#ky10

The second he walks in the door, you know.

It’s in the way his shoulders slump, in the way his bag hits the floor instead of the hook, in the way he kicks off his sneakers like they’ve offended him personally. He doesn’t even bother greeting you with his usual cheeky smile or half-muttered “missed you.” No teasing. No jokes. He just drops everything and beelines straight for you.

“Hey,” you say gently, standing up from the couch like you’re preparing for impact.

Kenan wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck like you’re home and he’s been homesick for days. You don’t even try to tease him, he feels heavy. Not sad exactly, just… exhausted.

“Tough week?” you whisper, hands sliding up his back.

He hums, nodding against your skin. “Too much. Too loud. Too many people.”

You nod, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” he says, then quickly amends, “Not yet.”

You press a kiss into his hair, already moving back toward the couch and tugging him with you. He follows without resistance, like he’s on autopilot now that he’s in your orbit.

When you sink into the cushions, Kenan doesn’t even ask, he just crawls onto the couch beside you, shuffling until his head is resting on your chest, one arm draped lazily over your stomach, legs tangled up with yours like he physically can’t get close enough.

You settle your hand in his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp, and he melts.

There’s this tiny sound he makes when you do that, like a relieved little sigh, muffled against your hoodie. He’s not really saying anything, but you feel the tension unravel from his body like thread slipping loose.

“I needed this,” he mumbles after a minute, voice muffled against you.

You smile, soft and small, and tilt your head so your chin rests against his curls. “I kinda figured.”

Kenan turns his face into your chest, nosing at the fabric like he’s trying to disappear into you. “Can we stay like this all day?”

You glance at the clock, it’s 3:42 PM on a rainy Thursday, and honestly? The world can wait. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Good,” he murmurs, and it’s so soft you barely catch it. “You’re the only person I wanna be around right now.”

He sounds half-asleep already, like just being next to you is enough to start resetting his system. His fingers are doing that thing again, too, lightly tracing patterns on your side. Absentminded. Thoughtless. Intimate.

You keep running your hand through his hair, twirling a piece around your finger just to watch it fall back into place. “I thought you said you hated being clingy.”

“I do,” he says into your chest. “Just not with you.”

Your heart does this little thing where it flutters and aches at the same time. Because he’s so closed off around the world. So polished and professional and composed. Always the perfect version of himself. But with you? He lets go. He doesn’t have to be perfect. He just gets to be.

“Babe,” you say, teasing lightly, “You’re so clingy right now it’s actually concerning.”

He groans. “Shut up. You love it.”

You laugh and nod, even though he can’t see. “Yeah. I kinda do.”

Silence falls again, but it’s the warm kind. The kind that wraps itself around you and lets you breathe slower. Outside, the rain taps against the windows, and inside, Kenan’s breathing deepens as your fingers move through his hair, slow and steady.

Eventually, you feel his grip loosen, just slightly, like sleep is finally dragging him under.

“Are you falling asleep on me?” you whisper, pretending to be scandalized.

Kenan doesn’t even lift his head. “Mmhmm.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m tired. Let me be in love and sleepy in peace.”

You blink. The words hang in the air a second longer than they need to. You know he means it, he’s always meant it, but still. That was probably the most casual love confession you’ve ever received.

“Okay,” you whisper, smiling like a fool. “I’ll allow it.”

“Mmm. Thanks.”

He’s gone after that. Fully relaxed. Out cold. You shift just enough to grab the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over both of you, careful not to disturb the boy sprawled across you like a weighted blanket.

Your hand finds his hair again.

And you stay like that.

For hours.

You can feel him watching you again.

It's not new, not even surprising anymore. You’re used to the way his gaze always lingers on you like he’s trying to memorize every detail. But it’s different when it’s your lips. He stares with this quiet kind of intensity that makes it hard to keep a straight face.

You’re sitting on the couch in his apartment, tucked into the corner with a hoodie that definitely doesn’t belong to you. It’s one of his, oversized and worn soft at the sleeves, smelling like whatever cologne he spritzed on hours ago. You’ve got your legs pulled up, blanket over your lap, and you’re trying to focus on the movie playing on the TV.

Kenan is not helping.

At first, it’s subtle. His thumb traces along your hand, then your wrist, until his fingers are grazing your jaw. You glance at him, catching his eyes drop to your mouth again, and you let out a breathy laugh.

“You’re doing it again,” you tease.

His lips curve up into a slow smile, like he’s not even gonna try denying it. “Can’t help it,” he says simply, voice low, a little amused. “You make it impossible.”

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks go warm. “It’s just a mouth.”

He shakes his head like you’ve offended him. “It’s your mouth.”

“Oh, well. That explains everything,” you say dryly, but he just leans in like you’ve laid down an open invitation.

The kiss is soft. He always starts soft, like he wants to take his time, like he’s trying to savor something. And even though he’s kissed you a thousand times by now, each one still feels kind of sacred. Like he’s reminding himself that you’re real.

He pulls back after a moment, resting his forehead against yours. “I missed you today.”

“You saw me this morning,” you say, laughing a little, even though your heart does this dumb fluttery thing.

“Too long ago,” he murmurs, kissing you again, barely a brush this time. “And you wore that stupid lip balm that makes me think about you all day.”

Your laugh catches in your throat. “So now it’s the lip balm’s fault?”

“Mhm,” he hums with zero hesitation, and you bury your face into his shoulder to hide the smile threatening to take over.

This isn’t a one-time thing, either. You’ve caught onto his pattern.

Every time you talk too long, he ends up distracted, zoning out mid-conversation because your mouth moved a certain way. Every time you wear gloss, he kisses it off before you even leave the house. If you bite your lip out of habit, he stops whatever he’s doing to come over and kiss you like it’s urgent, like you’re some kind of problem he needs to solve with his mouth.

Even in public, he doesn’t hold back. A quick kiss before he heads to training. A longer one when he gets back, barely through the door before he’s pulling you close again. It’s like his lips have a magnetic field, and yours are the center of gravity.

You mention it one afternoon, curled up with him after he got home, legs tangled under the sheets and sunlight filtering in through the blinds.

“You’ve got an actual addiction,” you mumble, voice still sleepy.

