ꨄ Nika ꨄ

itoshi rin

rin isn't verbally affectionate very often, but he will drive 3.5 hours after an away match at 1 in the morning just because you texted, "i miss you," and when you open the door in complete disbelief, he simply shrugs, walks inside, and mutters, "you said you missed me," like crossing half the country was the most logical solution. 

he learns the mundane details of your life with almost obsessive precision – your work schedule, the routes you take home, which convenience store stays open late near your apartment – not because he's controlling, no, no, but because if anything ever goes wrong, he wants to already know exactly where to find you without wasting a second asking questions. 

if he notices you've been quietly overwhelmed lately, you'll suddenly find groceries already stocked in your kitchen, your laundry mysteriously folded, dinner waiting in your fridge with reheating instructions scribbled in his terrible handwriting, and when you ask if he did all this, he looks almost annoyed that you even felt the need to thank him. 

during the season, when free time practically doesn't exist, he still protects one day every month that belongs only to you, and no amount of sponsorship offers, interviews, or appearances are allowed to touch it because, in his mind, if the rest of the world can book him in advance, then the person he loves deserves the exact same priority. 

he pays attention to your safety in the quietest ways imaginable, always texting when he lands, making sure you get home before he finally goes to sleep despite the time difference, replacing worn-out locks or tires before they become problems, and treating your peace of mind like it's simply another responsibility he's chosen to carry. 

itoshi sae

sae is the busiest person you know, somehow living between countries, time zones, and nonstop competitions, yet he's mastered the art of making you feel like none of that matters because every trip is planned around seeing you whenever physically possible, even if it means booking inconvenient flights, shortening his own breaks, or sleeping in airports just to squeeze another evening together. 

he remembers dates that even you forget – your job interview from eight months ago, your grandmother's birthday, the anniversary of your first date, the day your favorite author releases a new book – and without fail, flowers, gifts, or handwritten notes arrive exactly when they're supposed to because he refuses to let distance become an excuse for carelessness. 

instead of expecting you to constantly fly out to his matches, he's the one quietly arranging transportation, hotels, tickets, and entire itineraries whenever he wants you there because if he invites you into his hectic world, he believes it's his responsibility to make sure you never have to stress over the logistics. 

he protects your privacy with almost ruthless efficiency. i’m talking interviews end immediately if reporters become disrespectful toward you, invasive photos disappear through legal teams before they can spread, and your comfort is consistently prioritized over public approval because fame is something he chose, not something he expects you to endure without support. 

no matter how glamorous his life looks from the outside, he never lets you feel like you're standing behind his career. instead, every achievement somehow becomes yours, too, because he'll always be the first person saying, "i couldn't have done this without you," even when nobody else realizes how much you sacrificed alongside him. 

nagi seishiro

nagi, the human embodiment of "that's too much work," surprisingly becomes the kind of boyfriend who willingly wakes up before sunrise just to drive you to the airport because you have an early flight, spends the entire ride with messy hair and pajamas under his hoodie, and then waits until your plane actually takes off before finally heading home because leaving earlier "felt wrong." 

despite hating phone calls with literally everyone else, he notices that hearing his voice helps you relax after stressful days, so suddenly your evenings are filled with him absentmindedly rambling while playing games, letting you sit comfortably in silence if that's all you have energy for, never making you feel like you have to entertain him. 

he quietly starts learning the things you enjoy, and yes, they're suddenly his hobbies, too, but seeing your face light up is enough motivation for someone who usually avoids effort altogether, so he'll finish an entire book series you recommended, sit through your favorite movies, or spend hours visiting museums with you without complaining once. 

if your love language is quality time, he protects it fiercely, turning down gaming sessions, sponsor parties, and even opportunities to relax by himself because he'd rather spend an ordinary evening lying on the couch with his head in your lap than attend another glamorous event where he has to pretend to socialize. 

whenever he's away for long tournaments, he records little videos instead of just sending texts – showing you hotel views, weird snacks from vending machines, random cats he spotted outside training facilities, or himself sleepily saying goodnight – because he knows hearing from him makes the distance feel smaller and that's worth every ounce of effort. 

mikage reo

reo has every luxury available to him, but instead of using his wealth to replace genuine effort, he uses it to remove burdens from your life, quietly arranging things like surprise housekeeping before your busiest work week, sending your car in for maintenance while you're occupied, or hiring movers when you casually mention wanting to rearrange your apartment because he wants your energy spent on living, not constantly solving problems. 

even during the most demanding stretches of the season, he somehow manages to attend your important moments – graduations, presentations, family gatherings, birthdays – sometimes arriving directly from airports in designer clothes with barely any sleep, because to him, if you're always cheering him on from the stands, then missing your milestones would never be acceptable. 

he learns your family as thoroughly as he learns yours, remembering everyone's birthdays, checking in on your parents after surgeries, sending thoughtful gifts to your siblings for achievements, and making the people you love feel just as cared for because if they're important to you, they're automatically important to him. 

whenever his schedule keeps him overseas for extended periods, he plans entire countdowns rather than simply saying, "i'll see you soon," sending flowers halfway through the trip, ordering your favorite dinner on particularly difficult days, organizing virtual movie nights despite impossible time zones, and making the waiting itself feel like something you're experiencing together rather than separately. 

perhaps the thing that raises your standards most is that he never makes love feel conditional on convenience. no matter how successful he becomes, how packed his calendar gets, or how many people compete for his attention, you never have to beg for consistency because he decided a long time ago that if he was going to love someone, they would never have to question whether they were a priority. 

bachira meguru

bachira is the type to treat distance like it's a minor inconvenience rather than an actual obstacle, so if he has two free days between league matches, he's already on the earliest train or flight to see you, grinning from ear to ear the second you open the door because to him, 24 hours together is infinitely better than waiting another month for the "perfect" opportunity. 

he notices when you've been emotionally exhausted long before you admit it, and instead of asking you to explain everything, he'll whisk you away somewhere quiet without telling you the destination, showing up with your favorite snacks, a weighted blanket, and absolutely no expectations besides spending the day making you laugh until you forget the weight you've been carrying. 

every city he visits somehow becomes a scavenger hunt for things you'd love, whether that's handmade jewelry from a tiny local market, a sketchbook because yours is running low, or flowers pressed inside a random book he found while wandering around, and every gift comes with an animated story about how he found it because the memory matters just as much as the object itself. 

he celebrates your achievements with the same excitement he celebrates his own goals, posting about your accomplishments with absolutely zero embarrassment, telling teammates about you every chance he gets, and making you feel like the coolest person in every room because your happiness genuinely feels like one of his greatest victories. 

even after exhausting 90-minute matches where he's barely able to keep his eyes open, he'll still stay awake long enough to ask about your day in full detail, listening so attentively that you almost forget he's running on pure adrenaline and exhaustion, because loving you has never been something he squeezes into the leftover parts of his schedule. 

shidou ryusei

shidou doesn't understand the concept of "too far" when it comes to you, so if he suddenly has one unexpected day off, he'll impulsively buy a ticket across the country just to surprise you with breakfast, acting like spending hundreds of thousands on last-minute travel is completely reasonable because, in his eyes, seeing you smile is worth every single yen. 

