lived too much to ever be satisfied with simple things. with quiet things.

he stops in front of you, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne. you can't even name it, but you know it smells expensive, smells rich, like something way above your whole bloodline's tax bracket.

"you alright?"

just that. no introduction. no hey, i’m jude. like he expects you to already know. which you do. but still.

his voice is smooth, thick with that accent that makes his words roll off his tongue just a little different. it makes heat lick up your spine, makes your fingers curl tighter around your untouched drink.

you don't answer right away. you just blink up at him, trying to figure out why. why, in a house full of people who probably came here just for the chance to breathe the same air as him, he's standing in front of you.

you shift, clear your throat. "yeah. just—" you hesitate, then sigh, "—not really a party person."

jude's mouth twitches, just barely.

"yeah?" he lifts a brow. "what, you get dragged out here?"

you give a small, tight-lipped smile. "something like that."

his eyes flick down, taking in the way you tug at your dress again, the way your shoulders are stiff, like you're waiting to be judged. he can easily tell you don't belong here, that you slipped in from a whole other world.

he sees it in the way your nails tap against your cup, like you're trying to distract yourself from how much you don't fit into this picture. in the way your eyes flick toward the exit—again—like you're counting the steps it would take to leave.

he almost smirks, because you look like a lost little lamb, dropped into the middle of something you shouldn't be in.

and he likes that.

too much.

"you wanna go somewhere quieter?" he tilts his head just slightly, smiles so sweetly it almost feels calculated.

and you should say no. you should. it's what's expected of you. the voice of every woman in your life rings in your head, your mama's warnings about boys with hands too quick and smiles too sweet, the voice of your youth pastor reminding you of what happens when you stray too far from the path.

"i—" your voice is softer than you'd like, unsure. "i shouldn't."

his smile doesn't waver. in fact, it deepens, like he expected that. like it only amuses him.

"but do you want to?"

"it's just—" you hesitate, shifting on your feet. "my friend's inside, and i don't wanna leave her alone."

jude doesn't react immediately. he just watches you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's entertained by the excuse you're trying to convince yourself with.

"that her right there?" he asks, nodding toward the open door, where your friend is laughing, deep in conversation with some guy you don't recognise. her body is angled toward him, her hand resting on his arm, her drink half-forgotten on the table beside her.

your stomach twists, because yeah. that's her. looking very much not alone.

jude chuckles, tongue peeking out to wet his lips before he looks back at you. "yeah, she seems real concerned about where you are."

he's got a point. you know he does. and before you can come up with some half-assed rebuttal, he's already stepping in a little closer. soft eyes, even softer smile, head tilting just enough to make you dizzy.

"i won't steal you away forever," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, so smooth it nearly melts into your skin. "just for a little while. promise."

it's stupid. so, so stupid.

but the way he says it makes it feel like the safest danger you'll ever walk into.

so before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can remind yourself of all the reasons why this is a bad idea, before you can let the guilt take root in your stomach—

you nod.

and jude grins.

like he knew you would.

—

you don't kiss him that first night.

you almost do. his mouth gets close, real close, and your breath hitches when his thumb brushes your jaw. his touch is warm, gentle, not rushed. but you flinch anyway, just a tiny jerk of your chin, a nervous swallow he doesn't miss.

he steps back, slow. like he can see the hesitation all over your face. like he already knows the battle waging inside your head, between what you've been taught and what your body is starting to want.

"don't worry," he says, voice low. steady. like he's used to getting his way but doesn't mind waiting this time. "won't do anything you're not comfortable doing."

you nod, grateful, embarrassed, confused all at once.

grateful because he didn't push, didn't try to take what you weren't ready to give. didn't make you feel stupid for hesitating.

embarrassed because you wanted to. for a second—half a second—you wanted to feel his lips on yours, to know if they were as soft as they looked, to know if he'd kiss you sweet or if he'd take his time, teasing, drawing it out until you had no choice but to pull him closer. and that thought alone makes heat crawl up your neck, because what kind of girl are you to be thinking like that? what kind of girl stands out here in the dark, alone with a boy like him, heart racing, mind spinning, knowing full well she has no business even entertaining the idea?

confused because none of this makes sense. because he's him, jude bellingham, a name bigger than this city, bigger than you. because you're just some girl from a quiet neighbourhood, the preacher's daughter, the one who plays it safe and follows the rules and doesn't end up in situations like this. you don't flirt with boys who have money and a reputation that stretches across continents. you don't hold conversations with them after midnight, hands stuffed in their pockets, smirking when you tell them about how your daddy would lose his mind if he knew you were out here.

but you do.

you let it happen.

you let him happen.

you watch as he knowingly smiles down at you. soft. indulgent. patient. like he already knows how this story ends. like he already knows that this thing between you isn't about if—it's about when.

and the way your stomach tightens, the way your lips tingle from nothing but the ghost of what almost happened? you know it too.

he's what you'll be craving... eventually.

—

ynprivate

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ynprivate life lately.✨

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yourbestfriend: beautiful ass bitch.😍

↳ ynprivate: language☹️

boyfromchurch: you get prettier every time i see you😢 - liked by author

yourfriend: all your angles are good angles😌

↳ ynprivate: 🥹💕

—

ynprivate added to their instagram stories

💬 judebellingham has replied to your story

judebellingham: cheffing up like this and didn’t offer me none? fake.

ynprivate: i don’t share with strangers.

judebellingham: good thing you and i are way past that then.

ynprivate: are we?

judebellingham: if our intimate little interaction from the other night is any indication, yeah.

ynprivate: intimate? you romanticise things. dangerous habit.

judebellingham: no. i remember things how they are. the way you looked at me was anything but casual.🤷🏽‍♂️

ynprivate: you’re delusional.

judebellingham: and you’re deflecting. which is fine. you’ll say what you mean eventually.

ynprivate: and that is?

judebellingham: you want me

ynprivate: hilarious.

judebellingham: you think i’m charming

ynprivate: even more hilarious. i’m busy. stop texting me, before i burn my cookies.

judebellingham: send me one. wanna taste.

ynprivate: go buy your own, i’m sure you have the budget for it big baller.

judebellingham: problem is, i don’t want a cookie. i want your cookie.

ynprivate: …

judebellingham: i meant that in exactly the way you just thought i did

ynprivate: wow. i’ll pray for you

judebellingham: i’d love that.😊

ynprivate: 🤦🏽‍♀️

—

he’s right about one thing.

you do think he’s charming.

weeks pass, and jude keeps randomly popping up.

at the coffee shop where you work—just off campus, tucked into the corner of a busy street, a place that smells like roasted espresso beans and vanilla syrup. you don't even see him at first. too busy at the register, wiping your hands on your apron, trying to keep up with the rush.

but then you hear his voice. low, warm, unmistakable.

"medium caramel latte. extra shot."

you look up, and there he is. leaning against the counter, watching you with this lazy kind of amusement, like he's already in on a joke you don't know yet.

you stammer out a "hi," and he grins.

"hey, pretty girl. you work here?"

you nod, suddenly flustered, suddenly too aware of how you probably smell like milk and coffee grounds, how your braids are tied in a lopsided bun at the top of your head.

"since when?" he asks.

you tell him—a few months now, just something part-time, something to keep busy.

"i like it," he says, tapping his fingers against the counter. "suits you."

it shouldn't make you warm inside, but it does.

after that, he starts showing up more. not every day, not even every week, but enough that you notice.

one time, he pops up at that one spot behind the student centre where you go to read alone.

you found it your first year—a little courtyard, quiet, shaded by trees, tucked away from the main pathways. most people don't even know it's there. you go when you need peace, when the world feels too loud, when you just want to sit with a book and let time slip through your fingers.

so when jude shows up on a random tuesday afternoon, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he belongs anywhere but here, you frown.