Kenan grins, lazy and smug. “I’d say obsession. Sounds more romantic.”

“You kiss me constantly.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Romantic.”

You poke his chest. “Do I even get a say?”

“Too late,” he replies, dipping his head to kiss your collarbone. “You’re already mine.”

It’s even worse when he’s in a mood. After a good match, or a rough day, or any day that ends in y, really.

One evening, he comes back from a media event, looking exhausted, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled from running his fingers through it too much. You’re sitting on the counter eating strawberries when he walks in and sees you. Something in him softens immediately.

He doesn’t even say hi. Just drops his bag, walks straight over, and stands between your knees.

“I love you,” he says, voice a little rough.

You blink. “I love you too. You okay?”

He nods, already leaning in. “I just missed you.”

You taste the faintest hint of mint when he kisses you. It’s slow, deep, like he’s pouring everything he didn’t say today into you now. You slide your hands into his hair and let him take his time. When he finally pulls back, there’s a slight dazed look in his eyes.

“You’re so soft,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb across your lower lip. “It drives me crazy.”

“You’re actually insane,” you whisper, laughing.

“For you? Completely,” he says, and you don’t doubt it for a second.

Sometimes it’s not about needing. It’s about comfort.

Like when you’re quiet, withdrawn, and overthinking something. Kenan always knows. He doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, holds your hand, and waits.

And then, without fail, he kisses you.

A grounding one. Not heated or needy. Just lips pressed to yours, slow and reassuring. Like he’s saying, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how he always knows when to do it. You’ve stopped questioning it.

One night, it’s pouring rain, and you’re both wide awake for no reason. You’re standing by the window, watching droplets race down the glass, hoodie pulled over your head, your socks half-slipping off your feet.

Kenan walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and kisses your temple. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re sappy.”

“You’re mine,” he says against your cheek.

You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Are you ever gonna get tired of kissing me?”

He pretends to think about it for a second. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not even if I tried,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I think I was built to kiss you.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s hopeless. Your stomach flips anyway.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he teases, lips brushing against yours again. “You’re the one who started this.”

“I didn’t start anything.”

“You looked at me once,” he says seriously. “And now I’m doomed.”

“Doomed to kiss me forever?”

He nods solemnly. “It’s a burden I’ll gladly bear.”

You laugh into his mouth as he kisses you again, rain still tapping gently against the window, the world outside forgotten.

Let him kiss you all he wants. He’s never going to stop.

You’re curled up on the couch beside Kenan, both of you halfway through the pasta you made together, which mostly means you cooked while he stood behind you with his arms around your waist, pretending to help and stealing bites the entire time.

The plate is balanced between you two. One fork. That’s all you need.

Or so he thinks.

Kenan stabs another mouthful, twirls it around with way too much skill, and lifts it to his mouth. His focus is completely on the TV. You wait until he’s done chewing, grab the fork casually, and give it a long, dramatic wipe with a napkin.

He glances at you.

You wipe it again.

And then again.

He blinks, confused. “Did I get sauce on it?”

You sigh like you’re already tired of this conversation. “No, I’m cleaning it.”

Kenan raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you just had your mouth on it.”

He stares at you like you’ve personally offended him. “Yeah? And?”

“I don’t want your saliva on my fork,” you say sweetly, giving it one last, completely unnecessary polish.

“You’re joking.”

You shake your head.

Kenan turns toward you fully, mouth open. “We just kissed like twenty minutes ago.”

“Exactly,” you say, nodding seriously. “So I’ve had enough exposure for the day.”

“You literally kissed me before I brushed my teeth this morning.”

“That was love. This is hygiene.”

He blinks twice. “Love.”

“What?”

“We share food. All the time.”

“But now I’m thinking about your spit. It’s gross.”

He looks so deeply betrayed it almost breaks you. Almost.

“You know what?” he mutters, setting the plate down on the table. “Fine.”

You grin. Victory is sweet.

Or that is, until he suddenly shifts forward, grabs your face, and kisses you full on the mouth before you can even make a noise.

It’s not a soft kiss. It’s like he’s on a mission. A dramatic, petty, over-the-top mission. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to win something.

You shove at his shoulder, laughing into his mouth. “Kenan!”

He pulls back just enough to speak. “If we’re sharing saliva, we’re doing it properly.”

You try to squirm away, still giggling, but he holds you firm. “I’m proving a point,” he says, brushing his nose against yours.

“What’s the point? That you’re gross?”

He kisses you again. “That you’re mine. So fork rules don’t apply.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you mumble, slightly breathless.

He grins. “Only for you.”

You roll your eyes and flop back against the cushions, arms crossed, trying to hold your ground. “Fine. But now you’ve contaminated me.”

Kenan raises both eyebrows. “Contaminated?”

“I’ve been kissed by a mouth that was just eating garlic.”

He shrugs. “And you liked it.”

You cover your face with your hands. “You’re out to get me.”

“No,” he says, tugging your hands away gently. “This is your payback for making me feel like a walking biohazard.”

You pout up at him, dramatic as ever. “I was just teasing.”

“You wiped the fork three times,” he says, laughing now.

“It was funny.”

“It was disrespectful.”

You grin. “You kissed me about it.”

“And I’ll do it again.”

“Threat or promise?”

Kenan leans in until your noses touch. “Promise.”

You kiss him this time, soft and slow, letting the joke fade into something warm and familiar. His hands settle on your waist, steady and safe, and you both exhale at the same time like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

When you finally pull away, he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and says, “I’m still offended, though.”

“Want me to make it up to you?”

He smiles. “You can start by giving me the fork back so I can eat the rest of that pasta.”

You snort. “You want me to hand-feed you the food you just made me disinfect?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re such a diva, Kenan.”

You roll your eyes and grab the fork, twirling up a bite before holding it out to him like you’re feeding royalty. He leans forward and takes it happily, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“I taste betrayal,” he says after swallowing.

“I taste dramatic boyfriend.”

Kenan shrugs. “You love him.”

You were curled up on the couch scrolling through TikTok when you stumbled across the trend again. Girls filming their boyfriends, casually dropping the line: “If you were athletic, what sport would you play?” The reactions ranged from confusion to outrage, and you could already imagine Kenan’s face if you tried it on him.

