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“J'ai eu le coup de foudre pour elle!”

…

“I fell in love with her at first sight!”

…

Vivian Hugo x Fem! Reader

Synopsis :

"I'm in my twenties and I'm just... cooped up!"

Your life in Paris is an anxious, boring mess. But when your coworkers drag you out for happy hour, you were a drunkyard making a fool of yourself

Suddenly, you're aggressively pinching the cheek of a gorgeous, red-haired stranger with impossibly long lashes, wailing about your life.

You think he’s a pretty hallucination. What your drunk brain doesn't realize is that he is Vivian Hugo—an elite, untouchable global football star. He's notoriously terrifying on the pitch, but your chaotic breakdown just got him completely whipped. And since you've passed out cold against his shirt without an address, he has no choice but to carry you home.

Notes : Anxious Reader ??? Oh we go crazy when we go drunk, i tried my best to he ambiguous as possible! rom-com plot written out of pure boredom, we are twenty-year-olds in this cliché plot. Heavy swearing and an accidental kidnapping trope where a character takes the protagonist home. characterization is not canon-accurate to Vivian—I tried. Whipped Vivian who is heavily infatuated, this is not proofread and half of the french dialogue is google translate :p

“Sorry, mom… I’m a boring person.”

You sat deeply in the red velvet seat of the cinema. It felt cold, swallowing you into the dark of the half-empty theater.

Outside, Paris was very much alive, teeming with people rushing to vibrant destinations. Yet here you were, staring up at a wide silver screen, watching a grainy, black-and-white 1960s Nouvelle Vague film.

Your brain immediately took that contrast and ran a marathon with it.

Seriously, why? Why choose to be a “boring”person? Why not go out on dates, to lively parties, or even just basic group hangouts with your colleagues?

Normal people with a real adult paycheck in Paris would be sipping wine at a trendy bar right now or was just like you—really…staying in their own comfort.

Sure, you could sit in a café for three hours straight, but you weren't really doing anything with your life.

Why be so lonely all the time? You actually had a perfectly good outfit on—the boots were great, the skirt was a bold choice, and the turtleneck was a classic piece to tie it all together. You could’ve been at-least going on a date, but you hated going to meet up people, they were so…you don’t mean to be picky…but you felt being so uncomfortable going on dates, they are either that or they would completely stood you up or the third reason was just to have a one night stand.

The more you thought about these things, you shuffled on your seat and clothes were getting was rubbing against the frayed theater seat. You hated the itchy feeling of the fabric.

Ugghhhhh. You hated deprecating yourself like this, caught in a vicious cycle of your own thoughts because it always went like this…

1. You stayed in because you were tired from your job and, which only made you feel lonely for staying in.

2. Whenever you actually tried to be yourself around others, the room went quiet….(not true maybe…you were probably overthinking it..)

3. When you spoke French, you felt shy by your own foreign accent—but how could you ever get better without speaking?

4. You always ended up right back where you started which is…being trapped inside your own head! #yey…

5. The only times you were out there would be : grocery shop, shopping, walking by yourself, going to the park by yourself, eating out, and hanging out by yourself…

Your mom loved to tell you that you made too many excuses for yourself. Usually, that thought just irritated you.

But God, looking around the empty theater, you hated admitting that maybe she was right. Maybe you were just a bit too stubborn to try. “Sorry mom…that your daughter ended up being a boring person.”

It wasn’t like you tried to be a hermit, but you were definitely the main culprit behind your own predicament.

You had exactly zero friends in this city. No work best friends, no casual text buddies—literally no one….yet? Hopefully you won’t be this way for long.

No because…seriously, your life was a highly predictable, seven-step loop: work, shower, eat, sleep, shop, watch a movie, take a lonely walk, and then—just in case you forgot your purpose—work, work, work again.

You had been brooding so loudly in your own mind that you forgot you were even supposed to be paying attention to the movie.

Suddenly, your eyes snapped back to the screen. A man with a cigarette dangling from his lip stared desperately at a woman with sharp, dramatic eyeliner.

“Je t'aime, Anna,” the man said. His voice echoed through the vintage speakers, heavy with a tragic longing.

The woman turned her head away, her expression cold yet deeply wounded. “Non,” she replied sharply. “Jean, je ne sais pas ce que je ressens pour toi... ne dis pas ces choses.”

When the two-hour film finally ended, the house lights flickered on with an unprompted, harsh brightness that made you wince.

You stood up, adjusting your coat, and left the screening room alongside a few middle-aged patrons and two elderly couples. But among them were three people who looked to be right around your age. They were just standing near the lobby exit, but they carried an effortless, magnetic energy that felt completely out of your league.

You couldn’t take your eyes off them. You looked down at your own clothes, suddenly feeling plain, and then looked back up in absolute awe. Everything about their style and how they wore it had so much confidence and charm. You were completely mesmerized by how they dressed and carried their own self.

As you kept staring, the shift happened. One of them tilted their head, sensing your gaze, and locked eyes straight with you.

Panic flared hot in your chest, rushing straight to your face. Fearing you had been caught being incredibly rude, you snapped your head away. Moving instantly, you lowered your head, glued your eyes to the floor, and quickly pushed through the heavy glass doors to exit the lobby.

The reality of the cold, loud Paris street hit you all at once. As you hurried away, the neon sign of the cinema blurred into the distance behind you. Motorbikes roared past, bicyclists rang their bells, and crowds of laughing groups spilled out from under the heated awnings of nearby cafés.

Tires splashed through slick rain puddles, sending a chill through the air. You pulled your coat tighter around your frame, smoothing out the wrinkles, trying to shake off the lingering warmth of that sudden eye contact.

Your knee-high boots clicked rhythmically against the wet pavement, against the bustling sounds of the city life.

Beneath your heavy coat, your short mini skirt and turtleneck combo was your absolute staple for chilly days.

At least, it felt like a staple until a particularly vicious gust of wind appeared ; cutted straight through your tights. You shivered violently, your hands stuffed so deep into your pockets you thought you might tear the lining.

Why didn’t I just wear pants? you lamented, cursing your life choices.

Then, reality hit you with a dull thud. You paused, your fingers nervously fidgeting with a loose thread inside your pocket as you remembered the mess that was currently your apartment.

Right. You hadn’t done laundry in a solid two weeks. Your place was a chaotic sea of clothes spread across every surface.

How many days in a row did I wear those last jeans? Three? Four? Six? Let’s pray to the gods of denim that it wasn't six….

"Stupid, stupid," you muttered under your breath, puffing out a cloud of white condensation. A passing businessman gave you a sideways glance, and your words instantly vanished into the ambient noise.

You lowered your head and kept walking aimlessly, weaving through the thick crowd of strangers.

Naturally, because your brain refused to ever give you peace, your bad habit of talking to yourself always appears whenever you aren’t occupied.

First, you pondered your job. Then, your eyes drifted to a pair of lovers huddled under an umbrella, laughing softly. That, of course, triggered a massive mental tangent about fairy tales.

Honestly, what the hell happened to old-school love at first sight? Where or when was your meet-cute?

Where was the devastatingly handsome stranger who accidentally bumps into you on a rainy street corner, drops his book, looks into your eyes, and instantly falls in love with you?

Nowhere, they don’t exist. you thought bittersweets, a heavy sigh escaping your lips. Because you never actually go anywhere….

You were just so utterly done with the modern swipe-culture. You hated being expected to market yourself like a piece of livestock just to get a text back.

It was always the same mind games. You had to wait exactly forty-seven minutes to reply so you didn’t seem "desperate," only for them to send a dry, one-word response three days later. It was pathetic…

Honestly, it annoyed you to your very core because you would a million times rather just stay locked in your apartment, cooped up under a heavy blanket, sleeping, or reading fanfics

(Fanfics It weren’t just a phase, either. )

You had discovered fics at the tender age of ten, and here you were, well into your twenties, still reading them.

Of course, you were way too shy to ever admit that to anyone. Even if the internet made it seem more mainstream now, you could never openly confess that you preferred staying in to read about, fictional people who would never be real.

You could daydream for literal eternity about those impossible scenarios, totally stuck in your own head and completely content with your own company.

Besides, you knew exactly how a real-world "meet-cute" would play out for you. If a handsome stranger bumped into you right now, you wouldn’t have a movie moment. You’d probably just squeak out a panicked, incredibly high-pitched "Sorry!" in an embarrassing, accented voice. And you’d stand there like a frozen statue, awkwardly staring at him until he got uncomfortable. Or, worse, he wouldn't even care.

He’d just shove past you with a frustrated scoff, leaving you to obsess over the interaction at three o'clock in the morning, drowning in a sea of toxic guilt and self-loathing.

In those old movies, people longed for each other. They wrote letters. You know when you can see that love in their eyes, but this generation? You were just staring at a glowing rectangle, praying a guy didn't leave you on "read" or send you a low-effort, midnight text that just said "u up?"

The local dating pool was an absolute tragedy—an endless parade of men whose bios proudly boasted about wanting "one-night stands, no strings attached," or guys who looked like they judged your entire personality based on your looks or of you were too “free”.

What the Fuck does that even mean, free…?

You scoffed out loud, your grip tightening on your coat. It was always the same type of guy—the self-important, ego-driven pseudo-intellectuals who used backhanded compliments to mask their own insecurities.

