#teamvaughn

Renegade by Kings of Convenience 

Theo’s Converted Treatment Room, Çırağan Palace Kempinski

The room had once been a suite.

Now the curtains were drawn tight, the sitting area cleared. A portable treatment table sat where the chaise had been, its legs on a rug. Antiseptic cut through the air, mixed with a hint of eucalyptus from a small diffuser, the team physio, Andrea Luppi, had plugged in near the window.

Theo sat on the edge of the table, legs dangling, palms braced behind him.

Andrea worked in silence, fingers cutting away the tape at Theo’s midsection— Rip. Rip.

“Dimmi.” (Tell me.)

Theo inhaled as Andrea pressed two fingers just beneath his rib line, then slightly to the side.

“Qui.” (Here.)

Andrea nodded, reaching for fresh tape.

“Non fare l’eroe.” (Don’t be a hero.)

Theo huffed quietly. 

“How’s that?” Andrea asked, pressing harder. 

“Better.”

Andrea reapplied the tape pausing between strips to watch Theo’s breathing.

“Respira.” (Breathe.)

Theo inhaled and exhaled. 

Andrea stepped back and grabbed his tablet, screen glowing with charts layered over one another: recovery load, inflammation markers, sleep quality, minutes logged.

“I numeri sono stabili,” he said, scrolling. (The numbers are stable.)

He tilted the tablet slightly so Theo could see.

“Ma il corpo è ancora reattivo.” (But your body is still reactive.)

Theo leaned forward studying the screen without really looking at it.

A soft knock interrupted them.

The door cracked open and the assistant coach popped his head in, tablet tucked under his arm, “Want to head down early?” he asked, quietly. “Media’ll be light.”

Theo didn’t look up.

“No. Malik will handle it.” 

Andrea glanced at him, one eyebrow lifting. 

The assistant hesitated, “Alright,” he nodded, and backed out of the room closing the door.

“Secondo tempo,” Andrea said, pressing the final piece of tape. “Posso darti quindici minuti.” (I can give you fifteen minutes.)

Theo exhaled slowly and finally looked up.

“È tutto quello che mi serve.” (That’s all I need.)

“E tutto quello che avrai,” Andrea said, meeting his gaze. He held it for a second longer as he reached for his tablet. (And that’s all you’ll have.)

Theo sat for a moment letting the silence settle back into the room once Andrea exited, every so often the air conditioner sputtered and the waves sounded from the Bosphorus beyond the curtains.

Noa’s Suite, Çırağan Palace, 5th Fl, Left Wing 

DING. 

The elevator doors slid open to a long, wide, quiet corridor with long carpet runners, and sunlight that beamed in from tall windows, framing the Bosphorus in moving strips of silver. Doors sat recessed into walls, numbers etched discreetly into brass.

Noa stepped out first, reaching for her key card. Vaughn followed, phone in hand, carry-on bag hitting his thigh with each step. 

“Breakfast in twenty.” 

“Cool.” 

Her door opened to a rectangular room, curtains half-drawn and a cool breeze. The walls were soft cream with high ceilings, and dark, glossy Ottoman-style wood furniture anchored the space. 

Noa set her bag down and immediately toed off her shoes. She stripped as she crossed the room, flopping face first onto the king-sized bed when the last piece of clothing left her body. She languished on the thick Turkish duvet, peeled it back to run her fingers across the crisp white linens, scooting half of the pillows to the floor. 

“Twenty minutes,” she exhaled, before dragging herself off the bed toward the bathroom.

Vaughn’s Suite, Çırağan Palace, 5th Fl, Left Wing

Across the hall, Vaughn dropped his bag onto the chaise. He kicked off his shoes and crossed straight to the window. His room faced the water, the bridge cut through the view.

He checked his phone, “Twenty minutes.” He muttered, before dropping it onto the mahogany desk and heading to the shower. 

Twenty minutes later, the corridor absorbed them again as their doors closed behind them. 

DING. 

Theo’s Suite, Çırağan Palace, 5th Fl, Right Wing 

Theo sat cross-legged on the bed, phone balanced against his ear.

“—and I’m telling you, Delroy, it’s not burnt,” his mum said, slightly distracted.

“It smell bun, yuh know,” Delroy called from somewhere farther back.

“That’s toast,” Juliet replied calmly. “Toast smells burnt.”

“No, it smell extra bun.”

“Well nuh eat it then,” Juliet shot back. 

Theo laughed listening to them bicker.

“And how are you feeling?” Juliet asked.

“Good. Still. Had physio.”

“Hm,” she murmured. “Good. That means you’re listening to your body.”

“Trying to.”

Delroy’s voice rose again.

“Yuh want coffee or tea? ’Cause mi nah mek both.”

“Tea.”

“Wallace, if yuh nuh get yuhself outta here—” Delroy snapped, “Theo, yuh bloodclaat dog!”

“Thanks for watching him,” Theo called out loudly into the phone, ignoring him.

Room service trays sat untouched on the table: fruit, eggs, tea gone lukewarm.

“Are you eating?”

“Yes.” 

“Tsk. Yuh lie,” Delroy called out from a distance. 

Theo laughed, absentmindedly picking at the toast, gaze drifting to the window where the Bosphorus glistened under the sun.

BUZZ. Malik: Press conference over.

Theo pulled the phone from his ear, Juliet mid-sentence.

“—so anyway, Esther is still asking about the retirement party—”

“She nuh haffi worry herself, ’cause she nuh invited no more.”

Theo to Malik: Thanks.

“’Cause she too stush.”

Theo eyes flickered between Malik’s text and the phone.

Malik: That’s what VC’s do.

“Why is he cutting everyone from this list again?” Theo groaned, returning back to the conversation.

Malik: See you in twenty.

“Mi tired of it, yuh hear? Tired of it!” Juliet yelled toward Delroy. 

“I should go. Gotta be somewhere in twenty.”

Theo: Safe.

“Alright, baby,” Juliet said, as her voice came back into focus. “I am proud of you. Call me later.”

“And Theo—”

“Yeah?”

“Your father and I took a long time to grow the same way.”

Theo stayed quiet for a moment, and rubbed his hand against his forehead.

“I know.”

“I love you.” She paused for a moment. “And I love her too,” she added, before she hung up.

Theo set the phone down on the bedside table and leaned back onto the headboard, shoulders sinking into the set of pillows.

“Twenty minutes,” he said to himself, resting one hand over the tape beneath his shirt, closing his eyes as he breathed slowly.

Five minutes later, he dragged himself from the bed, toward the shower.

Comb My Hair by Kings of Convenience 

Noa & Vaughn’s Working Breakfast, Private Dining Salon, Çırağan Palace 

The room itself was quiet and insulated. A long table ran the length of the window, set with white porcelain and gold cutlery. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the room, sheer fabric filtering light across stone columns as ferries slid through the Bosphorus. 

A server approached, coffee pot cradled in one hand, tea in the other. 

“Biraz daha alır mısınız?” (Would you like some more?)

Noa sat with her purse draped over the back of her chair, sleeves rolled, tablet open in front of her.

“Yes, please. Thank you.” she replied, not looking up, as she slid her cup an inch closer to the edge of the table.

“Şeker?” (Sugar?)

“No, thank you.”

“Language needs tightening here,” she said, tapping a paragraph. 

Across from her, a man cleared his throat, glancing down at his notes. “The press briefing is at eleven.”

“That works. But we cut this framing. She leaned over, pointing at the paper, “It invites the wrong follow-ups.”

“Sponsors will ask why,” another voice added.

“Then we answer with approved language. Access, continuity, funding.” 

Vaughn sat beside her, close but angled slightly away, thumbing his phone screen, one hand loosely dangling on the table, sipping his coffee every now and again.

“Sounds good.”

“Başka bir isteğiniz var mı?” (Anything else?)

“No. Thank you.”

“Peki.” (Alright.)

He stepped back, cleared the empty cups, refilled new ones and closed the door.

“The sponsor bridge needs a rewrite, second paragraph,” She pointed to the document again, “This goes there. Not here.”

Vaughn sat up and pulled his phone closer, eyes darting back and forth across the screen, brows furrowed.

“Malik did the Rossoneri Milano press conference,” he muttered to himself, but loud enough for the table to hear. 

Noa didn’t look up, but her pen froze mid-air. 

She marked something on her tablet and closed it.

“I need to get more—” 

She turned just as the door creaked open again. 

The waiter re-entered pushing a silver trolley.

“Kahvaltıyı getireyim mi?” (Shall I serve breakfast?)

“Yes,” Noa said, quickly. 

“Menemen,” he said, “Eggs with tomatoes and peppers,” setting down a shallow copper pan, steam rising where eggs folded into tomatoes and peppers, oil catching the light.

Porcelain rattled then stilled as he opened the next pan. 

“Sucuklu yumurta. Eggs with spicy sausage.” 

“Beyaz peynir… kaşar. Feta-style cheese.” 

Two olives bowls followed, one deep green, one black and glossy,  a small dish of olive oil set between them.

“Zeytin.” (Olives.)

Fresh vegetables next, tomatoes sliced thick, cucumbers chilled and pale, a single green pepper laid lengthwise.

“Sebze.” (Vegetables.)

He lowered the bread basket last, placing it gently onto the center of the table.

“Simit… pide… börek. Sesame bread… flatbread… börek.” 

“Bal ve kaymak,” he said, reaching to the trolley, placing honey and clotted cream side by side. (Honey and clotted cream.)

Another small bowl followed. “Tahin pekmez. Tahini with grape molasses.” 

Vaughn glanced at the spread, then at Noa. “That’s… a lot.”

The waiter allowed himself the smallest smile.

“Türk kahvaltısı,” he said simply, “Turkish breakfast.” 

He stepped back, hands folding neatly in front of him.

“Başka bir şey ister misiniz?” (Would you like anything else?)

Noa shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Afiyet olsun.” (Enjoy.)

UEFA MATCH DAY, Atatürk Olympic Stadium

The road widened, buildings thinned, as wind cut across open ground, rattling temporary fencing and snapping the red-and-white flags strung along the perimeter. Buses sat idling in staggered rows, exhaust drifting out in slow leaks.

Noa followed the flow toward what looked like a main access point and was stopped short.

A temporary sign hung across the opening: NO ENTRY.

“Giriş yok (No entry).” A steward said, stepping sideways, blocking the opening with his body. 

He pointed her back toward the metal barriers that formed long, curving lanes where police stood redirecting traffic.

“Bekleyin.” (Wait / Hold)

People slowed as the line stalled, credential scan corridors narrowed into single lanes as glass dividers funneled bodies into slow, straight lines.

“We’re not moving,” someone muttered behind her.

Scanners blinked green, then red, then green again— over and over.

Hospitality corridors funneled inward, pulling media and staff by the corridor’s curve, pressing them shoulder to shoulder. 

“This is ridiculous,” another voice said.

The line reached the narrowest point, opening into a wider pocket, only to bottleneck again a few steps later.

“Takım, bu taraftan.” (Team, this way.)

Noa moved with Vaughn, shoulder to shoulder through one of those bottlenecks. 

“Name.”

“Noa Jameson.” 

“Vaughn van Ryn.”

“Everyone knows you, Vaughn,” the staffer laughed, smiling at him.

Her eyes shifted to Noa, glancing at each of her lanyards, then back to her face, then back again. 

“Cleared,” she said, finally, stepping aside. 

Producers murmured into headsets, cameras rested against their hips. A set of elevators slid open and shut at the far end in steady rotation.

Across the corridor, Rossoneri Milano FC stood clustered near an elevator bank, kit bags at their feet. Theo checked his phone screen then locked it, pulling his bag over his shoulder. Physios threaded through the group checking backs, shoulders, ribs.

A hand brushed Theo’s elbow.

“All good?”

Another thumb pressed briefly at his ribs.

“Any tightness?”

“Fine.”

They nodded and moved on to the next player.

Inside the first security ring, a rope lifted and a the space opened up, a line immediately forming.

“Kimlik hazır.” (Credentials ready.)

Glass corridors narrowed the flow into single lanes under harsh, bright, industrial lighting.

“Birer birer.” (One at a time.)

“No, hayır — kulaklıkları çıkar.” (No — take the headphones off.)

Theo stepped forward when the group advanced, then stopped when the man in front of him stalled. He stood slightly apart from them, one hand resting at his side, the other adjusting the strap of his bag, as he scanned the room.

When the elevator doors opened and bodies surged forward, he stepped back and let others go ahead.

He caught sight of her through the glass.

She was seated beside Vaughn at a small table just off the set of elevators, chatting with a UEFA liaison, mid-sentence. Vaughn shifted closer, one elbow resting against the tabletop.

Theo looked for one second longer than necessary before the elevator doors snapped shut.

“Rossoneri, lift B.”

Someone called his name from behind and Theo turned with the group, momentum carrying him into another corridor.

“Vaughn, we’re ready.”

Vaughn was pulled toward a different bank, where players and staff continually whizzed by.

A UEFA liaison brushed Noa’s elbow, “You’ll want to come with us.”

The conference room sat two levels above the pitch, its glass walls frosted just enough to blur movement below and flatten the stadium sound.

“That’s offside,” someone yelled. 

“Ref’s letting it run,” another voice answered.

Noa watched the bodies moving across the grass for a few minutes. A sharp whistle cut through the room before it reached the glass. She checked her watch, then turned toward the exit.

“Where to?” A chain smoking driver called out from a sedan waiting at the curb outside.

“Istanbul Policy Center,” Noa said, hopping into the backseat.

The nodded and merged into traffic, tapping cigarette ash out the window as smoke billowed back inward.

“Rossoneri are going to lose,” he said, eyes never leaving the road.

Noa looked up.

“Aldridge-Wells scored the equalizer,” he added. “Came on in the second half. Could’ve stayed on but he didn’t. Then, there was a red card that put them down to ten men.”

Washing Machine by Kings of Convenience 

Istanbul Policy Center, Karaköy, İstanbul, Türkiye

The taxi slowed along the Bosphorus to a historic stone warehouse on the Karaköy waterfront. The stone, weathered building sat back from the street, glass doors, rectangular windows, unmarked except for a small plaque by the entrance.

“Istanbul Policy Center,” the taxi driver barked out, snuffing out his cigarette.

“Thank you,” Noa said, swiping the kiosk to pay before exiting the vehicle.

Cool air immediately peppered her sweating skin. Inside, high ceilings with exposed beams and polished marble floors greeted her.

At the desk, a woman with thick black glasses looked up, reaching for a tablet.

“Name?”

“Noa Jameson.”

Her fingers moved across the keyboard at warp speed.

“Third floor.”

Behind Noa, a man took one last drag from his cigarette.

“Efendim— burada sigara içemezsiniz.” (Sir — you can’t smoke in here.)

He huffed, turning on his heel, smoke trailing briefly behind him before he exited.

The woman’s eyes flicked to Noa’s neck.

“Pre-provided lanyards?”

“Yes,” Noa said flatly.

She tugged them free and slid them across the stone counter.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The woman scanned each badge, then pushed them back toward her.

“Phone on silent. Water’s inside. Elevator’s that way.”

Noa slid the lanyards back on and turned toward the elevators without a word.

DING. 

Conference Room B opened to a long table anchored at the center of the room. Each seat was already set with water, folders, tablets docked and powered on.

Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of one wall. Beyond them, the Bosphorus moved in slow, metallic ripples under the noon sun.

Dr. Leila Farouk-Azad stood near the glass, hands folded loosely at her waist, gazing at the water.

“Noa,” she smiled, finally turning around, “Glad you could join us.”

“Hi,” Noa said, stepping into the room as the door quietly clicked shut behind her.

Dr. Farouk-Azad gestured toward the seated figures at the table.

“This is Dr. Jill Tiefenthaler,” she said, gesturing to the woman near the head of the table.

Dr. Jill Tiefenthaler looked up from her tablet and nodded. “Hello.

“Robert Kunzig,” Dr. Farouk-Azad continued.

Robert leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers laced, eyes on Noa. “Hi,” he smiled.

“Tom Matthews.”

Tom glanced up from a marked-up document, pen paused mid-line. “Hello.”

“And,” Dr. Farouk-Azad added, “you’ve already met Naz.”

Naz set her pen down and grinned. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Dr. Farouk-Azad waited until Noa reached the empty chair mid-table.

“Shall we begin?”

The tablets chimed softly as screens synchronized. Outside, a ferry cut across the water, its wake flashing once against the glass before disappearing.

Dr. Farouk-Azad crossed the room to the final seat at the table. She glanced at the large projector screen, then back to Noa.