A mischievous grin spread across your lips. You didn’t even think twice. This was too good to pass up.

Kenan walked in a few minutes later, fresh out of training, his hair still damp from the shower at the facility. He dropped his bag near the door and shot you a warm smile, the kind that always made your chest feel lighter.

“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your temple. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing, just scrolling,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual as you quickly opened the camera app on your phone and pressed record.

He raised an eyebrow, catching the sly little spark in your eyes. “What’s that look?”

“Nothing,” you repeated, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. You angled the camera toward him, pretending to be all innocent. “So, babe… serious question.”

Kenan kicked off his sneakers and sat on the couch next to you, throwing his arm over the backrest. “Alright, shoot.”

You looked at him with your most genuine expression. “If you were athletic, what sport do you think you’d play?”

For a moment, the words didn’t even register. He just blinked, tilting his head like you’d spoken another language. “What?”

You bit your lip, pretending to wait patiently for an answer. “Like, you know… if you were athletic.”

That’s when it hit him. His jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot up. “If I was athletic?” His voice cracked in disbelief as he pointed to himself. “You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head, lips twitching as you tried to keep a straight face.

“Are you being serious right now?” he asked, completely scandalized. He gestured toward himself again, even glancing down at his Juventus training kit like it was supposed to prove the point. “I literally play football for a living!”

“I know,” you said sweetly, fighting back a giggle. “But like… if you were athletic. Just imagine.”

Kenan’s mouth fell open, and he stared at you like you had personally insulted his ancestors. “If I was athletic?” he repeated, his voice growing louder. “Do you know how many hours I spend training every single day? Do you know how many goals I scored this season?!”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach as tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The camera caught every bit of it, from his offended expression to his dramatic hand gestures.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said, grabbing a pillow and lightly smacking it against your shoulder. “This is some TikTok thing, isn’t it?”

Your laughter gave you away instantly. You nodded, gasping for breath between fits of giggles. “It’s a prank! There’s this trend where girlfriends say that to their boyfriends just to get them mad. And you… you-” You broke into another round of laughter. “Your reaction was perfect.”

Kenan shook his head, muttering something under his breath in Turkish as he flopped back against the couch. He covered his face with both hands, groaning dramatically. “I cannot believe you did that to me.”

“You looked so betrayed,” you teased, nudging him with your shoulder. “Like I just told you football wasn’t even a sport.”

“Because that’s exactly what it felt like,” he said, peeking at you through his fingers. “You basically said I’m not athletic. Me! The most athletic person you know.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, still grinning. “The most athletic, the most handsome, the most everything. I promise.”

He gave you a side eye, pretending to still be offended, but his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “I’m going to get you back for this,” he warned, lowering his voice like it was a serious threat. “You won’t even see it coming.”

“Sure you will,” you said, smug.

Kenan snatched your phone from your hand, instantly replaying the video you had just filmed. He watched himself go from confused to outraged in a matter of seconds, and that finally broke him. He laughed so hard he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“Okay,” he admitted between wheezes. “That was funny. But you’re not posting this. No way.”

“Kenan…” you dragged out his name in a whine, reaching for your phone.

He held it out of reach, grinning like a devil. “Nope. Not happening. My teammates would never let me live this down.”

“You’re no fun,” you said, crossing your arms dramatically.

Kenan leaned over, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “You still think I’m not athletic?”

You laughed softly, turning your face toward him. “You’re literally the most athletic man alive. Happy now?”

“Very,” he said, pulling you into his arms and pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “But still, I’m plotting my revenge.”

You snuggled against him, still giggling. “Can’t wait to see it.”

Kenan’s got your feet in his lap again.

Not that you’re complaining. You’ve been carrying your whole body like a sack of wet laundry all week and your ankles are starting to look like overinflated balloons. So when he sits you down on the couch with a snack bowl and a water bottle and props your feet up like a man on a mission, you don’t argue.

He’s sitting sideways, one hand lazily rubbing circles into your swollen foot while the other scrolls through something on his phone. Probably more baby gear. Or transfer news. Either one, really.

“You’re literally glowing,” he says suddenly, looking up at you with that dumb smile he’s been pulling a lot more lately. The one that’s not even flirtatious, just pure admiration like he can’t believe you’re real.

You squint at him. “I’m sweaty.”

“Exactly. Glowing.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Lying is a sin. And my girl? A vision.”

You laugh, loud and a little wheezy, the way you always do when he gets into his full dramatic-boyfriend mode. “You know if you keep sweet-talking me like that, I’m gonna start crying again.”

He grins. “You cried because the baby kicked when you were watching a TikTok of a golden retriever.”

“In my defense, that dog was very polite.”

Kenan shifts your feet so he can lean in closer, curling his arms around your middle like he can hug both you and the bump at the same time. “He’s gonna be polite too. Just like his mama.”

You hum, brushing your fingers through his hair. It’s gotten longer lately, curling at the ends, soft and always warm from the sun. He rests his cheek against your belly like he’s listening for a reply.

“Say something,” he murmurs to your bump. “Kick me if you think your dad’s the coolest.”

The baby does absolutely nothing.

Kenan laughs. “You trained him against me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I knew it. You’ve been whispering to him at night. Telling him I’m cringy.”

“Well…”

Kenan stands up and snorts, “Disrespect in my own home.”

Your laughter fades into a smile, something quieter settling between you both. You watch him as he moves toward the kitchen, opening the fridge and making some mental assessment of what he could bring you next.

There’s something about this version of Kenan that still catches you off guard. You’ve seen him loud. Cocky. Shy. Sleepy. But this? This soft, domestic, obsessed-with-you Kenan? He’s a dream.

He comes back with strawberries and a can of whipped cream. “Hungry?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I could be.”

“Then here you go, Prinzessin”

He plops down next to you again, sprays a very questionable amount of whipped cream onto one and holds it out.

You bite it from his fingers and he watches you, waiting for your reaction. “Good?”

“Very good.”

Kenan eats one too and immediately drops half the whipped cream on his shirt. You hand him a napkin without saying a word.