"how'd you find this place?"

he shrugs, lazy and unbothered, before dropping onto the bench beside you. "a little birdy told me this is your spot. figured i'd find you here."

your best friend. of course. she's been on one ever since she caught wind of whatever this thing is between you and jude. grinning every time his name comes up, eyes wide with something like glee when she saw him talking to you after church that one time.

she's way too invested. and knowing her? she probably handed him the information on a silver platter. all it would've taken was a quick dm, a little charm, and she would've folded in seconds.

you make a mental note to cuss her out later. in the most christian way, of course.

you turn to jude, lips parted, already halfway to telling him that you don't play about your reading time—but then he stretches out, long legs sprawling, his whole body shifting into something that looks too good to ignore.

his arm drapes over the back of the bench, all casual, his fingers just barely brushing against your back. and he's looking at you with something like amusement in his eyes, like he knows you won't ask him to leave.

and maybe you should. maybe you should roll your eyes, tell him to give you space, bury yourself back in the pages of your book. but the way he's sitting there, looking at you like this is exactly where he's meant to be? yeah. suddenly, the company doesn't feel so bad.

the first time, he talks your ear off.

leans back on the bench, eyes flicking between you and the worn-out pages in your hands. asks you what you're reading, why you picked it, if it's boring, if it's "one of them romance novels with the cringy shit."

"it's a classic," you argue, looking up at him, brow raised.

he snorts, shaking his head. calls you a hopeless romantic.

the second time, he brings food.

"thought you might be hungry," he says, pulling a sandwich and a drink from a brown bag. claims it's the best sandwich you'll ever taste because he made it himself.

you try to act unimpressed, try to keep your face neutral, but your stomach betrays you—growling at the smell of warm bread, fresh and tempting. his lips twitch, like he's fighting a smirk, before he nudges the bag toward you.

"go on, then. take it."

his fingers brush yours when you do. a small thing, a nothing moment. but something flickers in his gaze, quick and unreadable, before he looks away.

and maybe that's the moment something shifts. when you stop seeing him as this footballer who keeps showing up and start seeing him as jude.

jude, who doesn't tease when you say you've never even been on a real date. just nods, like he's storing that information for later. jude, who actually listens when you talk about your family, your plans, your fear of failing—like every word you say matters.

jude, who looks at you like he's figuring out a puzzle he likes being confused by.

jude, who's creeping into your life, slowly, surely, and you don't even realise you're letting him.

—

he doesn't kiss you until the third time he sees you outside church.

you're wearing a long, pink dress. something modest, something pretty. it cinches just enough at the waist to remind you that you have one, but it flows past your ankles, grazing the tops of your shoes with every step. it's the kind of dress your mama approves of. the kind that makes the older women at church nod in quiet approval when you walk past, whispering to their daughters about how this is how a young lady should carry herself.

your daddy's sermon is still ringing in your ears as you step out of the church, voice deep and steady in your mind: temptation comes in many forms, but the Lord will always give you a way out. you had nodded along like you understood, like you believed it was that easy, like you didn't already feel something twisting in your stomach—something you couldn't name, something that lingers even as you take careful steps down those stone steps, hands folded in front of you like a proper girl.

and then you see him.

jude's waiting across the street, leaning against a matte black mercedes. he's parked just far enough to not be obvious, but close enough that you know he's waiting for you.

he's watching you.

not in a way that's obvious to anyone else, but you feel it. the weight of his gaze. the way his eyes drop down the length of your dress before dragging back up. the slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he's already thinking something he shouldn't be.

he doesn't belong here. doesn't belong anywhere near your daddy's church. but neither do you—not if the way your pulse jumps at the sight of him is any indication.

he lifts his hand, two fingers beckoning you over, just once. subtle. casual.

your daddy's voice is still in your head. temptation comes in many forms.

and yet, your feet are already moving.

he doesn't say a word when you stop in front of him. just looks at you, the way he always does—like you're something rare, something to be studied.

"what?" you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

he tilts his head, corners of his mouth curling in a small smile. "nothing," he says, but it's very clearly a lie.

you cross your arms, but it's useless. doesn't do anything to shield you from the way he's looking at you. doesn't stop the heat that creeps up your neck, the way your stomach tightens when he reaches out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress.

"this new?" he asks, voice low, barely audible over the noise of the street.

you nod, because you don't trust yourself to speak.

he hums, fingertips trailing just slightly before he pulls away. "pretty," he says. simple. like that's that. like it's obvious.

you should leave. should turn around and walk back up those steps, back inside where it's safe, where your mama and daddy are probably still shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. but you don't. you just stand there, rooted to the spot, watching as jude pushes off the car, the heat of his body suddenly much closer than it was a second ago.

he lifts a hand, fingers brushing against the chain resting against your collarbone. it's barely a touch, more like an absentminded gesture, his thumb lingering for a second too long, pressing lightly against the charm hanging there, before he lets it drop.

his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower than before, softer.

"can i kiss you?"

it's quiet. barely above a whisper. but it hits you hard, like he just knocked the air out of your lungs. because he's asking, asking—so, so sweetly.

your breath catches. your fingers twitch where they rest at your sides.

you should say no.

you should remind him that you just left church, that your daddy is still inside, probably lecturing girls your age about purity and virtue. that you were raised better than this.

but then you look up at him. and suddenly, none of that matters.

"yes," you breathe.

and that's all it takes.

he doesn't waste time. doesn't hesitate. the second the word leaves your lips, he moves—one hand curling around the side of your neck, the other pressing against the small of your back, pulling you in close, closer, until there's nothing between you but heat and the sound of your own breath catching in your throat.

he kisses you like he's been thinking about it for weeks. like he's imagined it a hundred different ways, but none of them compare to this—to the way your lips part under his, to the little sound you make when he tilts his head and deepens it, to the way your fingers clutch at his shirt like you need something to hold onto; because this isn't the kiss of a boy who's unsure. this is possession, plain and simple.

you feel him smile against your lips when you don't pull away. when instead, your hands slide up, fingers brushing at the nape of his neck, holding him there. when you sigh into his mouth like you've been waiting for this just as long as he has.

and when he pulls back, just slightly, just enough to drag his teeth over your bottom lip, just enough to let you breathe—he doesn't go far. his nose brushes yours, his breath is warm against your cheek, and his voice is lower now, thick with something you don't have a name for.

"you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that," he murmurs.

and then he kisses you again.

when he eventually pulls back, he's got that look. like he's tasting something he didn't expect to love so much. like you're some flavour he's never had before, and now that he has, he's wondering how he ever went without it. his fingers twitch where they're still resting on your waist, like he's fighting the urge to grab you, pull you back in, drown himself in you all over again.

and that's what makes you step back.

because the way he's looking at you cracks you wide open. like he's peeling back your layers without even trying, stripping you bare with nothing but his eyes. it's unnerving. intoxicating. makes your fingers twitch at your sides, makes your breath catch in your throat.

"uh," you trail off, voice thin, trying to ignore the way your heart is in such a frenzy against your ribcage, loud enough that you're sure he can hear it in the space between you.

he tilts his head slightly, watching you, watching the way you fidget under his gaze, the way you bite your lip like you're trying to stop yourself from asking him to kiss you again.

"how come you're here?" you ask, because you don't know what else to do with yourself. "aren't you supposed to be in madrid?"

"break between games," he responds mindlessly. his eyes stay locked on you, intense, unreadable. they trace over your face, your lips, the way your chest is rising and falling just a little too fast, like you're struggling to catch your breath. "i come back home sometimes. clears my head."

you feel warm all over. heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach.

you want to ask why you, then. out of all the girls he could 'come back home' to. out of all the girls he could have. the models, the singers, the girls who got names blue-check-verified. the ones who post thirst traps and don't flinch when someone touches their thigh.

but you don't ask.

because you like how he looks at you.

like you're something precious he wants to keep for himself.

like he's never had anything like you before. and maybe, just maybe, he never wants to go without it again.

—

ynprivate

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ynprivate no scrubs.

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judebellopriv 😍😍😍😍😍😭😭😭😭😮‍💨😮‍💨😱

↳ ynprivate relax.

—

judebellopriv

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judebellopriv met a rare jewel (in the words of king george🫡)

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ynprivate corny.