he becomes ridiculously protective of your happiness, and if he hears you've had a terrible day, he's already outside your place with takeout from three different restaurants because he couldn't decide what you'd want, insisting the entire evening belongs to you while refusing to let you lift a single finger. 

no matter how chaotic or unpredictable his own life becomes, you never have to chase him for communication because he refuses to let you wonder where you stand, sending voice messages from locker rooms, airports, hotel elevators, and team buses just to remind you that you're constantly on his mind despite everything happening around him. 

he's incredibly attentive in ways people don't expect from him, memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once, replacing your favorite top because he noticed the sleeves were fraying, or carrying pain medication, hair ties, and portable chargers in his bag simply because you once needed one months ago and he refused to ever be unprepared again. 

when you're together, he treats the outside world like background noise, happily ignoring teammates blowing up his phone, sponsorship emails, and interviews running late because if he promised you the day, then that's exactly what you're getting, undivided attention and all. 

karasu tabito

karasu notices problems before you even realize they're becoming problems yourself, quietly fixing things behind the scenes – booking appointments you've been putting off, researching solutions when you're stressed, reminding you about important deadlines. he doesn’t think you're incapable, but he believes partners should make each other's lives easier whenever possible. 

after away matches, he'll drive several hours instead of flying if it means he gets to spend the ride talking to you on speakerphone the entire time, happily arriving home at three in the morning completely exhausted because hearing your voice made the trip feel shorter than any flight ever could. 

he learns the people closest to you surprisingly well, becoming the boyfriend your friends and family trust because he's always checking whether everyone got home safely after gatherings, remembering important details about their lives, and making an effort with the people who matter to you without ever being asked. 

he never leaves emotional labor entirely on your shoulders. difficult conversations happen the moment something feels off instead of weeks later, apologies come with changed behavior instead of empty promises, and he consistently proves that maturity isn't about never making mistakes – it's about refusing to repeat them. 

despite being one of the busiest athletes in the country, he still somehow becomes your biggest supporter outside of soccer, showing up to events that have absolutely nothing to do with him, sitting through hours of something he knows nothing about with genuine interest simply because seeing you passionate about your own world makes him proud. 

kaiser michael

kaiser has access to private jets, luxury hotels, and practically every convenience money can buy, but the thing that surprises you most is how often he chooses the inconvenient option if it means spending more time with you, willingly sitting through six-hour drives together because you once mentioned road trips felt more romantic than flying. 

every luxury he offers is thoughtfully personalized instead of excessive, so rather than showering you with random expensive gifts, he remembers the exact necklace you paused to admire months ago, replaces your worn-out laptop because he noticed it struggling, or quietly upgrades your plane ticket after you've had an exhausting week because he wants your life to feel gentler whenever he can help it. 

he has an almost frightening memory for the smallest details about you, recalling conversations from over a year ago with complete accuracy, so when you casually mention wanting to visit a tiny coastal town someday, you later discover he's somehow organized an entire vacation around that single passing comment without ever bringing it up again. 

despite his reputation and enormous ego on the field, he makes sure you never feel like you're competing with his image, introducing you proudly instead of keeping you hidden, shutting down disrespect from reporters without hesitation, and making it abundantly clear that the opinions of strangers have absolutely no influence over the respect he gives the person he loves. 

perhaps the biggest surprise is that he never expects you to revolve your life around his career; instead, he's the one rearranging training breaks, flying overnight after champions league fixtures, or sacrificing his own comfort to attend your milestones because loving you means fitting himself into your world just as much as inviting you into his. 

ness alexis

ness is unbelievably intentional, so every time he travels abroad, he keeps a running list on his phone titled "things she’d love," adding to it throughout the trip until he returns home carrying books in your favorite genre, pastries from tiny bakeries he waited in line for, perfume samples he thought matched your vibe, and little handwritten notes explaining why each item reminded him of you. 

he pays attention to your routines with incredible care, automatically learning what time you usually wake up, when work becomes stressful, the days you tend to forget to eat lunch, and gently building little habits around those moments so you always feel quietly looked after instead of having to ask for help. 

because he knows professional soccer often forces him away for weeks at a time, he prepares for your loneliness before it even happens, leaving handwritten letters around your apartment for different occasions – "open when you've had a bad day," "open when you miss me," "open if you can't sleep" – making the distance feel a little less empty every single time. 

he never allows his career to become an excuse for inconsistency, so no matter how late training ends or how chaotic travel gets, he always finds time for a proper conversation instead of sending one-word replies, believing that if you can dedicate your patience to supporting his dreams, then he can dedicate 30 uninterrupted minutes to hearing about yours. 

he loves you loudly in private, but gently in public, instinctively stepping between you and invasive cameras, making sure you're comfortable at crowded events, fixing your coat when it's slipping off your shoulders, memorizing the little things that make your day easier, and constantly proving that real devotion isn't measured through grand declarations, but through hundreds of tiny acts of care repeated every single day. 

chigiri hyoma

chigiri understands better than most how precious time is, so even with a schedule packed full of league matches, recovery sessions, and endless travel, he still finds ways to make you feel woven into his everyday life, calling you while he's stretching after training, sending photos of sunsets from whatever country he's in, and never letting more than a few hours pass without reminding you that he's thinking about you because he refuses to let distance slowly turn into unfamiliarity. 

no matter how exhausted he is after a match, if your flight lands late at night or your train arrives after midnight, he's already waiting outside with your favorite drink and one of his jackets because the thought of you coming home alone when he could be there simply never crosses his mind as an acceptable option. 

he pays attention to the little ways you take care of everyone else and quietly returns that same energy tenfold, replacing your skincare products before they run out, restocking your favorite tea because he noticed the box was almost empty, and buying fresh flowers for your apartment simply because he knows they make you smile after long days. 

he never expects you to constantly adapt around his career, instead making sure you always have a say in your relationship despite how demanding professional football can be, planning vacations around your availability rather than his convenience and making it abundantly clear that your own goals deserve just as much consideration as his. 

when the media inevitably becomes invasive, he protects your peace with unwavering calm, refusing interviews that cross personal boundaries, keeping your relationship sacred instead of performative, and making sure that behind closed doors you're never dating an international superstar – you're simply loved by hyoma. 

barou shoei

barou treats taking care of you as naturally as breathing, so before leaving for lengthy away fixtures he'll meal prep enough food to last the week, leave detailed reheating instructions on the fridge, restock every household necessity without mentioning it, and somehow make your apartment cleaner than when he arrived because, to him, love should make someone's life noticeably easier. 

he'll drive ridiculous distances after matches just to spend a single evening with you, arriving well past midnight still smelling faintly of fresh grass and stadium lights, refusing to stay at a hotel because sleeping beside you – even for a few hours before driving back for training – is infinitely more valuable than getting perfect rest. 

he notices practical problems immediately and fixes them before they inconvenience you, replacing broken furniture, changing light bulbs, repairing things around your apartment, carrying heavy groceries without a word, and making it impossible for you to remember the last time you had to struggle with something alone because he's already halfway through solving it. 