“You’re judging me.”

“Correct.”

“I deserve it.”

You rest your head against his shoulder after the snack attack is over, letting yourself just... melt. The TV plays something neither of you are paying attention to. His arm is wrapped around you, hand absentmindedly tracing little patterns into your side. You feel heavy in the best way. Grounded. Loved.

“I still can’t believe we’re going to be parents,” you mumble.

Kenan doesn’t speak right away. Just kisses the top of your head and lets out a quiet hum.

“You’re gonna be the best mama,” he says eventually, voice low and certain.

You don’t answer at first. Your throat gets a little tight. You’ve had your doubts. You’ve laid awake wondering if you’ll be patient enough, soft enough, strong enough.

But Kenan looks at you like you already are. Like the job was yours from the beginning.

“And you?” you ask, tilting your head to look up at him. “You think you’re ready?”

He nods slowly, thumb brushing your arm. “I’ve been ready since the first time I saw the ultrasound. That little blob with the fast heartbeat? I was hooked.”

You smile. “You cried.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You sobbed.”

Kenan groans, slouching back into the cushions. “He had a spine! I wasn’t emotionally prepared for the spine.”

You laugh again, but there’s something about the memory that sticks in your chest. That day was when everything really clicked for you both. Not just that you were having a baby, but that you were doing it together.

He nudges you. “Wanna do names?”

“You’re not gonna bring up Del Piero again, are you?”

Kenan laughs. “No, but I was thinking maybe... something Turkish?”

You look at him, surprised, but not in a bad way.

“I mean, it’s part of him too,” he adds, a little shy now. “Would be cool to pass that on.”

You nod. “I love that idea.”

He pulls out his phone, opening the notes app where you’ve been throwing names around for weeks. “Okay. We’re narrowing it down tonight. No sleep until we agree on at least a top three.”

You fake-yawn dramatically. “Oops. Too late.”

Kenan gently pulls you upright, determined now. “Nope. You’re not getting out of this. You already vetoed Kaan, which I’m still mad about, by the way.”

“It sounded like ‘con.’ I don’t want our baby associated with crime.”

He grins. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Takes one to know one.”

And just like that, the evening melts into the kind of memory you know you’ll come back to later. One of the last nights before everything changes. Before diapers and cries and sleepless hours. Before he’s here.

But for now, it’s just you, Kenan, the bump between you, and a growing list of baby names that all somehow feel too small for the love you already feel.

You wake up already uncomfortable.

Your body feels like it’s been carrying a bowling ball on a tightrope for days, and this morning is no different. The baby’s low. Lower than yesterday. You can feel it in your hips when you stand up. There’s a weird pressure, and your back feels like it’s been grinding gears all night.

But you ignore it.

You’ve ignored plenty by now. Cramps. False alarms. The occasional sharp jolt of pain that had you clutching the kitchen counter like it meant something - until it didn’t.

So when Kenan comes in with your usual glass of ice water and sees the way you’re leaning against the couch, you brush it off with a smile.

“Back’s just tight,” you mumble, easing down into the cushions.

He doesn’t buy it.

He never buys it.

Kenan lowers himself in front of you, one knee on the rug, hands warm and steady as they slide over your calves, your thighs, the round curve of your belly. His eyes are still soft with sleep, but his focus is all on you.

“Tell me where it hurts.”

“It doesn’t,” you say too quickly. “I just feel heavy today. He’s dropping, that’s all.”

Kenan raises one eyebrow. “Dropping like ‘normal end-of-pregnancy’ dropping, or ‘he’s coming to visit soon’ dropping?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t.”

He grins. “I’m just saying. You’re glowing. And waddling more than usual.”

“Don’t call it waddling.”

“I meant that lovingly.”

You swat at him half-heartedly. He leans up and kisses your knee, then your belly. You feel the baby shift slightly, a little foot or elbow pressing outward, and you groan at the sensation.

Kenan rests his forehead against your bump. “Bro, at least pretend to give your mom a break.”

“He’s running out of room. He’s probably just trying to escape.”

Kenan looks up at you, smile crooked. “Think he’s antsy?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

That’s the truth of it. You’ve been stuck in this in-between for days now. Close enough that the hospital bag’s packed, but far enough that the idea of him actually coming still feels surreal. Like you’ll be pregnant forever. Unmoving. Unchanging.

Kenan doesn’t push. Just stands up and stretches, stealing your water and taking a sip before handing it back.

“We’re not panicking until your water breaks.”

“Or until I’m crying from contractions.”

“Or both.”

You roll your eyes but nod.

The day drifts by in slow pieces. You try to distract yourself with stupid shows. Kenan folds laundry and reorganizes the baby’s dresser for the fourth time this week. You catch him reading the car seat manual again around lunch, squinting at the little diagrams like they personally offended him.

There’s a tension in the air, but neither of you name it. Instead, you move through the hours like they’re just another Saturday, like this dull ache in your hips and the slow pull in your lower belly don’t mean anything.

You nap in the afternoon. Kenan makes pasta for dinner. You eat three bites and then push the plate away because you suddenly feel way too full.

Kenan watches you over the rim of his glass. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… weird. He’s really low. I swear he’s about to fall out.”

Kenan goes pale. “Don’t say that while I’m holding hot sauce.”

You give him a look.

He raises both hands in surrender and hands you a piece of bread instead.

It’s dark by the time you both crawl into bed. The sheets are cool, the room is quiet, and Kenan curls behind you the way he always does, arm draped over your waist, hand resting protectively over your bump. You breathe in slowly, letting the air settle heavy in your lungs.

Your whole body feels restless. Not in a frantic way, just unsettled. Like something’s coming, but not quite yet.

You shift, trying to find a comfortable spot for your knees, then your back. The pressure’s still there. Low. Annoying. Nothing sharp, just constant.

Kenan’s lips brush the back of your shoulder. “Still hurting?”

You shake your head. “It’s not pain. Just weird.”

“Weird like...?”

You sigh. “I don’t know. Don’t ask follow-up questions.”

He laughs quietly and pulls you a little closer. “Okay. Just say the word if you need anything. Ice chips. Back rub. Emotional support Spotify playlist.”