“Vivian will be joining us remotely. She’s running a few minutes behind.”

Dr. Farouk-Azad opened her folder and scanned the first page.

“Noa, could you tell us a bit more about yourself and what you do for MARCHAND?”

“Yes.”

Noa stood and pulled a stack of folders from her bag.

“My name is Noelle Jameson,” she began, moving behind the chairs as she spoke, placing a folder at each seat. “But professionally, please call me Noa.”

She set the final folder in front of Dr. Farouk-Azad and stopped there, and rested her hands on the edge of the table.

“MARCHAND builds brands that move people,” she said, meeting Jill’s eyes, “with intelligence, culture, and creativity.”

Robert flipped his folder open.

“I shape the pulse of MARCHAND,” she continued, without looking around the room, “translating movement, emotion, and lived experience into narratives that resonate worldwide.”

Tom glanced from his folder back to her.

“I work where story, identity, and international influence meet, as Director of Global Narrative.”

She paused and glanced around the room once more.

“I was told you’d like me to build the spine of an upcoming, untitled project,” she said. “I’d like to walk you through it.”

Dr. Farouk-Azad closed her folder, and nodded. “Go on.”

Noa rested her hands on the back of the chair in front of her. “Our Planet isn’t a documentary about climate crisis.”

Jill’s tablet dimmed.

Robert’s pen slowed.

“It’s a record,” Noa continued, “of how systems already operate under environmental pressure.”

She reached forward and tapped her tablet. The screens blinked to life: ice fields stretching white to the horizon, movement barely perceptible.

“We’re not asking people to care,” Noa said. “We’re showing what already has to work.”

She scrolled.

Ports appeared. Shorelines. Concrete stadium corridors shimmering under heat.

“The unit isn’t the person,” she said. “It’s the system.”

Tom set his pen down.

“This isn’t a single story,” Noa said. “It’s modular.”

She clicked the tablet again: a coastline at high tide. A city waking before dawn. A training pitch under floodlights, players in motion.

“Each module stands on its own,” she said.

Naz leaned forward now, forearms on the table.

“We start with frozen systems,” Noa said. “Because when they stop holding, everything downstream recalibrates.”

“Hello,” a voice cut in. “Vivian Marchand here. Apologies for the delay.”

Dr. Farouk-Azad turned slightly toward the screen, then back to Noa.

“Vivian,” she said, “thank you for joining us.”

“You have a strong architect here,” Dr. Farouk-Azad smiled, eyes locked on Noa. “Ms. Jameson has already given us a clear structure.”

“She’s prepared for this.” Vivian’s voice shot back.

Noa smiled and clicked the next slide, “Shall we continue?” 

At the end of the presentation, a few people nodded as their tablets dimmed. 

Naz reached for a water bottle while Dr. Farouk-Azad stood and closed her folder.

“Noa, we want you to build the spine,” she smiled, “Formally.” She extended her hand. “You’ll receive the packet.”

Noa nodded.

“Thank you.” 

The Elevator, Theo & Noa, Çırağan Palace Kempinski

DING.

The elevator doors slid open on the mezzanine level as Noa raced into the hotel building.

The Patats Group Chat: Noa: BIG BIG NEWS!!! The UNFCCC and National Geographic just hired me to do a climate documentary. Selam: WHATTTTTTTTTTT. SPILL IT NOW. Amina: Noelle! This is huge news! Congratulations. Tell us more. Does it mean you are staying in Europe for good??? Carmen: Okay, so can you get me a job? N-Moneyyyyyyy. Lore: Not a job — does this mean more free travel??

Noa quickly texted, smile plastered across her face, glued to the screen.

Theo stepped into the elevator a second later just before the doors closed behind them.

“What floor?,” he asked, quietly.

“Noa looked up and froze.

“Fifth.” She said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear her, “Left wing.”

He nodded, extending his finger to press the button.

DING.

The clacking of keys punctuated the silence as the elevator rose, numbers painstakingly ticked up in red.

Theo kept his eyes forward. Noa kept typing.

Noa: In an elevator with someone I was trying to avoid. Brb. Patats: WHOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Noa slid her phone into her bag and focused on the ceiling. Theo pulled his phone out and scrolled.

“Good match today,” she said, finally.

Theo nodded, eyes still on the screen.

“Felt good to be back.”

Noa bit her lip, scanning the elevator as it briefly slowed.

“The UN woman,” Theo said, still not looking at her. “She’s here.”

“Yeah,” Noa paused. “We met.”

Theo stopped and glanced at her. “That’s serious.”

DING.

Theo stepped out. “Good luck,” he said, over his shoulder.

He didn’t look back.

Noa watched him go for half a second longer than necessary.

Then, the doors closed again.

DING.

The 5th Fl Left Wing, Noa & Vaughn, Çırağan Palace Kempinski

Noa turned down the left-wing corridor, key card already in hand.

Her phone buzzed again, and unread messages stacked. The carpet swallowed the sound of her hurried steps as she quickly whizzed past the Bosphorus in the windows between the columns.

When she finally reached her door, across the hall, Vaughn’s door creaked open. 

He stepped out in a loose jacket, sleeves pushed up, phone in his hand, eyes flicking once down the corridor.

“You disappearing?” he asked casually, locking the door behind him.

“Going to,” Noa turned, lifting her key card into the slot. “Long day.”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

He checked his phone and paused mid-scroll. “My sister booked me something.”

Noa stepped away from her door. 

“Something… what?”

He shrugged. “A walk. Ferry. Food. I didn’t listen closely.”

“Hmm.”

DING. 

The elevator chimed down the hall.

“So are you asking me to come with you?” she asked, tilting her head towards the screen.

“You don’t have to. I’m going either way.”

Noa looked at her door then back at him. 

“Ten minutes?” 

Vaughn nodded. 

Noa burst into her room to get ready while Vaughn slid down onto the plush carpet under the crown molding on the wall near her door, scrolling his phone.

Fever by Kings of Convenience 

Noa & Vaughn Sightseeing / Gece Sokakları (Night Streets), Istanbul

The doors slid open and Noa and Vaughn stepped in, phones in hand. He reached out and pressed the button for the ground floor. 

DING. 

The city blurred faintly through the glass panel behind them, as he glanced at his phone and scrolled, brows furrowed. 

“My sister said,” he said, scrolling further down the page. “It's a food and sightseeing tour called Gece Sokakları.” (Night Streets.)

He tilted the screen toward her. “Guide’s name is Emre. Eight to ten.”

“That work for you?” he asked.

Noa looked over. “Yeah,” she said, unlocking her phone.

The red numbers ticked down.

“How many people?” she asked.

“Six,” he said. “A couple. A mum and her daughter. Me.”

He grinned. “And now you.”

DING. 

“Let’s go!”

Vaughn grabbed her hand and quickly lead them outside.

“Wait, wait,” she laughed, footsteps lagging. “What’s the rush?” she panted. 

“It’s almost 8,” Vaughn said as they crossed the street.

A motorbike squeezed past the curb and slipped between two idling taxis.

“Ne yapıyorsun?” a driver shouted, honking. (What are you doing?)

“Çekil!” (Move!)

Somewhere behind a railing, someone laughed hard enough they started coughing, almost choking. Music leaked from an open doorway, bass thudding once before the door slammed shut again.

Noa finally caught her breath mid-step as someone cut across their path, plastic bags swinging, shoes scuffing inches from her toes.

Across the street, a man leaned against a pillar, one foot up on the curb, a clipboard tucked under his arm. He was in his mid-thirties, worn sneakers, linen shirt sweat darkening the collar. 

He looked up. “Gece Sokakları,” he nodded, checking his list. “Eight to ten. I’m Emre. You must be—”

He looked up again, clocked Vaughn, then Noa.

“—late additions.”

“Sorry,” Vaughn grinned, eyes flickering to Noa then back to Emre. “Traffic.”

Noa bit her lip to muffle her laugh. 

“Traffic is the city,” Emre huffed, waving them in to an already half-formed group.

An older couple stood closest to Emre, side by side, hands clasped together. The man wore a pressed short-sleeve shirt, despite the heat, and the woman had a silk scarf looped at her neck.

He leaned toward her and whispered.

“괜찮아?” (Is it okay?)

“괜찮아.” (It’s fine.)

She smiled and patted his hand, eyes moving from the water, to Emre, and back again.

A few steps away, a woman in a sleeveless linen dress shifted her weight, phone dangling loosely from her fingers as her daughter drifted toward the ferries sliding past.

“Mãe, olha isso.” (Mom, look at this.)

“Ei. Você vai cair.” (Hey. You’re going to fall.)

“I won’t,” the daughter laughed. “I just want to smell it.”

She closed her eyes and took a breath, “Everything smells like food.”

“That’s how they trap you,” her mother said dryly. “First the smell. Then the bill.”

They were still laughing when footsteps hurried up behind them.

“Sorry. Sorry, are we—”

A tall man with a soft German lilt stopped short, glancing from Emre, to the clipboard, to the group. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, and a tiny groan left his lips.

Behind him, a woman with a British accent and an apologetic smile stepped forward, her hair escaping its clip.

“First date. Wrong tram,” she smiled, faint blush rising on her cheeks. 

The man lifted his hands.

“Very wrong tram.”

Emre looked at his list, then back up.

“Gece Sokakları,” he said. “Eight to ten.”

“That’s us,” the woman said, relief flashing across her face.

The German man squeezed in, forcing Vaughn back a step. Noa adjusted at the same time, her shoulder clipping his arm before they both found space at the edge of the small semi-circle.

The older couple shifted politely to make space.

“Don’t worry, I’m Maria,” the girl announced to the group. “This is my mom.” She tipped her chin toward her. “Alice.”

“Katherine,” the British woman said with a smile. “Jürgen.” She said, and gestured toward the man beside her.

“Tamam,” Erme said. “Başlıyoruz.” He was already moving forward, clipboard in hand. (Alright. We’re starting.)

They turned onto a side street where the pavement sloped. There were fewer windows, more open doors, bulbs hung low over grills and counters. Smoke curled low from a grill that sat halfway the street. A man turned a skewer with his bare hand while fat and oil dripped straight onto the coals. 

“What is that?” Maria asked, slowing.

“Balık,” Emre said, “Fish. You’ll like it.”

Emre took the first sandwich and passed it straight to Maria as the group stopped at the edge of the water.

Black water pressed up as ferries slid past. It was close enough to feel the engines vibrate under their feet. 

A vendor stepped forward, folding paper around something hot.

“Balık ekmek,” Emre said, handing one to Noa. “Lemon fish sandwich.”

Noa took a bite, and the bread immediately collapsed, soaking through the paper. Oil ran warm down her wrist. The smoke, salt, and lemon was sharp to her senses.

“Oh.”

“Let me.”

Noa held it the paper without looking.

“Yeah,” Vaughn smiled, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “That’s… yeah.” He laughed, passing it back to Noa.

The older woman watched them for a second, lips pressed together, brow raised. Her eyes flicked from Noa’s hands to Vaughn’s face. 

She smiled, leaned toward her husband, and murmured, “저기 봐 (“Look at that.”). 

Emre was already passing another down the line.

He stopped in front of Vaughn, held the sandwich just out of reach for half a second.

“Fresh one,” he said. “No sharing.”

Vaughn blinked, then laughed under his breath as he took it.

Noa glanced at him, then back at Emre. “He’s strict,” she mouthed, biting her lip to muffle a laugh. 

Vaughn took a bite as lemon dripped onto his thumb.

Emre nodded, satisfied, and moved on.

“Okay. I love it.” Maria grinned, wiping her fingers on a napkin.

“Come,” Emre said, turning back toward the street. “This is just the beginning.”

They stayed close to the water, the group forming pairs in a loose line as Emre led them forward. They cut along the edge of a market where stalls were half-closing, half-reopening. Vendor dragged crates back into place, plastic sheets were peeled off and thrown over shoulders, knives chop-chop-chopped fish in rhythm.

Emre stopped without warning, by a tea cart, and reached for the small tulip glasses.

“Hot,” he said, passing them out. “Careful.”

“Ouch,” Jürgen said, lifting his glass too fast, then hesitating, “Sorry.”

He glanced at Vaughn, blowing his lips to cool the steam. “Do people ever tell you that you look like—”

“No,” Vaughn said immediately.

Jürgen laughed. “Great game,” he winked, “Best final.”

Katherine’s head snapped toward him.

“Jürgen,” she said sharply, under her breath. “Nein. Bitte.”

“Was? Ich hab nichts gesagt.” (What? I didn’t say anything.)

“Yes, you did,” she muttered. “He said it wasn’t him.”

Alice leaned toward Maria, grinning.

“Ele é ainda mais bonito ao vivo.” (He’s even more handsome in person.)

Maria glanced at Vaughn again, then quickly looked away. “Claro,” Maria whispered. (Of course.)

Noa grinned, and sipped her tea. 

“She has a crush on you.”

“Who?” 

Noa tilted her head. “Maria,” she whispered. “And don’t…”

Vaughn turned too quickly, eyes catching Maria’s just as she looked away.

“Turn around,” Noa frowned.

“Sorry,” Vaughn laughed, one hand lifting to his chest as he looked down at her. “My bad.”

She rolled her eyes and kept walking.

“You speak Portuguese?” he asked, falling back into step beside her.

Noa smiled into her tea.

“Enough.”

Of course, Emre was already moving again.

They followed him past the cart, through a short underpass where water echoed. Their footsteps hollowed out into an open stretch, the Galata Tower rose ahead of them, stone and circular, lit from below. 

Maria stopped short. “Oh,” she gasped.

Alice stood quietly, head tilted back, eyes tracking the curve upward.

Jürgen let out a low whistle. 

Emre glanced back, counting heads.

“We walk around. Not up," he said, already half-stride to their next destination—the Istanbul ferry.

Noa leaned against the railing, as ferries slid past below them, ferries slid past, their lights illuminating the water. Vaughn stood beside her, close enough that when the group started moving again, his shoulder brushed hers.

The ferry cleared the dock and the deck shifted under their feet. A loose paper cup skidded across the metal floor before someone pinned it with a shoe.

“Fica aí,” Maria said, leaning over the rail, lifting her phone. “Mãe. Wait. Stay right there.”

Alice stopped and turned, the city rising behind her. Maria crouched to frame the shot, frowned, lowered the phone, tilted it upright, then leaned back.

“Não cabe,” she huffed, exasperated. “It doesn’t fit.”

“Você está muito perto (You’re too close),” Alice said, squinting upward, craning her neck. “Ou é alto demais (Or it’s too tall).”

Maria tried again, stretching her arm higher. “Isso não está certo,” she moaned. (This is not right.)

A few feet down the rail, Katherine followed Maria’s line of sight, “Is that a mosque,” she asked Jürgen, mid-squint, “or an apartment?”

Jürgen leaned forward, then pulled a folded map from his pocket and turned it sideways.

“That can’t be right,” he said, brows furrowed.

Emre places two empty tea glasses down as he picked up two new steaming ones, from a man with a metal tray balanced on shoulder, as he passed through the space.

“Both.”

The ferry cut close to another vessel stacked with containers.

Jürgen muttered to himself, “That’s not how cities work.”

Near the rail, the older Korean woman whispered to her husband, “사람들이 참 활기차네요.” (These people are very… lively.)

He nodded, smiling. “조용할 줄 알았는데.” (I thought it would be quiet.)

“Allāhu akbar.” The sound reached them late and stretched over the water.

The older woman stilled, hands folded on her lap as she gazed toward the water. Her husband followed her eyes and squeezed her arm.

“Is that… ?”

Katherine nudged Jürgen in the ribs. “Shh!”

Behind them, a mother tore bread for her child just as seagull dropped out of nowhere and landed too close.

CAWWWW.

“Woah.” Maria exclaimed, taking a small step back.

Vaughn immediately lifted his arm, shielding Noa’s hair.

“Yaklaşmayın!” Emre snapped, sharp and sudden. (Don’t get too close!)

Parallel Lines by Kings of Convenience 

Noa followed Vaughn onto the side rail, the ferry engine vibrated through her shoes as a gust of wind caught her sleeve.

“So,” Vaughn said, not looking at her, forearms on the rail. “Still a long day?”

She glanced up at him, bumped his arm lightly with hers, and didn’t answer, her eyes tracked the minarets sliding past, one after another, thinning into the dark, instead.

“My sister was right,” Vaughn said quietly, gazing out at the water.

“I was formally asked to be a part of a project today,” Noa said, finally.