But you knew your worth. you worked hard for your own money, you eanted to he educated and get a job and most certainly you didn't have time to be a doormat board for some insecure man's fragile ego.

Whenever those self-absorbed men started running their mouths on dates, you didn't even waste your energy arguing with them. You would simply go completely silent, freeze them out with a blank stare, and walk the hell out.

You had even desperately tried one of those fast-paced speed-dating events last month, but it was just a disaster. They kept drilling you with rapid-fire questions, and your brain completely short-circuited. You didn't have time to process, let alone answer quickly, leaving you looking like a confused deer in headlights.

"Why do I even bothe—" you muttered to yourself, cutting off your own thought. Your fingers tightly gripped the collar of your coat as you abruptly stopped in front of a brightly lit boutique window.

Inside, showcased on a light brown wooden pedestal like a relic, an it was a genuinely gorgeous pair of shoes.

They were deep, rich brown leather boots that went all the way up to the knee, featuring the most magnificent, sturdy, chunky heel.

They were so pretty it actually hurt to look at them. You stared for a solid, unblinking two minutes, your chest aching with pure want and need.

Thanks to your adult paycheck, you could totally afford them. It wouldn't even bounce your card.

But then, a wave of practicality washed over you. You looked down at the black knee-high boots currently clicking against the pavement.

Do I really need two pairs of knee-high boots? you argued with yourself. I just bought three tops, two bottoms and a pair of heels last month... do I really need this many clothes?

Then again, you looked closer at the black pair you were currently wearing. They were three years old. You clicked your heels against the ground again, listening to the worn-out sound.

Letting out a heavy, dragged-out sigh that felt like it came from your very toes, you finally tore your eyes away from the glass. You turned on your heel and just walked away, pouting like a petulant child who didn't get their favorite doll.

You kept walking for half a block, your fingers anxiously twisting and fidgeting with the hem of your coat. But your mind stayed locked onto that boutique window.

It was a good shoe. A really, really good shoe. And now it was gone forever, destined to be bought by someone else.

Your pace slowed. The cold wind bit at your bare thighs again.

Wait. You stopped dead in your tracks, right in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. A teenager on a bicycle had to swerve violently to miss you, ringing his bell angrily, and shouted at you. Though in that moment you didn't even care…you were busy being stuck in your head.

Your fingers stopped fidgeting. You looked back over your shoulder.

Why am I punishing myself? you thought, a sudden spark of defiance flaring to life. You had no friends in this city. You had no dates. You had a giant pile of mess waiting for you at home, and your job was exhausting.

If you were going to be single, lonely, and trapped in your own head in the middle of Paris, you were damn well going to buy things since you basically had nothing else to spend your extra money on.

You could afford rent, you could afford food, and right now, absolutely no one was stopping you. You deserved this. It wasn't like you splurged on yourself all the time anyway.

"Screw it," you muttered.

You spun around, completely abandoning your aimless walk, and marched right back down the pavement toward the boutique—a woman on an absolute mission.

“We are buying that shoe!” And then another person scoffed at you when they bump into you, making your confidence a few seconds ago, go away.

“Who even says that!”

Snap !

The sharp sound of a plastic lid popping onto a paper cup echoed through the room.You were standing in the bleak, fluorescent-lit breakroom of your corporate office.

You were right back in your cubicle world, staring down at the pool of dark liquid swirling inside your cup and the steam rising from it.

Honestly, the sad office machine made the espresso taste surprisingly good, which was about the only highlight of your morning. You sighed softly, adjusting the sleeves of your work cardigan, just as you were about to turn around and head back to your desk to face an inbox with sixty unread emails and a mountain of group projects.

You took a slow sip, preparing for the worst, when Camille stepped up to the coffee station.

God, you admired Camille. She was so beautiful and always carried herself with the kind of firm, effortless confidence you could only dream of possessing.

Every single day, her outfits were flawlessly styled, her bright eyes practically radiated warmth, and you were low-key obsessed with how she effortlessly styled her hair. Beyond her looks, she was just an incredible leader—you liked the sound of her voice too it was soothing. Camille was holding her own mug, she looked at you, her smile turning the bleak breakroom a little brighter.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the counter with easy grace. "A bunch of us are going to grab drinks at that place down the street after we wrap up today. Do you wanna go?"

Your brain immediately panicked and froze up completely. You stood there like a deer in headlights, staring at her with a totally blank expression while your mind frantically tried to think acceptable response. Go out? To a bar? Me out?

Noticing your sudden catatonic state, Camille chuckled, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Alors, t'es en plein burnout review already, or are you just daydreaming about your next congé?" she joked, nudging your shoulder playfully to snap you out of it. "Don't worry, c'est pas la mer à boire! It's just a casual happy hour. No pressure."

Her friendly voice softened the panic slightly, but your mind was still racing. If you said no, you’d just go home to your messy apartment and stay up to yourself for not going out..But if you said yes...then..then..

Scared of your own thoughts and terrified of letting the awkward silence stretch a single second longer, you completely fumbled your words.

"Uhm—y-yeah, sure!" you stuttered out, the words flying out of your mouth a bit too fast, your voice a little higher than normal.

Camille’s smile widened, completely unfazed by your absolute panic. She gave a reassuring nod that instantly made you feel less like a total weirdo. "Awesome! On se voit là-bas around six or seven, then!" she said, tapping the side of her mug before turning on her heel and heading back toward the cubicles.

You stood completely alone by the coffee machine, your heart hammering against your ribs, wondering what the hell you had just agreed to.

You stood alone by the coffee machine, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.

Oh god. Who says and stutters that way like who even says that! Who even stutters and says 'y-yeah' dammit..." you muttered to yourself

You actually said yes. Your palms were already sweating, leaving damp, tragic little prints on the side of your paper cup. You took a long, shaky breath that did absolutely nothing to calm your nerves, wiped your hands down your sides, and forced your legs to carry you back to your cubicle.

you immediately began to adjust your work attire to look at-least decent you hoped you looked well in-front of Camille and wasn’t an incompetent fool. You smoothed down your long maxi skirt, meticulously straightened the white lace overlayer of your top, and gave the edges of your cardigan a frantic tug.

Pulling a small compact mirror from your desk drawer, you checked your reflection. You lightly dabbed on some powder, praying it would hide the sweat—which, logically, you knew was a terrible idea that would probably just create a cakey paste, but you wanted to look decent….

you stared at your reflection and let out a heavy, sigh.

Snap!

Just as you clicked the compact shut, Amélie from the marketing team paused right outside your cubicle wall. She glanced down at your outfit, her face lighting up with a genuinely warm smile.

"Ah, j’adore ta jupe ! C'est vraiment très joli," she said, her accent smooth and melodic.

The unexpected compliment caught you completely off guard.

Your cheeks felt hot when you heard someone caught you off guard and complimented you. You forced a nice, genuine smile onto your face. "Oh, merci beaucoup," you replied.

Your voice only cracked a tiny bit on the beaucoup.

Before you could spiral back into your thoughts or overanalyze that one syllable, a clear voice floated over from the main aisle. Camille was walking back to her desk, casual and commanding as always, announcing the post-work plans to the rest of the floor.

"Hey, by the way, she's actually coming with us for drinks tonight!" Camille called out, gesturing toward your cubicle.

Suddenly, a wave of enthusiastic voices chimed in from the surrounding desks, and you found yourself showered in an unexpected avalanche of praise.

"Wait, really? Oh, génial !" a guy’s voice called out from the back row.

"Finally! You're always working so hard, you definitely deserve a break," another colleague added, leaning directly over their divider to beam at you.

"Finally having fun?, I was getting concerned about you taking all those files home and cooping yourself up with work," a senior manager joined in, rolling his chair into view with a chuckle.

You sat frozen in your ergonomic office chair, your cheeks went 10x hotter and your throat felt blocked .

You smiled awkwardly, your fingers tightly gripping your desk. "Oui, Je... Je suis très reconnaissant," you stuttered out, your English slipping through in your panic. "Sorry for not talking much... I thought..."

"Ah, t'inquiète pas ! Don't apologize," Camille interrupted with a warm wave of her hand, completely brushing off your awkward stutter. "

"Ah, merci... c'est gentil," you managed to say , your voice soft but deeply genuine as you looked around at their smiling faces. "Je... I am looking forward to it!"

"Super !" Amélie cheered, clapping her hands together. "Ce soir, on va fêter ça !"

The guy from the back row—Lucas, you remembered his name was Lucas—leaned back in his rolling chair, laughing softly at your wide-eyed, frozen expression.

"Regardez-la, on dirait qu'on vient de lui annoncer une terrible nouvelle !" Lucas joked, his voice full of warmth as he teased you in French.

(Look at her, it looks like we just broke terrible news to her!)

The people chuckled at your sheer panic. Before you could even open your mouth to try and stutter out a defense, Lucas let out another laugh, giving you a playful, reassuring smile.

"t'es coincée avec nous maintenant ! he teased, his grin widening.,

( you're stuck with us now!)

You fidgeted with your fingers, but as you looked around at them laughing and lightheartedly joking about your obvious awkwardness,

You let out a small, breathless laugh of your own, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. You gave them a shy but genuine smile, adjusting your cardigan one last time and sat back down, As they all went back to typing, a strange, nervous warmth settled in your chest.

“I don’t remember anything…hahaha..get me out of here.”