You close your eyes.

And then-

A pop.

Not audible. Just a sudden, internal shift. And a warm, quick gush of fluid that makes you go completely still.

Kenan feels it. The way your body freezes.

“Schatz?”

You don’t move. Just whisper, “I think my water just broke.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Kenan sits bolt upright behind you.

“Wait. What? Are you serious?”

You nod, heart suddenly thudding against your ribs. “Yeah. Like… I’m soaked. It’s real.”

Kenan is already halfway out of bed, flipping on the light, wide-eyed but laser focused. “Okay. Okay. Cool. We’re good. We practiced for this. I’m gonna grab the bag. You go pee. Or change. Or both.”

You manage to swing your legs over the bed and stand, still a little shocked. “I don’t feel any contractions yet.”

Kenan’s pulling on sweatpants as he talks. “Maybe it’s early. Or maybe they’ll start soon. Either way, we’re going.”

You nod again, still not quite processing. He’s moving quickly but gently, making sure you have socks, your charger, the folder of papers from your midwife.

He helps you to the bathroom first, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We’re good. You’re good. Let’s go meet our kid.”

And somewhere between that kiss and the next contraction, which starts as you’re getting into the car, low and tight and definitely not fake, it hits you.

This is really happening.

The car ride was only supposed to take fifteen minutes. That’s what Kenan had said when he shoved the last of the hospital bag into the boot and helped you into the passenger seat, like he hadn’t just witnessed you curl over the kitchen counter mid-contraction, white-knuckling the marble and yelling at him to stop panicking.

But now? It felt like every traffic light in Turin was conspiring against him.

You gripped the edge of the seat with one hand and his hoodie sleeve with the other, teeth clenched as another contraction tightened through your stomach.

“Okay, okay, breathe with me,” Kenan said, eyes darting between the road and you. “One, two, three-”

“I am breathing,” you snapped, dragging in a shaky inhale through your nose. “You’re the one hyperventilating.”

Kenan muttered something under his breath in German, slapping his blinker on so aggressively it nearly broke off.

You caught your breath again as the contraction eased. “Don’t crash the car.”

He scoffed. “At this point I’ll park the car in the emergency room.”

You let out a pained laugh, then immediately regretted it when another wave crept in too soon. This one made your eyes well up, fingers curling in on themselves. You couldn’t stop shaking your head. “This one’s bad. Kenan- Kenan, it’s really bad.”

“I know, Schatz. I know. Almost there.” His voice cracked slightly. “I’m right here.”

You were already sweating. Every time he glanced over, he looked more pale. You weren’t even sure if he was blinking anymore.

“You’re freaking out,” you whispered hoarsely, trying to stay focused through the pain.

“Of course I’m freaking out. You’re in labour in my passenger seat and there’s some old man in a Fiat doing twenty in a seventy zone like I won’t commit murder with my bare hands-”

The way his voice pitched up sent another ridiculous laugh through you, though it cut off when the contraction squeezed again.

You gasped through gritted teeth. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he said automatically, flipping the wheel and turning sharply into the hospital lot.

“You did this to me.”

“I’d do it again.”

You turned your head to glare at him. He was already parking. And as soon as the car was off, he was halfway out the door and coming around to your side. You didn’t even have to reach for the handle, Kenan opened it for you, gently looping an arm around your waist.

“Okay. Okay. One foot at a time,” he breathed, steadying you as you got up on trembling legs. “We’ve got this.”

The automatic doors swished open as the two of you stepped into the maternity ward.

Kenan flagged down the nearest nurse while still holding you up. “Hi. Yes. My wife’s in labour. We- she needs to be checked in. Please.”

You squeezed his hand through another wave of pain.

He didn't let go.

It starts like a quiet panic.

Not yours. You’re too focused on the waves of pain crashing in your spine, the pressure building low in your stomach, the tremble of your knees as another contraction hits.

But Kenan? He is absolutely spiraling.

He’s pacing. Then crouching beside you. Then standing again. Then calling the nurse for the third time in five minutes. He’s trying to hold it together and you can see the effort in every line of his face, the way he presses his knuckles into his jaw like he’s physically holding himself in place.

“Okay,” he says, voice pitching up slightly, “okay, you’re good, we’re good, the nurse said they’re setting up the room right now, you’re so close, baby, you’re doing amazing.”

You grunt. Loudly. “Kenan, if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to rip the IV out and stab you with it.”

He pauses. Visibly recalibrates. “Noted,” he nods, hands up, mouth shut.

But even when he quiets, he’s still buzzing with nervous energy, sitting at the edge of the hospital bed with his leg bouncing and his thumb rubbing tight circles into your wrist. He watches you like he’s expecting you to break apart in front of him, like he’s trying to memorize every wince and breath and sound you make so he can somehow take it from you.

When another contraction hits, this one sharp enough to have you clutching the bed rail with one hand and Kenan’s arm with the other, he swears under his breath in Turkish and gets up again, pulling the call button with more force than necessary.

“She’s in pain,” he tells the nurse, even though she can clearly see that herself. “She’s in real pain now. Isn’t it time? Can she get the epidural? Please?”

“Let’s check how far along she is,” the nurse says calmly, unfazed by Kenan’s wide, frantic eyes.

He steps back, lets them do what they need to do, and then the nurse turns to you with a smile.

“You’re at nine centimeters. Almost there.”

You nod weakly, trying to center your breathing. Kenan does it with you, quietly counting to four as you inhale, to six as you exhale. It’s the first thing he gets right in hours.

The next hour blurs.

It’s noise. Movement. Pressure. Sweat.

You’re moved into the delivery room. People buzz around you. Instructions are given. Somewhere in the chaos, Kenan slips his hand into yours and doesn’t let go.

“You’ve got this,” he murmurs against your forehead. “You’ve done all the hard parts. I swear, I’ve never been more proud of anyone.”

You cry. Just a little. From exhaustion or pain or maybe just the sight of him in surgical scrubs, hair tucked under a cap, looking like he might pass out from stress but trying to stay strong anyway.

It’s all surreal, until it’s not.

Until the push comes.

Until it’s real.