↳ judebellopriv i’m the love of your life. be nice to me.😔

—

things get... interesting after that.

kisses that grow longer. hands that travel further. his voice in your ear, soft and deep, saying things like, "you can tell me to stop, pretty. i'll stop whenever you say."

and you believe him. you do. but the problem is you never really want him to stop.

he calls you "pretty girl" when you're shy, when your fingers fidget with the hem of your new pastel cardigan, when you tuck your face into his chest after he says something that makes your skin feel too hot to wear. when you sit next to him in his car, trying to ignore the way he looks at you like you're the kind of girl men start wars over.

he calls you "baby" when you're quiet, when you're watching him with those soft, searching eyes like you're trying to understand every little part of him. when you're curled up against his side, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like he's coaxing you to say something, anything.

"what you thinkin’ about, baby?" he murmurs, voice all gentle, because he genuinely wants to know where your mind goes when you get quiet like this.

you shake your head, because you can't say it. you can't tell him how deep he's gotten into you, how you're always thinking about him now—when you're in class, when you're at work, when you're sitting in the pews listening to your father preach about temptation and sin and how easily the devil slips into the cracks of your foundation.

he calls you "mama" when you're doing things you know you shouldn't be doing. when you're in his bed, back arching, lips parted, fingers grasping at his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. when you let him push you past every boundary you swore you'd never cross, when you let him drag you into the kind of pleasure that feels more like salvation than sin.

and it sounds so good in his mouth. so right. like it belongs to you. like he belongs to you. like every time he says it, he's giving you another piece of himself to keep.

and maybe you are keeping him. maybe he's yours in a way he's never been anyone else's before.

maybe you're his in a way that feels deeper than flesh, deeper than anything either of you have ever known.

—

he keeps showing up more.

in your bed, late at night, when your parents are fast asleep two rooms down the hall. you sneak him in, because that's apparently something you do now. feet tiptoeing across the hardwood, heart pounding so loud you're sure it'll wake up the whole house. you don't even turn on the lamp—just fumble for him in the dark, breathless, nervous, excited in a way you can't explain. and he's there, all warmth and muscle and mischief, slipping under the covers like he belongs there.

on your phone, texting things that make your thighs clench under the covers.

"what you wearing?"

it's the first thing he sends, and you already know where this is going. you hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. but he knows you too well.

"don't get shy on me now, pretty."

you take a breath, then type back.

"my nightgown."

it's a simple answer, nothing suggestive about it—but jude makes it mean something.

"the white one?"

"yeah."

"the one that's real thin?"

you pause. heart hammering.

"yeah."

the typing bubble pops up, disappears, pops up again. then—

"wish i was there."

you exhale sharply. shift under the covers. try to ignore the way your thighs press together on instinct.

"jude..."

"bet you're warm under there."

your breath catches.

"bet you keep rubbing your legs together, trying to make yourself feel good without me."

your fingers shake.

"open your legs for me, baby."

and God forgive you, but you do.

and, of course, he shows up in your mind as well. when you should be studying, praying, thinking about your future.

you sit in the second pew, bible open on your lap, the words on the page nothing but blurred ink. your daddy's voice booms through the church, preaching about temptation — because that's suddenly all he's been preaching about lately.

"flee from sin," he says, voice thick with conviction as he paces back and forth across the pulpit. "do not entertain it. do not welcome it into your home. into your heart. into your bed."

your breath stutters.

you swear your daddy looks at you too long. like he knows something. like he can see the filth on you. your fingers tighten around the edges of your bible, nails pressing half-moon indents into the leather. your mama glances at you, concern in her eyes. you force a smile, nod like everything's fine.

"temptation is a test," he continues. "and the devil is patient. he waits for a moment of weakness. he whispers to you when you're alone."

you suck in a sharp breath, heat crawling up your neck. because he does.

except it isn't the devil whispering to you at night.

it's jude.

"miss me?"

"wish i was there with you, don't you?"

"bet you still feel me, huh?"

you do.

so much so that it's wrong. so much that you feel like the walls of this church are closing in around you.

you shouldn't be here.

but you shouldn't be in jude's bed either. or sneaking him into yours. or texting him back. or letting him touch you like he does.

"resist temptation, and it will flee from you."

your fingers tremble where they rest on the page. because you don't want it to flee.

you want it to stay.

you want him to stay.

—

jude learns your body too quick. too well. too thoroughly.

it should scare you—the way he figures you out like he's done this a hundred times before, like he's studied you in a past life and came back knowing exactly what makes you gasp, what makes your voice shake, what makes you go all pliant and pretty beneath him.

he takes his time with you. always. moves slow, like he's savouring every moment, like he enjoys watching you come undone little by little. because that's the thing about jude—he doesn't just take pleasure from you; he drags it out of you, pulls it from the depths of your belly, coaxes it from between your lips until you're trembling, until you're arching into him, until you can't think straight.

he likes to test your patience, to see how long it takes before you can't handle it anymore. he'll brush his lips against the shell of your ear, mumbling, "look at you. so damn needy." and he'll chuckle when you whine, when you try to pull him closer, when your fingers clutch at his shirt like you're begging.

and your voice—God, your voice.

the way it wobbles when he kisses down your neck. the way it catches when he mouths at your collarbone. the way it pleads before he finally—finally—presses his hips against yours.

you call his name like it's something sacred. like it's something holy.

and maybe it is.

maybe in the heat of this room, in the way he touches you like you're the only girl in the world, in the way he murmurs, "let me hear you, baby. i wanna hear you say my name,"—maybe in all of that, he is holy.

at least, that's what it feels like when he finally gives you what you've been aching for, when he murmurs your name back just as soft, just as breathless, just as wrecked.

and suddenly, the preacher's daughter isn't so pure anymore.

—

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—

he corrupts you in pieces. not all at once.

one night, he's between your legs, looking up at you like you're the only girl that's ever mattered.

it's the first time. and you're nervous. your thighs tremble, and you keep trying to close them, instinct kicking in. but jude doesn't let you. his hands are firm, spreading you open, settling you against his mouth like he belongs there.

"relax, mama," he murmurs, lips brushing against your sensitive skin. "just let me taste you."

and God, do you let him.

his tongue is slow, dragging over you with a patience that makes your head spin. he groans into you, like he needs this, like this is his salvation. his hands grip your thighs tighter, his tongue flicks, swirls, sucks, and you swear you forget how to breathe.

"fuck—" the curse slips out, unbidden, and you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes going wide.

jude pulls back just enough to grin up at you, chin glistening. "that's a first," he teases, before licking back into you, hungrier this time.

you should feel ashamed, should feel guilty, but all you feel is him. the warmth of his mouth, the desperation in the way he grips you, the heat curling low in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue.

your fingers tangle in his curls, tugging, pulling him closer, closer, closer, and he groans in pleasure against you, like he loves it when you take what you need.

his name spills from your lips, over and over and over, and when you cum, it's with a soft cry and a shudder that rocks you to your core.

he doesn't move for a moment. just presses his lips to your inner thigh, breath warm against your damp skin.

"told you i'd take care of you," he murmurs, voice low, eyes dark as he watches you try to catch your breath.

you don't respond. you can't.

because for the first time in your life, you don't know what comes after.

—

he meets your daddy once.

it's at a football charity event in the neighbourhood. something small, nothing crazy—just a few sponsors, some local businesses, a handful of academy footballers showing up to sign autographs, pose for pictures, and play a friendly game with the kids. you're only there because your mama insisted, said it was a good cause, said it'd "look good" if you showed up because your daddy's church is donating supplies—clothes, food, books for the kids.

you don't ask how jude's dad got involved. maybe he knows somebody who knows somebody. maybe it's just one of those things that happens when your son is famous, and people call in favours like it's nothing.

you also don't know jude himself is going to be there. not until you hear a collective of screams from the little boys and girls, all hyped up and bouncing on their toes like they can't believe their luck.

your stomach instantly drops as you turn to look across the field. to look at your man. the one you could never claim publicly.

he's in his element—long limbs, strong build, the kind of casual confidence that only comes from knowing you're him. he's grinning at the kids, talking to them easy, letting them pass the ball between themselves.

he laughs at something one of the kids says, head tilting back slightly, tongue peeking out between his teeth. your heart stutters. it always does when he looks happy like this—like the weight of the world isn't sitting on his shoulders for once.

his hand ruffles one of the boy's curls before he steps back, rolling the ball under his foot, nodding for them to come take it. and even in something as simple as that, he moves with a smooth athleticism that's almost unfair.

it's mesmerising. it always is.

and then—like he can feel you watching—he glances up. his eyes find yours instantly, like they always do. his grin shifts, turns into something slower, something more knowing. his head tilts slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in those deep brown eyes.

you look away. immediately. pretend to be interested in anything else. the donation table. the banners. the sun, for God's sake. anything but him.

but jude? jude is shameless.

because, before you know it—

"hey, pretty girl."

you freeze for half a second. then slowly, carefully, you turn your head, your heart slamming against your ribs. not because he called you that. he does that all the time, whispers it in the dark when he's got his hands on your waist, when his mouth is on your skin, when you're falling apart beneath him.

but this? this is here. this is now.

you don't even get a chance to say anything before your daddy steps in.

