Philoxenia "(Φιλοξενία" ),
the act of making a stranger feel like they
belong—treating a "guest" with the same warmth
and protection as family.
☆°°° Summary: Yn navigates the sharp contrast between global digital praise and the quiet sanctuary of her house. When an unsettling encounter with the local press highlights the isolating reality of her identity in Italy, her carefully built defenses begin to waver. Slipping into the Allianz Stadium completely undercover to keep Kenan grounded, she witnesses his world on fire—leading to a breathless post-match confrontation in an empty lounge where their three months of slow-burn boundaries finally collapse.
☆°°° Author's note: The slow-burn payoff in this chapter is just top tierrr. Seeing Yn face the reality of the Italian tabloids, only for Kenan to completely anchor her when she’s hiding in the crowd... and that lounge scene?! I’ve never written a first kiss so y'all better be nice😭🙏🏾♥️.
☆°°° Warnings: Heavy slow-burn payoff, microaggressions, paparazzi intrusion, internal anxiety, intense romantic tension, and domestic fluff.
☆°°° Song playing: Those Eyes - New West
☆°°° Pairing: Kenan yildiz and blackfem!reader
<<Previous chapter: The Glass House Breakdown
The notification sound on my phone had officially turned into a form of psychological warfare.
I sat cross-legged on the plush rug in the center of my living room, my skin freshly prepped with a vanilla-scented body oil that caught the sharp morning light filtering through the floor to ceiling windows. On the glass coffee table, my phone screen lit up every three seconds with a fresh batch of digital whiplash.
The Call Her Daddy episode had been out for exactly forty-eight hours, and the internet had collectively lost its mind. TikTok was completely overrun by loops of my lopsided smirk during the final question, and the phrase "You don't have to hate her to love me" was currently being printed onto unofficial graphic tees by independent brands on Instagram. Happy for them.
From the outside, the narrative was that I had completely won the plot. I was the untouched, unbothered girl who had successfully cleared her narrative on a global stage.
But inside the apartment, the air felt thick with a very different kind of weight.
My phone vibrated with a WhatsApp notification, breaking the endless cycle of edit tags. I picked it up, expecting another frantic text from my social media consultant, but the contact name made my stomach do a familiar, uninvited flip.
kennyyy⚽️: Guten Morgen!! [Good morning), please tell me you’ve seen what the sports-bros are cooking on Twitter. I am being publicly slandered.*
A second later, a screenshot popped up. It was a viral tweet from a Juventus fan page featuring a high-definition photo of Kenan on the pitch looking absolutely feral, veins popping in his neck as he screamed after his goal in the Turin Derby. The caption read: “The media thinks he’s locked into tactical formations, but he’s actually just trying to figure out how to build Legos with @ynnn.osei without crashing out.”
I let out a genuine laugh, the tight knot of anxiety in my chest loosening instantly as I typed back.
Me: hahahahah stop, it's literally the truth though. You are incredibly sassy when the blocks don't fit. 🤷🏽♀️😅
kennyyy⚽️: liarrr! I'm am a professional athlete, I have immense patience. Open the door anyway, I’m downstairs. Ho portato la colazione 😁 (I brought breakfast.)
I blinked at the screen, a sudden rush of heat hitting my cheeks. Before I could even stand up to check my reflection in the mirror, the faint buzz of the apartment intercom echoed through the hallway.
Stepping out of my bedroom in a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and a matching cropped tank top, my hair pinned up in a loose claw clip, I opened the front door just as the elevator doors chimed open.
Kenan stepped into the hallway, looking effortlessly put together in a black Nike tracksuit, his perfectly parted hair slightly damp from a shower, and a white paper bag from our favorite local pasticceria (bakery) gripped in his hand. The sharp, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the unmistakable aroma of fresh espresso, cappuccino and warm brioche (croissants) instantly filled my space.
"Ciao, bella!” (hi, beautiful) he murmured, a slow, dimpled smile spreading across his face the second his green eyes locked onto mine, going in for a side hug. He kicked his sneakers off at the door, tracking inside with the familiar ease of someone who spent more time in my apartment than his own over the last few weeks. He has.
"You didn't tell me you were coming over," I said, leaning against the kitchen counter as he set the bag down. "Aren't you supposed to be at Allianz for a media brief today?"
" I knew that you would be hiding out today, so I told management I had a minor muscle tightness," he said, his voice dropping into that low, slightly raspy register as he pulled two porcelain cups from my cupboard. He didn't look at me as he poured the hot drinks, but there was a distinct, playful tilt to his shoulders. "Plus, I had to come check on you, the internet is in shambles because of you."