You scream, clutching Kenan’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth. He doesn’t flinch. Just kisses your knuckles, mutters prayers and reassurances in Turkish and German and Italian and English, like if he speaks every language he knows, the baby will come faster.

And then he does.

One loud, perfect cry and everything stops.

Kenan freezes.

You’re panting, soaked in sweat, too dazed to process the nurse’s voice saying “It’s a boy” until Kenan finally reacts.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, eyes wide. “He’s- he’s here.”

You watch him as they clean him off. He’s not even looking at you anymore, which should annoy you, but doesn’t. He’s fixated on him. Spellbound. Like his whole world just narrowed to one tiny, pink, screaming miracle.

When they place him on your chest, Kenan’s eyes go glassy.

He leans over, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your lips.

“You did it,” he breathes. “You gave us the world.”

You cradle your son with shaky arms, overwhelmed, sore, exhausted beyond anything you’ve ever felt. But when Kenan leans closer, brushing his fingers gently over the baby’s soft cheek, all of it melts away.

“He’s so perfect,” he says softly.

“He is,” you murmur.

Kenan sits beside you, pulling both of you into his arms. “He’s going to be so loved.”

The hospital room was dimly lit, just the soft overhead light above the baby’s bassinet casting a warm glow across the room. You were tucked into the bed, propped up with pillows, your hands gently cradling the small, warm bundle nestled against your chest. Your body was aching and heavy, but none of it mattered. Not really. Not with him here.

Kenan was perched beside you, legs pulled up onto the edge of the mattress, his shoulder brushing yours. His hair was a mess and he had been wearing the same hoodie since yesterday, but you didn’t think you’d ever seen him look softer. His eyes kept drifting down to your son, like he couldn’t help but keep checking that he was real.

“Still doesn’t feel like this actually happened,” he said quietly, resting his chin on your shoulder for a moment before sitting up again. “You’re incredible. You know that, right?”

You laughed, hoarse and tired. “I think I just survived. Barely.”

“No. You did that,” he insisted, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You brought him into the world.”

The baby stirred a little at the sound of his voice, and Kenan immediately reached out with one hand to touch his back, steady and careful. The moment the tiny newborn settled again, he let out a small breath of relief.

“He already likes you more,” you teased.

Kenan turned his head sharply. “That is absolutely not true. He’s obsessed with you. I can’t even compete.”

“He kicked me in the ribs for like three weeks straight. That’s not obsession. That’s terrorism.”

“Same thing,” Kenan muttered, but he was grinning now. His thumb moved to trace slow, lazy circles on the baby’s back through the thin swaddle.

You fell into a quiet stretch then, both of you just watching him sleep. His cheeks were impossibly round, skin pink and soft, with the faintest frown tugging at his tiny forehead. He had a head full of dark hair, slightly messy, sticking out in random directions no matter how many times a nurse tried to smooth it down.

Kenan blinked slowly. “He kinda looks like me. Don’t you think?”

“I was hoping you’d say that first,” you admitted, “because I didn’t want to sound vain, but yeah. Same brows. Same pout.”

“He’s gonna be dangerous when he’s older,” Kenan mumbled proudly. “Look at this face.”

You gave him a look. “He literally can’t see past his nose.”

“That’s still a power move.”

Another pause. Then Kenan leaned back slightly and tilted his head toward you. “So… are we still going with the names we talked about? Or has that all gone out the window now that he’s real?”

You exhaled softly. “I don’t know. Seeing him in person kind of changes things. He’s got this whole little personality already.”

“He’s four hours old.”

“Yeah. And he already gives attitude.”

Kenan laughed, then grew a little more serious. “Okay, but… do you still like Arda?”

You looked down at the baby again, feeling his tiny body rise and fall with his breaths. “Yeah. I think I do. It feels right. Doesn’t it?”

He nodded. “It does. It’s strong, but sweet too. Like him.”

“You mean like you,” you murmured, but you didn’t give him time to deflect it. “Arda Yıldız. That sounds really good.”

“Arda Yıldız,” Kenan repeated quietly, testing it out again. He smiled like it tasted good on his tongue. “It’s official, then.”

He leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to your son’s forehead. “Hi, Arda.”

You felt your heart swell. This was your little family. You, Kenan, and the boy you’d waited so long to meet.

Kenan looked back at you again. “Thank you,” he said. “For trusting me. For letting me do this with you.”

“You’re his dad,” you said simply. “And I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.”

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake Arda, and rested your head against Kenan’s shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you and let out a long, shaky breath.

“I’m never gonna stop trying to deserve this,” he whispered.

You squeezed his hand. “You already do.”

The room faded into quiet again, but this time it was a calm sort of silence. Just the three of you, tucked in safely for the night. No chaos. No crowd. Just you, Kenan, and baby Arda.

You’re not really part of the group. Not like that, anyway.

You hang around because of Lina. She’s your flatmate, your best friend, and unfortunately for your peace of mind, she’s dating one of Kenan’s teammates. Which means you’re dragged into match nights, post-training hangouts, and too many group dinners where half the guys don’t even know how to pronounce your name right.

Kenan Yıldız, though? He gets it right every single time.

Not that it matters.

He’s been trying since the beginning. At first, it was subtle. Just polite nods and too-long glances. Then came the little jokes and the casual teasing, stuff that would’ve made every other girl in the room melt. You, however, are titanium. You don’t play nice. You don’t give into charm just because it’s handed to you in a pretty package.

Especially not when that package is wrapped in expensive cologne and whispered rumors of flings with influencers you couldn’t care less about.

“Morning,” he says one day at Lina’s kitchen island, where you’re hunched over your coffee in a hoodie three sizes too big.

You don’t even look up. “It’s literally two in the afternoon.”

He laughs anyway. You hate how nice it sounds. Like he’s always half a second from turning everything into a joke.

“Still counts,” he shrugs. “You sleep through daylight a lot?”

“Only when I know you’ll be around,” you mutter under your breath.

And yet, he stays. You don’t get it. There are six other people in the room who practically orbit around him like he’s the sun. He could have their attention anytime he wanted.

But no, it’s you he looks at like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he’s not allowed to touch.

You’re not interested.