"jude bellingham," he greets, extending a hand, voice firm. "been hearing a lot about you, son."

jude takes it without hesitation, shaking it firm, nodding like he knows how to play the game.

"all good things, i hope."

you side-eye him. but jude just grins, the corner of his mouth lifting, and somehow, it makes him look even cockier.

you want to kill him.

but he plays it cool. stays respectful. makes conversation. even your mama seems to like him, which is ridiculous, because if she had any idea the things he's done to you—

you shake the thought out of your head, forcing yourself to focus.

people come up to him, ask for pictures, autographs. he takes it all in stride. smiles, poses, makes them feel like they matter. it's the first time you really see it—the way he switches it on, the charm, the ease, the star power that makes people want to be near him.

but when the attention dies down and the crowd shifts, he still finds his way back to you.

"nice dress," he murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear, his fingers brushing your wrist for half a second too long.

you step back, shooting him a glare. "stop."

his brows lift, all innocent. "stop what?"

you don't answer.

you can't answer.

because your daddy's watching, your mama's close by, and the last thing you need is for anyone to see the way your breathing falters when he's too close.

jude notices, though. of course he does. his lips twitch. and then—because he's him—he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch.

"see you later, mama."

and with that, he walks off, leaving you there—flustered, irritated, wanting.

you don't even hear the rest of your daddy's speech. don't even remember why you came here in the first place.

all you can think about is later.

when the sun goes down. when the cameras are gone. when it's just you and him.

because he meant it.

and you know—deep in your bones—that tonight, he's going to make you pay for pretending you don't want him.

—

there's a moment—late, after everything, while jude is lying on your chest, tracing lazy circles into your skin as you lay in his california king bed—where he murmurs something that makes your breath catch.

you're still trembling from the weight of what just happened, your body spent, skin dewy, lips tingling from the way he kissed you like he was trying to brand his name into your mouth. the sheets are tangled around your waist, his body warm and lax beside you, his fingers absentmindedly dancing along the curve of your hip like he isn't even aware he's doing it.

the room smells like him—cologne, clean linen, and the faint musk of sex that lingers in the air. the dim glow from the city outside seeps through the cracks in the blackout curtains, casting soft shadows over the luxurious bedroom.

your heart is still beating too fast, your mind caught somewhere between reality and the high of him. you don't even know what time it is. past midnight, probably. maybe later.

then, in that quiet, between the distant hum of cars outside and the slow rhythm of your breathing, he speaks.

"you're the only good thing in my life right now."

his voice is heavy with something you can't quite name. it's almost like a confession, something secret slipping past his lips before he can stop it. it feels unguarded. raw. too honest for a boy like him.

you want to ask what he means. why he said it. if he really believes it.

but you don't.

because you see the way his jaw clenches like he's already regretting saying too much. the way his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. the way his head stays pressed against your chest, close enough to hear the way your heart stutters at his words.

and maybe you should leave. maybe you should remind yourself that this was supposed to be nothing, that you were never meant to matter to him like this.

but instead, you exhale, slow and careful, and thread your fingers through his curls. soft. comforting.

"i'm not going anywhere," you whisper, and it feels like a promise you shouldn't be making.

but he sighs against your skin, like it's exactly what he needed to hear.

and so you hold him.

because you're not so pure anymore. not after him. not after the way he's touched you, seen you, ruined you in the best and worst ways.

and honestly? you'd let him do it again.

every night.

every sunday morning before church.

every time he whispers your name like he's afraid he's dreaming you.

because even if it's wrong... even if you go to hell for it...

there's nothing holier than the way he makes you feel.

the santiago bernabéu.

you grew up watching him dream about this place, talking about it like it was some kind of holy ground. back when you were both younger, when football was still a dream on the horizon and music was just something you did because it felt right. before the contracts, before the interviews, before the weight of expectation settled on your shoulders like something you had to carry forever.

and now, here you are.

the bernabéu is packed. but instead of a sea of white jerseys, it's your name on the banners. your lyrics printed on homemade signs, scrawled across arms and cheeks in glittering ink. your initials strung together in neon lights, flashing against the dark sky. instead of football chants, it's your songs echoing off the stadium walls, swallowed by the night, belted from thousands of voices that somehow know every word.

it's overwhelming in a way you didn't expect, makes your stomach flip. not the stage—that's second nature now. the music, the crowd, the way your voice carries over the speakers—you've been doing this too long for nerves. but tonight is different.

tonight, he's here.

it's not lost on you—the irony, the strange poetry of it all.

you spent years watching him take the field, feeling your heart race as he made history. sitting in these same stands, lost in the same impossible crowd, screaming his name like it was the only one that mattered. watching him turn his dreams into something real. you knew what this stadium meant to him before the world did.

you remember the first time you ever sat here, barely teenagers, your knees pressed together as you watched players you'd only ever seen on tv. he nudged you every time something big happened, buzzing with excitement, eyes wide with something bigger than hope—something inevitable.

"one day," he had said, voice barely above a whisper. "one day, it's gonna be me."

and you had believed him. not because he needed you to, but because you knew. because there was never a doubt in your mind that kylian mbappé was meant for this.

and now, tonight, he's watching you. in the stands instead of the pitch, lost in a crowd of your making, looking up at you.

tonight, the bernabéu isn't his—it's yours.

you wonder how it feels.

if it's surreal for him too.

if he's proud.

if he thinks about the nights you stayed up, mapping out your futures like you had any control over them. him, on the field. you, on the stage. always different paths, but always together. at least, that's what you thought back then.

someone calls your name, pulling you out of your spiralling thoughts—one of the stage managers, telling you to get into position. you nod, rolling your neck, shaking out your hands.

the intro music starts. low, deep, a slow build that makes your pulse quicken.

you close your eyes for half a second.

then the lights shift. the curtain lifts.

and the bernabéu erupts.

—

you're six songs in when you finally say it.

"so tonight is kind of special."

the screams swell, rolling through the stadium in waves, like they already know what you're about to say. maybe they do. maybe they've been waiting for this as much as you have.

you wet your lips, letting your fingers trail over the mic stand. your heart's hammering, but your voice is steady when you speak again.

"an old friend of mine is here."

a fresh wave of noise—high-pitched, frantic, excited. you can hear the murmurs even through the roar, fans turning to each other, pointing, speculating.

you let the words settle, let the tension build. and then, you drag it out just a little more, teasing, knowing they'll eat it up.