Vaughn turned his head and glanced down at her.

Noa kept her eyes on the water, watching a seagull on the rail nearby, wings flapping once before he flew away.

“UNFCCC.”

Water slapped the hull as a deckhand dragged a rope across the metal behind them.

“United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change,” she added.

“And… National Geographic,” she quietly spat out before quickly going silent again.

Vaughn nodded, gaze studying her, patiently waiting.

“They want a—” She started again, “A global climate narrative.”

Her lip curved into a small smile. “They want…Me.”

Vaughn flexed his fingers on the metal rail, gaze focused on the water in front of them.

“NJ.” He slowly turned and glanced down at her. “That’s huge.” He grinned.

“It’s time for the end of the tour,”. Emre called out to the scattered group, appearing out of thin air. “Please follow me.”

The older couple walked hand in hand behind.

“천천히,” (Slowly.)

Her husband nodded. 

Maria tried to take another picture of the water.

“Vamos,” Alice said gently. (Come on.)

“So nice to meet you,” Alice said, pulling Emre into a hug as she and Maria exited.

“Enjoy,” Katherine waved, without looking back, pulling Jürgen forward.

Maria looked back once more, phone half-raised to the Bosphorus, snapped a picture, and continued walking.

The older woman paused at the top of the ramp, eyes still on the water until her husband touched her elbow.

“가야 해요.” (It’s time to go.)

She nodded once, softly.

“그래요.” (Yes.)

The ramp thudded against the dock as they stepped down.

“Thank you for taking the tour,” Emre smiled at them.

Finally, Vaughn stepped down. “Stay close.”

Noa shifted bag tote higher on her shoulder and reached for his wrist, stepping onto the stones, phone in hand. 

Vaughn pulled her closer and walked beside her. She held her phone out, angled so the screen caught the skyline.

“That one?” he asked, glancing down at her.

She nodded.

CLICK.

A seagull dropped, snatched something from the water, then lifted back into the sky.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

They moved again, down the street. Vaughn’s hand hovering at her back.

“I got a car,” he said, titling his head toward a black car idled at the curb, hazard lights ticking. He opened the door and Noa slid in.

Vaughn smoothed his hair and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel before easing into traffic while Noa kicked off her shoes, and leaned her head to the headrest.

Theo & Mehmet, Istanbul

DING.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m coming down now.”

The elevator doors slid open.

Dark rugs ran straight from the elevator bank toward the far doors.

Theo stepped, jacket half on, phone pressed to his ear. He hooked the strap of his watch as he walked, passing the square columns as he crossed the lobby.

“Five minutes. I’ll meet you outside.”

He ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket.

“Mr. Aldridge-Wells. The car’s ready. Right this way, sir.” The bellman shifted aside as the doors swung open ahead of him.

Outside, water flickered between the columns, black with scattered lights. A dark sedan rolled through the gates, headlights flared, tires crunching on the gravel as it slowed. 

The driver rolled down the tinted window. 

“You Theo.” 

“I’m Mehmet,” he said, unlocking the back door. 

Theo nodded and slid into the back seat, the door clicking shut behind him.

The radio was already on.

“…gel diyor, gel—” the woman sang, her voice stretched thin over the beat. (…she says come, come—)

“—Evet İstanbul, trafiğe dikkat,” the DJ cut in. (—Yes Istanbul, watch the traffic)

HONKKKKK.

The singer came back mid-word.

“—iyorum seni—” (—I love you—)

BUZZ.

Theo pulled his phone back out.

A message preview filled the screen.

Nina — Adidas Global Football New kit concepts attached. 

He flicked past it.

“Busy tonight,” Mehmet said, merging into traffic. “Always busy.”

BUZZ.

SKY SPORTS ALDRIDGE-WELLS DAZZLES IN RETURN TO THE PITCH — ROSSONERI MILANO FC FALL IN ISTANBUL AS VAN RYN LIFTS THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE TROPHY 

He thumbed the screen so hard it shook. 

The road curved away from the water as boats quickly flashed between buildings. 

Lewisham Lionesses — Coach Sam Theo,  I heard about the injury and we are all wishing you well. Bummer about the CL match, but you were amazing. The girls are inviting you to the next training session if you’re in town. Let me know!  -Sam 

Mehmet flicked his blinker, cut left, cut right.

“Better this way,” he said. “Traffic other side.”

Theo to Sam: Sunday works. Do the girls still want the new warm-up kits? I can stay after — practice pens if there’s time.

Send.

Theo watched the city blur through the window as they cut into Eminönü, traffic tightening near the bridge. He rested his forearm against the door, phone loose in his hand.

BEEP. BEEP.

“Abi, dur!” (Hey, stop!)

“Çekil, çekil!” (Move, move!)

The voice on the radio broke came back for half a second and disappeared again.

“Sus artık.” (Enough.)

Mehmet reached forward and turned the volume down a notch, and clicked his teeth.

“Geçiyorum!” (I’m coming through!)

A vendor with a tray balanced over his head, cut through a group stood around tall metal tables set right on the pavement drinking tea.

“We stop.”

Mehmet eased off the gas and pulled the car to an abrupt stop, already unbuckling. “Two minutes.”

Before Theo looked up, Mehmet was gone.

“Abi, bir tane!” (Brother, one!)

They were parked beside a crowd of people circling a food cart. Two men leaned in shoulder to shoulder, one holding cash out, the other pointing at people in line. Theo cracked the window an inch to listen.

“İki—iki tane!” someone called out. (Two—two!)

Mehmet’s voice cut in.

“İki tane,” he said. “Şimdi.” (Two. Now.)

“Bekle!” the vendor snapped, knife coming down again and again as he carved. (Wait!)

BUZZ.

Theo rolled the window back up halfway and glanced at his phone. Outside, blade struck meat as it dropped into a half-full metal tray.

“Sonra, sonra,” the vendor called out, as smokes billowed toward the car, thick enough to fog the glass. (After, after.)

“Buradayım!” a man shouted from the side, waving bread overhead. (I’m here!)

“Abi,” Mehmet said again, louder this time. “Bak — iki.” (Brother. Look — two.)

Theo slid his phone back into his pocket and opened the door. He stepped out and leaned back against the car, hands in his pockets, the noise and smoke closing in around him.

Mehmet returned with a paper-wrapped döner, and handed one to Theo.

“Eat,” he said. “Good here.”

Theo took it, bread sagged as he bit it, sauce ran over his thumb. He wiped his thumb against the paper, then licked it anyway, eyes shifting between people passing: a man counting change, a woman laughing as she pulled her scarf tighter against the night air before glancing at her husband.

“You play,” Mehmet announced watching Theo chew, satisfied grin on his face.

Theo swallowed. “Yeah.”

Mehmet nodded and wiped his hands on a napkin, glancing toward the street.

“Finish,” he said. “We go.”

HONNNNNNKKKKKKK.

“Tamam, tamam (Alright, alright!)!” Mehmet waved over his shoulder to the driver pressing the horn, as he opened his car door. “Hepimiz buradayız!” (We’re all here!)

Back in the car, they were moving again before finished his last bite. He wiped his hands, folded the paper, tucked it into the cup holder, and pulled out his phone.

RING.

“I got your text,” Theo said, immediately. “Zagreb looked good.”

“Yeah?” Luka said. “I wasn’t sure about the lighting on the west side.”

“No, that was fine. Crowd looked alive, still.” He half-laughed.

“Supplier’s saying the second shipment might land late. Not late-late. Just—”

“Don’t stress that bit,” Theo said. “They said it’ll make it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Theo nodded, “Let’s not push it.” 

The car slowed at a light. Mehmet tapped his fingers on the wheel. “Hep aynı.” (Always the same.)

“Riyadh,” Luka said. “They want a call next week.”

Theo leaned back and pressed the phone closer to his ear, slowly rubbing his face. “Riyadh’s gonna be a headache, still.”

“We don’t have to say yes.”

“I know,” he sighed, lightly tapping his fingers on the door handle. “Yeah, let’s add it to the list to discuss options. 

“What about Thread?”

The car rolled forward when the light changed and stone buildings gave way to glass as the street widened.

“I’ll be in London soon,” Theo added. “Theresa and I’ll sort that.”

“Alright,” Luka said. “I’ll send notes tonight.”

“Safe,” Theo said. “Nice work.”

“Get some sleep,” Luka said. “Or… try.”

Theo laughed. “Yeah. Yeah. Talk soon.”

Mehmet immediately turned the radio off when he heard Theo end the call.

“Here.”

He pulled to the curb and parked along the edge of Sultanahmet Square.

RING. RING.

“My wife.”

Mehmet glanced at his phone and then nodded to Theo. “I wait,” he smiled, watching as Theo exited.

The ground in front of him was open and uneven, patches of grass worn flat into pale tracks where people had crossed it again and again. 

“Yavaş, yavaş,” a man said to a child nearby, guiding her hand as they crossed, angling them around a scooter that slipped through. (Slowly, slowly.)

Directly ahead, the Hagia Sophia filled the center of it all. 

“Buradan daha iyi,” a woman murmured, turning her phone toward the domes. (It’s better from here.)

The dome sat heavy and wide. Floodlights pushed up from the base, leaving the upper curve in the shadows, the stone shifting from warm colored to dark as it rose. Smaller domes stepped down around it, half-hidden. 

“Tamam,” someone answered, stepping back into place. (Okay.)

To the right, the Blue Mosque pulled the eye upward. Minarets stood thin and vertical, evenly spaced, lights running their length so they looked almost drawn against the sky. 

A couple sat close on the grass behind him. Between them, the courtyard disappeared into darkness, only the tops of arches visible.

“Did you see it move?” the woman whispered.

“It doesn’t move,” the man said. “It just looks like it does.”

People crossed through the space without stopping for long. 

“Wait— one more,” a man said, lifting his phone again.

“No, that’s enough,” his friend answered, already turning away.

A woman sat on the low stone edging and stood again.

“I am cold,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Just for a minute,” the man beside her replied.

“Hey!” Theo called, hands out, as a child broke free and ran three steps towards him.

The girl stopped short, looked up at him, eyes widening.

“Teo?” she said, pointing. “Teo Allyridge?”

Her mother hurried over. “Hayır—sorry—” she started, she stopped mid-sentence as she glanced up. “Oh.”

“Number 8.” She grinned, extending her hand, “Theo Aldridge-Wells.” Her eyes twinkled, “Rossoneri!” 

Theo smiled and shook her hand before he crouched to the little girl.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” the grinned, tugging at his sleeve.

Her mother laughed, embarrassed. “Just one photo, please,” she asked. “If it’s okay.”

Theo nodded. He stood and grabbed the girl stepped next to the mom.

“Buradan,” the mother smiled, lifting her phone. (From here.)

“Ready,” Theo smiled.

CLICK.

“Teşekkür ederim,” the mother said. (Thank you.)

Theo nodded, “Of course,” and stepped aside.

He kept walking toward the edge of the square where the stone dropped to a low wall. He sat down for a minute and rested his forearms on his knees.

A tray of tea glasses passed in front of him, metal clinking softly as the carrier adjusted his grip to keep them from touching.

Theo stayed a moment longer and watched as the square kept reorganizing itself in front of him. People drifted into his line of sight, then out again.

He lifted his phone and framed the Hagia Sophia—adjusted when someone crossed too close, waited again, then took the photo.

He turned slightly, shifting his phone to bring the Blue Mosque into view—the minarets lit against the dark, straight up their length, and held it there until the image settled.

When he lowered the phone, he closed his eyes for a second and exhaled, thumb hovering over the photos.

He opened his messages, scrolled to Noey, typed two words.

Deleted.

A/N (continued): Tumblr fought me on visuals and music again 😭 even though we finally meet the national team (yes, they’re loosely inspired by England players). If you want a little collage like we did for MARCHAND later, just say the word. Check the soundtrack link for the tunes.

Light Up For You by LOYAL 

The Westin, Zagreb

Morning light blasted through the hotel curtains across the king-sized bed. Noa sat cross-legged in an oversized T-shirt, a mug of hot tea and a croissant on the nightstand. She leaned over her laptop, pen in one hand, scribbling on a notepad, papers sprawled on the duvet.

Her eyes flicked between the screen and her phone.

Her phone screen showed 7:42 AM, earlier than she meant to be awake. A summer in Europe should have adjusted her by now, but the constant city-to-city schedule hadn’t exactly helped.

“Room service.” 

Noa flounced off the bed, tugging on a pair of pajama bottoms as she crossed the suite.

“Good morning.” 

She opened the door and stepped aside as the bellhop rolled in the trolley, stainless steel domes warming under heat lamps. A blast of cool hallway air drifted in, carrying the smell of disinfectant from the cleaning cart parked nearby.

The bellhop lifted each dome as he spoke:

“Burek, cheese. Pršut and Pag cheese. Ajvar. Boiled egg, fruit. Orange juice. Still water.”

The burek sat glowing in its flaky folds; thin slices of cured ham were layered in a spiral; a ramekin of bright-red pepper spread, figs cut neatly down the middle, thick pulp floating in the glass of orange juice.

“Enjoy,” he said, already leaving.

“Thanks,” Noa replied — but the door had shut.

She pushed the trolley to the bedside and locked its wheels. Fluffing the pillows behind her, she leaned back over her laptop. She tore into the burek first, cheese stretched between her fingers. She chewed as she scrolled, still reading.

Her schedule came up first. 

Today’s blocks filled the screen:

09:00 — UN Briefing with Regional Program Lead 09:45 — Pre-interviews prep with MARCHAND team 10:30 — Youth Ambassador Interviews — Block A 12:00 — Maksimir Stadium walk-through (UN + FIFA + local crew) 13:00 — Working lunch with community NGOs 14:00 — Youth Ambassador Interviews — Block B 15:30 — Historical Context Meeting (Balkan post-conflict consultant) 16:15 — FIFA Oversight / Compliance Check-in 17:00 — Notes to HQ + mapping “Chapter One: Zagreb”

It already felt like a full day, and she hadn’t even showered. The emotional whiplash between Julian and Theo left a dull tightness behind her eyes.

She reached for the stack of printed call sheets she’d left out the night before, interview blocks, timings, locations. She scanned the first page, flipped to the second, and made one correction before setting them aside.

The orange juice was cold. She drank half the glass in three big sips and opened her inbox.

She scrolled through overnight messages, deleting what didn’t matter, flagging what did. A new FIFA thread sat near the top. She clicked it and skimmed the chain, thumb resting on the trackpad.

Halfway down the CC list she paused.

Elijah Merrick — UEFA Board Liaison.

Her eyes stopped on his name for a second before she kept scrolling. Her gaze skimmed down the CCs until it stopped — two lines below, Damien Cole.

The slight scowl on her face vanished, replaced by that dull irritation she now associated with him, swaggering commentary, unsolicited opinions, and the worst possible timing.

She shut the email before her pulse climbed any higher.

Her phone lit up on the nightstand:

Maya-Rose: “Heard Damien is your counterpart this trip. He might be worse than Georgia-Louise AND Miles. Good luck x”

Noa smirked, quickly typing back:  Noa: “Can anyone be worse than Miles????”  Maya-Rose: “Honestly…. Probably not hahahaha.” 

She exhaled through her nose, set the phone face-down, and glanced toward the window.

Outside, the street was already awake — a pair of joggers passing the entrance, a tram gliding past the corner, a cyclist weaving around a delivery truck, two hotel staff members hauling a linen cart toward the service elevator.

She sipped her tea and whispered to herself, “Okay. Day Two.” Then she checked the time — 8:04 AM — enough of a breather before the UN briefing. Her thumb hovered over Theo’s name for a second before she tapped it.

Noa: “Last night was really fun. Good luck today.” Theo: delivered

She set the phone aside and slid off the bed, crossed to the bathroom. She quickly showered, padded back into the room, and pulled on her clothes and her MARCHAND lanyard.

By the time she finished getting ready, it was nearly 8:30. She zipped her tote: notebook, badge, portable mic case, call sheets, backup pens — a protein bar she’d probably forget about.

Before leaving the suite, she checked her reflection once more. 

BUZZ.

Damien: “Meet you downstairs in two minutes. You never answer texts. Tsk—”

She locked the room behind her, slipping the phone into her pocket.

Been Away by Brent Faiyaz

The elevator doors opened to the sounds of a piano loop playing from a speaker near the bar. Damien was already waiting in the lobby, standing near a man arguing in clipped Croatian, “Ne. Rekao sam ne. Kasnije [No. I said no. Later],” every so often tapping his polished shoe on the marble floor in frustration.