The meeting hour wasn't right after work. Leaving the office around 6:45 PM pushed the party meetup back to around 7:30 or 8:00 PM. it gave you time to head back to your apartment to rest, change, and mentally prepare for the party.

"I'll eat, then shower, and get ready," you mumbled to yourself like a chant as your knee-high boots clicked against the pavement.

You unlocked the heavy door to your apartment building, exhaling a massive breath of relief. On the way up the stairs, you ran into the sweet old lady from next door.

She was genuinely a darling and treated you practically like her own daughter, always checking up on your hermit lifestyle and sliding you generous containers of home-cooked food whenever she made too much. You greeted her politely in your absolute best and gratefully took the little container of food whenever she offered, and finally slipped inside your own apartment.

To be completely honest, your apartment was tiny—just a single small room with barely enough space to swing a cat, let alone house a two functioning adult.

Exhausted ,you slumped onto your couch, closed your eyes, and figured a quick, innocent ten-minute nap wouldn't hurt.

You lazily looked around at the absolute explosion of a mess surrounding you—clothes draped everywhere, shoes scattered—and sighed.

Closing your eyes was your first major mistake.

When your eyes snapped open, you glanced at the clock. It was past seven o'clock. To be exact, it was way past seven.

"Oh, shit, shit, fuck!, shit!" you screamed into the quiet room.

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of pure, unadulterated chaos. You kept up a steady stream of cussing, aggressively calling yourself stupid for sleeping. You scrambled across the tiny room, tripping over your own feet while frantically ripping random clothes out of your closet.

"Are you kidding me? Of all the days to nap, you did this?!" you yelled at yourself, sprinting headfirst into the bathroom. You threw yourself into the shower stall.

"Fuck! The water is freezing—fuck it, doesn't matter, we are running out of time! Who am I even talking to?!" you screamed to the empty tiles, your eyes wide with panic. "Why am I like this? Seriously, why?!"

You hopped out a minute later, shivering violently like a drowned alley cat and cursing under your breath as your wet hair dripped mercilessly onto the hardwood floor.

Tippy-toeing around the trail of water, and you realized you didn't even have time for a proper blowout. You just frantically began searching for a stylish outfit to save whatever sliver of dignity you had left.

"Where are those damn boots? Shit, where did I put them? If I am late to the one social event I actually agreed to after five whole months, fuck my life!" you muttered, aggressively throwing a mountain of unwashed laundry out of the way.

"Boots or heels? Boots or heels?!" you frantically muttered, spinning around in the middle of your tiny apartment like a malfunctioning compass. "Shit! Definitely boots."

You dove toward the closet, practically throwing your entire torso into the clothes racks. You needed a top. A skirt. Pants. Anything that didn't look like you had spent the last several hours drooling into a couch cushion.

"Where is the black skirt? Not that one—too corporate. Shit! Where is the silk one?" You started melting down. "The white lace top, where is it?!"

Your hands were shaking so hard you nearly broke the plastic hanger as you yanked the top free. Clothes were now draped over the bed, shoes were across the entryway, and your makeup bag looked like it had exploded all over the bathroom counter.

"Makeup, makeup, makeup!" you gasped, sprinting back to the sink. You grabbed your eyeliner, your hands trembling so violently you almost stabbed yourself directly in the iris. You dragged the marker across your lid. "God, merde, shit, fuck, why is the left side thicker?!"

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Yielding to defeat, you slapped on some lipstick, threw your compact back onto the counter, and ran back to the bedroom area. You still needed earrings.

You frantically rummaged through a tiny ceramic dish, cursing loudly when a pair of studs slipped from your fingers and rolled directly under the bed frame.

"Are you kidding me right now?!" you screamed at the floorboards. "I do not have time for hide-and-seek!"

Abandoning the lost jewelry, you grabbed another pair of simple studs, shoved them into your ears, and simultaneously began a blind search for your purse. Your keys, your wallet, your phone—where was the damn bag? You finally found it buried under a depressing pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter.

"Shit!" you exclaimed, checking the time on your screen. Your hair was still damp, your room looked like a natural disaster area, but you had no choice. You snatched your keys, stuffed your phone into your bag, and rushed toward the door, praying you didn't look as completely unhinged as you felt.

You flew out of your apartment, slamming the door shut behind you, and sprinted straight for the stairs. Your boots clicking down the narrow staircase was incredibly, deafeningly loud. To make matters worse, the stairs wasn't empty. You rounded the first corner only to find a bunch of neighborhood kids hanging out on the steps, forcing you to perform a high-speed slalom around them in your heavy boots.

And right behind them, of course, was the sweet old grandma from next door.

Seeing you fly down the steps like a woman possessed, the old lady let out a loud, highly disapproving click of her tongue. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," she tutted, shaking her head. "Ne cours pas comme ça, ma petite ! Tu vas te casser la jambe !"

(Don't run like that, my little one! You're going to break your leg!)

Before you could even stammer out a frantic, breathless apology for being a disturbance , her expression suddenly softened. She looked you up and down, taking in your rushed makeup, the white lace top, and the high boots. "Mais regarde-toi... tu es tellement jolie ce soir. Amuse-toi bien !"

(But look at you... you're so pretty tonight. Have fun!)

"Merci! Merci beaucoup!" you gasped out, your voice a breathless squeak as you kept your momentum, practically flying down the final flights of stairs and out the door.

The moment you burst onto the sidewalk, you whipped out your phone with trembling fingers to check the group chat. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. They were probably already at the venue, a few were already there as they photos of colorful cocktails and laughing emojis. Should you run to the nearest Métro station, or risk walking?

Metro. I am not risking the walking…

You sprinted straight toward the green neon Métro sign, deciding the underground transit was your best shot at beating the clock. As you hustled down the tiled stairs, you whipped out your phone with sweaty fingers and fired off a frantic, text to the office group chat:

“So sorry guys, ran completely late. I’m on my way”

You stood anxiously on the platform, your heart hammering as you checked your reflection in the glass of a poster. Your left eyeliner wing was still definitely twice as thick as the right, but at this point, you just had to own it.

Bzzzt. Your phone buzzed in your hand.

You looked down, bracing yourself for a string of passive-aggressive, responses about punctuality. Instead, Camille replied instantly,

“Pas de soucis !! Honestly, take your time, a few of us are literally stuck in a traffic jam right now. We haven’t even made it to the bar yet :( !!”

You stared at the screen, letting out a loud, disbelief-filled laugh. The heavy iron Métro train finally roared into the station, screeching to a halt.

As you stepped through the sliding doors, a new wave of panic locked your chest. In your rush, you hadn't checked if your monthly transit pass renewal actually went through properly. You looked around the tiled station, suddenly terrified of the notorious French ticket inspectors.

Please God, do not let them inspect my ticket tonight, you prayed, squeezing your purse tightly against your ribcage. I cannot get fined by the French government. I just can't. Can’t do this right now.

You approached the turnstiles and—of course—your transit pass decided this was the exact moment to go on strike. You aggressively tapped it against the sensor. Red light. Error beep. You tapped it again, harder this time, feeling the judgmental eyes of the line forming behind you.

"Don’t do this to me now," you muttered under your breath. You violently shoved your entire wallet against the glass reader. Green light. You slammed through the turnstile, catching the edge of your stylish skirt on the metal barrier. You ripped it free, praying you didn't just ruin the fabric, and bolted for the platform.

You shoved your way into the crowded car and managed to snag a plastic seat as the train doors slammed shut. To your left, a guy was blasting a techno remix of classic Édith Piaf songs at maximum volume. Directly across from you, a group of teens dressed entirely in rave outfits were loudly arguing. Next to them, a man in a suit was fast asleep, completely unfazed. And a family, with three kids and the husband and mom are trying to calm them down.

When the train finally screeched to a halt at your station, you practically flew through the opening doors. You darted up the tiled stairs, your knee-high boots hitting the pavement just as a cool night breeze swept across your face. Ahead of you, the lights of the bar glowed warmly against the slick, rain-soaked sidewalk.

As you smoothed down your skirt and took one last deep breath to shed the chaotic transit energy, a taxi pulled up right to the curb. The doors popped open, and out stepped your coworkers, groaning loudly about the absolute nightmare of Paris traffic.

"Ah, you made it!" Camille called out, spotting you under the awning.

Amélie from marketing, who had loved your skirt earlier, naturally linked her arm through yours as you all headed toward the entrance. "See? We told you pas de soucis. You look gorgeous, by the way!"

“Oh…thanks—uhm—you too!” You replied back, hoping she took it as genuine and not forced.

Inside, the bar was warm, trendy, and buzzing with late-night energy. As the hostess led your group to a plush velvet booth,

Once inside the bar, the corporate boundaries dissolved completely. The sheer relief of surviving your panic-stricken evening caught up to you, and your colleagues immediately began ordering rounds of drinks to celebrate you finally joining the team. One cocktail turned into two, then three, and because you were drinking on a relatively empty stomach, the alcohol hit you quick.

You loosened up completely. To everyone’s absolute shock, you were actually funny…really funny…

With your social anxiety thoroughly drowned in alcohol, you started cracking jokes and joking around everyone in the room.

Your coworkers were absolutely loving it, howling with laughter and raising their glasses to you.

Before long, you transitioned from delightfully tipsy to blissfully, beautifully drunk.

An uncontrollable case of the giggles took over. You sat back in the velvet booth, completely lost in your own happy world, quietly giggling to yourself at absolutely nothing. Everything was suddenly hilarious—the low amber lights, the loud chatter of the bar, the fact that you were a vibrating mess of giggles.

