#hugovivianxreader

He noticed how you always stole the marshmallows out of his hot chocolate even though you claimed you didn’t like sweet things.

How you tilted your head whenever you were genuinely listening to someone speak.

How your fingers curled around the sleeves of your sweater when you got shy.

How you pretended to hate physical affection, yet always gravitated toward him unconsciously — knees touching beneath restaurant tables, your head finding his shoulder during long car rides, your hand brushing against his like your body had memorized him long before your heart admitted it.

And yes—he noticed your habits while he’s playing too.

How you sat in the stands during his matches, legs swinging slightly as you watched him like it was the most normal thing in the world to be watching Hugo Vivian of the New Generation Eleven miss a pass and then immediately hear you laugh.

Not cruel, never cruel.

Just that soft, breathy laugh like you found him too human for his own good.

And weirdly? Hugo thought it was cute, annoyingly cute.

Even when it was directed at him.

Because every time he misjudged a pass or mistimed a press, he’d hear it.

Your laugh.

And instead of it shaking him, it would just make him click his tongue under his breath like—Seriously? You’re laughing?

Like you hadn’t just witnessed a New Gen Eleven midfielder miss a pass.

Like you didn’t know exactly how ridiculous that was supposed to be.

He’d glance up at the stands mid-match, eyes narrowing slightly.

And you’d be there—trying and failing to look innocent.

Hands covering your mouth.

Shoulders shaking anyway.

And Hugo would think, mildly offended but undeniably fond: Unbelievable. That’s my so-called supporter.

Because Hugo never knew what you were.

His number one fan?

Or his number one hater?

You were both, apparently.

And somehow, that made you his favorite person in the stadium.

Hugo Vivian noticed it all.

Because loving you had become instinctive.

You were his best friend. His favorite person. The first voice he searched for in crowded rooms and the last person he texted before sleeping. Somewhere between late-night drives and lazy Sundays spent tangled together on his couch, Hugo Vivian had fallen disastrously in love with you.

And the worst part was—he didn’t even know when it happened.

Maybe it was the night you fell asleep on his chest while rambling about your childhood.

Or when you showed up at his apartment at midnight because you “just wanted company,” and the two of you ended up dancing stupidly in his kitchen to old songs playing from his speaker.

Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Maybe Hugo Vivian was always going to love you.

He knew you hated thunderstorms despite pretending they didn’t scare you. Every time rain hit your windows too loudly, you’d suddenly find reasons to stay near him.

“Hugo,” you’d mumble softly from his bedroom doorway at two in the morning, oversized hoodie swallowing your figure whole, “can I sleep here tonight?”

And every single time, he’d lift the blanket beside him without hesitation.

“C’mere.”

You’d crawl into bed beside him quietly, your cold feet immediately pressing against his legs.

“You’re freezing,” he’d complain automatically.

“And you’re warm,” you’d reply, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Then Hugo would wrap himself around you like second nature.

Like your body belonged there, like you were destined to be with him.

Like it always would.

The terrifying thing about Hugo Vivian was how carefully he loved.

He memorized your coffee order after hearing it once.

He kept hair ties around his wrist because you were always losing yours.

He saved photos of things that reminded him of you — cats sleeping in bookstores, sunsets that matched the color of your eyes, little notes you absentmindedly scribbled on napkins.

And yes, he noticed your stadium habits too.

How you always leaned forward when he was about to receive the ball, like your body could somehow influence the play.

How your fingers fidgeted whenever the match got tense.

How you always relaxed the moment he started controlling the midfield properly, like you could actually feel when he “switched on.”

Hugo loved that most of all.

Not because you understood football like a tactician—but because you understood him, even when he didn’t say anything.

He loved you in ways so gentle you almost missed them, Almost.

But sometimes, late at night, you’d catch him staring at you with this unbearably soft expression. Like he was trying to memorize you before the world could take you away.

And your chest would ache so badly it frightened you.

Because no one had ever looked at you the way Hugo Vivian did.

Like he had discovered something sacred.

One evening, the two of you ended up on the rooftop of his apartment building, city lights glittering beneath the dark sky while music played softly from his phone. Some old song by The 1975 hummed quietly between you both.

You were wearing his jacket.

He noticed that too.

“You steal a lot of my clothes,” he said lazily, leaning back against the wall beside you.

You glanced at him innocently. “Maybe your clothes just like me more.”

Hugo laughed softly under his breath.

God, that laugh.

You’d spend the rest of your life listening to it if you could.

The wind brushed against your skin as silence settled comfortably between you. The kind of silence only existed between people who knew each other too well.

Then Hugo suddenly spoke.

“You know what I realized?”

“Hm?”

“I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

Your breath caught immediately.

He said it so casually. So softly. Like it had simply become fact.

Hugo turned to look at you then, his expression unfairly tender.

“I knew it the moment I started memorizing things about you,” he admitted quietly. “Like how you always count steps on stairs without realizing. Or how you laugh when I mess up even though you’re clearly trying not to.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

“Hugo…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered quickly, almost smiling. “I just needed you to know.”

But you were already looking at him like he’d hung every star in the sky himself.

“You idiot,” you laughed shakily, eyes glossy. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

For a second, Hugo just stared. Then he laughed—soft and disbelieving and beautiful.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

The small grin that spread across his face nearly killed you.

And then he kissed you, slowly at first.

Like he was terrified you’d disappear if he moved too fast.

His hand slid against your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek while your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie. The kiss tasted like winter air and coffee and every late-night conversation you’d ever shared.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling so softly it made your chest ache.

“There you are,” he murmured.

“What?”

“The girl who laughs at me like I’m predictable.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You are predictable.”

“Liar.”

“Okay,” you admitted softly, “but you’re my predictable.”

That made him go quiet.

Then Hugo pulled you closer by the waist, like the idea of distance suddenly annoyed him.

“You’re still annoying,” he murmured.

You smiled instantly. “But you love me.”

Hugo sighed like it physically offended him.

“…Unfortunately.”

And after that, loving Hugo Vivian felt easy.

Because he became the type of boyfriend who kissed your forehead every single time he passed by you.

The type who sent you voice messages saying “stop laughing at my passes” followed immediately by “I miss you.”

The type who still noticed everything—

How you counted steps.

How you stole marshmallows.

How you laughed when he missed a pass in midfield like you couldn’t help yourself.

And every time it happened, Hugo would just exhale through his nose, shake his head slightly…

…and play better the next time, not because he had to, but because you were watching.

Note: This might be my last post until early June because my schedule is PACKED and I’m going on vacation…T-T