Two suitcases rolled past, one wheel squeaking, when Noa spotted him mid-stride, eyes wide.

Black Mandela graphic tee, olive shorts, white low Chucks with white mid-calf crew socks.

Her brows furrowed. 

A blue baseball cap pulled low, a silver chain, a gold watch.

Her lips quirked as his brown leather backpack hung over one shoulder.

An iced coffee in his left hand and a hot one in his right, held out toward her as she stepped out.

“By the way, I’m from LA,” he smirked, giving her the hot coffee without asking.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“You do today,” he said, already walking toward the doors.

Just then, Lisa Rowland sashayed by, stopping them mid-stride, hotel lanyard swinging, eyes widening at Damien’s outfit.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Cole,” she teased, mid-lip bite.

Damien winked. “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Lisa Rowland looking so gorgeous the morning sunshine must’ve been waiting to bathe in you.”

Noa rolled her eyes, gripping the cup tighter.

Lisa giggled. “Oh, Mr. Cole… you have to stop with all your compliments. I don’t want to take advantage.”

Damien stepped closer to Lisa, towering over her. “And what if I wanted that—”

“Ahem,” Noa coughed.

Lisa’s gaze flicked to Noa. “My apologies, Ms. Jameson, you know—”

“Damien,” Damien chimed in.

“Damien,” Lisa laughed, swatting him away. “He’s a real charmer.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Noa deadpanned. 

Lisa’s eyes widened.

“Well, we should get going… Ms. Lisa Rowland. Someone here lacks fun… and imagination. Whimsy and all that,” he said, stepping closer to Noa to usher her out of the revolving doors.

Noa silently followed, not bothering to correct him. It was too early to start arguing with Damien Cole, and the building warmth outside immediately distracted as the glass doors opened, pastries  and car exhaust. She noticed how the morning sun illuminated the yellow on the buildings as trams zipped by.

They stepped around a delivery truck idling by the curb. The driver was wrestling with a stack of crates; one slipped, thudding against the sidewalk. Damien caught it with one hand before it tipped fully, steadying the stack.

“Careful, prijatelj,” he said, handing it back.

The driver nodded, half a laugh. “Hvala.”

“Do you always have to be so—”

“Me,” he smirked. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Noa rolled her eyes but kept walking.

Damien slowed his steps to meet hers. He was relaxed in a way that didn’t match his usual posture.

A street vendor dragged crates toward the corner kiosk maneuvering around a taxi easing into traffic.

He glanced over. “We need the intro done by nine-thirty. They said the foyer heats up fast.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I saw the memo.” 

He huffed a laugh into his iced coffee, raising his hands in mock-truce. “My bad. Just making sure.”

A cluster of cyclists cut close, stopping them in their tracks. One student on a bike called out, “Oprosti!” as he swerved around them.

A hand lifted. “You’re good!”

Then he glanced down at her, noticing the untouched coffee. “You could at least pretend to sip it.” 

“I don’t like coffee.” 

He eyed the cup. “You haven’t even tried it.”

She looked up to meet his gaze and took a small sip just to shut him up.

“Glad to see you aren’t rude,” he smirked. 

Noa ignored him and focused instead on the way his shadow cut long over the pavement, the sun catching on his moisturized chocolate skin, the glint of his watch and chain.

Every person they passed dipped their eyes to scan his KITH Nelson Mandela print tee and he smiled. She couldn’t tell if it was in annoyance or education.

There weren’t many Black people in Zagreb. Maybe they were the only ones in the entire city. It wasn’t her choice to notice him, she just did.

“It’s over there,” he said, cutting across her to step into the intersection.

The Croatian National Theater rose at the end of the block, a wide yellow Baroque façade, tall white columns, green copper roof gleaming, stone lions perched at the entry staircase. Banners for summer performances hung above the steps.

Two students on the bench looked up as they passed. One whispered, “Tko je on?” [“Who is he?”] and the other shrugged.

A dog walker tugged her golden retriever out of Damien’s path. “Oprostite!”

“You’re fine,” Damien called back.

A cyclist leaned against a lamppost, scrolling his phone, barely lifting his eyes as they passed.

Damien nodded toward the city waking up. “Zagreb’s lively today.”

“It’s eight-thirty,” she said flatly.

“Eight-forty-five.”

Noa inhaled loudly and kept moving.

As they approached the theater steps, the production team was already outside. Two PAs rolled equipment cases toward the doors. A small group of youth ambassadors waited under the awning, lanyards on, talking quietly among themselves.

A bald, round man with a mustache and a gravelly voice called out, “Postavite sve uz lijevi zid! Brže! [Place everything against the left wall! Faster!]” the sound vibrating off the theater’s doors.

Damien took a sip of his iced coffee, then climbed the first set of stairs.

“Oh — did you see Elijah Merrick,” his voice rose an octave, “emailed late? I heard the Board’s pleased with him,” he grinned.

Noa kept her eyes forward ignoring him.

Damien watched her carefully for a second. 

“Didn’t realize it was such a sensitive subject,” he teased.

“We’re here,” she said, quick, clipped.

She straightened her blouse and adjusted her badge.

Damien smirked slightly, like he’d filed the reaction away, and followed her up the stairs.

One of the PAs spotted her. 

“Morning, Noa—” the PA called, waving her over. “We’ve got sound checking in the foyer and cameras setting up near the balcony. Interviews will be in three clusters.”

“Great,” she said. “I’ll come in now.”

Damien pushed open the heavy front door.

“After you.”

She stepped inside without acknowledging the gesture.

Fuel to Fire Agnes Obel 

Docu-series Filming, Croatian National Theatre, Zagreb

They stepped into the entrance, limestone columns stretching to the ceiling on both sides, banners brushing in the wind above them. Inside, the vestibule narrowed, shuttered ticket windows behind glass, velvet ropes curved through brass stands, posters for opera and ballet lined the walls.

Ahead, the Grand Staircase dominated the space, wide polished marble steps, gold trim, the chandelier overhead shifting slightly when the doors closed behind them.

The youth ambassadors fell quiet, necks craned as Damien and Noa quietly walked by. 

“Woah,” a girl with red hair and cat-eye glasses whispered to the boy next to her.

“This is my first time seeing it up close,” she murmured. “And I’ve lived here my whole life.” She drifted toward a column, fingertips grazing the cool stone before a runner gently redirected her back into line.

Damien and Noa moved into the main foyer, the group trailing behind them.

The foyer was bright, tall ceilings and clean acoustics, marble flooring and gilded molding tracing every arch. Light equipment was already staged along the floor, the light buzz of overhead rigging and the clack of metal stands echoed up the walls. 

“Clip it here,” a sound tech called out. 

“Still don’t drink coffee, huh?” Damien muttered, as Noa stepped past him, dust from heavy curtains billowing between them. 

Noa kept walking, ignoring him, but silently sipped the cup. 

She moved to her station, a small setup with a tablet, notes, and the interview roster.

Crew voices overlapped and echoed around the space. 

“Kill the reflection off the pillar.” “Block the house lights, just key the face.” “Slate ready?”

Noa scanned her clipboard as the PA slipped the lav mic under her collar, cold fingers brushing her skin.

“This way,” the PA quietly directed Noa to set. 

A sound tech leaned in with a small thumbs-up. 

“Five… four… three…”

Camera red tally light bloomed on.

“Mark it — yes, that one. No shadows on her face, please,” someone called out. 

The first youth ambassador stepped forward, a tall girl in a white jersey with NK Dinamo stitched across the back. Her braids were tucked into a low bun; her lanyard kept twisting sideways. She looked like she’d grown too fast for her own limbs, shoulders squared but eyes flicking down every few seconds.

Noa viewed the questions on teleprompter and cleared her throat.

“What does access to sport mean for your community?”

The girl swallowed and stuttered then she spoke. “It means… we get to show what we can do. Even when… people think we shouldn’t.” 

“That’s good,” the cameraman murmured to himself, checking focus.

Next interview, a boy from Vukovar with nervous hands and scuffed sneakers.

Noa asked, “What has football given you?”

“Louder, Nova, we can’t hear you,” Damien blurted out, between sips of coffee.

Noa rolled her eyes and repeated herself. “What has football given you?”

The boy stared past the lens, at the high ceilings. The echo of his voice hit marble and drifted back. 

“Friends,” he said. “And a safe place to go after school.”

He kept shifting his weight, toeing the edge of his mark, trying not to scuff the floor.

The B-cam operator muttered, wiping sweat off his brow, “Can we bring AC closer?”

Damien leaned against a pillar, scribbling notes, sneaker tapping once every time an answer dragged.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Camera A — wide. Camera B — tight on his eyes.

The PA glared at his shoe.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Damien didn’t stop.

“Ahem. Could you—” 

Could I, what?” Damien asked, brow furrowed.

“We are getting the… the shoe,” the PA gestured toward Damien’s shoe, “the sound is catching in the—,” he said, pointing at the camera.

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

“Oh, my bad,” Damien replied, before taking a long sip of his coffee.

Noa glared at him from across the room. 

He smirked.

Block A flowed. Block B crawled.

Noa rotated her shoulders between questions, trying to stay loose, focused.

Next, the crew shifted setups up onto the first landing where the chandeliers loomed overhead, stairs curving behind interviewees, youth ambassadors clustered by the railing waiting their turn.

Someone reloaded batteries.

A boom mic operator stretched his shoulder.

The editor muttered notes into a handheld recorder: “Trim silence. Keep emotions.”

The woman huddled over playback, tilting her head every time Noa paused too long before a question. “Can we get her to pause less before the second question?”

By 11:50 AM the foyer was humid, lights heating the air faster than the AC could fight back. The makeup under the youth ambassadors’ noses began to melt slightly, shine collecting on upper lips.

“Let’s take five. Everyone is melting,” the PA’s voice boomed through the bull horn. 

During the break, a Croatian makeup artist blotted Noa’s forehead with a gentle press of powder and a nod before whirling over to quickly blot every youth ambassador. 

“Ready!,” she called back to the PA. 

Damien checked his watch. “We should get outside before the cathedral crowds build.”

Noa watched how his chocolate skin glinted under the sun, how the heat gathered between his broad shoulder blades, how every time someone looked his way he grinned — boyish charm on full display. 

She shook her own shoulders to ground herself, slipping her tablet into her tote. “Okay. Let’s move.”

The PA tucked a speaker under his arm and thumbed his phone screen, pop music blasting as feet moved. 

By 12:17 PM the sun was blazing. Church bells rang out as tourists moved from stall to stall purchasing rosaries and postcards, crowding the sidewalk. The cathedral spires rose into the blue sky — one wrapped in scaffolding. 

“Excuse me,” the PA barked to the Croatian police officer who watched nearby eating a burek. Sweat pooled down the PA’s face as he tugged cones to set film boundaries, glaring at the onlooking staff who couldn’t be bothered to help. 

“Youth ambassadors please form a line in front of the steps,” a woman called out, badge flipping in the breeze when she dropped her pen. 

A boy chased it, grabbing it just before it fell into a drainage gap. “Here! Your pen!” 

Camera B set on a shoulder rig. Camera A intentionally framed the damaged spire behind the interviewee. The PA shielded the lens with his hand, testing sun flares.

A girl with a floral headband adjusted her mic nervously, fingers trembling around her cue card. Her eyes kept darting to the small crowd gathering behind the barricade — she wasn’t used to being watched.

Noa gave her a small nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The girl inhaled, found the lens, and began, “We’re trying to build new teams...We’re trying to build mixed teams,” she finished. “So everyone can play.”

Damien stepped in for a framing correction, hand lightly adjusting the card.

“Tilt it up two centimeters... there… perfect. Now… Now you’re good.”

Noa huffed. “And cut! We’re going to have to redo that scene,” she called out. 

“Well, the card was crooked,” Damien shrugged, shifting off the top step and out of the way. 

“And action.” 

Two boys kicked a ball gently between them, never letting it touch the stone.

A tourist lifted a phone toward them.

A PA raised a hand sharply, “No filming the minors. Hvala.”

The tourist lowered his phone, muttering, stepping back into the shade.

BUZZ.

Noa’s own phone buzzed just as she stepped back into frame. 

She only let her gaze flick to the notification.

Theo: See you at 8? Esplanade? 

She didn’t unlock it, but a brief smile crossed her face.  

Damien clocked it immediately, eyes narrowed, “Which one is that?,” he smirked. 

“Work.”

“Mmm. Which work.”

Noa ignored him and turned to face a boy with a tiny Bosnian flag in his hand. 

Noa nodded to start the next interview. 

“What has football meant for your family?”

The boy spoke so quietly the mic tech leaned in from behind the lens, “I need you to speak up, kid. Can’t hear you.” 

The boy looked down at his shoes before speaking, words almost drifted away with the wind. “My brother stopped playing after the war. But he coached me. Football… saved my brother.”

Silence swept the set, faces forlorn for a second too long. Something in Noa’s chest pulled tight but she didn’t let it linger. “... Thank you.”

The camera stopped rolling just as the church bell rang, 1 PM. 

“Cut.” 

The editor gave her two thumbs up. “Perfect. Perfect. Bravo everyone.” 

Damien stretched his neck, rolling his shoulders, moving closer to Noa. 

“Lunch at the NGO center?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, not bothering to meet his gaze.

She was scanning the screen, checking the shots, organizing B-roll lists in her head, already miles ahead into the next block. A gust of warm air lifted the papers clipped to her board. She pressed them flat with one palm.

Rosewood by Bonobo

GNK DINAMO Training Facility, Zagreb 

The minibus rolled to a stop beside the GNK Dinamo training complex, tires crackling over loose gravel. The morning heat was already gathering off the artificial turf in visible waves. Pale-blue training pitches stretched out under a cloudless sky; behind them, the concrete spine of Stadion Maksimir loomed, tier after tier of empty seats catching the rising sunlight.

Players climbed off one by one, boots slung over shoulders, studs clacking against the step, kit bags thumping against hips and sticking to backs. Sweat already gathered at the base of their necks, sun trapping itself beneath fabric.

“Man, this is early-y-y-y,” Darius Coleman muttered, squinting toward the stands. “Sun’s blazing already.”

Ezra Ebere bumped his shoulder on the way down. “It is, bro. No word of a lie.”

One of the academy lads yawned.

“You lot tired already, yeah?” Fik called over his shoulder. “Day gonna be long, still.”

A ripple of laughter followed.

Theo stepped down last.

BUZZ.

Last night was really fun. Good luck today. — Noey (Delivered 08:17)

A small smile lifted the left side of his mouth.

He thumbed a reply: 

See you at 8? Esplanade?

Sent.

But team striker Tariq Adebayo had already clocked it, juggling a ball casually against his boot. 

“Captain’s got distractions,” Tariq smirked.

Theo ignored it, cinching his left shin guard a touch tighter than needed. A quick, dull pulse tightened deep on the right side of his abdomen. He pretended it was nothing but the tightness refused to loosen.

Coach Victor Komasa’s voice cut across the group, making everyone speed up. 

“Inside. Hydrate. Warm-up in ten.”

They filed through sliding doors into the indoor warm-up hall, swallowed by a stark rectangle of high ceilings, industrial lighting, and a line of treadmills thudding against one wall. 

Ezra squinted up at the nearest sign. “No… čizme… on track?” he tried, mangling the Croatian.

“Means don’t be stupid,” Goalkeeper Malik Morgan said, walking past, gloves clinking against his waistband. “So don’t be stupid.”

“It’s hot as hell in here,” Darius muttered, stepping by a large fan groaning as it rotated, failing to cool anything.

“And it stinks. What kind of cleaner they use up in here,” Ezra added, waving a hand in front of his nose.

Darius burst out laughing as Fik slid by, clapping Theo’s shoulder as he passed. “You stretched today? We need that strength.”

“Yeah. Just a bit stiff earlier. But I’m good, still,” Theo said.

Darius jogged backward past them, grin wide, bouncing on his heels. “Ready then, lads.”

Across the room, Ezra sat on a mat, headphones around his neck, stretching. He flicked his locs back, eyes scanning the room as Gunna blared through his speakers. 

A Croatian assistant wheeled in a rack of balls, the metal rattling and echoing through the room. 

“Lopte ovdje, lopte ovdje!” the man called. “Careful, careful, please!”

Ezra pointed at him. “Got them new new training balls, fam,” he said.

The younger players snorted… then quieted instantly when Coach Komasa’s head turned.

“We control transitions,” Coach Komasa said to the nearest group. “We decide the spaces.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Theo. 