despite his intimidating personality, your family quickly realizes he's unbelievably dependable, always the first person volunteering to help your parents move furniture, showing up early to family gatherings carrying enough food for everyone, or quietly checking whether your younger siblings made it home safely after nights out without ever asking for recognition. 

he has impossibly high standards for himself as your partner, so if he ever disappoints you, he doesn't hide behind excuses or pride – he changes his behavior immediately, believing actions are worth infinitely more than apologies, and making sure the same mistake never happens twice because he refuses to become another man who only promises improvement. 

yukimiya kenyu

yukimiya makes an active effort to learn every version of you, paying attention to how you act when you're happy, anxious, overwhelmed, exhausted, or excited until he knows exactly what kind of comfort you need without forcing you to explain yourself every single time, making you feel understood in ways you didn't realize were possible. 

even during the busiest fashion campaigns and football seasons, he still plans intentional date nights weeks in advance because he refuses to let your relationship become something that only exists between obligations, proving over and over again that romance isn't reserved for special occasions – it deserves to exist in ordinary life, too. 

he somehow remembers every compliment you've ever given him and quietly returns them through actions, so if you once admired how peaceful a certain café looked online, he surprises you with reservations there months later, or if you mentioned wanting to watch a meteor shower together someday, he's already found the perfect location long before the date arrives. 

when you're feeling insecure, he never dismisses your emotions with empty reassurances. instead, he patiently reminds you through consistent affection, thoughtful words, lingering glances, and countless little gestures exactly why he chose you, making your confidence something he nurtures instead of something you have to rebuild alone. 

regardless of how many fans recognize him in public, he never lets you feel invisible standing beside him, instinctively including you in conversations, reaching for your hand without hesitation, introducing you proudly to teammates and colleagues, and making it obvious that the person whose opinion matters most has always been yours. 

iglesias bunny

bunny somehow makes a globe-trotting football career feel astonishingly intimate, sending you postcards from every country he visits even though texting would be faster because he knows you'll tuck the postcards into books, display them on your desk, and reread his messy handwriting whenever you miss him, turning ordinary pieces of paper into tiny reminders that you were never forgotten. 

whenever he finally gets a stretch of time off, he doesn't immediately book luxurious vacations or extravagant getaways – instead, he asks what you've been putting off because you've been too busy, then spends his entire break helping you accomplish those things together, whether that's redecorating your apartment, visiting family, finishing personal projects, or simply sleeping in without alarms for the first time in months. 

he's endlessly curious about your passions, showing up to events he knows absolutely nothing about, asking thoughtful questions, remembering the names of people important to your hobbies or career, and making you feel like everything you love automatically becomes worthy of his attention simply because it's part of your world. 

even with sponsors constantly pulling him in different directions, he fiercely protects your private traditions, making sure birthdays are always celebrated together, anniversaries are never outsourced to expensive gifts, and little rituals – like sunday breakfasts or late-night supermarket walks whenever he's home – remain untouchable no matter how famous he becomes. 

he constantly reminds you through both words and actions that you're a partner rather than an accessory to his career, checking in before making major decisions, asking how certain opportunities would affect your shared future, and making sure every dream he chases leaves room for yours alongside it. 

hugo vivian

hugo has an incredibly demanding career with endless travel, media appearances, and championship pressure, yet he somehow makes consistency look effortless by ensuring that no matter where he is in the world, you never have to question whether you'll hear from him that day because loving you isn't something squeezed between appointments – it's built directly into his routine. 

if you've had an important event he couldn't attend because of a match, he doesn't simply apologize and move on – he recreates the celebration himself as soon as he's home, dressing up, taking you out, bringing flowers, taking photos together, and insisting your accomplishments deserve to be celebrated properly even if he has to do it a week later. 

he quietly studies the little inconveniences in your everyday life and starts eliminating them one by one, arranging transportation when your commute becomes stressful, replacing things before they wear out completely, researching solutions whenever you casually complain about something once, and making your life noticeably lighter without expecting praise for it. 

he's incredibly emotionally available despite the pressure surrounding his career, never making you feel guilty for needing reassurance or wanting more time together, willingly having difficult conversations even after exhausting matches because he'd rather lose sleep than allow misunderstandings to grow into distance. 

perhaps the biggest thing that raises your standards is that he never makes you feel like you're waiting around for him to finally have time to love you – even as one of the world's biggest football stars, he consistently proves that the right person doesn't merely fit you into their schedule – they build their schedule around making sure you always feel chosen. 

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‎ ‎ ‎ ✶ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (can be read in any order) ‎ ‎ ‎ ( the ones marked with ✶ are written parts )

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ┊ our new intern wears chanel to work

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ┊ boss if you make her cry one more time our stock plummets ✶

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ┊ team building is why our company’s in shambles

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ┊ do ghosts work overtime?

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ┊ the security files (they almost got fired)

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‎ ‎ ‎ ✶ ݁ TAGLIST

the ones that filled up this form will automatically be tagged! you can also comment or send me an ask :)

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Hugo had never felt betrayal quite like this.

Not when Charles lied. Not when Loki made him run extra laps. Not even when the bakery near his apartment discontinued his favourite éclair for three consecutive weeks.

This—this was something far more precise. Far more personal.

Birthdays, contrary to popular belief, were not something Vivian Hugo cared about. At least, that was what he told himself every year when the date of June sixth rolled around.

He was not a child.

He did not require external validation wrapped in ribbons or sugar or synthetic cheer. He did not need balloons bobbing uselessly against ceilings, or party hats slipping down people’s foreheads like failed attempts at joy.

And certainly not the attention of a certain someone whose opinion he valued far more than he would ever openly admit.

The attention of a certain someone whose presence had, against all rational explanation, begun to occupy far more mental space than any opponent analysis ever had.

No.

Vivian Hugo was a rational man.

An athlete.

A member of the New Generation Eleven.

A person of logic.

As such, he understood that birthdays were ultimately arbitrary.

The Earth completing another revolution around the sun was hardly a remarkable achievement on his part.

And yet… Despite his supposed indifference, his gaze had already flickered towards his phone six times within the span of ten minutes.

Not because he was expecting anything.

Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

His attention simply wandered there naturally. That was all.

“Good morning, Vivian!” His head lifted at the familiar sound of your voice.

Casual. Bright. Effortlessly present in a way that always seemed to disrupt the internal order he maintained so carefully around other people.

You didn’t look different from usual, which should have been reassuring. Instead, it made something in him tighten, because it meant there was no visible deviation from normal routine that could explain anything unusual.

Perfect.

You were perfect at appearing normal.

“Good morning,” he replied.

You noticed nothing. Or pretended not to. That was the problem with you. You made things feel normal even when they weren’t.

"Oh my God."

Finally.

Relief and vindication arrived almost simultaneously, tangled together in a way that made it difficult to separate one from the other. Of course you hadn’t forgotten. That would have been inconsistent with everything he knew about you. There had to be another explanation. A delay. A setup. A necessary misdirection before—

Yes.

This made sense.

His posture relaxed by a fraction.

“Did you know it’s National Donut Day?!”

The pause that followed was not theatrical.

It was simply the exact amount of time required for something inside him to stop functioning in the way it had been functioning a second earlier.

“I didn't.”