"he's hidden somewhere in here," a pause. a playful tilt of your head. "if you see someone in cargo pants, or a fresh release of some nike tech, that’s probably him."

the reaction is instant—laughter ripples through the crowd, screams blending into giggles, because of course they know exactly what you're talking about. kylian and his damn swagger… or lack of.

you shake your head, eyes glinting under the stage lights. "that’s really all he knows, y'all. like, every time i see him it's a new nike tracksuit or some beige cargo pants. there’s no in between."

you grin, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you let the laughter swell. the crowd loves it. they love you and him—this thing between you two that never really left, never really faded, even after all these years.

you take a breath, let the moment sit for a second.

and then, softer this time—

"kylian is here tonight."

absolute pandemonium.

it's deafening, the kind of noise that makes your ribs vibrate, your skin prickle, your ears ring.

you step back from the mic for a second, letting it happen, letting them scream for him the way they scream for you. it's surreal in a way—watching it all unfold, watching a stadium full of people lose their minds over a boy you used to sit on rooftops with, eating corner shop snacks and talking about your futures like they weren't already written for you.

you take a slow breath, gripping the mic a little tighter, your smile slipping just a fraction.

the cameras will catch the way your eyes flicker across the crowd, how your expression softens, how your fingers twitch at your side.

they'll call it sweet. nostalgic.

they won't know how heavy it feels in your chest.

you glance toward the pit, where the security guards are holding back fans with banners—some with your name, some with collages. one catches your eye, scrawled in thick, glittering letters:

"STILL LOVE ME WHEN THE LIGHTS COME ON?"

your stomach twists. you blink, once, twice.

that line was from his song. the one that gutted you when you wrote it, the one you almost didn't release because it felt too raw, too honest. the one where you admitted, in too many words, that you never doubted the love when it was just the two of you, tangled in low light and quiet promises—but you feared what would happen when the world crept in. when the cameras flashed and the schedules filled and love had to compete with everything else.

september nights was never confirmed to be about him, but the fans knew. they picked apart every lyric, every interview, every offhand comment about the song that you tried to brush off. and maybe you should've been more careful, maybe you should've chosen different words, a different melody, a different story to tell—

but back then, it was the only way you knew how to grieve him.

you drag in a breath, press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, and shake it off before it can settle too deep in your bones.

later. you'll sit with it later.

for now, you tilt your head, forcing a soft smile as you bring the mic back to your lips.

"hope you're enjoying your first live show, kyky."

the crowd screams, a fresh wave of hysteria crashing over the stadium, but you don't let yourself linger in it.

instead, you turn to your band, give them a small nod, and let the music take you somewhere else. somewhere safer. somewhere that doesn't feel like looking at him would still hurt.

—

later, when the last note fades, when the adrenaline starts to settle, when your throat is raw and your limbs are sore in the way that reminds you why you love this, you find him.

he's waiting backstage, tucked into the corner of the dressing room, leaning against the table like he belongs there. relaxed, comfortable, the same way he's always been in your spaces.

he's in a louis vuitton hoodie, sleeves slightly pushed up, loose but not baggy, sitting just right on his frame. cargo pants—of course. dior trainers, fresh out the box, laces still crisp.

he looks good.

his arms are crossed, dark brown eyes shamelessly taking you in—and, yeah. he looks too fucking good. so good it damn near throws you off.

you hesitate for half a second before stepping inside, letting the door swing shut behind you.

"bought a backstage pass and everything." you tease, dropping onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you like your heart isn’t doing a thousand things at once. "big fan, are you?"

he huffs out a laugh, pushing off the table. "yeah, something like that"

he moves then. closer. a step, maybe two. you catch it before he even fully closes the distance—the scent of him, warm and deep, laced with something unmistakably him. it clings to him, settles into the spaces between his skin and his clothes, seeps into the air between you like a memory you weren't ready to relive.

and maybe it's that. maybe it's the scent of it alone or maybe it's the way it ties itself to so many things you thought you had let go of—late-night drives, shared hotel rooms, lazy sundays at his house when his mom would make roast dinner and call you both down just as the gravy was thick enough. or those quiet, easy nights on the sofa with his dad, all of you watching some old game from years before, kylian arguing every ref call like it still mattered.

whatever it is, it messes with your head.

there's a beat of silence. not the uncomfortable kind. but not easy either. somewhere in between.

his gaze drifts, scans the room like he's still getting used to being back here, then lands on you again.

"you didn't play them," he says eventually.

you know exactly what he means. them. the other songs—the ones that belong to him in a way nothing else ever could. the ones you rarely perform because they're too personal, too his. they're the ones your fans call the devastating ones—the ones that linger. the ones that sting.

you lift one shoulder in a half-shrug, toying with the ring on your index finger. a gift from him years ago. cartier. the love ring, a subtle thing that carried too much history for its own good. "wasn't that kind of night."

his lips press together, something flickering behind his eyes. regret, maybe. something heavier.

baby steps.

so instead of lingering in it, you nudge his foot with yours. "did you like the show?"

he exhales, a breathy, quiet thing, before sitting beside you. not close enough to touch, but closer than he should be.

"yeah," he says, soft, sincere. "i really did."

you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, letting it sink in.

he watches you, head tilting slightly, something knowing in his expression.

"you looked happy up there," he murmurs.

it's not a question, but you answer anyway.

"i was."

and you could leave it at that. let the moment settle, let the air between you stay charged but unspoken. but something about tonight makes you brave. maybe it's the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, maybe it's the way he's looking at you—soft, steady, like he's been waiting for this.

so you tilt your head, let your gaze flicker over him, let a slow, knowing smile tug at your lips.

"think it had a lot to do with a certain real madrid superstar in the crowd."

his brows lift, amusement flashing across his face. "oh yeah?" he muses, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he's trying not to grin. "he must be a pretty big deal."

you hum, pretending to think about it. "mhm. bit of a heartbreaker, though."

his smile falters for half a second—just enough for you to catch it—before he schools his expression, nudging your knee with his.

"nah," he says, voice quieter now. "not anymore."

something in your chest tightens.

and maybe it's stupid—maybe it's reckless—but something about the way he's looking at you makes you feel like you can say anything. like you should say something.

so you tilt your head, resting your elbow on the couch as you look at him. really look at him.

"not anymore?" you echo, voice softer now. careful.

kylian exhales, tipping his head back against the couch for a second before turning back to you. his eyes flicker down—to your hands, to the way your fingers toy with your ring—before settling on your face again.

"i was never tryna break your heart, you know."

the words hit you in a place you weren't ready for.

because you do know that. even at your angriest, even when the space between you two felt impossible, even when you swore you'd never speak again—you always knew that.

you swallow, shifting slightly, feeling the weight of his gaze.

"wasn't tryna break yours either," you admit.

he nods, like he gets it. like he's been holding onto that same truth too.

a beat of silence.

and then, quieter—almost like he doesn't want to say it, like it just slips out—

"but we did."

you let out a slow breath, leaning your head back against the couch. staring at the ceiling, letting the truth of it settle between you.

"yeah," you murmur. "we did."

there's a heaviness in the air now. not bad, necessarily, but thick enough to make your throat feel tight.

you should change the subject. lighten the mood. tease him for being emotional. but instead, you turn your head to look at him again.

"so," you start, voice quieter. "why are you really here?"

his jaw tightens, just slightly.

"you invited me," he says.

you narrow your eyes. "the real reason, kylian."

his lips twitch, but he doesn't smile. instead, he just watches you. searching. debating. and then, after a long, quiet moment—

"because i wanted to see you."

it's simple. too simple for something that carries so much weight.

your heart stumbles in your chest.

he must see it on your face, because he leans forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees, voice lower now.

"because i missed you."

you blink. feel your breath catch in your throat.

he doesn't look away. doesn't shift, doesn't backtrack. just sits there, waiting.

waiting for you to say something. waiting for you to be brave back.

your fingers tighten around your ring.

then, finally—

"yeah," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "yeah, me too."

kylian lets out a breath, something caught between relief and something else you don’t have a name for.

you’re both quiet for a moment, like you’re letting the words settle, letting the weight of finally saying it sink in.

you missed him.

he missed you.

and after everything—after the distance, the mess, the silence—you both still feel it. that pull. that thing that’s never really gone away, just buried under all the noise, all the hurt.

you tilt your head, let your eyes find his again, let the ghost of a smile tug at your lips.

“so,” you start, a little hesitant, testing the waters. “think you’ll stick around? see the next show?”

his eyes flicker over your face, scanning, searching.

like he’s trying to figure out if you really mean it. if you’re just saying it to say it or if you’re being serious. if it’s really okay for him to say yes.

so you nudge his foot with yours, keeping your smile, keeping it light.