Theo nodded once, more to himself than anyone else, and dropped into the warm-up stretch, right leg forward. 

“Tch,” he hissed under his breath. A twinge flared low in his belly but it was gone before he could process it.

Left leg forward—

Another breath caught, sharp pressure just right of his navel, but he forced the stretch deeper to shake the discomfort. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, lowered deeper, pretending he didn’t feel the tight pull across his lower right side; jaw clenched.

Coach Komasa’s eyes narrowed, lingering on Theo’s stretch.

Theo held the stretch longer, catching Coach Komasa’s gaze. He did not see Fik watching him in the mirror, arms folded. Nor did he see Malik tilt his head, before picking up a weight. 

Across the hall, Darius bounced on his toes, humming a melody under his breath. Ezra elbowed him lightly, whispering something that made Tariq snort.

Coach Komasa clapped once, “Boots on.”

The room erupted — studs clattering, bottles snapping shut, adrenaline rushing out the door faster than bodies could follow. 

CRACK. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Darius cursed, “Oi, who’s got spare laces?” 

The smell of cut grass pushed in through the sliding doors as Coach Komasa moved out of the gym. 

“Double knot next time, Darius,” Ezra called out, heading toward the door.

On his exit, Ezra collided with...

Trevor Alistair-Ashford. 

He stepped in late, headphones on, shirt untucked, shirt sweater paws twisted in his locs. 

Behind him, Jordan Belford.

Headphones hanging loose around his neck, washbag in hand, lazy stride. 

Tariq’s smirk vanished.

Fik’s expression flattened.

Ezra thumbed off his headphones — music going silent. 

“Belford. Alistair-Ashford,” Coach Komasa said, leaning back into the hall. “You’re late.”

“Traffic, coach,” Trevor replied too fast.

Jordan didn’t bother with an excuse. “Morning,” he said simply, already heading toward the pitch.

“That won’t happen again,” Coach Komasa replied, turning on his heel.

Theo looked away, thumb dragging once across his lower abdomen before he reached for his boots.

Tariq jogged past then, boots slung over one shoulder, water bottle spinning in his hand.

“Don’t tire yourself out before we hit the pitch,” he murmured.

“Focus on finishing your chances,” Theo quietly shot back.

Tariq smirked and kept walking.

Theo forced himself upright.

He stepped out onto the turf, posture slightly tucked as sunlight hit him full across the face.

Drip Too Hard by Lil Baby and Gunna 

On-Pitch, GNK DINAMO Training Facility, Zagreb 

WHEEP. 

A whistle ripped the pitch. 

“Let’s go, team. Red vs. Blue,” Theo bellowed out, throwing bibs between the cones that lined the pitch. He barely registered his color, Red, as he tugged it on, focus tunneling into the first ball rolling toward him.

Jordan burst forward, studs stabbing the grass, breath scraping dry in his throat. “I got it,” he screamed, a cone wobbling before toppling behind him.

Ezra snickered behind him, “You got it, still.” 

Darius burst out laughing, “Bro, you’re moving like you’re seventy!”

Jordan tossed the comment back with a smirk, “That’s how future captains move, take charge, yeah?” His eyes flickered toward Theo, testing him. He backpedaled to the group.

Theo didn’t respond, just crossed the pitch to Jordan, close enough that Jordan eased back a half-step.

Theo’s shirt clung to his spine, eyes narrowed, mouth in a tight line.

“We go again!” he barked, “Red vs. Blue. ONE team.” 

He gave one final glare to Jordan. “A team that I captain,” he said, bouncing a ball from his feet to his chest.

Jordan shot back, “Captain of the Blues, yeah? Show how future captains move, innit.”

Fik leaped forward snagging the ball from Jordan before he could blink. “Leave it.” 

WHEEP. 

“Quick touches!” Coach Komasa barked.

Ball. Touch. Pass. Ball. Touch. Pass.

Theo cushioned the pass with his right and fed it into Darius, a one-touch return.

One roll came in too close. Tariq stepped in front, flicked it between Theo’s feet, then pointed at him like it was a joke.

Ezra hollered, “Megged the Cap! Ohhh—”

Then came Jordan.

He stepped into the sequence without breaking stride, flick, spin, heel touch through two cones. 

Ezra let out a low whistle. “Show-off.”

Jordan didn’t look up. “Just warming up.”

Tariq drove a shot on the next rotation — wide.

Ball clattered against the advertising boards.

“Again,” Tariq demanded, snatching another ball.

Jordan smirked. “Try the target this time, yeah?”

A moment of silence passed between them, gazes locked, jaws clenched. Tariq’s cleat smashed the wet grass as he strode into Jordan’s space.

Jordan didn’t budge.

“Not now. ‘Low it,” Fik said, shifting his shoulder between them. 

Coach Komasa blew the whistle sharply. 

“Finishing. Jordan, Tariq — alternate. Theo supplying.”

Theo swallowed, squaring his shoulders.

WHACK.

Malik dove toward the ball but was a second too late.

The ball hit the net. 

Theo glared between Jordan and Tariq. 

“Supplying, Aldridge-Wells. Supplying.” 

Fik grinned in the background, gaze locking with a quietly smirking Malik. 

WHACK — Tariq.

Strike — bar down. The net rippled.

“Good one,” Malik roared.

WHACK — Jordan.

There was a snap in the net — bottom corner.

Tariq spat, “Basic.”

Jordan replied simply, “Score another then.”

They both looked at Theo. Sweat crawled down his temple, a small knot tightening low in his right side, ignored with a forced inhale.

Another ball, the pass was too far out. Jordan lunged forward.

“Belford. Lock it down,” Coach Komasa boomed. 

Darius snickered at Ezra’s muttered, “And wants to be a captain…”

WHACK. 

Another ball — Theo pushed pace too fast, a touch too heavy. Jordan lunged—

CRACK.

Jordan’s knee slammed the back of Theo’s thigh.

Theo’s boots skidded, grass streaked his forearm as he hit the ground. 

“Ugh,” he groaned out. He exhaled through his teeth, and pushed himself up before anyone could comment.

WHEEP. 

“Easy,” the physio called from the sideline, jogging halfway toward him.

“I’m fine,” Theo snapped back, already brushing grass from his arm.

Jordan hovered a beat too long. Tariq muttered something under his breath.

Coach Komasa’s whistle cut all of it dead:

“Play!”

Theo rolled his shoulders once, forcing his stride to stay even as he rejoined the drill.

Players dropped into sprints — end line to end line.

“Push!” Coach Komasa yelled. “You want minutes tomorrow? Earn them!”

Theo lifted off. 

The first stride — clean.

The second stride — heat crawled up under his ribs.

Third stride — a tight pinch ignited deep on his right side.

He kept going, but there was a tiny delay between footfalls — and he kept his jaw clenched. 

Ezra caught up beside him, panting. “You’re limping, Cap.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Don’t.”

Ezra fell silent, jogging ahead, unconvinced.

WHEEP. 

Rain by Aitch and AJ Tracey 

The Locker Room, GNK DINAMO Training Facility, Zagreb 

Heat rose from the blast of the showers roaring behind him as Theo flopped on the bench, kit peeled halfway down, sweat beading on his skin. He pressed a palm low against his stomach, slightly wincing. 

Kits slapped tile, boots clattered, music thumped against metal lockers. UK rap flooding the air. 

“Turn that down!” Malik barked, swatting at the speaker as boys laughed.

Darius flicked his towel at Ezra. “Three assists, zero goals, fam!”

“Man, shut up! Real G’s move in silence, yeah.” Ezra threw his shirt, missing wildly and hitting Jordan instead.

Jordan’s head snapped up glaring at Ezra as he stripped off his kit. 

BOOM. 

The wood door rattled as Coach Komasa stepped into the center of the room. 

“Good work today,” he said, gaze sweeping the room. 

“Tomorrow… we mean business,” he stepped forward, “And we play like one unit,” he glanced at Jordan, “We protect each other. ONE TEAM.”

Theo’s fingers froze halfway to his waistband, his elbow drawn in close over his lower abdomen.

Coach Komasa’s eyes flicked to him for a millisecond, eyes narrowed.

Then he nodded once and strode out of the room closing the door, noise erupting instantly. 

Theo unlocked his phone:

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Mum: I am leaving for my flight today from New York. Your father is leaving your granddad in Kingston. Do you need me to bring you anything?  

Tara: What time is the match because the hospital is asking me if I can extend my shift? 

Theo rubbed his forehead.

The screen kept glowing.

More messages loaded.

Theresa: Did you get Big Mike a ticket? I only got one and you do know he is coming. Text me back. 

Delroy’s voice note auto-played:

Mi reach Frankfurt. Why the layover so long? Mi cyaan feel mi toes. Anyway— yuh starting right? Mi nuh leave Kingston 6AM fi watch yuh sit pon bench. Mi wake up 2AM fi dis, star.

Theo let the phone fall against his thigh. “Shit,” he sighed.

The pain hit exactly where the phone landed. 

One more notification blinked at the bottom.

No reply yet from Noey “See you at 8? Esplanade?” Delivered. 

He stared too long at the glowing screen before thumbing it closed, head lolling back on the wall.

Fik dropped beside him, towel draped over his head. “Man’s got issues, still.”

Theo swallowed, eyes never leaving the phone. “No. I’m locked in.”

Fik half-laughed, unconvinced. “You’re many things, T. A liar isn’t one.”

Theo thumped his head back on the wall and sighed. He shoved the phone into his bag, grabbed his towel, and stood — too fast.

His lower right abdomen twitched.

He inhaled and pretended it didn’t.

Nerve by Jordan Rakei

Noa to Theo, Zagreb 

The theatre doors slammed heavy behind her.

“Noa! Can we grab one more quote on the—”

“I’ll send notes later,” she called over her shoulder, already descending the marble steps.

The PA jogged to keep up, headset bouncing. “But Damien said—”

“Damien can email me,” she said, picking up pace, tote thudding against her hip.

Damien’s voice trailed faintly from inside. “Nova! You forgot the—”

She lifted a hand without looking back. “Damien. Tomorrow!”

Her badge hung crooked; sweat stuck her blouse to her ribs. She reached the sidewalk in three long strides.

The film crew’s sedan peeled away from the curb just as she heard, “You need to approve—” lost behind exhaust.

She ducked into the nearest cab, pulling the door shut hard, sinking into the leather with a deep exhale. 

Back at the Westin, she rushed through the lobby, badge still around her neck, sweat clinging under her arms, lemon floor polish stinging her nose. Business travelers lazily rolled suitcases like they had all the time in the world.

“Evening,” Elena called warmly, “long day?”

“Still going,” Noa managed, half-smile, thumb still scrolling call sheets.

DING. 

Inside the elevator, she pressed the button with her knuckle, shoulders finally dropping once the doors sealed shut. Her head fell back against the cool mirror — jaw slack, one long silent exhale shuddering out of her.

As soon as she entered her suite, bag yanked open, chargers tossed onto the duvet still knotted, her tote overturned to spill pens and bottles of hand lotion and sunscreen.

She darted to the bathroom and scrubbed sweat-salt from under one eye, mascara smudged. She raked her fingers through her coils, flattened from sweat, frizz budding at the edges.

“Oof. Need better sunscreen,” she muttered, prodding the uneven tan across her collarbone, two tones of brown competing after hours under cathedral sun.

“Work dress, pajamas, skincare bag, bonnet,” she mumbled plopping them into the bag. 

“Toothbrush.” 

She spun back, snatched it, tossed it in the bag.

BUZZ. 

Her phone lit bright from the bed. 

Theo: You close?

Noa typed with one thumb while yanking the zipper around the suitcase like she was choking it shut.

Noa: Almost. Can I shower there?

Theo: Yeah. I need one too.

She grinned and bit her lip, a soft thump left her chest.

She swiped deodorant, spritzed perfume, grabbed her keycard, and was out the door again, bag over her shoulder, hair pulled into a messy bun she hoped looked intentional.

The cab ride was five minutes.

It felt like two.

It felt like twenty.

Her knee bounced nonstop as the city blurred around her until the taxi skidded to a stop. 

Theo to Noa, Zagreb 

The training facility doors hissed open as Theo stepped into the late evening heat, shin guards tucked under his arm. He occasionally rubbed his fingers over his abdomen as he limped toward the exit. 

“You walking like an old man, Cap,” Darius called, flicking a towel at him.

“I’m good,” Theo shot back. 

Ezra eyed the extra tape peeking above his waistband. “Physio said ice again before sleep. Twice tonight.”

“Yeah,” Theo lied, a tight breath slipping past his teeth, “I heard him,” he said, eyes flickering shut for a second too long.

Malik clapped a heavy palm to his shoulder. “Match tomorrow. Don’t be a hero tonight.”

Theo nodded, pushing through the doors and straight toward the sedan waiting by the curb.

The driver opened the door. “Esplanade?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Theo lowered himself carefully into the seat, palm bracing low on his stomach before he eased in fully.

He leaned his head back and shut his eyes as the city blurred by as trams rattled, opera floated from the nearby theatre, and the church bell’s two strikes slipped through the cracked window while kids kicked a ball along the sidewalk.

BUZZ. 

His phone vibrated once against his thigh.

Mom. 

“Ugh,” Theo groaned, thumbing back a short reply.

He set the phone screen-down, finger tapping a staccato rhythm on his knee, the other hand kneading just above his hip without looking at it, before he grabbed the phone again.

Theo: I’m here.

Delivered.

He watched the screen until the light faded.

The cab turned toward the Esplanade.

Theo sat up straighter at the sight of the awning, the movement wringing a breath out of him.

The Esplanade’s curved awning came into view, carved stone lions perched above gold-lit arches. 

“Good evening, Mr. Aldridge-Wells,” the doorman greeted, opening the door.

Theo nodded once. “Evening.” He exhaled, a hand briefly hovering near his ribs before his foot hit pavement.

The doorman stepped aside and the couple ahead rolled their suitcase toward reception, their wheels clicking over the lobby’s polished cream-and-green stone. Classical music rippled under low conversation near the bar.

Theo followed in their path, just a beat behind.

A bellhop brushed past Theo with a clipboard tucked to his elbow. “Room 214, hvala,” a guest in a navy suit said, switching to English mid-sentence, stepping around Theo and a luggage cart that blocked half the walkway. 

Theo’s shoulder skimmed a gold-trimmed column as he shifted his bag higher, jaw tightening a second too long.

A waitress passed with a tray of coffee cups and citrus slices.

“Good evening, gospodine,” the concierge said when Theo reached the desk. “Checking in?”

“Aldridge-Wells,” Theo replied.

The concierge opened a drawer and placed a keycard envelope on the counter. “Penthouse. Elevator just there.”

Theo nodded and walked, posture pulled slightly forward, toward the brass panel waiting under the chandelier’s light.

He took two strides before the pain caught the third, masking it by adjusting the strap of his bag.

He texted her from the elevator, “Let me know when you get here.”

Delivered. 

DING. 

He stepped inside, keying PH with the edge of a knuckle.

He watched the floor numbers change, rolling one shoulder back as if that would settle whatever was tightening inside.

DING.

Theo stepped out, took a breath, and took the room card from his pocket.

Buzz.

He immediately glanced down, not Noa. 

The penthouse suite opened, lamps low, a dining table set for two waiting under candlelight not yet lit.

Theo set his bag down, breath tightening across his ribs when he moved.

He waited it out.

Then straightened.

Tawo by Jordan Rakei 

Hotel Esplanade, Zagreb 

Noa’s eyes widened as she stepped inside. A crystal chandelier, bellboys wheeling luggage across runner carpets greeted her. 

“Pardon,” a bellhop murmured, nearly clipping her shoulder with a luggage cart.

To her left, a bartender twisted an orange peel over a martini glass and slid it to the woman in front of him. “Try this.” 

“Lovely,” the woman said, swinging her purse on the plush green chair as she sat. 

Noa kept walking. 

Past the pianist testing a chord that ripped across the high ceiling.

“Bonjour.”

“Comment ça va?”

Dodging a pair of older women murmuring in French while a child clung to one’s handbag. 

To a hostess in black, bowing slightly. 

“Dobro večer, gospođice [Good evening, miss] Jameson,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Aldridge-Wells is in the penthouse, and everything is prepared. Shall we go up?”

Noa blinked and quietly nodded, following the hostess to the elevator. 

Mirrored walls, gold trim, and classical music greeted them. The hostess pressed PH and folded her hands politely, a smile fixed in place. Noa smoothed her hair once then clasped her tote to her chest, rocking slightly with the ascent.