"Taci," (shut it) I laughed, taking the warm cup from his hands, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. A familiar electricity shot up my arm, and I quickly took a sip to hide the way my hands had started to trace the rim. "I just said what needed to be said. The timeline was messy, and people were doing too much in her comments."
Kenan’s expression softened, the playful edge vanishing as he leaned his elbows against the marble island, looking at me with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly very small. "Thanks, truly. You didn't have to protect my history like that, Yn. Especially when the internet was already handing you a crown."
"I wasn't doing it for a crown, kenny," I said softly, looking down at my cup. "I did it because I don't play those weird, manufactured games where women are pitted against each other. It's cheap."
"I know," he whispered, his gaze dropping to my lips for a heavy, breathless beat.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable; we had been hanging out constantly for nearly three months now. We cooked together, went on walks with ramos, argued about if i have the time to take care of a dog since i want one, and we fell asleep on opposite sides of the couch watching late-night movies. To the rest of the world, we were the most viral young couple in Europe. To our friends, we were locked in.
But physically? We hadn't crossed the line.
There were moments like right now, with him leaning over,eyes dark and completely focused on me, where the space between us seemed to evaporate. He shifted slightly, his hand reaching out to gently tuck a stray curl behind my ear, his thumb grazing the warm skin of my jawline. My breath hitched, my heart rate spiking past a hundred just like Alex had asked on the podcast. He leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, his scent completely clouding my nostrils, his lips parting slightly as he waited for me to close the gap.
My internal radar the one built on years of family instability and emotional hyper-vigilance, instantly flared a warning. ‘He just got out of a long, public relationship. Don't be the rebound. Don't let someone have that much power over your peace yet.’
“Sorry i can't..” I whispered, almost like I'm afraid to admit it.
With a quiet, shaky exhale, I leaned back just enough to break the spell, offering him a small, apologetic smile as I reached into the pastry bag. "So... what kind of brioche did you get?"
Kenan didn't pull away immediately. His hand lingered in the air for a split second before he dropped it back to the counter. A brief flicker of frustration or maybe just raw longing crossed his features, but he masked it instantly with a gentle, understanding nod.
“No it's fine, i always forget” he murmured.
He knew exactly why I retreated. He knew I was protecting the person behind the persona, and despite being a 21 year old athlete used to getting whatever he wanted, he never pushed.
"Alla crema (with cream)" he cleared his throat, his sassy edge returning to shield the vulnerability. "Because I know you have the palate of a child. If I brought you the dark chocolate one, you would complain it is too bitter."
"Wow, grazie mille (thank you so much) for the attitude," I teased, taking a bite and instantly getting a bit of powdered sugar on my top lip.
Kenan chuckled, reaching across the counter with a piece of paper towel to gently dab it off for me.
"You are lucky you are cute” he said smiling softly at me.
“yeah yeah whatever” I retreated back in a bratty tone.
We moved to the living room, the atmosphere shifting back into that comfortable domestic rhythm that defined us behind closed doors. We spent the next two hours completely ignoring our phones, sitting on the floor with a half-finished Lego sets between us. Kenan was entirely in his element, muttering curses in German whenever a tiny gray piece fell under the couch, while I strategically sorted the blocks by color because I physically couldn't help myself. Probably my ADHD.
"This is fundamentally incorrect," he argued, holding up a tiny plastic pillar. "The instructions say the black piece goes inside the foundation. Why are you hiding it?"
"Because it ruins the color flow, Kenan," I said, swatting his hand away. "Trust the vision, I think I know how to direct a lego set."
"Righttt, the only thing you're directing us into is a structural collapse," he groaned, though the fond look completely betrayed his complaints.
As the afternoon began to fade into a soft, golden twilight, Kenan suddenly went quiet. He stopped reaching for the blocks, his fingers tracing the edge of the Lego instruction booklet instead. He cleared his throat, a rare wave of nervousness settling over his posture.
"Yn," he began, his voice shifting back to that serious, grounded tone.
"Hmm?" I didn't look up from trying to force a piece into place.
"The next match is this weekend. It’s a home game at the Allianz," he said slowly. He reached into his tracksuit pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte black envelope, setting it gently on the coffee table right in front of me. "I want you there. Not on a facetime call, and not watching a delayed stream in your living room."
I stopped what I was doing, my eyes dropping to the envelope. The weight of his world suddenly crashed back into our quiet, isolated sanctuary. Going to the stadium wasn't just a casual weekend activity; it was stepping directly into the lion's den.