Except… you kind of are. Not enough to act on it. Just enough to notice the shift in the air every time he walks into a room. And it’s not his fault, maybe, not completely, that he looks like that. All perfect posture and effortless cool, like he was designed in a lab to make you distrust him.

Which is why, when you finally bring someone around - someone solid, kind, a guy who texts back and works in finance and has a boring-but-safe vibe - you expect everyone to mind their business.

Lina raises her brows but doesn’t say anything.

Kenan, however, clocks him immediately.

“Who’s that?” he mutters under his breath as your maybe-boyfriend sits beside you at the outdoor dinner table, laughing softly at something you said.

Malik, the midfielder sitting beside Kenan, doesn’t even look up. “Her guy. She’s been seeing him for a few weeks.”

Kenan’s jaw tightens. “Why did she even invite him?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Malik replies, amused. “It’s not like you ever had a shot.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, watching you smile across the table like it’s a weapon. And it is, honestly. It’s the first time Kenan’s ever seen you like this. At ease. Loose-limbed and glowing in the late sun, laughing at some finance-guy story that’s probably so dull it could be used as a sleep aid.

He hates how smug the guy looks. Like he thinks he won.

The worst part? You’re letting him.

You even lean in when he whispers something in your ear, and Kenan watches you with the same kind of devastation he plays with when a shot skims just over the bar. So close. So pointless.

Later, after dessert, when everyone’s clearing plates and Malik’s putting on music from his phone, you duck into the kitchen to help Lina with drinks. Kenan follows without thinking. His feet move before his brain does.

“Seriously?” you sigh, catching him leaning against the doorway like this is some indie rom-com and he’s about to deliver the final line that makes you fall for him.

“What?” he asks, shrugging. “Just wanted water.”

“There’s like four bottles on the table already.”

“Yeah. But none of them handed to me by you.”

You raise a brow. “Do you say things like that and expect people to swoon?”

He smirks, but it fades when he steps closer. “He’s not it. You know that, right?”

You freeze for a second, then scoff, turning your back to grab glasses from the cupboard. “Wow. That was subtle.”

“I’m serious.”

“You don’t get to be serious,” you snap, spinning around now. “You don’t get to come in here with your half-smirks and flirty little jabs and act like you’re entitled to an opinion about my life.”

“I’m not entitled to anything. I just-” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying.”

“No. You’ve been playing. That’s what you do, right?”

Kenan’s expression shifts. Just barely. But enough.

You expect him to make a joke. Or flirt. Or walk away like it’s beneath him to try harder.

But instead, he just looks… hurt. And it throws you off completely.

“I’ve been showing up,” he says quietly. “I’ve been patient. I’ve been real with you. Even when you acted like I wasn’t worth your time.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Because you didn’t expect that. And honestly, you don’t have a defense.

He steps a little closer. “You don’t know me. Not really. And if you think I’m just some cliché with a nice face, then… maybe you don’t want to.”

You swallow hard. “I’ve seen you with girls. On Instagram. In interviews. You’re always charming, always flirty. It’s all a show.”

“Maybe it used to be,” he admits. “But you kind of ruined that for me.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re the only person who didn’t fall for it. And now I don’t want anyone else to either.”

It’s too much. Too honest. And it breaks through that little shell you’ve built around yourself since the first time he smiled at you like you mattered.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

So instead, you push a glass of water into his hand and mumble, “Then prove it.”

His eyes meet yours, steady, solid. “I will.”

The house is buzzing with energy - Kenan’s cousins are laughing in the living room, his uncles are telling increasingly dramatic stories over beers on the patio, and his mama is flitting between rooms making sure everyone’s been offered cake at least three times.

It’s warm and bright and very German.

You smile, or try to, but your stomach is tying itself into uncomfortable knots, and every movement feels like your insides are being wrung out like a towel. You’d known it was coming, cramps always hit this time of month, but you’d hoped they’d stay away for one more evening. Just one.

Kenan had been so excited to bring you here. His whole face had lit up when he told you his mama’s side of the family was hosting a garden party, that they all wanted to meet you.

“Everyone speaks English,” he’d promised. “And if they get too German, I’ll translate. Promise. You’ll love them.”

And you do, or you would, if your uterus wasn’t staging a full-scale rebellion right now.

So you sit at the edge of the patio, quietly nursing your glass of Apfelschorle, trying to smile and nod at his Oma’s questions. You’re a little hunched over, and every now and then, you shift in your seat like that’ll make it better. You don’t want to complain. You refuse to be the girlfriend who ruins the vibe.

You catch Kenan across the garden, laughing with his papa and an older cousin. He’s in a crisp white linen shirt that makes his tan skin glow, a few top buttons undone, hair a little mussed from the breeze. He looks so good it’s unfair.

You quickly look away when he glances back at you.

Too late.

A few seconds later, his hand lands gently on your back.

“Schatz?” he murmurs near your ear. “Everything okay?”

You force a smile and nod, hoping that’s enough to convince him.

But he crouches down in front of you, brow scrunching. “You’re pale,” he says softly. “And you’re sitting like someone kicked you in the stomach.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. “Really.”

His look says liar.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit under your breath, eyes darting toward his family. “You were having fun.”

Kenan frowns, gently taking your hand. “You are not a bother. Not ever.”

He stands up and holds a hand out. “Come. Five minutes.”

You hesitate. “Kenan-”

“Nur fünf Minuten,” he insists. Just five minutes. “Let me take care of you, liebling.”

The pet name and the sincerity in his voice make your chest tighten, in a good way. You slip your hand into his and let him lead you through the house, past the cheerful chaos of the kitchen, and up the stairs to a quiet guest bedroom.

He closes the door softly behind you.

The second you sit on the bed, you sigh in relief. Kenan kneels in front of you again, pushing your hair back from your face with careful fingers.

“Cramps?” he asks gently.

You flush and look away. “Maybe. I just... it’s embarrassing.”

“Warum?” he asks with a tilted head. “You think I’m scared of a little blood?”

You snort at that, despite yourself.

“Babe,” he says with a small grin, “you could puke on my shoes right now and I’d still think you’re cute.”

“Please don’t say that while I’m nauseous.”

He laughs and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

You don’t protest this time.