The elevator ride was silent, her pulse loud in her ears, the floor numbers blinking too slowly. 

DING.

A long hallway stretched out, thick carpet muffling both their steps.

The hostess guided her halfway then paused with a practiced nod. “Enjoy your evening.” She slipped away before Noa could thank her.

Noa lifted her hand to knock but the door opened first. 

“You made it.” Theo exhaled, shoulders drooping, arm resting against the doorframe, his free hand pressing low against his side adjusting his waistband.

Noa’s eyes flicked over him, shirtless, barefoot, towel wrapped around his neck, black shorts barely covering his V-cut.

The soft “tch” that slipped from his teeth when he straightened too fast told her more than anything he would say. His throat clicked loudly on the swallow that followed. 

“You too,” she whispered. 

He watched the way she tilted her neck and darted her eyes around his arm to peek into the suite brows furrowed. 

“It’s just for tonight,” he said quietly. “Captain perks.”

“Right,” she murmured.

But he could hear the question behind it: For us? Or for you?

He glanced down, noticing her overnight bag, and smirked. 

She watched his gaze flicker from the tightly gripped bag to her eyes, she smiled. 

“You should be icing that,” she glanced down at his leg, brow furrowed.

“I will.” He lifted his arm above the door. “Come in.” His abdomen tightened beneath the motion, subtle but enough that his breath shortened mid-sentence.

She nodded, her throat bobbing like she didn’t trust her voice yet. He let the door close behind them, the latch clicked louder than either expected.

For a second neither moved. She stared at the city through the glass, and he stared at her reflection in the glass.

“Mmmmm. Goodness, this is nice,” she muttered, eyes flickering shut as she slid off her shoes her toes curling into the rug.

His jaw flexed catching the sound, hand returning briefly to the spot just right of his navel as he moved to the bar cart to grab an ice pack ripping the gel open with his teeth when the plastic refused.

A groan left his lips. She couldn’t tell if it was pain or nerves. He quickly masked it by shifting his stance.

She set her bag carefully beside the couch, hands lingering on the straps like she needed something to do with them. 

“Long day?” she asked.

He leaned against the wall, towel sliding off one shoulder as he pressed the ice hard into his muscle. 

She raised her brow, gaze narrowed silently observing him. 

“How was training?” she asked.

He grunted. “Long, still,” pressing the ice to his abdomen, knuckles whitening.

She watched the way he refused to flinch.

“How was filming?” he asked, pushing off the wall toward the couch — the slight hitch in his step smoothed into a smirk — desperately trying to change the subject.

Noa exhaled and followed him to the couch, plopping down next to him. 

“It was long, and hot, and busy. They also made me work with Damien Cole.”

“The FIFA dude?”

“The FIFA dude,” Noa half-laughed, rolling her eyes as she said his name, finally meeting Theo’s gaze. “Dinner?”

“Shower first.”

Noa raised her brow.

“You. Shower. First,” he smirked.

“Hmm,” Noa murmured, lips slightly curved into a faint smile. 

“That way,” she pointed.

“That way,” he pointed, mashing the ice closer to his abdomen.

“Cool,” she said, standing up to grab her bag.

She disappeared down the hallway as quickly as she came, unaware of his hand slipping quietly back to his side to steady himself.

Theo stayed perfectly still until he heard the click of the bathroom door closing; then the water sputtering on.

Only then did he let the tension drain out of his shoulders.

He set the ice pack aside, sucking in a slow breath through his teeth, a sharp pain hitting lower, deeper, his side pinched.

When the spigot stuttered and the water shut off, he pushed up from the couch, crossed the room in measured strides, one hand brushing the wall just long enough to steady himself before he reached the bathroom.

He slipped inside the moment the door opened and they passed each other, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. 

“All yours,” she smirked, eyes flickering up to the towel around his neck — then his eyes — then back down to his lips. 

He exhaled. “Noey,” he breathed as he stepped into the bathroom. 

Hot water steamed the mirror. Theo braced one hand on the tile as he let it fall over his shoulders, his abdomen tightening again, breath hissing between his teeth.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes flickering shut. 

He scrubbed fast, and less than fifteen minutes later, the water cut off. 

He dried quickly, pulling on a fresh white tee that stretched clean across his chest, shorts low and loose on his hips. 

Theo heard the faint rustle of a towel, the squeak of the bedroom door then Noa padding out, bare feet brushing the rug. Damp curls clipped loosely back, cotton pajama shorts and one of his old Rossoneri training tops that dipped off one shoulder swallowing her frame.

He stared, mouth agape.

“It’s an old one… I never got rid of it,” she said, tugging lightly at the hem. 

Theo’s eyes dragged up once, slow. “Right.”

“Ahem... Hungry?” he asked, clearing his throat like the word had gotten stuck, heading back to the living room. 

She nodded, following him, rubbing a drop of water from her collarbone. “What did you order?”

He gestured toward the table: small plates organized in a row — grilled sea bass, hand-rolled pasta, roasted peppers doused in olive oil. A bottle of red, a pitcher of cold water — two plates he’d set too close together. 

“From the restaurant. Team nutritionist approved."

She slid into a chair. Her knee brushed his thigh as she reached for the glasses.

“Fancy.” 

“Water for you…” she poured, “and wine for me.”

The gulp, gulp, gulp, or the wine sloshing the sides of the glass melted the heat between them. 

Theo huffed a laugh and slid in the chair beside her trying not to wince. 

Loose Ends by Loyle Carner ft. Jorja Smith 

Theo’s Suite, Hotel Esplanade, Zagreb 

They filled their plates in silence, the tiny metallic scrape of serving spoons cushioning the space where conversation should go.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Noa said finally, slicing into the bass.

Theo chewed slower, kept his eyes on the plate. “Just tired. Match brain.”

She nodded, but her eyes stayed on him.

BUZZ.

Theo flipped his phone over without looking.

BUZZ. BUZZ.

He exhaled sharp, jaw shifting. 

“Training?” she asked lightly.

“Luka from the restaurant,” he muttered. “And my mum. And Tara. And Theresa nagging about tickets for Big Mike. And my dad refusing to leave Jamaica for ‘Eastern Europe’—” he slipped into perfect patois, “‘Dis nuh my continent, Theo.’”

She laughed. “Did you?”

“Did I…?”

“Get Big Mike a ticket?” Her foot brushed his knee under the table. 

Theo’s mouth twitched. “Of all the things —” he grinned, shaking his head, “Big Mike getting tickets is the most of your concerns.”

“Well… I don’t know Luka at the restaurant but he’s to handle the permit and you said three weeks so he should solve that,” she said, twisting her pasta —

She waved the fork once for emphasis, noodles sliding back onto the plate.

“— and your mom and Tara are going to be annoying because your mom was with my mom in New York and she has to fly transatlantic.”

She pointed the fork at him now, like this part was important.

“Tara is probably working or trying not to take another shift that we already know—”

“She is going to have to take,” they said in unison.

“And Delroy never wants to leave Jamaica…” she laughed.

Theo shook his head laughing like he could picture the whole argument already happening. “Rah, you’re not wrong, innit.” 

“I don’t know about this Captain's breakfast tomorrow, though…. Tell me more.” she asked, brow raised, taking a bite of the pasta.

Theo set his fork down. “About tomorrow?” He sighed. “England, Netherlands, Croatia, Albania, and Kosovo want their Captains to have breakfast before the press conference.”

He thumbed the condensation on his water glass.

“So... me, Vaughn van Ryn...."

She noticed his jaw clench and a vein flexed at his neck. 

“Luka Modrić, Berat Djimsiti and Amir Rahmani have to sit in a conference room and eat breakfast right before we spend hours doing press.”

He raked a hand across the back of his neck, like he could pull the whole situation off him.

“And you don’t want that?”

“No.”

His voice stayed flat but his leg bounced once beneath the table before he stilled it.

Her smile wavered. “Right.”

She stared at her plate instead of his face. He watched her swallow too hard.

BUZZ.

This time she glanced.

A preview banner flashed quick:

GQ Exclusive — Theo Aldridge-Wells Is Building a Life Off the Pitch. You Just Weren’t Supposed to See It Yet.

Noa took a deep inhale and reached for her wine glass. 

Theo didn’t miss it.

“It’s—” he started.

She pushed a laugh through her nose before he could finish. 

“It’s... everywhere.”

“Yeah.” 

They sat silently for a moment. 

“Noey,” he tried again, “I didn’t expect them to... to craft the story that way.”

“That way?” she asked, steady, but her hand was shaking.

“You told the world you’d wait for me,” she said softly, eyes flickering to the window. 

Theo inhaled, chest expanding, throat tight.

“No,” he said finally. “I told the world the truth. How I see you.”

BUZZ. 

A text from Isabella flashed twice on the screen.

Noa's eyes snapped up. “And I guess Isabella wants to know how you see her too?”

Theo froze. A muscle ticked near his eye, a sharp pain jolting through his rib. 

“Noey,” he warned. 

“You told the world one story,” she pressed, voice cracking. “But you left out the part where your ex was still showing up.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he snapped. 

Noa swallowed, shoulders deflating. 

“That’s the problem,” she whispered. “I don’t know what it was.”

BUZZ. 

The table vibrated like the room itself was shaking. 

Theo thumbed it dark. Then leaned back, eyes flicking up. 

Sorceress by Jordan Rakei 

Theo’s Suite, Hotel Esplanade, Zagreb 

“Are you mad because I didn’t tell you,” he said low, “or are you mad because it wasn’t you?”

The hurt in her face was instant and devastating.

“Wow,” she whispered. “We’re going there.” 

She pushed back from the table. Her chair legs screeched across the marble.

Theo rose too, stepping closer, breath on her cheek.

“You’re the one who keeps running, Noey.”

He stepped closer, hand slid to her jaw. 

He trailed his thumb along her chin.  

“Did she date me? Yes. Did I date her? I wanted to.”

He tilted her face up, just a bit, enough that she couldn’t look away from him. 

“But she was never going to be you.” 

Noa’s eyes widened, but she stayed silent. 

He gripped her chin. 

“And I won’t apologize for trying to get over you.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into the palm of his hand. 

Noa’s breath stuttered, her lashes lifting as his thumb traced once beneath her lower lip, slowly and claiming. His hand on her jaw held her there, gaze locked, neither of them pretending anymore that this wasn’t happening.

“Noey, you drive me crazy,” he whispered, barely a sound, lips nearly brushing hers, the words caught between a promise and a curse.

She swallowed. “You think you’re the only one?”

Theo’s grip slid from her jaw to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into the damp curls there, tugging just enough that her breath left her in a gasp. His other hand pressed low on her waist, guiding her back until her hips hit the edge of the table.

Her wine glass wobbled, liquid trembling like her pulse.

“No more running,” he said, heat tightening each word.

Noa tilted her chin up in challenge. “I told you. I came to Zagreb. For you.”

That undid him.

Theo’s mouth fell to hers. 

Her fingers fisted in his shirt immediately, dragging him closer, her legs parting. His knee nudged between hers as she pushed back, kissing him like it was her last breath.

He groaned, deep in his chest, “Noey, mhmm.” 

She broke away only to bite his bottom lip. 

He hissed in a breath and grabbed her thigh, hauling it up his hip.

“Theo—” she gasped when his mouth found the edge of her jaw, the line beneath her ear, all the places that made her melt and fight at the same time.

His hand skimmed beneath the hem of her shorts. His palm burned against her skin.

“Noey,” he pleaded.

Anger tasted like want.

He lifted her onto the table. Plates rattled, silverware slid, the bottle thudded against the glass Her fingers digging into his shoulders, his grip anchoring her hips. 

He lifted one hand to steady the bottle, keeping her pinned with the other. 

A quiet, desperate sound broke from her throat. He closed his eyes and pushed down a jolt of pain in his side. 

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, even though this wasn’t fixing anything.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, leaning back down to her.  

His lips crashed into hers again, swallowing the low sound she made when his fingers squeezed at her hip. She tugged his shirt again — harder — frustration and need tangled together.

He broke from her mouth long enough to meet her eyes. 

“This is what you want?” he asked, voice ragged.

“Yes,” she shot back, breath unsteady.

“Good.”

He kissed her again, dragging her closer,  fingers sliding under the hem of her shirt, his knuckles brushed her warm skin. 

She hooked her fingers in his waistband...

KNOCK. KNOCK. 

Theo froze mid-breath. Noa’s fingers stayed tangled in his shirt.

Theo gently lowered her thigh from his hip and pressed his forehead to hers trying to catch his breath, trying to hold the moment in the small space before reality crashed back in.

He ran a hand over his face, pain flaring beneath his ribs, and forced his voice steady. 

“I’ll get it.”

Tidal Wave by Tom Misch & Yussef Dayes 

Theo’s Suite, Hotel Esplanade, Zagreb 

“One second,” he called out.

Noa smoothed the front of his shirt where she’d grabbed it, then stepped down from the table, trying to steady her breathing.

Theo didn’t look at her — not because he didn’t want to — because he didn’t trust himself if he did. 

He crossed the suite, a pinch firing along his side, jaw tight. His bare feet, silent over the rug. The breath he took before unlocking the door wasn’t. He braced one hand briefly on the doorframe before pulling it open.

Vaughn.

Inside, Noa brushed her hair back with the back of her wrist, then straightened the hem of her shirt, palms smoothing it twice to ground herself before moving to clean up the leftover dinner.

Theo’s eyes widened, gripping the door a bit tighter while another ripple of pain shot through him.

“Vaughn?”

Vaughn stood tall, brow low, jaw set. His signature slicked-back man bun, a Netherlands Nike jogger set, and a thick folder labeled CONFIDENTIAL pressed into his palm.

“They told me your room was changed for the night. Figured I’d knock instead of letting the liaison chase you.”

“Penthouse.” His brow lifted, a smirk crossed his face. “Nice.”

Back in the suite, Noa righted the wine bottle first. Unfortunately, its glass met the table glass with a loud CLINK.

“Sorry!,” she called out.

Theo slightly pulled the door forward, but it was too late, Vaughn would recognize that voice anywhere.

The plates wobbled from where they’d been shoved aside, so Noa neatly stacked them, placed the forks on top, rounding the table to gather the remaining food, padding to the kitchen to condense and clean before Theo returned. 

Vaughn shifted, leaning just enough to see past Theo. One fast sweep — the dim lights, Theo barefoot, and a woman’s silhouette moving fast to tidy the space. His grip on the folder tightened just a bit. 

“Apologies. Didn’t realize you were…”

He lifted his brow. 

“…busy.”

He tapped the folder against his palm, gaze narrowed. 

“Unfortunately, this can’t wait.”

He shifted his weight, lifting his chin.

“Captain.”

Theo inhaled once, then stepped back, slow and reluctant, giving Vaughn room to enter.

“Come in.” 

“Thanks.” 

Theo’s gaze followed Vaughn as he stepped inside and toed off his shoes without asking.

Noa brushed a thumb under her bottom lip, clearing her throat.

“I’ll… just freshen up,” she murmured. 

Theo remained at the door, hand still on the handle, like he had to anchor himself to keep from putting his fist through something.

As she turned on her heel, she caught Vaughn’s gaze.

“NJ,” he said, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips in a tight line, one blink of acknowledgement, “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“Vaughn.” 

She slightly tilted her head, a polite forced smile. 

“Nice to see you. I’ll leave you two to it.”

She padded to the bedroom to change without a further glance. 

Theo finally shut the door. 

He gestured toward the dining room, “Let’s use the—” 

Vaughn was already sitting, folder flat and centered before him, attention on the pages.

“Sit,” he said simply, flipping to a page marked in red.

His hand tapped the table once.

Theo exhaled and stepped forward, spine too straight, breath clipped short when the pain bit sharper. Vaughn’s eyes flicked to the twitch in his jaw. He watched Theo slowly lower himself into the chair.

He slid a document across the table.

“Press flow changed. The presser moved up.”

Tap.

“Security flagged the breakfast meeting, new location, embargoed until morning.”

Tap.

“And—signatures needed tonight.”

“Media access zones. Player escort permissions. Youth ambassador filming boundaries.”

Tap.

Vaughn set a pen down, centered perfectly, then looked up.

“And FIFA wants one quote each by tonight for tomorrow’s talking points,” he continued, flipping to a final sheet.

His jaw tightened.

“We don’t get aligned now, we’ll deal with a mess in the morning.”

Theo picked up the pen, gripping it so tight the paper crinkled.