Through the hazy, spinning room, your wandering gaze suddenly locked onto the end of the table.

Sitting right next to your coworker was a man you hadn't noticed before. He had striking, vibrant red hair that stood out effortlessly under the lounge lights, but what really caught your attention were his eyes—specifically, his impossibly long, thick eyelashes and pretty eyes, that brushed against his cheekbones whenever he blinked.

Blame it on the alcohol, but your brain's filter was entirely gone. You didn't just look at him; you stared. You leaned slightly forward, resting your chin heavily in your hands, your eyes wide as you openly and shamelessly tracked every movement of his face. He was gorgeous, straight out of one the world.

Obviously, your staring didn't go unnoticed.

The red-haired man paused mid-conversation, sensing the intense, unblinking weight of your gaze. He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting yours through the dim amber lounge lighting. Instead of looking annoyed by your absolute lack of boundary, a faint, highly amused smile tugged at his pale-red lips.

He slid smoothly across the velvet booth toward your end of the table. Up close, his impossibly long, thick eyelashes fluttered as he tilted his head with genuine curiosity. When he spoke, his voice was a smooth, clear baritone that cut right through your giggling fit.

"Hey," he murmured, "Comment vous appelez-vous ?"

Your voice completely dissolved into another helpless burst of giggles. The drinks had utterly disassembled your brain’s filter, leaving you sitting there grinning like an absolute fool.

"Je... Je m'appelle..." you slurred. You tried your absolute best to offer a polite introduction, but your tongue felt five sizes too big for your mouth. You managed to trip over your own name, completely butchering the pronunciation before just giving up entirely and laughing out loud.

Why is this beautiful museum statue of a person looking at me? Look at those eyelashes. Awhh he is so cute! He’s not real. He’s a hallucination. Hahaha, he is so pretty….

The gorgeous red-haired man didn't look offended at all with your staring and was simply interested in you..he let out a soft, amused chuckle, nodding along to your drunken rambling with perfect composure.

"Enchanté," he said smoothly. He leaned across the sticky bar table and extended a hand, his fingers wrapping around yours in a surprisingly firm, polite handshake. "I'm Vivian. Vivian Hugo."

As he released your hand, Vivian subtly cast a knowing, highly amused glance over his shoulder toward his friend sitting slightly behind him in the booth. "Ahem, Julian..." he muttered.

You casually blinked through your blurry, alcohol-induced haze at the guy named Julian—who was literally Julian Loki. You just sat there giggling, your brain completely empty of any useful thoughts.

You had absolutely zero idea that the pretty guy currently holding your hand was a global football celebrity

You didn't know Vivian Hugo was a member of the New Generation World XI

You didn't know he was a literal god on the pitch for Arsenal, or that he and Loki were basically the most popular, untouchable athletes in all of France To your, drunken mind, he was just a spectacularly pretty French guy with spectacular lashes.

"Tu es tellement... pretty," you giggled, your filter completely shattered as you leaned way too close across the table. "Like, realllly pretty. How are your eyelashes even real?"

You beamed a wide, goofy smile, entirely unbothered by the fact that the literal Julian Loki was currently hiding a massive laugh behind his hand. Before your brain could register the sheer social audacity of what you were doing, you fully extended your arm across the table. Your fingers moved forward, and you firmly, aggressively pinched Vivian Hugo's cheek.

The entire table of coworkers went dead silent. Camille's drink froze halfway to her mouth.

Vivian was completely froze. For a guy who was notoriously terrifying and precise on the football field, he never saw this coming. His eyes widened slightly, momentarily blanking out into pure shock.

His skin was incredibly soft under your fingertips, and as you let go with another loud giggle, a small, genuine, and unusually soft smile pulled at his lips.

He didn't pull away. He just adjusted his posture, his eyes locking onto yours with a completely new, intense kind of curiosity.

"You are a very bold stranger," Vivian murmured.

With the alcohol entirely running the show, you didn't even notice how closely he was looking at you. Instead, you just started talking.

You joked about your life with a, self-deprecating humor, slurring through the absolute tragedy of your boring life. You complained loudly about your mom calling you an excuse-maker, how you tripped that one time in the middle of the Parisian streets, and that time you fell asleep for an entire day because you stayed up way too long.

"I know I’m pretty…i thinkl!" you pouted, gesturing vaguely to your white lace top and the three-year-old knee-high boots hiding under the table. "But I never even go out! And it's me. It's me, it's my fault!" you cried to him, your lower lip trembling.

Through all of it, Vivian Hugo just listened. He didn't interrupt your rambling for a single second. His gaze remained entirely watching the way your hands moved and your face looked.

To a guy like Vivian—who was deeply obsessed with concepts of destiny, fate, and "suitable destinies"—seeing you in this state was completely fascinating

. You were being a total fool, but he found himself utterly charmed by your wit, even through the slurred words.

Yeah, to vivian probably he saw you as part of his destiny life.

"Don't be like that, hm?" Vivian softly echoed, his voice laced with a gentle affection that went entirely over your drunk head. He reached out, his thumb incredibly soft as he gently wiped away an eyelash.

But you were so deep into the alcohol that the bar might as well have been spinning on an axis. Before Vivian could even finish his sentence, you leaned entirely across the booth, grabbed him firmly by his broad shoulders, and gave him an aggressive, unprompted shake.

"You don't understand, Vivian!" you wailed.

Before he could reply, you immediately collapsed forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck in a massive, clumsy, drunken hug.

Vivian froze yet again. His arms hovered in the air for a fraction of a second, his brain completely short-circuiting from the sudden blast of your warmth and the sweet scent of your perfume.

But as your fingers tangled slightly into the fabric of his shirt, a soft, utterly helpless expression took over his handsome face. He wrapped one large, secure hand around your waist, holding you firmly against him so you wouldn't slide off the velvet booth.

Behind him, Julian Loki just covered his mouth, his shoulders actively shaking with silent, hysterical laughter at the sight of the untouchable Vivian Hugo being turned into a literal teddy bear.

You didn't care. You buried your face straight into his shoulder and just kept complaining, pouring your heart out right into his collarbone. "I'm just so scared, you know? Like, what am I doing with my life? I'm in my twenties and I'm just... cooped up! I'm a stupid houseplant!"

You sniffled loudly against his expensive shirt. "And people... my friends back home are like... I don't know, I'm invited to like three weddings! Hahaha! And all my friends are with people, and like... look at me!" you cried, your voice muffled against his neck. "I have no one. No one likes me!"

Then, midway through your dramatic crying, you abruptly snapped backward and started laughing out loud at your own misery.

You pulled back, your face mere inches from his. Your lower lip trembled into a ridiculous, dramatic pout. You didn't even notice how Vivian's breath hitched at the sudden proximity, or how his dark eyes dipped down to your lips for a split second before locking back onto your messy eyeliner.

Vivian’s eyes never left you. Not for a single second. The rest of the table was chatting and drinking, but his world had shrunk entirely to the girl clinging to his clothes.

He was completely, utterly whipped.

Vician was currently using every ounce of his concentration just to track the way you sighed, the way your lips formed a pout, and the stories you were telling him.

He leaned in even closer, his elbow on the table, his chin resting on his palm as he listened to your next unhinged rant with absolute, undivided intent.

He loved every single messy, anxious word coming out of your mouth.

You kept on wailing and complaining to him and Vivian—well—he listened to your ramblings and he was really focused and looking at you while you talked. "And then!" you gasped, slamming your hands onto your own knees as you pivoted in the booth to face him completely.

Across the table, Camille and Amélie paused mid-sip, their eyes darting from your gestures straight to the elite athlete who was currently listening to your endless ramblings

Camille leaned back against the plush velvet, a massive, knowing grin spreading across her face. She nudged Amélie’s elbow, gesturing with her cocktail glass toward your side of the booth.

"Regarde-moi ça," Camille chuckled softly, her voice dripping with amusement. "Our quiet little cubicle mouse gets drunk, makes us all laugh and we just left her for a minute and now she’s with vivian.”

Amélie let out a, giggling snort, resting her chin in her hand as she watched you aggressively point a finger at Vivian's chest to emphasize your point.

"Elle est trop drôle," Amélie whispered back, completely charmed by your sudden lack of a filter. "Who knew she was this sweet and cute, honestly was always scared and afraid of talking to her, thought she might get freaked out by a single small talk."

Camille laughed quietly, taking another sip of her drink. "I knew I liked her for a reason…."

You, of course, were entirely oblivious to your coworkers' commentary. You were far too busy leaning back into Vivian’s space, your face a mere inch from his.

Amélie whispered back, to camille. "Look at how he's staring at her. He has gone completely soft. Looking totally whipped boyfriend already, and i don’t even think she knows who he even is."

Suddenly, Lucas popped up from the other side of the table, he slumped down next to the girls, holding up his glowing phone screen to show off a freshly snapped selfie of himself grinning like an idiot next to a highly amused, peace-sign-flashing Julian Loki.

"Look!!" Lucas crowed, practically shoving the phone into Camille's face. "I just got a picture with my number one. My life is complete!!!"

He then cut his eyes over to you, watching as you threw your head back in another helpless, giggling fit.

"And that’s what happened!" you said to him while you sat there looking vivian. Then your laughter suddenly died down, replacing your humor with a wave of drunken vulnerability. You slumped against the plush velvet seat, your lower lip trembling as you looked down at your hands.