Your smile widened, pleased.

“Isn’t that exciting?”

“Thrilling,” he said flatly.

You nodded like that was a shared emotional conclusion.

Then you walked away.

No hesitation in your steps. No backward glance. No shift in tone suggesting unfinished intention. The conversation ended with the same finality as a door closing without warning.

Hugo remained where he was.

Still.

Perfectly composed on the outside, as always. Shoulders aligned. Expression neutral. Eyes forward.

But internally, something stared back at the situation in complete, silent disbelief.

Vivian stared after your retreating figure with the hollow expression of a man who had just witnessed the collapse of civilization.

Surely that was not it. Surely. Perhaps you were building anticipation.

Yes. That made sense.

Delayed gratification was a well-documented psychological phenomenon.

You were simply waiting for the perfect moment.

A surprise. There would be a surprise. There had to be.

Otherwise he’d spent twenty minutes carefully styling his hair this morning for absolutely nothing.

…

Not that he’d styled it because it was his birthday.

Obviously, that would've been pathetic.

The universe, it seemed, was not entirely devoid of mercy.

Not five minutes after abandoning him to wallow in the aftermath of his devastation, you returned.

A pristine white bakery box rested securely within your hands, the cardboard edges pressed lightly against your palms as you navigated through the training facility with the careful concentration of somebody transporting something fragile. The sight alone was enough to jolt Hugo from his increasingly gloomy thoughts.

His gaze immediately locked onto it.

A white box. A bakery box. A suspiciously cake-sized bakery box.

Slowly, almost cautiously, the storm cloud hanging over his head began to dissipate.

Of course. How foolish of him.

He should've known better than to doubt you.

He did know, technically. Somewhere beneath the irritation and the restraint and the carefully maintained neutrality, he had always known you were not careless. Not with details. Not with people.

In fact, if memory served him correctly, you'd once remembered the birthday of a coworker's dog and insisted on buying the animal a tiny party hat.

The likelihood of you forgetting his birthday entirely was statistically insignificant.

"You came back," the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

"Hm?" Your attention lifted from the box to meet his gaze. "Oh. Yeah."

As if nothing about this moment required emphasis.

As if you were simply returning from a routine task rather than approaching the scene of emotional instability you had accidentally left behind earlier.

You placed the box down on the table between you both with careful precision.

The sound of cardboard meeting surface was deceptively soft, but Hugo heard it too loudly.

"The greatest thing known to mankind is inside this box," you announced, far too confidently for someone holding what was clearly about to determine the emotional trajectory of his entire day.

Hope, against all reason, began to resurface.

He hated that about himself.

A cake. It had to be.

What else could possibly warrant such a dramatic introduction?

The cardboard shifted. The lid lifted.

And suddenly, before his very eyes, every remaining shred of hope inside his body was brutally strangled to death.

Inside sat donuts.

Perfect circles. Glossy icing. Powdered sugar dusting like a deliberate mockery of expectation.

Chocolate. Strawberry. Glazed. Sprinkled. Filled.

An entire collection of cheerful pastries sitting there with the confidence of something that had never once considered emotional timing.

An entire army of circular pastries stared back at him with what felt like malicious intent.

For a long moment, Hugo simply looked at them.

Then he looked at you.

Then back at the donuts.

Then back at you.

His expression remained perfectly neutral throughout the entire process.

A remarkable feat, truly.

“What?” you asked, blinking at him with genuine confusion, entirely unbothered by the collapse of expectation occurring in front of you. “It’s National Donut Day.”

The words pierced straight through his heart.

They did not register as explanation.

They registered as replacement.

As substitution.

As something that had stepped into a space it had not been invited to occupy.

National Donut Day.

Of course it was. How could he forget?

The holiday that had apparently usurped his birthday and stolen every ounce of attention that rightfully belonged to him. A concept that apparently carried more immediate relevance than anything else occurring within the same temporal frame.

"Uh huh."

"You don't sound excited."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"You look like somebody just told you your family died."

Hugo briefly considered telling you that something very dear to him had, in fact, perished today. Namely his expectations.

Instead, he settled for a long exhale.

"I assure you," he replied with the patience of a saint enduring divine punishment, "I'm overwhelmed."

You seemed pleased by that answer. Unfortunately.

"Oh! Did you know donuts probably originated from Dutch olykoeks?"

His eye twitched.

"No."

"Apparently, they're one of the earliest forms of fried dough."

"I see."

"And donut sales increase by around forty percent during National Donut Day promotions!"

You sounded genuinely delighted by this information. Positively radiant, even. The enthusiasm in your voice was almost painful to witness.

"Interesting."

"I know!"

You plucked a chocolate-glazed donut from the box and held it up as though presenting a priceless historical artifact.

"People really love donuts."

People really loved birthdays too.

Or at least they were supposed to.

Hugo stared blankly at the pastry in your hand.

A strange sense of betrayal settled over him.

Not because of the donut itself. The donut had done nothing wrong.

It was merely existing. A victim of circumstance, much like himself.

Still.

He couldn't help but feel that the two of them were now rivals.

"You want one?" His gaze dropped to the donut you were offering. Then lifted to your face. Then dropped back to the donut.

Objectively speaking, he did not want it.

Emotionally speaking, accepting a National Donut Day donut on his birthday felt dangerously close to admitting defeat.

Unfortunately, there existed a third factor. You.

And Vivian Hugo, despite all evidence suggesting otherwise, was ultimately a very simple man when it came to you.

"...Sure."

Your smile immediately brightened.

His stomach betrayed itself with an embarrassing flutter. And just like that, all resentment towards the donut vanished.

Because the donut had come from you. Which, annoyingly enough, made it precious.

It was not long before Charles appeared.

Of course it wasn’t. Hugo should have anticipated this.

Charles, like a persistent narrative curse, had a habit of appearing precisely when suffering reached its most delicate stage of balance—just stable enough to be survivable, but fragile enough to collapse under the slightest touch. At the exact moment reality lost respect for him.

Hugo had just begun to regain something resembling composure.

He was seated now, donut untouched in front of him, fingers loosely folded as though he were a man capable of emotional restraint. Around him, the noise of training continued in the distance, the familiar rhythm of shoes against flooring and shouted instructions offering a kind of false normalcy.

He could almost forget. Almost.

Then Charles leaned into view. “Hugo!” Charles called brightly, far too brightly for someone who had never respected peace in his life.

“Happy—”

He stopped. Deliberately.

Hugo’s head lifted slowly, suspiciously.

Because Hugo, unfortunately, was not immune to anticipation. He had been trained—whether by fate, delusion, or repeated psychological injury—to recognize when something important was about to happen.

The pause stretched.

One second. Two. Three.

The silence sharpened.

Hugo felt it. A shift in probability. A branching of timelines.

In one universe, Charles finished the sentence correctly.

In another, Charles ruined his entire day.

“…National Donut Day!”

For a brief moment, everything stopped.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

Even the background noise of the training room seemed to hesitate, as though reality itself needed a second to confirm what had just been spoken.

Hugo blinked once.

His expression did not change, but something behind his eyes quietly disintegrated. “What.”