"Kenan..." I started, a sudden wave of anxiety tightening my throat as I thought about the aggressive Italian paparazzi, the headlines, and the hyper-conservative sports media that already looked at me like an exotic anomaly. "You know what the press is like right now. If I sit in the VIP box, the cameras won't even look at the pitch. They'll just be analyzing every time I breathe. And the fans... it’s a lot."
"I know," he interrupted gently, his hand coming down over mine, pinning my fingers against the cool floor. His palm was warm, solid, and completely grounding. "I am not asking you to sit in the directors' box or play the WAG for the photographers. I don't care about that."
I carefully pulled the card from the envelope. It wasn't a standard luxury hospitality pass with my name printed on the front. It was a single, generic ticket for the standard grandstand section—right in the middle of thousands of regular fans.
"You can go incognito," Kenan explained, his thumb tracing the back of my hand. "Blend into the crowd. No one expects the 'Yn' to be sitting in sector 218 eating a cold panino (sandwich). But I need to know you are in the building, Yn. When I look up, I don't want to think about the millions of people watching on screen. I want to know ‘You’ are there. In the stands. Keeping my feet on the grass."
I looked from the ticket up to his face. The sincerity in those eyes were completely overwhelming, stripping away every ounce of my standard, defensive armor: he was asking me to be his anchor in a stadium of forty thousand screaming people.
I swallowed hard, the fear of the chaotic Italian crowds and the sharp reality of my identity in that space still lingering at the edge of my mind, but looking at him, I knew I couldn't say no.
"Okay," I whispered, a small, tentative smile breaking through my hesitation. "I'll be there."
Kenan’s smile was instantaneous, bright enough to light up the darkening room. He squeezed my hand tightly, pulling me just a bit closer across the rug. "Söz mu?” (Is it a promise?)
"Söz!” (Promise), I repeated, the foreign word feeling strangely comfortable on my tongue.
He leaned in then, his forehead resting gently against mine for a long, quiet moment, his breath warm against my skin. It was another one of those spaces where a kiss was entirely written in the air between us but as I held my breath, waiting, he simply closed his eyes, content to just hold me in the quiet fortress we had built, completely unaware of the storm waiting for us at the stadium gates.
The transition from the quiet of my living room to the historic streets always felt like crossing an invisible border, but today, the air felt distinctly heavier.
Kenan had left an hour ago for his evening tactical briefing, leaving behind a half finished Lego skyline and a lingering scent of expensive woodsmoke and mint. I had a quick styling pull to finalize at a luxury boutique near Via Roma—a strategic wardrobe curation for my upcoming project, and I figured a brisk fifteen minute walk would help clear my brain.
I dressed down intentionally. I threw on a pair of wideleg dark denim, a black sweatshirt, with a cap alongside my dark prada sunglasses. It was my standard uniform for disappearing.
But the moment I stepped onto the cobblestone pavement of the piazza, I realized the rules of engagement had completely changed.
In Los Angeles, the paparazzi were a loud, predictable machine. They yelled your name from across the street, flashed their giant lenses, and moved on to the next reality star. In Italy, it was different. It was a slow, creeping surveillance.
As I walked past a row of historic outdoor cafés, I could feel the microscopic shift in the atmosphere. It started with the sharp clink of an espresso cup hitting a saucer too quickly. Then, the subtle turning of heads. Two middle-aged men sitting under a canopy reading ‘La Gazzetta dello Sport’ stopped mid sentence, their eyes tracking my movement with a heavy, unblinking intensity.
I kept my head down, adjusting the strap of my Bottega bag, but my internal radar was screaming. It wasn't just the standard curiosity aimed at a girl who looked like she belonged on a billboard. It was the specific, isolating gaze of a traditional, conservative european city trying to categorize a young Black woman who refused to fit into any of their neat little boxes.
Passing a local edicola (newsstand), my footsteps faltered.
Hanging from the wire racks, right next to the political dailies, was the latest issue of "Chi ", one of Italy’s biggest weekly gossip magazines. Front and center was a grainy, telephoto paparazzi shot of me and Kenan from last week. We were laughing outside a pandora shop, Kenan holding a paper bag and me pointing at something on my phone.
The headline printed across our faces made my stomach drop into a cold, familiar knot:
> "LA MUSA NERA DI YILDIZ: IL NUOVO AMORE SEGRETO DEL NUMERO 10"> (Yildiz's Black Muse: The Number 10's New Secret Love)
I stared at the bold letters, a bitter taste rising in my mouth. ‘La musa nera.’ The Black Muse.