"I feel so horrible about how I look right now," you muttered softly, pouting as you nervously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My hair is still half-damp, my clothes are a rushed mess, and my eyeliner..."

Vivian’s expression immediately softened. The, amused look vanished from his face, replaced by a deep, intense sincerity

He reached out, gently catching your chin, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to look directly into his dark, mesmerizing eyes.

"You could never look horrible," Vivian murmured,

“yada—yada, yap-yap-yap”

You couldn’t even make sense of what he was talking about, all you couldn’t understand was the sincerity in his voice with his words.

Your eyes welled up with big, drunk tears, and before he could even blink, and continue his monologue, you let out a soft sob, lunged forward, and wrapped your arms around his neck in an absolute death grip.

"Thank you, Vivian!" you wailed into his shoulder, completely weeping now. "You are literally the nicest, most gorgeous statue ever!"

Still clinging to his neck, you pulled back just enough to aggressively shake his broad shoulders again, your tears spilling over your cheeks. "No, seriously! You don't understand how much I needed to hear that!"

Vivian sat completely shocked. His breath hitched, his eyes widening in pure surprise at how incredibly bold you were being.

A complete 180 to what he assumed how his day was supposed to be. Usually he was more blunt and straightforward, vivian is a chill person but this was awfully funny .

But as your hands squeezed his shoulders, a soft, helpless expression melted across his face. He leaned into the embrace, wrapping his long arms securely around you, pulling your back close against his chest to steady your swaying body.

As he held you, he took a breath and immediately winced slightly. You were absolutely reeking of alcohol. It smelled like you had practically bathed in whatever drinks your colleagues had been buying you all night.

A amused chuckle vibrated through his chest against yours. He pulled back just a fraction, looking down at your tear-stained, messy face with a teasing, flirtatious glint in his dark eyes.

"Are you secretly an alcoholic, ma petite?" he joked

"No!" You threw your head back and letting out another loud, sudden burst of giggles. "I'm not an alcoholic!

You laughed and laughed, wiping a tear from your cheek, though if anyone asked you what was so funny, you genuinely had no idea either. Your brain was entirely fried….

1. For one, you had spent the last twenty minutes talking entirely to yourself inside your own head while a gorgeous French celebrity just watched you…that you didn’t know at the time.

2. Two, you were actively embarrassing yourself loudly!

3. And three... honestly, you didn't even know anymore. The numbers didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the fact that you were hella drunk and being a mess and you regretted being that way because you were a different person when you are drunk.

Across the table, Julian Loki finally lost his composure completely, slamming a hand on the table as he roared with laughter at Vivian's utterly stunned, face. But his friend still decided to go along with your antics.

Vivian just watched you laugh, a soft, incredibly fond smile breaking across his face. His thumb gently reached up to catch the fresh tear tracks on your cheek. He was so incredibly whipped, at this point…there was no turning back.

Your head suddenly felt five times heavier than it did a second ago. The frantic laughter faded into a long, dramatic yawn, and your eyelids felt like lead. The liquid courage was finally wearing off, leaving behind a deep, heavy exhaustion. Without a shred of hesitation, your head dropped right onto Vivian’s broad shoulder, your face burying into the warm crook of his neck as your body went completely limp.

Vivian caught you effortlessly, his arms tightening around your waist as you instantly drifted off to sleep against his collarbone. He looked across the table at Julian and looking for your coworkers, his expression shifting into something intensely protective.

"I think you need to go home," Vivian murmured softly, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your sleeping face.

Your head suddenly felt five times heavier than it did a second ago. The frantic laughter faded into a long, dramatic yawn, and your eyelids felt like lead. Without a shred of social hesitation, your head dropped right onto Vivian’s broad shoulder, your face burying into the warm crook of his neck as your body went completely limp.

He cleared his throat, a light flush creeping onto his pale cheeks, and gave your arm a gentle, desperate little shake to try and wake you up.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice cracking a tiny bit in sheer panic. "You cannot sleep here. Wake up."

You didn't wake up. Instead, you just dozed off further into his expensive shirt, letting out a soft, hazy giggle against his skin. "Mmm... pretty man," you slurred into his shoulder, completely unbothered. "So pretty... long lashes..."

When you passed out, Vivian had absolutely no idea what to do. He stared down at your sleeping form, entirely panicked.

He looked around the bar, desperately searching for your coworkers, but Camille and the others were completely lost somewhere in the thick crowd on the other side of the venue. He didn't have your keys, he didn't know your address, and he couldn't exactly leave a vulnerable, sleeping girl on a sticky booth cushion.

Right on cue, Julian Loki walked back up to the table, holding a fresh drink. He took one look at vivian, anxiously cradling a sleeping girl like she was a fragile piece of glass, and he burst out laughing.

"Oh, I didn't know you would score tonight," Loki wheezed, covering his mouth as his shoulders shook with silent, helpless laughter at the entire absurd sight.

"Please be quiet Julian," and Carefully adjusting your weight, Vivian slipped one arm under your knees and the other securely behind your back, “where you taking her?” Julian asked.

“To my apartment, i’ll text you tomorrow morning.” Julian just nodded in response.

Vivian lifted you up into his arms with effortless athletic strength. Your head lolled heavy against his chest, your three-year-old knee-high boots dangling in the air as he held you close.

Since he couldn't leave you and had absolutely no way of knowing where your tiny apartment was, Vivian had no choice. He was bringing you back to his place.

He wouldn't do anything, of course—he was a gentleman, albeit an incredibly whipped one—but as he carried you out of the loud bar by using the back exit and Vivian walked carrying you bridal style into the cool, damp Paris night air.

The rain had cleared, leaving the streets slick and mirroring the bright neon signs of the boulevards

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, you let out a tiny, sleepy sigh. Your body shifted closer against him, and you shoved your face right into the center of his chest, seeking his warmth. Your hair brushed against his jawline.

Vivian’s throat went dry. He paused on the pavement, his chest locking tightly as he swallowed hard, a visible gulp moving down his throat.

He walked over to his sleek, luxury car parked by the curb. Balancing your weight with one arm, he unlocked the door, opened it, and carefully lowered you onto the leather passenger seat.

Vivian leaned into the car to pull the strap across you, but you weren’t making it easy. Even in your deep, alcohol-induced sleep, you kept moving, squirming against the leather seat, and letting out quiet, breathless giggles. You were still talking to yourself, your lips moving as you muttered completely nonsensical fragments of your earlier rants.

Vivian didn’t mind at all. In fact, a soft, incredibly amused chuckle escaped his lips. Catching your stray hand before it could swat him again.

Vivian closed the passenger door gently and walked around to the driver's side. Instead of starting the engine immediately, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight through the windshield into the quiet street.

Vivian began contemplating his life choices. Is this even a good idea? He was Vivian Hugo, He was taking an incredibly drunk, completely unconscious girl back to his private apartment. If a single paparazzi caught a glimpse of this, the French sports tabloids would have an absolute field day by morning.

Beyond the media risk, it was just entirely outside his comfort zone h e rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a long, heavy exhale. He glanced over at you, watching the soft rise and fall of your shoulders A small, defeated, and completely whipped smile broke across his face.

When the car finally pulled over to his apartment , He carried you into his spacious bedroom and carefully laid you down on the center of his massive, comfortable bed. He leaned down, gently gripping your knee-high boots, and slid them off one by one so you could actually rest comfortably, setting them neatly by the closet

As he pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, covering youyour lips parted again. You mumbled a few more sleepy, incoherent words to him, shifting your face deep into his expensive pillows.

Vivian just stood by the edge of the bed, staring down at you with an intensely soft, completely whipped expression. He knew he was sleeping on the couch tonight, but honestly? He didn't care.

Before turning away, Vivian leaned over the bed one last time, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. His dark eyes softened as he watched your peaceful, sleeping face.

"Dors bien, ma belle," he murmured, his voice incredibly low, sweet, and thick with an affection.

With that, he quietly left the room, shutting the door gently to let you sleep in absolute peace.

The next morning, your eyes snapped open, and the immediate sensation was a thumping headache directly inside your skull. Your vision was completely blurry and groggy. You blinked once. You blinked two, three times, trying to clear the haze, expecting to see the cracked plaster ceiling of your apartment.

Instead, your eyes focused on massive, floor-to-ceiling windows showing a sweeping view of Paris.

Wait. This wasn't your room. Heck, this wasn't even a room you could afford if you saved your salary for the next ten years.

"Oh my god," you muttered, the horrific realization hitting your brain. A pure spike of panic shot straight through your hangover. You felt like throwing up; you felt lightheaded.

You gasped and let out a sharp scream, instantly ripping the heavy duvet open to check yourself under the sheets.

You frantically patted down your clothes—okay, you still had your bra on, your top and your skirt were still completely on, though your knee-high boots were gone.

You lightly pressed to check that your underwear was still on and that nothing bad had happened. Then you looked around, your hands trembling.

Who am I with? Did I get kidnapped? Am I a missing person? What happened?! WHO BROUGHT ME HERE???

Hearing the commotion, and your loud frantic screaming the bedroom door flew open in a rush. bounded into the room, looking completely alert, panicked, and worried.

But your blurry, hungover eyes didn't register who he was. You just saw a tall, incredibly muscular stranger invading your room—well the room.