“it’s in barcelona,” you tease, lifting a brow. “the superior city in spain.”

his lips twitch.

then, a low huff of laughter, shaking his head. "you wish," he mutters, but there's no bite to it. just something familiar. something fond.

your smile grows, and for the first time tonight, the edges don’t feel so sharp.

he leans back against the couch again, stretching his arms over the top, fingers barely brushing against your shoulder. not touching, not quite, but there.

his gaze lingers on you, warm and unreadable. and then—

“if you want me there, then i’ll be there.”

your breath catches.

not because of what he said, but because of how he said it.

soft. sure.

like it’s that simple. like it’s easy.

like he’s saying, just ask, and i’m yours.

you don’t know what to do with that. don’t know what to do with the way it spreads through your chest, settles in your stomach, sits heavy in your throat.

so you just sit there, knee against his, his fingers brushing against your skin.

maybe it’s not supposed to be complicated. maybe it doesn’t have to be some big, impossible thing.

maybe it’s just this. this moment. this tiny step forward.

maybe it’s just trying.

just letting each other in again.

letting it be enough.

you smile, almost shyly. “i do want you there.”

his smile mirrors yours. “then i’ll be there.”

you’ve been deep in the trenches of youtube for three days now. full-on war mode. “basic spanish phrases to survive meeting your boyfriend’s mom” is typed in the search bar and you’ve got six tabs open: duolingo, a random blog by a girl named beth who apparently married a spaniard, your notes app full of random spanish words, a spanish podcast playing in the background on 1.25x speed like you actually understand anything, and then, somewhere in the mess, the tab with your class assignment due in two days—forgotten, abandoned, neglected like your gym subscription and that plant you swore you’d keep alive.

you press play on yet another video, elbow propped on your knee, pen in hand.

“hola, señora. mucho gusto.”

you pause. repeat, brows furrowed like you might actually be doing quantum physics.

“hola, señor… señor-ra… mushy gusto.” you close your eyes and groan. your whole body slumps back into the mattress like you’ve just been defeated in a battle no one prepared you for. you toss the pen to the side dramatically. it bounces off the bed and disappears under your dresser, but you don’t care. let it go. convince yourself that it’s over for you.

you’re so deep in the pit, you don’t even hear alejandro walk in. he’s standing at the door with a water bottle in hand, watching you mumble to yourself like a girl possessed.

you’re halfway into whispering, “¿yo... uh, quiero… to… be polite... para your madre…” when you finally see him out of the corner of your eye.

he’s already grinning. that soft, smug smirk he does when he knows he’s about to be annoying.

you turn your head toward him, squinting, your index finger already pointed in his direction like a warning shot. “don’t even play with me right now, ale. i’m fighting for my life.”

alejandro raises both hands like he’s surrendering, but that damn smile is still on his face.

“baby, what is this?” he asks, doesn’t even bother hiding his amusement as he drops his keys on the nightstand and toes his shoes off before falling back onto the bed next to you.

you shove the laptop into his lap like it personally offended you. “that is me trying to not embarrass you in front of your family.”

he clicks the touchpad, squinting at the screen. the youtube video is paused mid-sentence, the lady frozen with a bright smile and big earrings, and the title below says “50 essential phrases before meeting la suegra.”

he glances at your notes app, where you’ve written:

– “moochy goose-toe” = nice to meet you

– “perrrrddooon” = sorry / excuse me?

– “dios mio” = omg (ale says this a lot when i mess up)

– “puta” = not for polite convos 😭

he snorts, “why is ‘puta’ on here?”

“because you taught me that first, and you keep saying it during fifa, so now i’m scared it’s gonna pop out by accident if your mom asks me a question i don’t understand.”

he snickers, tucks your freshly done braids behind your ear, then leans in, voice soft. “deja de pensar tanto, baby. you’ll be just fine.”

—

you try to. genuinely, you do. but you just can’t stop overthinking.

because the thing is… this matters to you. a lot.

not just because you want to make a good impression. but because you’ve seen the way alejandro lights up when he talks to his family. when he’s on the phone with his mom and his voice gets all boyish. when he switches to catalan mid-sentence without realising. when he’s laughing so hard at something his cousin said that he’s clutching his stomach, and you’re sitting there smiling, pretending like you caught the joke even though you understood none of it.

you want to be part of that. even if it’s just a little. even if it’s just being able to say “thank you” properly when his grandmother hands you a plate. you want them to see you and know you tried.

so, you keep practicing.

you record yourself. play it back. cringe. repeat.

he catches you again two days later, whispering phrases under your breath while brushing your teeth.

“mi nombre es y/n. tengo… treinti… treintiocho años?”

he leans against the doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants, that amused little smile playing on his lips. “baby, you’re twenty-two. not thirty-eight.”

you pause mid-brush, glare at him through the mirror with a mouth full of foam. “shut up. you know that’s what i meant.”

—

the day of, you’re damn near hyperventilating.

you spent two hours trying on outfits, sending your best friend voice notes like “should i wear the jeans or the dress? jeans feel chill but the dress says i’m respectable. does my ‘respectable’ scream ‘boring?’ does this say ‘wife me?’ do i even want to be wifed right now or do i just want them to not hate me?”

you end up wearing the dress. simple, soft yellow. the one he once said made you look like a sunflower. you also wear the bracelet he got you in mallorca. just for luck.

during the drive to his parents’ house, your hand is shaking slightly. he notices. doesn’t say anything. just reaches over and takes it, warm and calm and reassuring. his thumb strokes over your knuckles the whole ride. you don’t talk much, just music playing softly in the background. your heart’s in your throat.

when you get there, his mom’s waiting at the door.

you don’t even get to say anything before she pulls you into a hug. tight, warm. she’s shorter than you expected. smells like citrus and something floral. her hands are soft.

“bienvenida, mi niña,” she says.

you choke out a shaky “gracias” and pray to every god that she doesn’t say anything else yet because your brain has shut down and you’re sure if she asks you what day it is, you’ll say “quesadilla.”

she pulls back, cups your face like she’s known you forever, and then looks at alejandro with this smile that makes your chest warm. he leans down, kisses her cheek, and says something in spanish that makes her laugh. you stand there like a deer in headlights.

his dad’s there too. quieter. handshake rather than a hug. kind eyes. says “mucho gusto” and you blurt it back too fast, too panicked. but he just smiles and gestures you inside.

the house smells like dinner already—garlic, tomatoes, something roasting. there’s family photos on the wall. alejandro’s baby picture in a barça kit. you nudge him and whisper, “you had a big head.”

“still do, to be fair.” he whispers back.

you laugh because, yeah. he definitely still does.

—

the evening is… better than you feared.

you understand about 30% of the conversation. 40% on a good stretch if someone points at something while they’re talking. his cousin speaks slow enough for you to catch stuff. his grandmother kisses your cheeks and talks to you like you do understand, even though you clearly don’t, and you kind of love her for that.

you catch alejandro watching you a lot. when you’re fumbling through a sentence. when you’re smiling politely even though you’re lost. when you finally manage to say something right and his aunt claps a little and you glow with pride. he watches you like you’re the most unreal thing in the room. like he can’t believe someone like you wandered into his life and stayed.

when you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror and whisper, “you’re doing okay. you haven’t called anyone a bitch by accident yet. that’s a win.”

and that is a win.

on the way home, you finally exhale. really exhale. you sink back in the passenger seat of his mercedes, the leather warm against your thighs, the city lights slipping in through the windshield and dancing across your skin, and you let your head fall onto his shoulder. he doesn’t say anything at first, just instinctively tilts his head and rests his cheek against your hair for a few slow seconds.

“told you they’d love you,” he says after a while, his voice low, mellowed out by the road.

“not with the way i embarrassed myself.” you scoff, nose wrinkling. “i literally said ‘your chicken is very sexy’ instead of ‘very tasty.’”

he snorts, a quiet, half-muffled little laugh. “yeah, my uncle’s probably still laughing about that.”

“see? that’s exactly why i’m never showing my face there again.”

he hums — a sound sitting somewhere between affection and amusement — and leans over to kiss your temple at the next red light. “kind of impossible since they already asked me to invite you to the next family barbecue.”

you lift your head just enough to look up at him. he doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but you can see the smile in his face.

“really?” you ask, voice small. maybe even a little hopeful.

he nods. “really.”

you can’t help but smile into the sleeve of his hoodie, your chest warming in ways you can hardly explain.