Charles tilted his head, completely unfazed by the collapse of the human spirit he had just triggered. “National Donut Day.”

Hugo stared at him. Unmoving. Unblinking.

A man witnessing the final erosion of meaning.

“What,” he repeated, softer now. “The fuck.”

Charles laughed, utterly unconcerned with the emotional damage inflicted. “Relax, it’s just donuts. Look—everyone’s talking about it.” As if summoned by narrative cruelty itself, the rest of the team seemed to take that as permission.

“Hugo!” someone called from across the room. “Happy National Donut Day!”

“Dude, did you get yours yet?” another voice added, far too cheerful to be morally legal.

“They’re on sale today, forty percent off!”

“You like donuts, right?” someone else chimed in. “We saved you one!”

A box was waved in his direction. Another appeared on the table beside him. Then another.

It was as if the concept of donuts had multiplied overnight, infecting every surface, every conversation, every possible route of escape.

“I see,” he said at last.

Nobody heard the warning in it. Nobody ever did.

Because Charles, far too pleased with himself, only clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s your favorite day, man!”

Hugo turned his head slightly, just enough for the room to feel it. “My favorite,” he repeated.

“Yes!”

A heavy, uncomfortable silence stretched again. Then Hugo exhaled through his nose.

And somewhere deep within him, something stopped resisting.

Defeat, in its most elegant form, is quiet.

Hugo had always considered himself a patient man.

Not in the emotional sense, of course—he was not some sentimental fool waiting idly for fate to deliver him happiness—but in the practical sense. He understood timing. Probability. Human behaviour patterns. The slow unfolding of cause and effect.

Which was why, at first, he did not panic.

Because surely, there was a system to this. There had to be.

People did not simply forget things like this. Not important things. Not statistically significant dates. Not events that, under normal social conditions, would be acknowledged within the first few hours of the day.

So when the morning passed without incident, Hugo simply observed.

When the afternoon arrived with no change, he adjusted his hypothesis.

And when you walked past him without so much as a suspicious glance, he began to reconsider his entire understanding of human reliability.

Still, he refused to act prematurely.

That would be irrational.

Instead, he approached you with the careful precision of a man testing an equation.

“So,” he began, voice even, controlled, as though this question had no emotional relevance whatsoever, “did anything important happen today?”

You looked up at him.

“Hm?”

A pause. Not a meaningful pause.

Just enough silence for his expectations to rise slightly.

“No, I don’t think so,” you said finally.

“…Right.”

Hugo nodded once. And then left.

It was not until later—after practice drills, after the team had begun to devolve into their usual chaos—that he tried again.

This time, more carefully. More specifically.

He approached you once more, adjusting his tone into something that could not, under any circumstances, be interpreted as desperate.

“Any significant anniversaries, perhaps?”

You blinked.

“Anniversaries?”

“Yes.”

You thought about it for a moment.

“Hm… not really?”

“…I see.”

Again, the nod.

Again, the retreat.

And again, the quiet internal adjustment of variables that no longer seemed to produce a desirable outcome.

The third attempt came later still.

By now, something in the air had changed. Enough that Hugo had begun to walk with the restrained energy of someone forcing composure through sheer willpower.

He stopped you mid-conversation.

“Any notable events occurring on this date?”

You stared at him.

Charles, who had been listening nearby, leaned in slightly.

“Dude, why do you sound like a calendar notification?”

Hugo ignored him. He could not afford distractions. Not now.

You shrugged, “I don’t think so?”

“…Interesting.”

He turned away again.

But this time, he did not leave immediately. He stood there for a second longer than necessary, as though waiting for reality itself to correct course.

It did not.

By the time he reached his final attempt, Hugo was no longer behaving like a man participating in casual conversation.

He was behaving like a man conducting an intervention with fate.

He approached all three of you at once—yourself, Charles, and Loki—as though consolidating witnesses would somehow increase statistical clarity.

“So,” he began. His gaze shifted between you all.

“How old do you think I am?”

Silence.

Charles looked him up and down. Loki glanced briefly from his tablet. You tilted your head.

“Hm… you do look older today,” you said thoughtfully.

That landed.

Immediately.

Hugo’s posture stiffened.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Charles added, far too quickly. “Like… mid-twenties energy.”

“…Interesting.”

Hugo absorbed this information with extreme seriousness.

As though it were data. As though it mattered.

“How old do you think I am?” he repeated, carefully.

“Uh…” Charles hesitated. “I don't know, Twenty?”

“I was going to say thirty-five,” Loki added without looking up.

Hugo stared at them.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Interesting.”

There was a shift in him then. Something subtle. Something final. The kind of stillness that arrives right before a system shuts down.

He looked at all three of you once more. And for the first time that day, he did not attempt subtlety.

“It’s my birthday.”

The sentence landed cleanly. No ambiguity. No testing. No rationalization.

Just truth.

A beat of silence followed. Then Charles blinked.

“Oh.”

Loki looked up.

You nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

Another pause. Hugo waited. Expecting impact. Reaction. Realization.

Something. Anything.

Instead, Charles tilted his head.

“Yeah, but it’s also National Donut Day.”

The silence that followed was not peaceful. It was catastrophic.

Hugo stared at him.

“…What.”

Charles shrugged.

“I mean, donuts are kind of the main event today.”

Hugo remained still for a long moment, perfectly still.

Then, in the same tone one might use to accept a deeply disappointing diagnosis, he exhaled once.

“…Right.”

And somewhere in the distance, a box of donuts was opened again.

Practice ended earlier than expected. A convenient conclusion to a session that had drifted just slightly ahead of its intended structure, the kind of minor temporal deviation that no one questioned because no one had any reason to.

In professional environments like this one, time rarely announced itself—it simply loosened its grip and allowed things to conclude when they were ready to, rather than when they were told.

The team began to disperse almost immediately after.

Equipment was packed away. Conversations broke into smaller clusters. Laughter echoed down corridors and faded into the distance in uneven waves, like something slowly being switched off.

Hugo remained behind for a moment longer than the others.

Not because he was waiting, or because he expected anything. Simply because there was still something unfinished about his presence in the space, as though leaving too quickly would acknowledge a shift he was not prepared to define.

So he lingered. Quietly. Composed. Sitting with the faint residue of exhaustion that comes after effort has already ended.

“Hey.”

Your voice cut through the quiet.

He looked up.

“Yes?”

You were standing near the exit, already dressed to leave, posture casual in a way that suggested nothing important was about to happen.

“Can you stay back a bit after everyone leaves?”

Hugo blinked once.

“…Why?”

You shrugged slightly.

“I just need help with something. It won’t take long.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward the door where the rest of the team had already disappeared. Charles was gone. Loki too. The building was emptying fast, the kind of empty that made the silence feel more complete than it should have.

“…Alright,” he said.

You smiled.

“Perfect. Thanks, Vivian.”

What Hugo did not know—what he had no reason to know, and therefore no mechanism to suspect—was that the day had not ended when the team left.

They went somewhere else entirely.

His apartment.

It started with it being your idea, of course, because it usually was. Then Charles followed. Then Loki, because he had been informed rather than asked. Then the rest of the team, dragged along through a combination of curiosity, obligation, and whatever strange loyalty had formed between them.