And Your brain instantly assumed the absolute worst-case scenario.

"STAY BACK!" you screamed at the top of your lungs. You screamed again in front of him, making him freeze.

In a frantic, blind panic, you grabbed the nearest down pillow and hurled it directly at his head with surprisingly good aim. Vivian didn't even flinch; his reflexes kicked in, and he casually swiped the pillow out of the air with one hand, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Woah! Calm down, cherié—" Vivian started, stepping forward.

"Get away from me!" you panicked, scrambling like a chaotic crab to the edge of the mattress, desperate to get out of the bed and run for your life.

But you underestimated how high the bed was, how tangled you were in the sheets, and just how violently the room would spin the moment you moved.

Your feet hit the floor, your knees immediately buckled like noodle strings, and you just plopped right back down onto the hardwood floor in a messy, uncoordinated heap with a loud thud!

"Ow, fuck!" you whined weakly from the floor, clutching the head that you bumped, which was already suffering from a hangover.

Vivian’s tough, unreadable demeanor completely melted. He seemed amused yet rushed to the side of the bed, dropping to his knees right in front of you, his hands hovering over your shoulders with pure, genuine concern.

This was too much for you to bare….

"Hey, hey, are you alright?" Vivian asked, his voice urgent but incredibly gentle as he looked down at your groggy, terrified face. "Don't move so fast. You had far too much to drink last night."

You blinked up at him, your vision finally focusing on his incredibly long, thick eyelashes and those dark, mesmerizing eyes.

The memories of the bar started flashing back in painful, embarrassing fragments: you joking with your coworkers, laughing and shouting at the top of your lungs, you pinching his cheeks, you hugging his neck, you crying into his shirt about your life... you clinging onto him.

Your eyes widened in pure horror as you remembered everything. You remembered staring shamelessly at him and aggressively shaking his broad shoulders.

You froze completely, turning into a literal statue on the edge of his bed. Your jaw dropped, your breath hitching in your throat.

Oh my god. I did that. I did all of that to a man I barely know.

Vivian stood right in front of you, dropping his hands from your shoulders but remaining close. He tilted his head, his dark, almond-shaped eyes locking onto your frozen expression.

"So," Vivian murmured, his voice smooth and low. "Do you remember or no?"

You looked up at him, your gaze traveling from his messy hair down to his strikingly handsome features. And then, the final, most catastrophic realization hit you.

Vivi...

Vivian...

Hugo….

Vivian Hugo…..

VIVIAN HUGO!

Your brain finally connected the dots. And you stared at him , this wasn't just a random, pretty French guy from the office. NO, he wasn’t even from the office.

This was the prodigy midfielder for Arsenal and part of the France national team and a a literal member of the New Generation World XI. He was a global sports icon, a millionaire celebrity, and someone whose face was plastered on billboards across Europe. You’ve seen him before, you’ve seen him model for brands and be the front cover of multiple magazines.

And you had treated him like a giant, fluffy teddy bear, wept on his shoulder, slapped his hand and pinched his face.

You sat back down at the edge of the bed , staring at one of the most popular athlete in France, completely speechless as the sheer absurdity of your life.

You just sat there, the sheer, suffocating weight of your own embarrassment crashed down on you like a tidal wave.

You let out a sudden, hysterical laugh. It wasn't a cute, giggly laugh drunk laugh—it was the unhinged cackle of a woman who had officially reached the end of her life and had officially lost it.

In the middle of your laughing fit, your mom’s voice echoed in your head with

“If you keep drinking like that, you are going to ruin your life. Don’t end up like those old drunkards. Always be polite and mindful and never drink because you’re always a mess.”

"You were right, Mom," you choked out, laughing so hard a tear leaked from your eye. "You were so right. I ruined it. I ruined everything!”

Suddenly, the laughter stopped, and you began to completely tweak out.

You grabbed chunks of your own hair, pulling at it frantically as you rocked back and forth on the mattress.

You were muttering to yourself in a mix of French and English, your eyes wide and staring blankly into space.

Vivian eyes widened, his pupils losing their sharp focus as he watched you completely unravel right in front of him.

He actually took a step backward, his hands raising slightly in self-defense as if he were trying to placate a wild animal.

To say at-least you were probably concerning him from his point of view for acting a tad bit—no—for acting deranged.

"Hey," Vivian said, his voice dropping its smooth tone, replaced by a very real, very concerned panic.

You just looked up at him, your hair completely disheveled, your white lace top slightly wrinkled, and your face flushed bright red from pure embarrassment.

You couldn’t stop. Your brain had completely exited the atmosphere, leaving you in a state of pure, unadulterated panic.

"I can't believe it," you whispered hysterically, your fingers still violently tangled in your own hair. "I actually cannot believe this is happening. This is a simulation. I am in a fever dream.Nothing is real. We are all living in a simulation,…you are not real ” You muttered to yourself.

Fuck me. Fuck me and my fucking life, and my fucking self, and my fucking stupid, dumbass self," you swallowed hard.

You swallowed hard for a couple of reasons.

One, you were embarrassing yourself while dealing with a big-ass migraine, and two, you had this guy standing right in front of you... and this was just so awkward.

Then snapped your head up and looked directly at him. You stared at Vivian Hugo—the guy whose face was literally on the sports banners you walked past every day—standing in his own bedroom, looking at you with concer.

"You're…Vivian …Hugo," you pointed trailing off with pointing an accusing, trembling finger at his chest, your voice rising to a frantic squeak. "And I... I... I touched your face! I hugged you! I complained to you about my life!"

Vivian swallowed hard, his eyes wide as he tracked your chaotic movements. Vivian nodded and then you stood up, patted your self down and neatly fixed your hair and tried to make a run for it.

He grabbed you gently by the shoulders, grounding you before you could escape into the hallway.

"Where exactly do you think you are going, hmm?" Vivian asked, his voice a mix of sheer disbelief and muffled amusement.

"I—I have to leave!" you insisted, trying to squirm out of his grip, but his hands on your shoulders were solid. You looked up at him, your face burning a violent shade of pink. "I'm so, so , so sorry. For being like that yesterday, please forget about me.” You looked at his face.

"No," Vivian said flatly, looking expressionless.

You stopped your tracks, “why no..?”

"No."

"I am not letting you leave like this."

"I like you," Vivian corrected flatly, with the absolute, confidence. He leaned a bit closer, his eyes dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

He was so blunt and his face had barely any expression going on and that scared you…because you can’t tell what’s going on.

He was too close. Waayyy too close. Too close that you could almost fill your lips brushing with him.

Your heart was beating like a bass drum. This is it, you thought with certainty. What do people hear when they are about to die? Because right now,you were hearing every single lecture my mother has ever given me.

You swallowed hard, You could practically see the pearly gates opening up right through Vivian’s expensive ceiling.

You were entirely convinced that a choir of angels are going to take your soul away.

In your mind's eye, you pictured your ancestors gathered in a semi-circle, waiting for you on the other side. They were probably looking at you with a collective mix of disappointment and profound confusion. On how you died and live your life

Honestly, at this rate, you weren't even sure if your ancestors would accept you into heaven, or if there was such a thing as paradise.

You were completely stunned—too many things were happening at once (who even wrote this scenario?) and you were completely embarrassed and humiliating yourself, if anyone was in this situation they would probably act normal..

In a desperate, knee-jerk reaction to protect your remaining sanity, you extended a single, trembling index finger, pressed it right against the center of his forehead, and firmly pushed his face away from yours.

Vivian blinked, completely caught off guard as his head tilted back from your finger.

The confident, smooth smirk vanished from his elegant features, instantly replaced by a genuinely sad, puppy-dog expression.

"You don't like me?"

His shoulders slumped, and his dark eyes looked up at you through those ridiculously long lashes with an almost wounded pout.

"If my presence is too overwhelming for you right now," he murmured, his voice laced with a sudden, soft earnestness, "let me take you out. Properly. Date me."

Your brain completely stalled. Date him? A world-class football player? And you...you…

You looked at his handsome, slightly desperate face. And glanced back

Really? Was this actually happening? He wasn’t weirded out…? You don’t mind….I mean….like…shit…you would definitely want to go out with him…who wouldn’t?

"Uhm... three dates," you stammered out, lifting three fingers while trying to maintain whatever dignity you had left. "Give me three dates, and I’ll think about it...!"

Vivian’s sad expression vanished in a split second. A bright, victorious, and completely whipped smile broke across his face.

He smiled, a soft, victorious hum vibrating in his chest as he accepted your counter-offer.

"Three dates," he repeated smoothly, his voice dropping into a low, melted tone that sent an immediate shiver straight down your spine. "Comme tu veux, ma chérie."

You just sat there on the edge of the mattress, completely motionless, as Vivian stood in front of you.

He stared down at your frozen figure,

"You are very quiet now, ma chérie," Vivian He took a slow step closer, leaning down just enough to look directly into your wide eyes.

"Where did all that loud energy go? Last night, you were not quiet at all. In fact, you were clinging onto me You wouldn't let go of my neck, no matter how many times I told you we had arrived."

Hearing the vivid reminder of your shameless behavior, a bolt of electricity shot straight through your spine.

You jolted upward, your hands flying out instinctively to clap over his mouth and shut him up before he could utter another humiliating detail.

"Stop talking! Do not say another word!" you gasped, your voice a frantic squeak.