Vaughn watched his posture, the guarded angle of his shoulders, the way he favored one side. 

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

The bedroom door finally opened, the scent of her perfume rolling out first. 

Noa rejoined them, jeans and t-shirt, bare feet, laptop under her arm, curls pulled into a bun.

Vaughn kept his back to her, but the shift in Theo’s breathing gave her away.

Theo caught her gaze. A faint, “Sorry,” slipped from his lips. 

She nodded and crossed to the sofa without interrupting the conversation, flipping open her computer and typing fast, the rapid click-click-click of keys slipping into the sound of paper sliding across the table.

Theo returned to the sheets of paper on the table, signing them in succession.

He signed the first sheet, then paused, then the second. He never looked up.

Signing the final page, he gathered the stack, closed the folder and slid it to Vaughn.

“We’ll get ahead of it,” Vaughn said quietly, standing up, tucking the folder under his arm without a single page out of line.

Theo nodded once — he never stood.

Vaughn slid on his shoes, turning his gaze to Noa.

“Thanks for making the time,” he called out, before exiting.

Red Moon by Tom Misch

Theo’s Suite, Hotel Esplanade, Zagreb 

“Yes.”

Noa pushed the laptop aside on the couch cushion.

She crossed the room, landing in front of Theo at the dining room table.

“And it’s closed.”

She gripped his bearded jaw, tilted his face up, just a bit, enough that he couldn’t look away from her.

“He was never going to be you.”

His eyes widened, but he stayed silent.

“And I won’t apologize for trying on everyone to choose you.”

Noa dropped her hand from his jaw to his shoulder, thumb sweeping once over the warm cotton of his shirt, steadying them both.

She closed her eyes and leaned down to press her forehead to his.

“I choose you. I came to Zagreb. For you. I love— you, Theo. Always have. Always will.”

Her breath paused on his lips before she pulled back an inch, her thumb tracing once beneath his lower lip, slow and claiming.

“If we were flowers, I would face you instead of the sun.”

Theo burst out laughing, despite the throbbing in his side, the rumble from the laughter forcing their gazes to collide.

He grinned, brow furrowed, shaking his head. “Where—”

“Someone on Twitter,” she laughed. “Work with me, I am being vulnerable,” she said, lightly bumping her forehead against his.

He dragged his palm along his thigh, gathering himself.

“Okay.” Theo straightened, pulling Noa into his lap in one swoop, a slight wince from the shooting pain in his side. “Continue.”

“Ahem.” Noa cleared her throat, wrapped her arms around his neck, gaze narrowed.

“There is a softness in me that only settles when you are near.”

He laughed again.

“Oh, really,” he smirked, kissing her forehead.

His hand tightened at her waist, thumb brushing her hip at the hem of her shirt.

“Okay, okay… this one is me,” Noa laughed, exhaling into a serious face.

“Theo, I am always terrified because I love you even when I don’t want to love you. I love you without thinking I love you. You are like nobody—”

“Because I love you,” he finished.

Theo leaned back in the chair, pulling Noa closer, half-laugh, half-lip bite.

“That is—”

“Okay, okay,” Noa grinned, raising her hands in mock surrender. “That sentence was Pablo Neruda, but the rest was me… I swear.”

She swallowed.

Her eyes flickered between his, terrified and determined at the same time.

“And… and... I want to. Because… because I love you.”

“No more running.”

Noa leaned forward, lifting his chin with two fingers this time.

“No more running.”

That undid him.

His eyes shut.

His chest rose once, sharply, a burst of pain seeping through.

His hand clamped low against his abdomen, breath catching wrong.

He swallowed.

A quiet whimper escaped before he could stop it.

“Noey…” His voice frayed at the edges.

“I’m… in pain. Can we just…”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly brushing her sternum.

He blinked hard, eyes heavy, jaw trembling once.

“…sleep?”

She nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered.

She carefully slid off his lap and left the table to retrieve an ice pack, a glass of water, and two painkillers rattling into her palm.

She glanced back at him once, checking to see if he was still upright.

“Take these,” she said, returning and handing him the glass of water and painkillers.

“Thanks,” Theo said, swallowing.

He placed the glass on the table and she helped him stand, slipping an arm around his waist. His fingers found her shoulder, gripping hard for balance.

“Come on,” she grunted, helping him up.

“Ugh…” he moaned.

He leaned into her more than he meant to.

“Sorry.”

She held him up more than she let him realize.

“Shh.”

Theo collapsed into the sheets with a groan he couldn’t mask.

Noa slid in behind him, carefully, wrapping an arm around his middle, her palm flat over the place that hurt him most.

His fingers covered hers before sleep dragged him under.

She stayed awake, eyes open, watching the rise and fall of his back, thinking about his pain.

Paperbacks by Arlo Parks 

Mid-Morning, Hotel de Rome, Berlin 

Hotel de Rome cleaners wheeled carts in quiet bursts of German down the hallway, the whir of a vacuum slipping under each door.

Noa sat in the chair by the window, the GQ still open in front of her, brushing a stray flake of Pfannkuchen off her thigh. She set her phone down beside the half-cold hibiscus tea and her eyes drifted toward the bed.

Slowly, she pulled herself up and crossed the room.

The bedsheet was crumpled, dented from Vaughn’s weight, one pillow still smelled of his cedar and sandalwood scent. Her chest tightened as she scooped one of his long, dark hairs off the pillow and dropped it in the trash.

She picked up his sock and untwisted the duvet corner, trying to steady her breath. She couldn’t tell if the weight in her stomach was regret or longing.

She stood very still at the foot of the bed, Vaughn’s note between her fingers, the faint indentation of his handwriting pressed into her thumb. The crease was perfect. She opened it once, reread the first line, then closed it again. It stayed in her hand as she reached for her phone. 

Vaughn.

She typed and deleted four times before landing on a message:

Got your note. Thank you for giving me space. It wasn’t a mistake. We’re friends. — NJ.

His reply came almost immediately

We’re friends. Safe travels to Zagreb. Doei. — Vaughn. 

Her eyes flickered closed. 

Then she locked the phone, just as Kez’s name lit the screen.

She crouched, pulled her suitcase from under the bench, folded blouses messily, grabbed the shampoo she almost forgot, and scooped toiletries from the marble counter into the pouch.

Buzz. 

Elijah.

“Wouldn’t have been a success without your test run.” 

She sat on the edge of the bed and typed back:

“It was incredible. Congrats again — you should be proud. Mrs. Thatcher will love it.”

She stood, tightened the belt of her robe, and crossed to the room phone.

“Hi — this is Noa Jameson. Could you send the bill up? I’m checking out within the hour.”

She hung up before the concierge finished his greeting.

She walked back to the couch, stacked the GQ carefully, refolded Vaughn’s note, and slipped it between two journal pages and opened her phone again.

Julian.

She typed:

“Congrats on the Zagreb Film Festival. Sorry I’ve been out of pocket. I booked Pod Zidom for lunch — close to your shooting location. Yes, I looked it up. Yes, you’re busy. Yes, it’s absurd we’re in the same place again. We should talk. -Noelle.” 

Her finger hovered for half a second, heart thudding. She sent it. 

Knock. 

“Bill for Ms. Jameson.”

Noa crossed to the door and opened it just wide enough to take the envelope and sign without reading the total.

“Thanks,” she said, as she pulled the door shut. 

Buzz. 

Another text from Kez blinked.

“I’m here when you’re —”

She rolled her eyes, locked the screen, and exhaled. 

The robe came off in one fluid shrug. She stepped into clean underwear, tugged on her clothes, and moved to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. She slipped on her watch, gold hoop earrings, and doused a spritz of her travel perfume before the suitcase zipped shut.

She lifted the handle and rolled it toward the door. Her hand rested on the light switch as she closed her eyes exhaled — warm bodies, cedar, his baritone still somewhere behind her.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Zagreb.”

She turned off the light and stepped into the hallway, the carpet swallowing her footsteps as she pulled the suitcase behind her. A cleaner’s cart sat parked a few doors down, stacked with fresh towels and tiny wrapped soaps. The wheels creaked as the housekeeper shifted her weight, offering Noa a quick nod. 

Noa nodded back, then kept moving.

The elevator dinged before she even pressed the button, the doors slid open, and she stepped inside alone to a soft chamber-music track.

First floor. 

Ground.

She adjusted her grip on the suitcase handle and walked toward the taxi stand. The revolving doors whooshed softly, suitcase rolling behind her. A line of taxis idled along Bebelplatz. The second cab in line had a familiar passenger seat: paperboy cap next to a folded newspaper, pine tree air freshener swinging lazily from the mirror, same faint scent of tobacco drifting from the cracked window.

Klaus Meineke. 

He flicked his eyes to the mirror as she approached. 

“Miss Jameson,” he said, as if he’d been expecting her. His gravelly German accent rasped, “Airport, yes?”

“Brandenburg,” she confirmed, pulling the door shut behind her.

He nodded, taxi quickly pulling from the curb as she secured the last of her luggage and closed the door. 

Klaus drove in silence at first, eyes fixed on the road, one hand resting easily on the gearshift.

“Traffic good today,” he said. “We make it fast.”

A half hour later, Klaus rolled to a gentle stop beneath the departures awning. He put the taxi in park, stepped out, and opened the door for her with a small nod, quietly removing her luggage. 

“Safe travels, Miss Jameson,” he said. 

“Noa,” she said, adjusting the strap on her bag, fingers brushing the handle of her suitcase. “Danke, Klaus.”

He gave a single, satisfied nod, already heading toward the driver’s seat and on to the next fare. 

Cola by Arlo Parks 

Late-Morning, Berlin Brandenburg Airport, Departures 

The automatic doors hissed open and fluorescent lights swallowed her into a sea of people, voices overlapping, suitcases rattling, heels clicking across marble, a toddler wailing. The sound hit her in one overwhelming wave. Noa adjusted her grip on her carry-on, scanning the departure boards.

ZAGREB — ON TIME.

Her phone buzzed once. She ignored it for a moment, weaving toward security. 

“Next!” the gruff, raspy voice of the security agent called.

When she placed her tote in the gray bin, her fingers brushed the journal where Vaughn’s folded note was now tucked. She pushed the bin forward with a bit more force than she intended and stepped through the scanner. Her heartbeat spiked and a breath snagged in her chest, but she forced it down, moving on autopilot.

Shoes. Watch. Jacket — tugged back on. The line lurched forward, a shuffle of impatient feet, exasperated groans, and half-hearted apologies.

Buzz. Buzz.

She finally checked her phone as she walked toward her gate. Her thumb hesitated, already bracing for an onslaught. Another announcement crackled overhead and she flinched.

“Excuse me.” Someone brushed her shoulder as they passed, she didn’t look up.

Patats Group Chat

Selam: “OH MY GOD?? GQ?? FROM THEO’S MOUTH???” Lore: “To Noa’s ears [laughing emoji].”  Carmen: “Girl. Your hair looks AMAZING in those pap pics from Wimbledon. That journalist was giving TEA. No stone left unturned [laughing emoji].” Everyone: Laughing emojis Amina: “I was waiting for everyone to wake up so we could discuss. Noa, how are you feeling?” Selam: “Babe… did you know???? Was this before or after the Dolomites??? Venice???” Carmen: “Dolomites? Venice?” Selam: “She didn’t want anyone to know Theo whisked her away for a private weekend.... and you were in Nebraska? Colorado? Idaho? Shit. Carmen, I don’t know where your white man lives.” Carmen & Lore: “Nebraska!” Amina: Laughing emoji Carmen: “I mean — Noa, you could’ve dropped some tea in this text without me having to hit the paywall for the article.” Lore: “You really need to learn how to make the internet work for YOU, Carmen.” Amina: “Noa, where are you now? Did Theo talk to you about the article? What can we do?”

She didn’t know what to say to the girls. It was overwhelming to explain, even to her best friends. She didn’t know what to think or feel yet. Her fingers curled around her phone, grip going stiff.

Anfield Red FC Group Chat (Tessa, Thomas Bradley, Vaughn) 

Tessa: “Recording w/ The Athletic tomorrow. If any leaks come from this, I’m burning down the FA.” Thomas Bradley: “Tess — this is a phone. Hello!”

Noa glanced down and laughed before seeing Vaughn’s name flash across the screen.

Vaughn: Read.

Noa blinked, lips threatening a frown she didn’t let form. Her fingers trembled and she locked her phone without meaning to.

MOM: “Had lunch with Juliet Aldridge-Wells. GQ Magazine. Noa, really?! Call me.”

She quickly typed back “Okay,” and pocketed the phone.

Niko: “Mishandled the Loro Piana thing. My bad. Should’ve told you I was involved.”

A loud, aggressive sigh left her lips as her jaw clenched. She typed a draft — deleted it. Typed another — deleted it.

She didn’t respond and boarded instead.

The cabin lights dimmed as the plane leveled out above the clouds. Noa rested her head against the cool plastic of the window. The whizz of the engines filled the space where her thoughts should’ve been. Her forehead pressed lightly to the window pane, cold seeping into her skin.

She closed her eyes. 

The scent hit first: saffron, fruity, sandalwood — ghosted through her mind for a second.

The voice hit second: smooth, low, Dutch accent.

“This wasn’t a mistake. I don’t think it was. I think you needed something. And I needed something too. It wasn’t a mistake.” 

Then the hands — warm moisturized caramel-toned — gripping her fingers, caressing her sweating skin, enveloping her into a cocoon under the bedsheets. 

“Miss? Water? Something to drink?” the flight attendant asked softly, leaning down just enough to reach her.

Noa jerked upright. 

“Coke,” she said, too fast. “Just — Coke, please.”

“Coca-Cola,” the attendant smiled, handing her a can of soda and a cup of ice.  The can hissed open, the cold bite of carbonation giving her something immediate to hold on to. 

By the time the captain announced the descent, her mind felt scraped clean, empty in a way she needed.

The wheels hit the runway with a firm jolt, sunlight flooding the cabin from the left side. As the plane rolled toward the terminal, she caught glimpses of low hills in the distance, red roofs, and the stark white letters: FRANJO TUĐMAN AIRPORT.

The plane door opened to warm air and the faint scent of jet fuel. She moved quickly through passport control. 

The officer glanced at her passport, then at her face, recognition flickering. Noa looked at the floor for a second. 

A sick thought flickered through her mind. Did he read the GQ article? Did everyone?

“American?” he asked, even though he already knew.

“Yeah,” Noa said, clutching the strap of her bag tighter. 

He stamped the page. “Welcome to Zagreb.”

“Thanks,” she replied, voice soft, stepping forward before the moment lingered.

In baggage claim, her suitcase appeared almost instantly, thudding softly onto the carousel. A Croatian family stood beside her — a mother trying to calm her son tugging at her sleeve. 

“That one’s ours!” the little boy shouted in English, pointing at a bright blue suitcase.

“That is not ours,” the mother sighed, switching to Croatian as she nudged him closer.

Noa smiled faintly. “He’s got good eyes,” she said.

The mother huffed a laugh. “Too good. He thinks everything is ours.”

Her own suitcase slid into view. She grabbed the handle in one quick pull, nodding to the family before stepping back.

“Have a good day,” the father said, accent thick but kind.

“You too,” Noa murmured, already moving toward the exit.

She didn’t slow down until she stepped out into the taxi queue and slid into the backseat, “The Westin, please.” 

The door shut with a heavy thunk. 

Mercedes by Brent Faiyaz 

Early Afternoon, The Westin, Zagreb, Croatia 

“You’re not serious,” a silky firm baritone teased. 

It was followed by the soft tap of a pen on the counter.

“You wrote your middle name on the signature line,” the attendant said, laughing under her breath.

“I panicked…. And my penmanship is sensitive. Please be gentle with it.”

She arched her brow. “Sensitive?”

“Tragically,” he smirked, eyes flickering from her face to the name pinned neatly on her lapel — Lisa Rowland.

The lobby was bright, all marble and brass, cool air-conditioning purred softly above her. Light spilled down from a chandelier, catching the gold trim along the walls.

A pianist in the corner played something slow, melancholic, fingers theatrically gliding over as if performing for an imaginary audience.

Noa slowed for a moment, eyes scanning the interior in front of her. The hotel was… nice — nicer than she expected. Clean lines, warm lighting, everything curated to feel expensive without trying too hard.

A bellhop nearly collided with a bridal party, as she approached the front desk, passport in one hand, bag slung over her shoulder. He bowed as he maneuvered around them — almost bumping into the photographer snapping photos by the floral display.