They moved quickly.

Efficiently.

Hastily, even.

Banners were unfolded and pinned slightly crooked against walls. Streamers were taped across corners with varying levels of success. Someone inflated balloons too aggressively, and someone else immediately told them to stop because it “sounded like war.”

A cake was placed carefully on the counter.

Donuts were added beside it, because Charles had insisted it was “symbolically important.”

There was a strange focus to it all. Not because they were particularly good at decorating.

But because they were trying to finish before he came back.

And so when everything was finally done, they hid.

Behind furniture.

Behind doors.

Behind anything that could obscure the fact that a group of professional athletes had just turned a quiet apartment into something resembling a chaotic celebration of questionable taste.

And then they waited.

Hugo arrived home later than expected.

The hallway outside his apartment was quiet in the way it always was at this hour—thin, hollow, stretched out by absence rather than darkness.

Fatigue sat heavily in his shoulders, not the sharp fatigue of exertion, but the dull kind that accumulates through repetition, through routine, through days that follow their own logic without consulting him.

He unlocked the door without thinking too much about it. His bag hung loosely from his hand as he stepped inside.

Click.

The door closed behind him. And the silence that followed was immediate.

“…Right.”

Normal. Of course it was normal.

He didn’t move immediately.

Just stood there, letting the stillness settle properly, as though it needed time to establish itself. No sound came from inside. No indication of disturbance. No deviation from expectation.

It was, logically speaking, exactly as it should have been.

He should have turned on the light. That would have been the correct action.

His hand lifted slightly. Then stopped.

A thought arrived—quiet, uninvited, and entirely irrational.

He hesitated, lowered his hand again.

The darkness felt… appropriate, somehow. As though the day itself had extended into the room and decided not to include illumination.

As though he were undeserving of light in his life for how pathetic he was.

Ridiculous. He exhaled slowly. There was nothing unusual here. Nothing at all.

He did not move forward.

He remained in the dark, still holding his bag, as if standing there long enough might eventually make the emptiness feel less deliberate.

It did not.

Minutes passed. Or maybe less.

Time was difficult to measure when nothing changed.

His grip on the bag tightened slightly.

“…I see,” he murmured to himself, like a conclusion reached.

No variables remaining to test.

His throat tightened in a way he immediately ignored.

Of course nothing was waiting. Why would there be? He was being irrational.

He lowered his head slightly. And stayed still long enough that it became something else entirely.

Not waiting anymore. Just enduring.

It was fine.

truly.

Birthdays were arbitrary. A meaningless social construct.

Logically speaking, there was no reason for him to be upset.

...

He was going to cry.

His breathing remained controlled, but slower now, as though the room itself had begun regulating him instead of the other way around.

Then followed a crack. It wasn't loud, not physical. Just internal. Something small giving way under accumulated pressure.

A tear slipped out before he could intercept it.

Then another.

He turned his face slightly away, as though that could make it less real.

Less visible. Less humiliating.

“…Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.

Because that was what it was. There was no logic to this reaction. No justification.

His hand moved slightly, brushing against the wall without intention. As if anchoring himself to something external might stabilize what was happening internally.

And without warning, the light switch clicked. The apartment exploded into brightness.

“—HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!”

The sound hit him all at once.

From everywhere.

From nowhere.

From behind the couch, the kitchen counter, the hallway, the edges of rooms that had been empty seconds ago.

You appeared first, then came Charles, far too pleased with himself. Loki stood slightly behind him, expression composed in a way that suggested mild regret for participating but not enough to stop. The rest of the team filled the space in uneven clusters of grins, laughter, and badly concealed excitement.

Banners. Lights. Balloons. Cake.

All of it.

Hugo did not move. He couldn’t. His body had frozen somewhere between shock and something far more dangerous.

His face was still wet.

He hadn’t wiped it.

He hadn’t had time.

And everyone was looking at him.

At all of him.

At the tears he had not managed to hide.

At the moment he had not been prepared to be seen in.

A 6'2 athlete stood in the middle of his apartment.

Crying.

Surrounded by his entire team.

Because they had 'forgotten his birthday.' And they had no idea he had already decided they had.

Not a single person spoke for a full second.

Not until Charles, very quietly, said:

“…Oh.”

And Hugo, still not wiping his face, still caught in the light he had just turned on, just stood there—completely visible, completely exposed, and entirely unable to pretend anymore.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The apartment felt too bright in a way that didn’t belong to light alone. It wasn’t just illumination—it was exposure. Everything that had been carefully hidden, carefully timed, carefully held in place suddenly existed all at once, with no soft edges left to blur it back into normality.

Hugo stood in the centre of it all like a man who had walked into the wrong timeline.

Still.

Frozen.

Face damp.

Completely unprepared for the fact that reality had decided to acknowledge him so loudly.

The kind of detail that cannot be filed away into abstraction once it has been witnessed.

And worse—he knew it.

He knew all of you knew it.

That awareness sat behind his eyes like something heavy, pressing down on whatever remained of his composure.

And then you stepped forward, carefully at first. Like approaching something volatile.

Then, seeing him properly—seeing the full picture of him standing there, visibly overwhelmed, visibly embarrassed, and still very much crying—you lost the battle entirely.

A laugh slipped out. Then another.

Hugo’s head snapped slightly to the side.

“It’s not funny.”

The words came out tight. Controlled. Strained at the edges in a way that suggested he was holding on to dignity with both hands and refusing to let it slip further.

You covered your mouth, still smiling.

“No,” you said, failing to suppress it again. “No, it is a little bit funny.”

His glare sharpened instantly.

“It is not.”

“It is,” you insisted, stepping closer now, eyes soft despite the amusement. “You were genuinely upset because nobody remembered your birthday.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him.

“That’s kind of… cute.”

That word landed worse than anything else that had happened all day. Hugo went still.

“…Cute?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He looked away immediately, as if refusing eye contact could undo the sentence.

“I hate all of you,” he said flatly.

From across the room, Charles made a delighted sound.

“Awwww.”

Hugo turned his head slowly. Dangerously slowly.

Charles, completely unbothered, leaned against the wall with a grin that could only be described as criminal.

“What?” he said innocently. “Is little Hugo upset?”

Silence.

Hugo stared at him. His eye twitched. Long enough for the temperature in the room to change.

Loki sighed quietly. “Charles, don’t provoke him.”

“I’m not provoking him,” Charles replied, far too pleased with himself. “I’m emotionally supporting him.”

Hugo took one step forward.

Then another.

The kind of movement that suggested he was actively reconsidering the structural integrity of nearby furniture. Each step was controlled, but there was something unavoidably ominous about the fact that he was choosing to move at all now.

“You are all unbelievable,” he said through gritted teeth.

Charles gasped theatrically.

“Oh no,” he said. “He’s angry.”

Hugo turned sharply toward you instead. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

You blinked, then grinned. “…Perhaps.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I should throw you out the window.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “I feel like that’s a strong reaction for someone who just got surprised.”

Hugo exhaled sharply through his nose.

“You owe me a kiss.”

The room collectively reacted to that sentence. Charles made a disgusted noise.

“Ew.”