But the moment your palms made contact with his jawline, you realized exactly how you were acting.

You were touching his face , Again.

Catching yourself, you instantly pulled your hands back. You sat back down on the bed in a hurried, embarrassed heap, tucking your chin into your chest.

Then all the sudden he traced the pad of his thumb slowly across the curve of your cheek. His touch was warm, heavy, and completely mesmerizing.

You nervously leaned your head back, tilting your face away from his touch to break the contact. Vivian’s thumb hovered in the empty air for a bit.

He blinked, staring at his empty hand, and then looked back up at you. You scrambled backward on the mattress, creating as much physical distance between you and him , as humanly possible.

You aren’t going to give in that easily.

Your bare feet tangled slightly in the duvet again, but you managed to prop yourself up on your elbows, your chest heaving as you frantically searched your brain for an excuse because this was already akward enough, you would want to date him but at the same time you were scared to date him.

"Paparazzi!" you suddenly blurted out, the word flying from your mouth like a bullet. You pointed a trembling hand toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the sweeping view of Paris.

"Oh my god, the paparazzi! Vivian, we can’t go or be together y’know! There are photographers everywhere in this city. What if someone saw me come in here last night? What if they took a picture of me staggering out of your car? My face will be all over the tabloids by noon! I'll be labeled as your girl, and my face is going to be ruined across Europe and people—“

You were practically hyperventilating, the terrifying vision of your messy, hungover face plastered on the front page of French sports magazines flashing before your eyes.

Vivian remained on his knees by the edge of the bed, watching your crisis unfold. Completely unfazed.

"Ah, the media," Vivian said smoothly, his voice laced with a heavy, deeply unbothered amusement. "Yes, about that. You do not have to worry about them finding out from a sneaky photograph."

You blinked, your frantic breathing pausing for a fraction of a second. "What do you mean?"

"Because I already told them."

"You... what?" you whispered, your heart stopping completely.

"I told the media about it," he repeated flatly, the utter nonchalance in his tone contrasting violently with the bomb he had just dropped. He tilted his head, "When I was carrying you out of the bar last night, a few reporters from were waiting near my car. You were very busy at the time."

"Busy doing what?!" you gasped, gripping the sheets tightly.

"Well," Vivian chuckled, leaning forward slightly to thoroughly enjoy your escalating horror. "You had both of your hands securely wrapped around my neck. And right as the flashes went off, you looked directly at the cameras and shouted, 'I love my life!' at the top of your lungs. Then I tried to calm you down but you just told me to shut up”

Your jaw dropped so low you thought it might unhinge and fall onto the floor. A high-pitched, strangled noise escaped your throat. "No. No, you are lying. You have to be lying…."

"I am," Vivian admitted his face still not changing " I was joking, sorry. We did not get caught by the paparazzi last night, ma chérie. I tool you to the back exit. The press does not know a single thing."

You let out a massive, ragged sigh of relief, collapsing back onto the pillows. "You are an evil, horrible man,"

"I’m not evil, but I did call my manager and my PR team this morning," Vivian continued smoothly, dropping his hands from his chest and leaning his forearms against the mattress, trapping you with his sheer size. "I told them everything."

You instantly peeked through your fingers, your eyes wide with fresh terror. "So…what did tou tell them?!"

"Hmm," Vivian murmured, and straight forwardly said "I told them that I like a girl. I told them that I am going to ask her out, and that absolutely nobody is going to stop me. Not management, not the club,."

"Vivian, are you insane?!" you squeaked, your voice cracking. "You can't just tell people that! I didn’t even say yes nor have we even done anything to be officially together”

" you don’t have to worry" Vivian interrupted flatly, his eyes locking onto yours. He reached out, gently pulling your hands away from your face so you had no choice but to look at him.

"If you want to keep us a secret we can keep it a secret. I do not care about the press. I only care about the fact that I like you. And I respect any decision you will make, if you want to walk out then walk out i just joe you know that I like you and if destiny is true then we will end up going."

He leaned a bit closer, his eyes dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

"So," he whispered, a faint, breathless smile touching his lips. "Do not worry. Do you still want to go out?"

“Well…yes..” then He leaned down a bit to your lips but then Suddenly, the heavy silence of the bedroom was violently shattered by the loud, aggressive buzzing of your phone.

You both froze. Vivian reached over to his bedside table and smoothly handed you the device. Your heart dropped into your stomach when you saw the caller ID flashing on the screen.

It was your boss.

Your thumb trembled as you swiped to answer, pressing the phone to your ear. Before you could even mutter a hungover greeting, a sharp, furious voice boomed through the speaker, so loud that even Vivian could hear it.

"Où diable es-tu ?!" your boss exploded, completely skipping any polite pleasantries. "Do you have any idea what time it is? Half of the international office staff didn't show up this morning! Apparently, everyone who went out drinking last night is completely incapacitated!

"Je—je suis vraiment désolé, Monsieur—" you started, your voice cracking trying to mask up your own stress right now.

"Save it!" your boss cut you off, sounding completely at the end of his rope. "Here are your options, this will either be marked as an immediate unpaid leave on your record, or you drag yourself into the office right now and make up for the missing staff. So make a decision now."

While you were desperately trying to process this nightmare, Vivian decided this was the perfect moment to strike. Seeing you completely distracted and vulnerable, he leaned forward, wrapped his long, muscular arms securely around your waist, and buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, clinging to you like a giant koala.

The sudden warmth of his broad chest pressing against your back and his messy hair tickling your skin sent your brain into a total meltdown.

"Uhm... Monsieur..." you stammered into the phone, your voice rising to a breathless squeak as you tried to maintain your composure.

You frantically brought your free hand down, pressing your palms against Vivian’s broad, unyielding shoulders, desperately trying to push his massive frame away from you. You wriggled and squirmed against his grip, but trying to move him was like trying to push your closet. He only tightened his embrace, letting out a soft, amused hum against your neck that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

"I need an answer right now!" your boss snapped through the line, completely oblivious to the fact that you were currently wrestling someone right now

"I... I will come in!" you gasped out, struggling to speak properly as you kept pushing against Vivian’s chest. "I will be there... in thirty minutes, Monsieur! I am so sorry!"

You quickly slammed the end-call button before your boss could hear anything suspicious. The moment the line went dead, you turned your full, glaring attention to the man currently anchoring you to the bed.

Vivian!" you hissed, your voice a frantic, breathless squeak as you slammed your phone face-down onto the mattress. "What are you doing?! Off! Laisse-moi partir !”

You used every ounce of your remaining strength to push against his broad, muscular chest. He finally relented unlocking his arms from your waist and sitting back on his heels.

The sudden lack of his warmth left you shivering, but there was absolutely no time to process the romantic tension. You were officially in emergency mode.

"Es-tu fou ?!" you scolded him, your hands flying up in a wild gesture of pure panic. "That was my boss! My career was hanging by a single thread, and you were clinging to me! I just promised him I would be at the office in thirty minutes!"

Your eyes darted around the massive,bedroom and remembered this wasn’t your home.

"Oh my god, I am not in my apartment," you stammered, your words tripping over each other as you scrambled out of the heavy duvet.

"I don't have my makeup. I don't have my toothbrush. Look at me! I am wearing a wrinkled white lace top and a maxi skirt from last night! This is completely inappropriate for the office!

You stood up from the bed, your knees wobbling slightly from the lingering migraine, but the pure adrenaline pumping through your veins kept you upright. You were completely frantic, spinning in a circle as you searched for any sign of your belongings.

Vivian sat on the edge of the bed, watching your absolute meltdown with a calm, steady gaze. "Chérie, calm down. you cannot go to work like this, you are still vibrating."

"Yes! Yes, I can! I have to!" you stammered defensively, pointing a trembling finger toward the hallway. "I said yes to my boss, and I am going to show up!

Before he could block you again, you bolted. You broke out of the bedroom, your bare feet slapping rapidly against his expensive, polished hardwood floors as you made a literal run for it.

You sprinted down his long, hallway like a track star, desperate to reach the front door, grab your boots, and escape into the streets of Paris before your life could complicate itself any further.

You almost made it. Your hand was practically reaching for the brass handle of his grand front door when a sudden, violent wave of nausea hit you right in the gut.

The world spun on its axis. The adrenaline that had been powering your frantic sprint evaporated in a split second, leaving behind only the cold, hard reality of a hangover.

Why did you have to drink so much…

You froze in the middle of the hallway, your face instantly losing what little color it had left. You looked completely haggard, your shoulders slumping as you clutched your stomach.

"Oh, no," you whimpered, your eyes widening in shee horror. "No, no, no—"

Before you could even scan the corridor for a trash can or locate your knee-high boots, your body betrayed you. You couldn't help it. You were about to puke.

In a flash Vivian was there; didn't even hesitate to pull you before you could make a mess on his pristine, hardwood floors, his large hands gripped your waist and smoothly hoisted you off your feet. Carrying you straight to the restroom.

He dropped to his knees right alongside you, easing you down in front of the porcelain bowl just in time.

Vivian reached out to you , his hand, rubbing slow, soothing circles across your back.

"I've got you," Vivian murmured, his voice dropping its melodic purr and replacing it with an incredibly gentle, steady calmness. "Just let it out, ma chérie. Breathe."

You groaned weakly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you rested your forehead against your arm, feeling utterly defeated, gross, and completely exposed in front of him. You looked absolutely wrecked.