—

later, when you’re back at your apartment and brushing your teeth side by side, you catch him watching you in the mirror.

“what?” you ask, mouth full of foam, half glaring.

he shrugs, pretending to play it off, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. it’s all sweet. all soft. all charm.

“nothing.”

you rinse, spit, wipe your mouth on a towel, and flick a little water in his direction. “alejandro.”

he chuckles, stepping closer, arms wrapping around your waist from behind. his chin settles on your shoulder, and you both look at yourselves in the mirror — this picture of domesticity you never imagined but somehow ended up in.

“it’s nothing,” he repeats, quieter this time. “just… today was nice, that’s all. felt good to finally have all the people i love in one room.”

you lean back into him, breathing him in, the curve of your spine fitting perfectly against him. and you realise that, yeah. maybe your spanish still sucks. maybe you’ll always be a few beats behind the jokes, maybe the grammar will never come naturally.

but none of it matters.

you don’t have to be fluent in his language to be his.

your voice is a little shy when you ask, “wanna know what else i learned to say in spanish?”

he kisses your cheek, slow and gentle. “what?”

your hand comes up to rest over his on your stomach, fingers lacing gently. then, a little nervous, you say it:

“estoy tan enamorada de ti que me duele un poquito.”

he blinks. then smiles. all teeth, all love. all that affection he doesn’t bother hiding when it’s just you.

“dilo otra vez,” he says, kissing your shoulder. then the side of your neck. “say it again.”

so you do. a little bolder this time. a little more sure. “estoy tan enamorada de ti que me duele un poquito.”

he turns you around with a softness that makes your knees a little weak, hands never leaving your hips. he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, like you saying those words just rewired something in him.

“yo también,” he says, his voice lower now. “yo también estoy enamorado de ti.” his fingers come up to brush your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. “y lo voy a estar. siempre.”

you blink up at him, heart slamming so hard against your ribs it almost drowns out your voice.

“yeah?” you whisper.

he nods, forehead pressing to yours, noses brushing.

“forever.”

and in that moment — toothbrushes on the counter, bathroom mirror slightly fogged from your shower, his hands still steady on your hips— you believe him.

you believe all of it. every syllable.

you don’t need a translator to understand love when it sounds like this.

you don’t really bring men home. not because you’re secretive, but because it’s never been that serious. your parents know how you move—know you’re picky, know that even when you do entertain somebody, it’s never for long. they’ve learned not to ask questions, not to get attached, because the answer is always the same: he’s not staying.

so when you step through the front door, hand tucked into ruben’s, the shift in the air is instant. your mother is the first to react, and she doesn’t even try to hide it. hand on her chest, lips parting in barely concealed delight, eyes darting between you and him like she’s trying to figure out what spell he put on you.

“oh, this must be ruben.”

he smiles, all polite and warm, reaching his hand out with the kind of confidence that never teeters into arrogance. “yes, ma’am.”

and lord. he’s barely said two words, but he’s already winning. your mother loves a polite man.

your dad is next, stepping forward with the kind of presence that makes people stand up straighter. he sizes ruben up the way dads do, like he’s seeing through all the good things your mom has already told him, picking apart the man standing in front of him with a trained, protective eye.

ruben, unshaken, sticks his hand out. “nice to meet you, sir.”

“mhm.” your dad clasps his hand in a firm shake—too firm. like he’s making a point. a statement. a quiet don’t get comfortable.

you shake your head, biting back a laugh. such a dad thing to do, you’re not even surprised.

but ruben? doesn’t flinch. doesn’t cower. just meets his gaze, solid and self-assured. you already know your dad is going to respect that. a man who can stand up for himself, who won’t fold under pressure, is a man who can stand up for you. that’s all he wants for his baby girl.

but the real test? zuri.

your seven-year-old sister, your mini-me, the loudest, nosiest, most chaotic person in the house. if there’s a single crack in ruben’s armor, she’s going to find it and pry it open with sticky fingers and relentless questions.

she peeks out from behind your dad’s legs, wide brown eyes locking onto ruben like she’s scanning his soul.

“hey, zuri.” he crouches down to her level, arms resting on his knees. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

she squints. doesn’t respond right away. just tilts her head and stares at him, like she’s trying to decide if she fucks with him or not.

“you the football boy?”

you snort. ruben grins. “that’s me.”

“hmm.” she taps a tiny finger against her chin, the way she does when she’s fake-thinking about what ice cream flavour to get. “you any good?”

your dad chuckles, your mom shakes her head, and ruben just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe this little girl is pressing him like this.

“i’d like to think so, yeah.”

zuri studies him for a second longer, then extends a hand, palm up, expectant. “gimme your phone.”

ruben raises a brow. “why?”

“so i can google you.”

and listen. you expect ruben to hesitate. expect him to laugh it off, tell her no, maybe throw you a look like come get your little sister, please. but he does none of that. instead, he pulls his phone out without a second thought, unlocks it, and places it right in her tiny palm.

your mother is quick to protest. “ruben, baby, you don’t have to—”

“no, it’s alright.” he smirks, watching zuri take the phone and plop down on the couch like she owns the place. “gotta prove myself, right?”

you press your lips together, trying to suppress a smile, because if there’s one thing about ruben, it’s that he never backs down from a challenge. not on the pitch, not in life, and apparently not from a seven-year-old with a sassy mouth and zero filter.

a natural-born winner, so of course he’d want to win your baby sister over too.

—

dinner is a whole event. your mom goes all out, pots and pans clattering in the kitchen for hours. she makes every dish you grew up on—fluffy rice, slow-cooked meat that falls off the bone, greens seasoned to perfection, cornbread still warm from the oven.

ruben eats everything. like, cleans his plate, goes for seconds, tells your mom it’s the best meal he’s had in a long time. you swear she almost tears up, waving him off with a dish towel like she’s not about to brag about it to the aunties later.

your dad, meanwhile, is running him through the gauntlet. no softballs, no easing in—he’s cutting straight to the chase, arms folded across his chest like a man who’s been waiting for this moment. wants to know about his career, about his life, about his intentions with you. ruben doesn’t hesitate. no fumbling, no nervous stammering—just smooth, calm answers, all respect, all confidence. like he was built for this.

and zuri? she’s been on the fence all day, eyeing him with that serious little frown of hers, arms crossed like a mini version of your dad. but now she’s settled herself right next to him, like she’s decided he’s worth her time. her tiny legs kick under the table, her voice full of nosy, rapid-fire questions, stealing food off his plate like they go way back.

“you famous famous?”

ruben wipes his mouth with his napkin, fighting a smile. “not really.”

“but people know you?”

“yeah.”

“hmm.” she twirls her fork between her fingers, sizing him up. “so you got money?”

your dad damn near chokes on his drink. your mom gasps, smacks zuri’s hand with the back of her spoon. “what did i tell you about asking people personal business?”

ruben just laughs, light and easy. “it’s alright.”

zuri ignores your mom completely, elbow on the table, chin resting in her tiny palm as her eyes stay locked on ruben. “so… do you?”

he leans in a little, like they’re in on something together. drops his voice to a whisper. “enough to buy you a new colouring book.”

her eyes widen like he just promised her the world. “really?”

“mhm. but only if you promise not to bully me for the rest of the night.”

she gasps, presses a hand to her chest like she’s been gravely insulted. “i would never.”

you roll your eyes. the dramatics.

ruben chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up his fork again. “alright, then. deal.”

zuri grins, holds out her tiny hand. “shake on it.”

and ruben does. his much larger hand gently enveloping hers. you swear, you feel something shift in your chest watching them.

because this? this is new. men don’t make it this far with you. they don’t sit at your mother’s dinner table and hold their own against your father’s interrogation. they definitely don’t entertain zuri’s nonsense past the five-minute mark before giving up.

but ruben? ruben is here. handling all of it like he was made for this. like it’s easy. like he belongs here.

and that… that does something to you. something deep. something heavy in your chest, warm in your stomach.

you try to shake it off, pick up your glass of wine, take a slow sip. but ruben catches your eye across the table. gives you this look.

like he already knows.