Someone else immediately echoed it.

“Ew.”

“Ew.”

Hugo did not look away. Neither did you. Instead, you tilted your head slightly.

“…Would you take that as your birthday present?”

“Yes.”

Immediate.

No hesitation.

You sighed lightly, like you were considering logistics.

“Okay, but then you don’t want the actual present I got you?”

That landed. Hugo blinked once.

“…What?”

You gestured vaguely toward the couch.

“I hid it over there. I can just return it if you dont want it.”

A silence. A very specific silence.

The kind that contains sudden regret, confusion, and the immediate recalculation of priorities.

Hugo turned his head slowly toward the couch.

Then back to you.

“…You're joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh my God, he fumbled both options," Charles whispered from across the room.

Hugo ignored him. “Why would you—”

“Because you said you wanted a kiss,” you replied calmly.

And then you walked toward the couch. Unhurried.

Like the situation had already been decided and everyone else was just catching up.

“Alright then,” you added. “I guess I’ll just—”

“WAIT.”

Hugo moved so fast it was almost offensive to physics.

“No,” he said quickly, stepping in front of you. “No, I can have both.”

You raised a brow.

“I don’t know…”

“I can,” he insisted, now visibly distressed. “I can absolutely have both.”

A pause.

You looked him up and down.

“…Fine.”

The word barely left your mouth before Hugo leaned in. The kiss was quick. Simple

Like immediate relief disguised as impatience.

When you pulled back, Charles made another gagging sound.

“Okay, I hate this.”

Loki clasped a hand over Charles' mouth, "Let them be."

Hugo did not care. Not even slightly.

Because for once today, nothing was missing anymore.

Except—

He immediately glanced back at the couch.

“…The present?”

You smiled sweetly. “Later.”

He exhaled. Defeated. But not unhappy. Quite the opposite, actually.

Then, after a pause, you clapped your hands once.

“Okay,” you said brightly. “Does anyone want cake?”

A chorus of yeses followed immediately.

Charles leaned back against the wall, grinning again.

“I think Hugo would prefer a donut.”

Hugo turned his head slowly. Charles just smiled wider.

And so, no one was ever again permitted to appear within three feet of Vivian Hugo while holding a donut.

What a dramatic man he was.

a/n: yes I know, I’m a day late bla bla bla blame timezones or something🙄🙄 got this idea from my own reposts IM LAUGHING SO HARD

he’s so dramatic what’s his problem. he’s so cute cute cute cute cute wtfwtfwfwtwfw can I bite him

Even though you did—and quite diligently, at that—something in him still seemed unsatisfied with your performance. You figured that perhaps there wasn’t enough in your mouth?

Hugo, being many steps ahead of you as he always was, let his thumb produce a different angle within your orifice before he plucked it out past your lips. Then he wiped your own salvia across your bottom lip and tutted.

“You enjoyed that, huh?” An observation wrapped in a question, of which he already knew the answer to. When you nod, his eyes narrow. “Say it then,” his finger moved to your chin to tip your head further up, “Tell me how you liked having my finger in your mouth—how you enjoyed sucking on it simply because I told you to.”

Your lips moved to do exactly that, the words were prepared against your tongue—and yet, he interrupted you ever so rudely.

Hugo possesses a lot of qualities that can’t be described as anything else aside from thick. His fingers are no exception, and you’re made acutely aware of it as his index and pointer shove their way into your mouth before you could properly obey him.

He doesn’t smile, but you can still see how pleased his by seeing you like this. Especially as you begin to hum gibberish around his digits.

Can he understand a word you’re saying? Technically no. Does he try to have a conversation with you anyway since he cares little about the concept of silence around you? Well, yes.

“What was that?” His eyebrows lift ever so slightly and you swear he’s fighting the urge to smile at you, “You said you love having my fingers in your mouth, and that listening to me is your favorite thing to do? Aw.”

Your head shakes, and for a moment you debate on nibbling at his fingers. You don’t though, considering how he watches your mouth move to pout and how your eyes glare at him instead.

Hugo nods his head, “I see, I see. So then,” his eyes leave yours and find your mouth again. His cock twitches once he feels your tongue dancing in between his fingers, followed by a wet suck as he drives them in just a bit deeper. “Did you want my fingers elsewhere? Do you-, hah..” His words escape him once your hand grabs at his wrist and you bob your head back and forth a little.

The way your mouth feels enveloping his two fingers, how your tongue slathers all around them, the mixed sensation of wetness and warmth—all of these factors nearly give him the desire to give you what he knows you want. But more than that, he wants the impossible out of you first. He wants to hear you beg for what you want, and he wants to hear it clearly.

All while his fingers are in your mouth.

“Do you need my fingers elsewhere, perhaps?” His eyes narrow further on you and you push yourself forward just so you can gag on his fingers as if to answer him. That’s when he grins, “You do, don’t you? It’s a shame you can’t seem to beg me for it.”

“Mmmh,” a stubborn array of grumbles fly his way, but instead of making things easier for you, he merely thrusts his fingertips further. “Mmph?” the cadence of that hum is most obviously meant to be a please—he knows how you beg far too well.

Even so, he can’t find himself to care that you’re struggling to do what’s asked of you. You look far too cute like this.

“Fuck, was that your best attempt at begging? Can you really not say it any clearer than that? Poor thing.” He hums, pulling his fingers away from your mouth slowly just to watch the way you almost-drunkenly chase after him.

The moment his digits escape your lips, your hold on his wrist gets a little tighter and you pant, “Please?”

Hugo raises a brow and wipes his fingertips across your bottom lip, “Please, what?”

Your mouth opens and he fights the urge to just laugh at you as he interrupts you again. Your grip on his wrist is lost as he finger-fucks your throat properly this time around—watching the mess he makes of you whilst drool leaks out from the corner of your lips.

Then you make the stupid mistake of trying to pull your head away from him so you can ask for what you want, and he scoffs as if annoyed before using that free hand of his to bring it up to your throat.

“A couple fingers in your mouth makes you do really dumb things, huh. I’ll give you what you want when I feel like it,” Hugo breathes out, cock swelling between his legs, “You understand that much, yes?”

You nod, but words couldn’t describe how much he adored it when you tried to act like a brat with him. He loved putting you in your place more than anything. And that glossy look of need in your eyes… fuck, he had half a mind to quit teasing you and splay you out against the nearest surface available.

“All you have for me is a nod?” Hugo scoffs, “Am I annoying you, chérie?”

You can’t help but whine this time—there was no way of winning him over when he got like this. He’d drag out this teasing until you physically couldn’t take it anymore if you’d let him.

Even so, the whine from you prompts him to look down at the way you’re squeezing your legs together, and he lets out a sigh. One could say he might even feel bad for you considering he knows you’ve likely soaked through your panties by this point.

“Fine, fine,” His fingers leave your mouth but the hand at your throat remains as he gives it a light squeeze. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today. Strip.”

The words lingered between you, fragile enough to shatter if either of you dared to breathe.

He took a hesitant step forward before stopping himself, as though crossing even that small distance required more courage than he had ever summoned on any football pitch. A faint smile found his lips, apologetic and painfully resigned.