Then the loud, aggressive buzzing of your phone echoed from the hallway, cutting through the quiet hum of the bathroom fan. You slumped against the cold tile floor, feeling utterly hollow and exhausted. Vivian smoothly reached out, retrieved the phone from the corridor, and handed it to you with a quiet, sympathetic look.

You unlocked the screen with a trembling thumb, only to find a paragraph of text from your boss. It was a furious, fast-typed message,

“Votre comportement est absolument inacceptable ! Je ne vais pas vous licencier aujourd’hui car nous manquons cruellement de personnel, mais cela va laisser une très tache noire sur votre dossier. Ne venez plus aujourd'hui. Restez chez vous.”

“Your behavior is absolutely unacceptable! I am not going to fire you today because we are sorely lacking in staff, but this will leave a very black spot on your file. Don't come today. Stay at home.”

He wasn't firing you, but you reputation was completely in tatters. It was a terrible look for your career.

The absolute, crushing weight of the last twelve hours finally broke you—it was just too much.

A tear slipped down your cheek, followed by another, until you were officially sobbing, covering your face with your hands as your shoulders shook.

"Hey, hey..." Vivian murmured.

Seeing your tears, He shifted closer on the bathroom floor, wrapping his long, muscular arms around you and pulling your weak, trembling body directly against his broad chest.

He didn't care that you looked haggard or that you had just been sick; he just held you securely, while rubbing your back to soothe you.

"Don't cry, ma chérie," Vivian whispered, his voice incredibly soft and warm. "You didn’t get fired and You did not kill anyone."

"My... my career is over," you choked out between miserable, unhinged sobs, your voice muffled against his shirt. "My dossier has a black mark on it. I am a failure."

You sniffled, staring up at him, You're not even my boyfriend," you sniffled, your voice cracking as you tried to pull your hand back from his chest. "I don't... I don't even know you."

The reality of your situation crashed down on you again, fresh tears welling up in your eyes and spilling over your flushed cheeks. Your emotions were completely unregulated, a raw, exhausting mix of a pounding migraine, a volatile stomach, and absolute panic.

"Look at me," you cried, gesturing weakly to your wrinkled clothes, your wild hair, and the bathroom floor. "I am a total mess. My job is going to fail, my record is ruined, and I'm sitting here crying in front of a stranger. I am a complete mess of a person."

"Hey, non, look at me. You are going to be fine," Vivian assured you, his voice dropping into a deep, steady cadence. He reached out to wipe a tear from your cheek, his touch incredibly gentle. "A black mark on a dossier is nothing. I promise you, your life is not over."

"No!" you argued, your voice rising in a desperate, emotional sob. "You don't get to say that! You don't even know me, Vivian! You don't know anything about my life or my job, so just... just stop trying to fix it!"

You covered your face again, sobbing completely unhinged because you felt so incredibly bad about yourself.

Vivian’s expression shifted, Seeing you completely broken down made him feel genuinely bad. He looked at you with a profound, quiet sadness in his eyes, realizing just how deeply the stress and the hangover were crushing you.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward and tried to wrap his arms around you for a hug.

Your heart jolted, and you flinched back slightly, a sudden wave of scared, defensive panic making you freeze. You were terrified of the intimacy, terrified of how fast everything was moving, and terrified of losing whatever control you had left.

Vivian froze instantly, keeping his hands hovering a few inches away from your shoulders, giving you space. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute sincerity. "I've got you, ma chérie. Only if you want."

Needing comfort more than anything else in the world right now, you gave in. You leaned forward, burying your face directly back into the safe, warm crook of his neck, and kept crying.

Vivian didn't hesitate. He pulled you flush against his broad chest, locking his strong arms around you and rocking you slowly on the bathroom floor. He let you weep, whispering quiet, soothing words against your ear, completely unbothered by the mess, entirely content just to hold you until the storm in your mind finally passed.

“Bare with me now…!”

You smoothed down the fabric of your black polka-dot maxi skirt, shifting your weight from one foot to the other in your simple black ballet flats.

After the absolute emotional and crash out you had yesterday, you had spent Sunday hiding under your covers, praying that Monday would never come.

But here it was. You had painstakingly pieced yourself back together, choosing a familiar white lace top paired with a cozy black cardigan to look as presentable—and invisible—as possible.

You were standing by the office coffee machine, desperately waiting for the coffee machine to work , when Lucas sauntered up with a giant, knowing grin on his face.

"Well, well, look who survived," Lucas joked, nudging your shoulder with his elbow. "How did that hangover treat you, little mouse? I heard the boss was handing out black marks like candy on Friday morning."

Before you could scramble for an excuse, another coworker popped her head around the corner, holding a stack of papers.

"Oh, leave her alone, Lucas! Honestly, you were so much fun on Thursday night," she complimented, giving you a warm smile. "We were all shouting, but you were the life of the party."

You let out a weak, thoroughly awkward chuckle, "Yeah... haha. Fun times..!"

You took a desperate sip of your coffee, hoping to slip back to your desk unnoticed, when Amélie suddenly stepped into the breakroom.

"So," Amélie purred, leaning against the counter and lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. "Are you going to tell us, or do we have to guess? What exactly is the deal with you and the Vivian Hugo?"

Your brain completely stalled. The coffee in your throat almost went down the wrong pipe.

Vivian?" you squeaked, your voice jumping as you gripped your coffee cup. "Nothing... nothing much."

Amélie just stared at you, an eyebrow raised at your painfully awkward behavior, clearly not buying a single word. “Are you sure?”

"Yes!" you stammered, nodding furiously as you smoothed down your black polka-dot maxi skirt with your free hand. "He was just being a polite person…err—friend!"

Lucas let out a loud snort into his mug. "Right. Because when I think of a friend , I think of the most famous midfielder in Europe hanging out with me and looking smitten."

You shifted uncomfortably in your black ballet flats, wishing your cardigan could swallow you whole.

Amélie crossed her arms, a skeptical smirk playing on her lips. She clearly wasn't buying a single word of your painfully awkward cover story, but before she could press you for the real details, your phone buzzed violently in your cardigan pocket.

You pulled your phone out of your cardigan pocket, your fingers fumbling a bit as you tapped the screen. You saw the name Vivian Hugo lighting up your notification bar.

You unlocked it, your eyes widening as you read the message:

"Ma chérie, our date—do not forget it. I also saw a butterfly this morning. Did you know I adore butterflies?"

"What is that face?" Amélie asked instantly, her eyes narrowing as she tried to peer over your shoulder. "Who is texting you, hmmm?"

Before you could lock your phone or scramble for another excuse, the heavy glass door of the breakroom swung open with a sharp, intimidating click.

The atmosphere in the room froze instantly.

Your boss strode into the breakroom, looking like an absolute thundercloud. His sharp gaze swept over the counter, immediately locking onto the group of you standing idly by the coffee machine.

The collective panic was palpable. Lucas practically swallowed his coffee whole, and Amélie instantly straightened her posture, everyone scattering like a flock of startled birds toward the exits before a single word could even be spoken.

You tried to subtly slip your phone back into your cardigan pocket, but you weren't fast enough.

"You!" your boss snapped, his voice booming as he pointed a sharp finger directly at you, stopping you dead in your tracks "On your phone again? Is this what we are doing today?"

You froze, your shoulders tensing up as you slowly turned around to face him.

"Monsieur, I was just—"

"I do not want to hear it!" he cut you off,. "After the absolute disaster of Friday morning, you arrive today and the first thing you do is stand in the breakroom texting? Your department is already drowning in backlogged work from the weekend!"

"Yes, Monsieur. I am so sorry," you stammered out, your face burning a bright, violent shade of pink as you frantically shoved the phone deep into your pocket.

You didn't dare breathe another word. Clutching your coffee cup, you quickly scurried out of the breakroom, your mind completely racing between the terrifying wrath of your corporate manager and the lingering, melted tone of Vivian’s text message.

You slinked back to your desk, keeping your head low as you slid into your office chair. Your boss was still pacing the floor nearby, keeping a hawk-like eye on the department.

Waiting until his back was completely turned, you carefully slipped your phone out of your cardigan pocket and hid it beneath the edge of your desk, your thumbs flying across the screen in a flurry of pure panic.

"I am at work right now! My boss almost just murdered me because of you! I cannot be texting back. Bye!"

You hit send with a definitive tap, instantly locking the screen and shoving the phone deep into your bag before you could get caught again. You let out a shaky breath, pulled up the backlogged of reports on your monitor, and tried to force your brain to focus on instead of vivian.

Not even two minutes later, your bag gave a single, muted vibration against the floor.

You looked around cautiously. Your boss was currently across the room scolding Lucas about a spreadsheet error, giving you time. You reached down, zipped open your bag, and peeked at the preview on your screen.

"Okay. I am at practice now. Focus on your work, ma chérie."

A small, helpless huff of laughter escaped your lips before you could help it.

You wouldn’t mind him being your boyfriend..really…

You locked the phone for good this time, a tiny smile tucking into the corner of your mouth as you finally buried yourself in your paperwork, the countdown to the first of your three dates officially ticking away in the back of your mind.

Part Two : soon

Written by Jammy. Please do not copy and paste or feed my work into an AI. This was completely written by hand, thank you for stopping by and reading!

Taglist : @thetwinkims @nukibun @luvynii @caravm

@collectionofcannedsoups @qiyynahwtf @lisa2332

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