They couldn't just use my name, or refer to the global campaign I had just fronted. To the traditional Italian press, my identity was strictly an exotic accessory to a golden boy’s football career. The article preview below went on to describe my "exotic charm" and "atypical style," completely minimizing my business equity and my independent success into a safe, easily digestible stereotype.
"Scusa... sei tu?” (Excuse me... is that you?)
A sharp, accented voice broke my internal spiral. I snapped my head up to see a man in a leather jacket standing a few feet away, a professional DSLR camera already raised to his eye. Before I could even raise a hand to shield my face, the aggressive, rhythmic click of his shutter echoed through the quiet street. *Click-click-click-click.*
"Yn!” Guarda qui! Un sorriso per l'Italia! (Look here! A smile for Italy!)" he shouted, stepping closer, completely invading my personal space.
Another photographer seemed to materialize from around the corner, his lens flashing in the gray afternoon light. The sudden ambush felt like a physical claustrophobia. A few locals stopped to watch, whispering among themselves, their expressions detached and curious, offering zero intervention. To them, this was just the price of admission for entering their world.
A wave of intense, defensive anger flared beneath my ribs, ‘If you show emotion, you're aggressive. If you crash out, you're the villain.’ The margin for error for a girl who looked like me in this country was zero.
"No, grazie” (No, thank you)," I said, my voice dropping into that cold, iron-clad authority.
I didn't run. I didn't hide my face. I simply straightened my spine, pulled my oversized hoodie tighter around my shoulders, and walked right past them, keeping my stride long and deliberate. The photographers followed me for another half-block, their lenses clicking relentlessly against the quiet backdrop of the city, before they finally gave up, muttering something under their breath about me being "fredda" (cold).
By the time I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the boutique, my hands were faintly shaking. The air-conditioned, quiet interior smelled of expensive dresses and fig trees, but the safety felt entirely artificial.
I walked over to the velvet couch in the back of the showroom, sinking into the cushions as I pulled out my phone. My notifications were still screaming with American fans calling me an “Icon." The disconnect was staggering. On the internet, I was a queen. On the streets of Turin, I was an anomaly to be inspected, categorized, and chased down.
My screen buzzed with a text from Kenan, sent right as his tactical meeting wrapped.
kennyyy⚽️: just finished film study. The manager is crazy, he wants us pressing high for 90 minutes. *Verdammt* [Dammit]. Are you back at the apartment? Do you want me to pick up dinner?
I stared at the message, the warm, uncomplicated safety of his domestic reality pulling at me. He had no idea. He grew up in Germany and Turkey as a celebrated athletic prodigy; he's now moving in these Turin streets completely unchecked, shielded by his status and his privilege. He didn't know what it felt like to have your entire identity reduced to a racialized headline at a newsstand.
I began to type a response, ready to vent, but my thumb hovered over the keyboard.
‘Don't be a burden’, the old, hyper-vigilant voice whispered in the back of my mind. ‘You built your own armor for a reason. Handle it.’
I deleted the paragraph, replacing it with a curated, unbothered shield.
Me: yeah, back at the apartment soon. Get the stracciatella and kinder bueno ice cream from Michelangelo' pleaseee.
I locked my phone, looking at my reflection in the dark glass screen. The ticket for the Allianz Stadium was sitting securely in my wallet, a generic piece of paper that would drop me right into the belly of the beast this weekend. The disguise wasn't just a fun "It Girl" aesthetic anymore. It was a literal survival strategy.
The roar of forty thousand people inside the Allianz Stadium wasn't just a sound; it was a physical vibration that rattled in my chest.
Sitting in Sector 218, sandwiched between an elderly Italian man smoking and a group of teenagers draped in white and black striped scarves, I felt entirely invisible. My armor had worked perfectly. The oversized hoodie pulled up over my head, alongside my dark sunglasses coupled with the stadium's shadows kept the paparazzi completely blind. To the world, hopefully i wasn't nowhere near the pitch.
But my eyes never left him. Lui.
Seeing Kenan on the field was like watching a completely different person. A lethal, hyper focused predator. When he scored the match-winner in the 82nd minute a brilliant, curling strike into the top corner the stadium erupted into absolute madness. People around me were screaming, hugging strangers, throwing beer into the air.
Amidst the stadium-wide chaos, Kenan didn't join the massive pile-up at the corner flag immediately. He broke away for a split second, jogging back toward the center circle, and his eyes scanned the massive wall of Sector 218. He couldn't see my face, but he knew exactly where the generic ticket landed. He did his famous star hand celebration but then he raised a subtle, closed fist to his chest, tapping it twice right over his heart, pointing a single finger directly toward my row.