"I've spent my entire life believing that destiny is absolute. I told myself every person is born with an aptitude, a place only they were meant to occupy, and that happiness belongs only to those who accept it. I believed that so completely that I convinced myself I could bury whatever this was between us—that if you were never meant to be mine, then all I had to do was surrender to fate."

He lowered his gaze for a moment, letting out a quiet laugh that sounded far more like grief than amusement.

"But no matter how many times I searched for the beginning, I could never find it. I cannot remember the hour, the place, the conversation, or even the look that condemned me to loving you. Somewhere between ordinary days and forgettable moments, my world quietly rearranged itself around you before I ever realized it was happening."

When he looked back at you, there was no certainty left in his eyes; only a tenderness he had spent years trying to hide.

"You have become the first thought that greets me before consciousness does. You are the last prayer I whisper before sleep, the silence I search for in crowded rooms, the home I never knew I was looking for. I kept waiting for time to return me to reason, believing this feeling would eventually surrender to logic. Instead, every passing day only taught me how impossible life becomes without you in it."

His voice caught, the next words leaving him softer than the last.

"You once asked me if I believed destiny could ever be wrong. I told you no."

A bittersweet smile crossed his face.

"I lied. Because if destiny truly intended for me to spend a lifetime watching another man hold the woman I have loved more deeply than my own future... then destiny is the only thing I have ever wished to defeat."

He swallowed against the ache in his throat.

"I would abandon every philosophy I've ever lived by for the chance to spend one ordinary life beside you. I would trade every victory, every World Cup, every dream I've chased since I was a child, if it meant waking beside you and calling that life enough."

You smiled.

It was the same smile he had spent years convincing himself he had imagined, gentle enough to quiet every fear he had ever carried, tender enough to make him believe that perhaps, just this once, destiny had chosen mercy over reason.

Your hand found his, warm and impossibly familiar, your fingers curling around his as though they had always belonged there.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight pressing against his chest eased.

Then the church bells rang.

Their chime rolled through the air, once... then again... then a third time, each toll growing louder until it drowned out the sound of his own heartbeat.

Vivien Hugo blinked.

The warmth vanished, and your hand was gone. The chapel doors had never opened.

His own hand remained suspended inches from the polished brass handle, trembling so violently he could scarcely keep it raised. Beyond the heavy wooden doors came muffled applause, followed by laughter and the distant swell of congratulations.

The ceremony was over.

It had always been.

For a long while, he stood there without moving, listening to the celebration he had spent the entire morning pretending he was brave enough to interrupt. Then slowly, he lowered his hand.

Perhaps...Destiny had never been wrong. And only his heart had been foolish enough to hope otherwise.

He placed the neatly wrapped wedding gift beside the chapel doors, smoothing the ribbon one last time before turning away.

He did not look back.

Because he knew that if he looked at you even once more, he might finally become the kind of man who challenged fate.

But courage had found him only after destiny had already taken you away.

He was busy preparing his dinner when he heard someone at the door. On any other occasion, he probably would’ve ignored the sound of his bell ringing since he wasn’t expecting anyone to come that night, and he barely knew anyone in the country back then. But the continuous sound of the doorbell ringing got very annoying very fast, so he found himself with no option but to see who was on the other side. 

While he was ready to deal with some annoying door-to-door salesman trying to sell him rubbish, he was met with the sight of you instead. You were still in what he could guess were your work clothes, and your exhaustion was clear as day to anyone who took a single look at you, yet you were still making an effort to be courteous and smile at him.

“Good evening,” you said, and suddenly anything around Hugo became background noise. Even the sound of his kettle boiling was muffled by the sound of your voice, and the annoyance he felt earlier was gone. “I’m really sorry to disturb you. But I got a message saying a package meant for me was delivered here earlier. Do you have it by any chance?”

Hugo barely registered anything you said to him. 

Maybe because you had to be the most beautiful person his eyes have ever been graced with and he couldn’t help but be completely entranced by the mere sight of you…and by the natural melody in your voice…

Or maybe because he didn’t understand shit of what you said.

He understood two words, “Sorry.” and “evening”. That was it.

All the rest sounded like gibberish.

And poor you kept on talking while he just stared at you like a dog trying to understand what their owner was saying. All that was left for him to do at that point was tilt his head sideways in confusion to completely embody a lost puppy. “You know what, nevermind. It must’ve been a mistake—”

But just as you were about to make your walk of shame back to your apartment, Hugo spoke for the first time. “Please wait.”

He didn’t mean to sound so aggressive back then. But every single fiber in his being was telling him to not let you leave so soon. “I’m sorry, what did you say…?” 

His brain must’ve short circuited or something, because he couldn’t remember for the life of him what word he wanted to use that moment. All the hours he spent learning English felt like a huge waste of time. “ Tsk…shit, what's the word again.”

“Oh wait! Is that french?” The way his eyes lit up and how quick he nodded back was comical enough for you to forget how tired you were from work and let out a laugh. “Ah I see, It’s a shame I didn’t do that well in my french gcse…Would’ve come in handy now, wouldn’t it?”

“So you understand me?” The look in your face was enough for an answer.

“Look…how do I explain this… I came here to get a delivery. A package.” you gesticulated in hopes of making it more understandable, but if anyone had walked in back then, they’d probably think you were both weirdos trying to communicate with each other. “You know, a box…Boxe?” Is that how you say it?”

“Boxe? As in boxing...? You want to fight me?”

“I have a feeling I said something wrong…”

It took a good ten minutes for you to finally understand each other and for you to walk away with your delivery. 

In those ten minutes, he managed to learn your name, as you still recalled the bare minimum from your French lessons back in year seven, and that you lived in the apartment down the hall.

He found it kind of weird that they’d leave your package to him instead of handing it to the concierge or the person next door to you.

But If fate led that box to his apartment, who is he to question it, right?

Hugo tried to brush off that awkward encounter as a one time incident. 

However, when every single one of your packages and letters are constantly being delivered to his apartment instead of yours, he doesn’t know if he can pinpoint this to simply the postman’s incompetence.

‘Perhaps this is a sign…’ he thought. 

After all, nothing happens by chance in this life. No other person is more aware of that fact than Hugo.

He knows that there’s a meaning behind all actions taken by the universe, so there was only one plausible reason as to why it kept on pushing you two together, even at the most random occasions.

Why it kept on blessing him with your presence on his doorstep every other day, and with the rich sound of your laughter when one of you makes yet another dumb mistake in the other’s language. Or why it made sure that whenever he goes out for a run or shopping, you happen to be there too — He recalls how in one of the many random encounters you’ve had at the supermarket, you caught him struggling to speak with one of the shop workers and quickly came to his rescue. That display of your kindness has stuck to him till this day — and Hugo feels like an absolute idiot for not putting all the pieces together much sooner!

You and Hugo were meant to meet each other.

That’s why his choices in life brought him to England of all places. That’s why your packages kept on being sent to his home for weeks and why, besides the language barrier, talking to you feels so easy. So natural.

And now that Hugo has finally come to this realisation, he’s being consumed by this newfound ardor to unravel what destiny had stored for you and him — starting with the first mission. Master the English language as soon as possible.