—

after dinner, everyone moves to the living room. your dad puts on the game, already muttering at the screen before kickoff even starts. your mom, despite your protests, is still fussing in the kitchen, clinking dishes together as she wipes down the counters. and zuri? zuri’s still stuck to ruben like glue, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, looking up at him like he hung the damn moon.

“sooo… you really play for man city?”

ruben, who’s settled into the armchair like he’s been here a hundred times before, nods. “yeah.”

“like, the real one?”

he laughs, low and amused. “yeah, the real one.”

she squints, head tilting, nose scrunching. “but you don’t sound english.”

you snort into your wine glass, and ruben throws you a look before turning back to zuri. “that’s ‘cause i’m not.”

zuri scratches her chin, considering. “hmm. you any good?”

ruben exhales, shaking his head, and you swear you can hear the smile in it. “you already asked me that.”

“yeah, but now i googled you.” she narrows her eyes, all mock-suspicion. “i need to know if the stats match up.”

you shake your head, sinking into the couch, the plush fabric swallowing you up as you take another sip of wine. your mom finally sits down beside you, letting out a satisfied sigh, and leans in close, voice hushed but full of something knowing.

“baby, where did you find this one?”

you glance at ruben, watching the way he bends slightly to hear zuri better, nodding like whatever she’s saying is the most important thing in the world. his brows pull together, lips twitching, and then he grins, nudging her playfully when she suggests he add a backflip to his goal celebrations.

“i didn’t,” you murmur, half to yourself. “he found me.”

your mom hums like she already knew that. like it confirms something. “that explains a lot.”

you frown. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

she just smiles, that all-knowing, motherly kind. “nothing. i’m just saying he’s a keeper. so keep him.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t argue. because, yeah. she’s right. he’s definitely a keeper.

—

later that night, when it’s finally time to leave, zuri flings herself at ruben’s leg like he’s about to be deployed to war. arms wrapped tight, face pressed dramatically against his knee.

“you just got here,” she whines, words muffled against his jeans. “stay.”

ruben chuckles, patting the top of her head like she’s a stubborn puppy. “i gotta go, munchkin.”

“but why?”

“because your sister would be mad if i moved in on the first day.”

zuri peeks up at you, wide-eyed. “you live together?”

“no,” you say, at the same time ruben says, “not yet.”

your head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. he just smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

zuri gasps like she’s just uncovered the biggest scandal of the decade. “so you’re gonna?”

ruben crouches down to her level, but not before shooting you a teasing glance. “not anytime soon,” he tells her, ruffling her curls. “but i’ll come back and visit, yeah?”

she huffs, arms folding over her chest like a tiny executive rejecting a business deal. “pinky promise?”

ruben grins, holding out his pinky. “pinky promise.”

zuri stares at him for a long moment, assessing, like she’s weighing the truth in his words. finally, she nods, wrapping her pinky around his.

“okay, i believe you,” she says. “but only because you’re kinda cool.”

ruben laughs. “high praise.”

then she leans in, cupping a hand around her mouth like she’s about to share state secrets. “and because you’re the only boyfriend my sister’s ever brought home. so you must be special.”

ruben’s eyes flicker to you. something shifts in them—something softer, something unreadable.

your stomach does that stupid little thing it always does when he looks at you that way. you ignore it, reaching for your coat.

“alright,” you mutter. “that’s enough. time to go.”

—

the drive home is quiet at first. you sit back, watching the city melt past your window in streaks of gold and navy, feeling the night settle into your bones. your belly is full, the warmth of dinner still lingering in your chest, the echoes of laughter curling at the edges of your thoughts. it was good. better than you expected.

“they love me.”

you don’t even have to look at ruben to know he’s smirking. you sigh, but the smile creeping onto your lips is inevitable. of course he’s smug about it.

“yeah, yeah, whatever.”

he chuckles, deep and warm. “your mom damn near adopted me. your dad was three seconds away from calling me son. and zuri?” he shakes his head. “she adores me.”

you roll your eyes, shifting in your seat. “zuri likes everybody.”

“not true.” he side-eyes you, the glow from the dashboard catching the sharp line of his jaw. “she made your last situationship cry, didn’t she?”

you groan, tilting your head back against the seat. “why would you bring that up?”

“‘cause it’s funny.”

you shoot him a glare, but it’s weak at best. because, yeah, it was funny. zuri had made it her personal mission to get on that man’s last nerve whenever he came to pick you up. he'd barely lasted three weeks.

ruben reaches over then, his hand finding your thigh like it belongs there. his touch is warm, soothing. you barely even notice the way you lean into it.

“you okay?”

you blink. glance at him. “why wouldn’t i be?”

he shrugs, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your skin. “dunno. just… your mom said something earlier. about how she’s never seen you let your guard down like this before.”

you pause. turn back to the window.

oh.

he hums, like he’s giving you space to sit with it. “she sounded surprised.”

you exhale, slow and measured, fingers curling around the hem of your dress.

“yeah, well. my mom says a lot of things.”

he doesn’t respond right away. just keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting against you, the hum of the engine filling the space between you.

then, softer—

“it’s not a bad thing, you know.” you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flick to you before returning to the road, steady and certain. “letting someone take care of you for once.”

your throat tightens.

because he says it like it’s simple. like it’s a truth so obvious he doesn’t even need to think twice.

but it’s not that simple. not to you, anyway. you’ve always been a little too guarded, a little too stubborn. men have tried to get close, and you’ve let them—but only on your terms, only as much as you wanted, only as much as you could control. and then ruben came along, and somehow, you weren’t thinking about control anymore. you weren’t thinking about walls or defenses or escape routes. with him, it was just… easy.

you swallow, turn back to the window.

“i don’t need to be taken care of,” you mumble, but there’s no real bite behind it. just habit. just reflex.

“never said you did.” his voice dips lower, smooth like something honeyed, something reassuring. his thumb strokes over your thigh again, slower this time, like he knows you’re thinking too much and he’s trying to pull you back. “i’m just saying it makes me happy.”

you hesitate. “what does?”

“that you feel safe enough to let down your defenses around me.” his fingers squeeze gently against your skin, a silent reassurance. “means i’m doing something right.”

your heart stumbles.

because fuck.

he says it so easy. just ruben being ruben—sure of himself, sure of you, sure of whatever the hell this is.

and that’s what gets you the most. the steadiness. the certainty.

you don’t know what to say. so you just look at him, hoping he gets it.

he does.

he squeezes your leg one last time before pulling his hand back, turning back to the road. and the rest of the drive is quiet, but it’s a different kind of quiet now. it’s weighted, filled with something unspoken, but not in a bad way.

no, this is the good kind of quiet.

the kind that means something.

and maybe—just maybe—you’re both closer to saying those three words than either of you thought.

he wouldn’t ask questions when you layer serum after serum, tapping them into his skin like you’re handling gold. he’d even let you use that jade roller he once made fun of—side-eyeing it at first, but tilting his chin up anyway.

but the second you pull your makeup bag into your lap, his eyes would narrow instantly.

he’d pretend to resist. try to look unimpressed. eyes squinting just enough to say, you’re pushing it now. but one look from you—eyebrows raised, head tilted, that slight pout he’s never been able to say no to—and he’d sigh like a man down bad.

“fine. but don’t post nothing.”

“who, me?” you’d say innocently, already dabbing foundation on the back of your hand like you hadn’t just posted that one blurry pic of him in a sheet mask with the cucumber slices on his eyes last week. the one alphonso still brings up in the group chat. “i would never.”

and he’d roll his eyes, but he’d stay right there. quietly. a little amused, a little embarrassed, but mostly just… happy. because you’d be smiling so wide, biting back giggles as you buffed in bronzer and lined his brows, calling him your “pretty boy.”

he’d scrunch his face at the blush. mutter something about how “this better not be red,” when you reach for the lip tint. but his hand’d still be on your thigh. he’d still be standing between your legs, fully yours. and when you leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose—lips pressing gently against the glittery shimmer you just patted in—he’d smile like the absolute fool in love he is.

because yeah, maybe he’d look ridiculous with lip gloss and winged liner. but you’d be happy. and that’d make it worth it. every single time.