A few minutes later, he returns with a hot water bottle wrapped in a soft towel, a glass of water, and a small plate with two slices of his mama’s apple cake.

“You’re literally the best boyfriend ever,” you mumble as he helps you lie down, carefully sliding the hot water bottle against your stomach.

“I know,” he says smugly, tucking the blanket around your legs. “Mama said we could stay in here as long as we want.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You told her?”

He shrugs. “She’s a woman. I guess she gets it.”

You groan into the pillow and he laughs again, then climbs onto the bed next to you. You curl into his side almost immediately, the warmth of him and the water bottle starting to work their magic.

Kenan strokes your back in slow, soothing circles. “You should’ve told me earlier, schatz. I would’ve brought you here right away.”

“I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him. “You never ruin anything. If you’re not feeling good, that’s all I care about. Not cake. Not soccer talk with Onkel Rudi. Just you.”

You blink. “You talked soccer with Onkel Rudi?”

Kenan winces. “It was... intense. He thinks Dortmund’s gonna win the league next season.”

You grin. “And you didn’t storm off?”

“Not with you watching. Gotta keep the boyfriend rep intact.” He gives you a cheeky little wink, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “But really. Next time, tell me, okay? You don’t have to be shy with me.”

You nod, already feeling sleepy. The pain’s still there, but it’s dulled by the warmth and the weight of Kenan’s arm around you.

His voice is a low murmur in your ear. “Ich liebe dich.”

Your heart flips, like it always does when he says it in German.

“Ich liebe dich auch,” you whisper.

“Even when I eavesdrop on your pain and steal you away from my own party?”

“Especially then.”

Kenan grins and presses his cheek against your hair. “Good. Then I’ll keep doing it.”

You rest together in the quiet for a while, the sounds of laughter and music muffled through the walls. Eventually, he nudges the plate of cake toward you.

“You gotta eat something, baby.”

You eye the cake. “You want to share?”

He nods. “Only if I get the bigger slice.”

You groan. “Fine. But only because you’re being very cute right now.”

“Jetzt?” he teases. “Only now?”

“Shut up and eat your cake.”

He laughs and kisses your cheek again. “Jawohl, meine Liebe.”

You had been curled up on the couch all day, wrapped in a blanket that somehow felt both too warm and not warm enough. Your head pounded, your throat was sore, and even lifting your phone to scroll felt like too much effort. The flu had knocked you out harder than you expected, leaving you shivering despite the heating humming in the background.

Kenan had texted earlier in the evening. KENAN 🩷: How are you feeling? KENAN 🩷: Do you want me to come by?

You had stared at the screen for a long minute, torn between the overwhelming desire to see him and the guilty knowledge that he had just come back from training. He had been exhausted when you talked yesterday, practically dragging himself through the door of his own apartment. The last thing you wanted was to disturb him again. So you typed out a quick lie. I’m okay. Just resting. Don’t worry, get some sleep.

You pressed send before you could change your mind.

Less than an hour later, there was a knock at your door.

At first, you thought maybe you had imagined it, that your fever was making you hear things. But then it came again, firm but not impatient. Groaning, you shuffled off the couch, blanket still clutched around your shoulders, and padded to the door.

When you opened it, there he was. Kenan stood in the hallway, hoodie pulled over his messy hair, a bag dangling from one hand. His eyes swept over you immediately, taking in your pale face, the heavy slump of your shoulders, the way you had not even bothered with socks.

“Schatz,” he breathed, stepping inside without waiting for you to invite him. “You’re worse than you said.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you rasped, already embarrassed.

Kenan set the bag down on the kitchen counter and turned back to you. “Bother me? Do you really think I care about being tired when you’re like this?” His voice was soft, almost chiding, but there was no anger in it. Only concern.

You tried to protest, to tell him he should be resting too, but he was already guiding you back toward the couch with a hand on your back. He moved carefully, like he thought you might collapse at any second.

Once you were settled, he crouched down in front of you, leveling his gaze with yours. “I’m here, okay? Let me take care of you.”

Your throat tightened, and not from the illness. You nodded, too worn out to argue further.

Kenan smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair off your forehead with the gentlest touch. Then he stood and began unpacking the bag he had brought. You watched from the couch, dazed, as he pulled out a small arsenal: bottles of water, electrolyte packets, tissues, paracetamol, even your favorite soup from the café near his apartment.

“You thought of everything,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Of course I did,” he said simply.

He warmed the soup in your kitchen, humming under his breath while he waited for the microwave to beep. You dozed off for a few minutes, lulled by the sound of him moving around, only to wake when he nudged you softly.

“Iss es,” he said, holding out the bowl.

Your appetite had been gone all day, but with him sitting beside you, watching expectantly, you forced yourself to take small spoonfuls. He looked pleased each time you swallowed, like you had scored a goal instead of just managing to keep soup down.

When you could not finish, he set the bowl aside and pressed a glass of water into your hands. Then, without hesitation, he shifted closer and opened his arms.

“Come here.”

You leaned against him instantly, tucking yourself under his chin. His hoodie smelled like fresh laundry and a trace of his cologne. He tightened his arms around you, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

“You should be asleep,” you murmured.

“So should you,” he countered. “But I’ll stay awake as long as you need me to.”

Your chest ached at his words. “You’re too good to me.”

Kenan chuckled softly. “You deserve it.”

Time blurred after that. He held you while you drifted in and out of light sleep, adjusting the blanket when it slipped and making sure you had water within reach. At one point you woke to find him scrolling quietly on his phone, your head still on his shoulder. He noticed immediately, locking the screen and looking down at you.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

“Just you,” you admitted, voice small.

Something tender flickered across his face. He pressed a kiss to your damp forehead, not caring about the risk of catching whatever you had. “Then that’s easy,” he whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The room fell silent again except for your uneven breathing. His presence steadied you, anchored you. Even as the fever burned hot and the shivers kept coming, you felt safe.

Eventually he shifted so that he was lying with you, pulling you fully into his arms. His hoodie became your pillow, his heartbeat the rhythm you fell asleep to. For the first time all day, you let yourself relax completely.

The last thing you heard before sleep dragged you under was his voice, quiet and full of love.