A collective wave of goosebumps broke out across my arms. The teenagers next to me screamed, thinking he was pointing at the general section. I just bit my lip beneath my oversized collar. He's going to be the death of me.
An hour after the final whistle blew, the stadium had emptied into a cavernous, hauntingly quiet concrete shell. Following the precise text instructions Kenan had smuggled to me before the game, I slipped past the main security checkpoints using a specialized private player-guest lanyard I kept tucked deep inside my jacket pocket.
I navigated the labyrinth of the stadium interior until I reached a secluded, dimly lit lounge area reserved for players and family after hours. The bar was closed, the modern couches were empty, and the only illumination came from the soft, ambient LED lights running along the glass floor panels.
The heavy glass door clicked open behind me.
I turned around just as Kenan stepped into the lounge. He had changed out of his kit into a simple grey Juventus track-set, his hair still damp from the showering, smelling intensely of that familiar, clean mint-and-cedar cologne. The raw, electric adrenaline of a massive stadium victory was still radiating off him ; his jaw was set, his green eyes incredibly bright and piercing in the dim light.
"You actually came" he murmured, his voice low and slightly breathless as he closed the distance between us. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in my personal space, his chest rising and falling as he looked down at me.
"I told you I would," I said, my voice suddenly sounding much softer than I intended. I reached up, pulling off my hood and glasses away and letting my braids fall around my shoulders, finally shedding the heavy disguise. "You were incredible out there, Kenan. Seriously. The whole stadium was chanting your name."
"I didn't care about the stadium," he said instantly, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made the surrounding concrete walls completely vanish. He stepped closer, his steps squeaking softly against the polished floor. "Only you, you promised and you stayed."
The energy we shared in my apartment suddenly felt charged with a heavy, magnetic current. The boundaries I had spent three months carefully maintaining and protecting myself from being a rebound, from giving away too much power suddenly felt incredibly fragile under his unblinking gaze.
Kenan reached out, his large hands coming up to gently grip the lapels of my heavy jacket. He didn't pull me in; he just held me there, anchoring me to the floor. His fingers were warm, slightly trembling from the lingering post-match high.
"Yn," he breathed, his voice dropping into a rough, vulnerable register that completely tore through my defenses. "Non ce la faccio più" (I can’t do this anymore). I am tired of pretending, tired of leaving the internet to wonder."
"Kenan—" My breath hitched, my hands instinctively rising to rest against his chest. I could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his sweatshirt. "You just... your past, it was so public. I can't be a temporary space for someone."
"You are not a temporary space," he interrupted fiercely, his thumb moving up to tilt my jaw up, forcing my eyes to meet his. The sincerity in his eyes were completely consuming, stripping away the last remaining pieces of my armor. "Ich schwöre (I swear), there is no one else. There hasn't been since the moment I saw you. I don't want the persona, yn. I want you. Let me protect your peace."
The final wall in my fortress didn't just crack; it completely collapsed.
"Mmh," I whispered, the word barely leaving my lips before Kenan closed the remaining distance.
When his lips finally met mine, the entire world went completely silent.
It wasn't a tentative, hesitant first kiss. It was a breathless, crashing release of three months of unspoken longing and heavy slow-burn tension. Kenan’s hands slid from my jacket up into my hair, his fingers tangling gently into my braids as he pulled me flush against his chest. He tasted like faint mint and pure, intoxicating adrenaline. The kiss deepened naturally, his lips moving against mine with an overwhelming sweetness that made my knees feel entirely hollow. Slowly asking for entrance which I immediately provided.
I melted into him, my hands gripping the fabric of his shoulders and his hair, completely pulling him into my space. For the first time in my nineteen years of life, the hyper-vigilance completely turned off. I wasn't thinking about the Italian press, the racialized headlines, or the millions of eyes waiting for me to fail. But in a space with that person whom I'm finally letting scale my walls.
When he finally pulled back a fraction of an inch, he pecked the tip of my nose and forehead resting against it, both of us breathing heavily in the quiet dark of the lounge. His eyes were closed, a soft, beautiful dimpled smile breaking across his face as his thumbs gently stroked my hips underneath the hoodie.
" You're not getting rid of me anymore” he whispered chucking against my lips, his voice thick with emotion. "You are so stubborn, jeez I thought I would have to win a championship before you let me do this."
I let out a genuine, breathless laugh, my fingers tracing the nape of his neck. "Don't get arrogant, Yildiz. You still haven't finished the Lego skyline at the apartment."
" Tamam (alright), we'll finish it now," he murmured, leaning down to press one more soft, lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth before gripping my hand tightly, locking his fingers with mine. "Let's go home, meine Liebe” (my love).
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