“Checking in?” a pretty receptionist smiled. She had bright blue eyes and cascading chestnut waves with blonde balayage. The lapel neatly pinned with the name Elena Novak — she couldn’t have been more than twenty.

“Jameson. Noelle Jameson,” Noa said, sliding the passport across the desk.

The man next to the other desk attendant stopped talking midsentence. 

Elena’s eyes flicked over to Lisa Rowland — deep brown skin, a sleek part-down-the-middle bob, gold nameplate necklace. She accidentally hit the wrong key and the computer beeped before sliding a form toward the man, tapping the corner with her nail.

“Initial here,” Lisa said, smiling like he was trouble.

He leaned in, arm brushing the counter, buttery-smooth baritone barely a whisper. “Only for you.”

Lisa shook her head. 

He wasn’t trying to be subtle.

He was trying to be charming. And succeeding.

“Of course.” Elena typed quickly, her bracelets clinking as she moved.

“Welcome to Zagreb.”

Elena slid a keycard across the desk. “The Presidential Suite. The elevator is to your left.”

“Thank you.” Noa reached for it.

Elena slid the keycard across the counter — and before Noa could grab for it, she heard a familiar voice from behind:

“There she is. International superstar, Noelle Jameson, everyone,” he said, straightening and gesturing his hands into a slow clap with a wide cheshire grin. 

Noa closed her eyes for half a second before turning.

Tall.

Deep chocolate skin, smooth and buttery under the lobby lights.

A charcoal suit stretched across broad shoulders, shirt open just enough to look intentional, not sloppy.

He wore that half-smirk — the one that made every woman in a five-meter radius feel like he might ruin or rescue them.

Lisa’s lips parted just a little.  “Mr —” 

“Damien. Damien Cole,” he smiled.

“Damien, your signature?” she shyly smiled, even though he’d already given it.

“Thought you might want to double-check it. Left my number right there—,” he winked, slowly and smugly sliding his index finger across the paper on the desk before abruptly turning to face Noa. 

“Didn’t know you were landing today, Nova,” he smiled, eyes dragging over her travel attire, the gold hoops,the exhaustion she didn’t hide well. “Or I would’ve met you at the airport.”

Her pulse thudded — annoyance or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.

“Good thing I didn’t need a welcoming committee,” she said, sliding the keycard into her bag.

Damien chuckled, stepping closer, not touching her, but close enough she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“You never need one,” he said softly. “You’re Noa Jameson, remember.”

Elena pretended to organize papers she’d already straightened. 

Noa exhaled through her nose, steadying herself.

“Long day,” she said. “Don’t start.”

“It’s barely noon.”

Behind them, Lisa Rowland handed him his keycard. “Mr. Cole. The Executive Suite.”

Damien accepted it with a slow drag of his fingers across Lisa’s palm. It was so unnecessary and intentional.

Noa rolled her eyes, of all people.

“It was my pleasure, Ms. Lisa…. and remember it is Damien,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Lisa said, smiling, like he’d just made her entire shift.

Noa glared at him. 

He lifted his hands, surrendering. “Fine. But you’re not going to be like this for the entirety of the trip.”

Noa’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she was too tired to ask any more questions. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked toward the elevators, suitcase rolling behind her, not giving him the satisfaction of looking back.

“Wasn’t planning to,” she said over her shoulder, voice cool. “We have work.”

Damien’s laugh echoed through the lobby, “I’m aware,” sliding his hands into his pockets. 

Noa turned for the elevators as his unhurried stride matching hers instantly.

“Didn’t say you could walk with me,” she said without looking.

“Didn’t ask,” he replied.

The elevator dinged.

They stepped inside.

Noa pulled out her phone and scrolled.

Damien did the same.

Ping.

A woman’s name flashed across his screen.

Noa’s eyebrow lifted. “Lisa Rowland,” she smirked.

“Occupational hazard. I aim to please.”

Noa rolled her eyes and made a mock gag sound. 

Ping.

Elijah.

Damien glanced down at her screen. “Ah. Elijah Merrick. Of course. The highbrow hero. 

She shifted her weight but didn’t answer.

Ping.Ping. 

An email preview lit up both their phone notifications:

FIFA Communications cc: Damien Cole, Elijah Merrick, Viv Marchand, Noa Jameson

Damien made a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “Well. Isn’t that cozy.”

The doors slid open.

Damien stepped out backward, still facing her, the half-smirk firmly in place. “This is going to be so much fun.” 

The door slid shut.

Crush (It’s Late, Just Stay) by Yumi Zouma 

Noa’s Suite, The Westin, Zagreb 

The elevator doors slid shut on Damien’s stupid grin, leaving Noa alone in the mirrored box with her breath catching somewhere low in her ribs. The ambient piano music in the elevator hummed quietly as the numbers climbed. 

15.

16.

17.

DING. 

The doors opened onto a quiet hallway lined with warm oak paneling and framed black-and-white photography of old Zagreb. The carpet was thick, patterned, and it swallowed her footsteps as she stepped out and rolled her suitcase to Presidential Suite — 1700.

Her keycard light blinked green as the heavy door eased open on its hinges. Cool air spilled out first, Noa walked in slowly, her suitcase bumping softly over the marble entryway. She let go of the handle and dropped her bag onto the bench by the wall, shoulders finally sagging.

The room was massive — everything cream, walnut, and polished in a corporate, old-money way. To her left, a living area opened out: two cream sofas angled toward each other across a low dark-wood coffee table. A bowl of green apples sat untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the view of Zagreb’s red roofs and the faint purple outline of Medvednica mountain behind them.

She walked forward, fingertips grazing the back of a suede armchair. It was soft — softer than she expected. The dining area sat to the right: round table, four velvet chairs, a tray with still and sparkling water lined up in a row. 

Her suitcase waited where she left it by the bedroom doorway. Noa rolled it into the space, unzipped it in one pull and sorted without thinking: blouses stacked, underwear in the top drawer, travel journal slid into the bedside table (Vaughn’s note stayed tucked inside — untouched). 

The Presidential Suite bedroom was larger than her apartment, a king bed with perfect sheets, a cloud of five pillows, a throw blanket folded. Across from the bed, a desk sat near the window. There was a single lamp, a leather blotter, and a chair. 

She stepped into the bathroom, motion lights bloomed across the marble. There was a fog-proof mirror, two sinks, and a soaking tub large enough to float in, sitting beneath a frosted window that diffused the afternoon sun into a warm haze. Of course she immediately spotted the two white robes resting on a heated rack. She reached out, brushing her fingertips over the robe’s sleeve — plush, thick, cool.

She had exactly twenty minutes before she was due for the biweekly MARCHAND team meeting. Her clothes came off in a quick, loose trail across the marble as she placed on a shower cap. The shower hissed to life in one twist; steam fogged the mirror before she even stepped in. She scrubbed fast, turning off the water only when her fingertips wrinkled.

She shut the water off, pulling the towel around her body in one practiced sweep, damp footprints following her into the bedroom. Moisture clung to her collarbone, catching the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. 

She tugged a clean work blouse over her head, trousers sliding up her hips. Her fingers worked through her curls quickly, twisting them back with a clip; gold hoops clicked faintly as she fastened them; a watch clasp snapped shut around her wrist. She even put her glasses on today.

She crossed the suite to a small plate waiting on the dining table — granola bar, a yogurt parfait, and fruit she grabbed from the welcome tray. She chewed as she crossed the room and dropped into the cream sofa. With one hand, she stripped open the parfait and dipped the spoon; with the other, she pulled the room-temperature bottled water toward her with a finger.

Her laptop thunked lightly against her knees; its metallic edge was cool against her thighs. She stretched to pull the charger in, flipped her notebook to a clean page, uncapped her lucky pen with a single click, and opened Teams.

The screen blinked white, then connected instantly.

Vivian Marchand — joined Her box snapped to life first: harsh, overhead office lighting; Paris skyline blurred behind her glass wall. Vivian wore a tailored red dress, cascading chestnut curls, red lip, eyes already evaluating the screen. Behind her, a perfectly arranged stack of books — brand strategy, global law, two art monographs — aligned by color. 

Georgia-Louise Windsor — joined Her video opened mid-sip — iced latte, straw clinking. She was clearly in a London coworking lounge, soft gray banquettes behind her, the reflection of rain streaking the window. Sticky notes lined her laptop rim in neat colors; she had a pen tucked behind one ear, and a horse show program open on another monitor. 

Bash (Sebastian Hale) — joined His camera shook as he adjusted it. He was in his airy loft, a giant fern behind him, soft natural light pouring from industrial windows. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, collar undone, wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew. A golden retriever tail blurred past the frame as he murmured, “Archie, not now—.” A massive mood board glowed on the wall behind him — FIBA logos, color palettes, sketches.

Maya-Rose HS (Maya-Rose Harris-Stowe) — joined Of course she had perfect lighting. She was slouched in a sleek Marseille hotel suite, sunlight pouring in at a flattering editorial angle. She wore an oversized maroon pantsuit, mismatched pinstriped blouse and tie with an antique chain, oversized gold earrings, glasses, and a slicked-back bun showing her distinct widow’s peak. She had three tabs open behind her: Tour de France Femmes coverage, a French newspaper, and an astrology chart.

MILES (camera off) — joined (5 minutes late) A black circle with the letter M. Background noise like he was walking somewhere — keys jangling, maybe sunglasses tapping a lanyard. 

Everyone started talking at once. A wall of noise hit — overlapping greetings, mic feedback, someone’s desk chair squeaking.

“Hi loves,” Georgia-Louise said, while adjusting her camera angle for better lighting.

“Hi Georgia-Louise,” Noa and Sebastian chimed in unison. 

Maya-Rose hummed in acknowledgment. 

Miles said nothing. A car door slammed on his end.

Vivian’s stern voice cut through “It has been a while, team MARCHAND. How are we doing?”

Sebastian dropped a pen. “Shit—sorry,” he muttered.“

Vivian exhaled slowly, big, brown, no-nonsense eyes sweeping across the screen like she was checking for weakness.

“These are the assignments for the next week or so and we need to discuss.”

She paused, glancing down at a legal pad with six color-coded tabs, flipping one with a faint manicured click.

“Sebastian — you are covering FIBA-related events in Europe. I need your preliminary visuals tonight. Your last batch was… conceptual.”

Sebastian frowned. “Conceptual is good.” 

“Not when I need clarity,” Vivian snapped back, scratching something off on her notepad, never looking at the screen. 

He shut up.

Maya-Rose typed Noa in a private chat. “Ouch.” 

Noa smirked, and took another scoop of her parfait. 

“Maya-Rose. Tour de France Femmes. Evian Championship. You’re coordinating with their comms directors, correct?”

Maya-Rose lifted her chin. “Already aligned with both. Drafting scenario plans tonight.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Vivian crossed another line off on her notepad. 

“Georgia-Louise. The Royal International Horse Show and The Scottish Horse Show. I want your client experience run-of-show tightened.”

Georgia-Louise sipped her iced drink. “It’s already done. Sent it an hour ago. Check your inbox.”

Viv looked up at Georgia-Louise. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean, I shared it to your inbox an hour ago for your review,” Georgia-Louise timidly replied, clutching her iced drink. 

Viv lifted her chin, reclaiming the room.

“Noa. There are a lot of key global players in this — FIFA, UEFA, UN — and they all do not play nice. Elijah. Damien. FIFA. The UN committee. Narratives must be aligned. I expect your treatment by tonight.”

There was a muffled pause as the mic shuffled away from Vivian’s lips — the soft scrape of her chair against hardwood, a pen tapping once, papers being squared into a neat stack — like she was reorganizing her entire desk while still lecturing.

“And finally—” she pinched the bridge of her nose, bracing herself, “—Miles. Miles. What are you working on this week?”

A bored voice echoed from the void. “Something… special. You’ll see the deck.”

Maya-Rose lifted her brow. 

Noa rolled her eyes. 

Sebastian cracked a grin, eyes flicking to Noa, conspiratorial.

“Mm-hmm,” Viv murmured, “I will see it. Tomorrow. By noon.”

There was a second of silence on Miles’s end that seemed to stretch the virtual room. 

Georgia-Louise mouthed, “See. Told you he gets away with everything.” 

“Fine. By noon.”

Georgia-Louise, sipping her iced drink, attempted to change gears.  “Your lighting notes from the Merrick & Co. installation were perfect, by the way.”

She aimed it at Noa, half-smiling, half-teasing.

“I can’t believe you got the exclusive invite. Elijah and I have been neighbors for over a decade—”

Noa’s eyes went wide.

Maya-Rose snorted, covering it with her mug.

“—and I have never received any special event invites. Matches or anything,” Georgia-Louise sighed, leaning dramatically back in her chair.

Sebastian, already distracted by something off-screen, called out, “One sec — no, leave it by the door, thank you — sorry —”

A dog barked loudly in the background.

“MARCHAND — we build brands that move people. Intelligence. Culture. Creativity,” Vivian bellowed. 

She said it like scripture — then shifted tone.

“Noa. Zagreb is diplomacy. Whatever Berlin was… leave it there.”

Noa’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

Viv didn’t let it linger. She immediately pivoted again.

“Sebastian — stop letting your dog in your meetings. Georgia-Louise — tighten your timeline. Maya-Rose — send me the scenario grid. Miles — do not disappear after this call. I need to speak with you.” 

Everyone answered at once. 

“Understood.”

“Ok.”

“Already done.”

“On it.”

“Surrrreee.” 

And finally, the last knife,  “And Noa? Fix your lighting. You look tired. Italy must have been more fun than relaxation.”

Everyone’s eyes went wild before Viv hit “End.”

The screen went black.

Noa exhaled, a long, slow release from somewhere under her ribs. It was game time. 

The Teams window vanished, leaving Noa’s reflection faint in the black screen as her phone buzzed once against her thigh.

Julian.

Julian: Just saw this. Pod Zidom for lunch works. And no — it’s not absurd. It’s us. Serendipity. I’ll see you there,  Julian

Noa stared at the message a second longer than she meant to. There was a small pull in her chest she didn’t want to analyze. She exhaled, set the phone face-down, and moved through the room to get herself ready. She spritzed a touch of her travel perfume, before slipping on sunglasses and heading for the door.

Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out of the Westin lobby into a wave of heat. Sun hit her bare arms; humidity sank into her curls; traffic blared around her as she crossed the street, tightening the strap of her bag.

She passed a cluster of small cafés that lined the block — chalkboard menus, tiny tables spilling onto the sidewalk. 

On one patio, a barista slid a fresh espresso across a counter and shouted, “Za Ivana [For Ivana]!” toward a girl waving from a tiny steel table. Inside, plastic cups clattered as a staff member restocked the stack beside the machine. At the window, three students crowded around a phone; one swiped the screen and groaned, “Ma daj, nema šanse [Come on, now way],” while the other two doubled over laughing.

Two women in blazers strode past Noa, heels clicking fast. One lifted a hand, juggling her tote as the phone slipped toward her shoulder.

“Ne sutra [Not tomorrow],” she snapped into it. “Danas. Danas. [Today. Today.]” 

Noa moved through the square and toward the small alleyway leading downhill. The shade cooled instantly. A pair of workers wheeled crates toward a restaurant door, their shoes thumping against the old stone. One of them nodded at her, saying, “Pazite [You guard],” as he maneuvered the dolly around her.

In Blue by Yumi Zouma 

Pod Zidom, Zagreb 

The alley opened into a quieter street. A chalkboard sign outside a wine bar read “Danas degustacija [Today’s tasting] — 17:00,” the last two digits written messily. 

And then Pod Zidom came into view at the corner — white umbrellas open, servers carrying bowls of soup to the terrace. A woman at one of the outdoor seats leaned back, laughed sharply at something her friend said, and waved her menu like a fan.

A host stepped forward to greet a couple arriving behind Noa.

“Dobar dan, imate rezervaciju? [Hello, do you have a reservation] ” he asked.

The man answered, “Imamo, na Marko [We have, name Marko],” and the host flipped to the page on his clipboard.

Noa slowed, sunglasses slipping slightly down her nose. 

Julian wasn’t here yet.

Noa hovered near the host stand, sunglasses still on, one hand wrapped around the strap of her bag. The host finished checking the reservation and gestured her toward a small table under the awning. She followed him, the cobblestones uneven under her sandals.

“Here,” he said quietly, placing a menu down. He added a second one beside it.

She nodded and slipped into the chair. The wood was warm from the sun. A server stopped by with water, set the glass down, and asked, “Still or sparkling?”

“Still,” she said.

He poured half a glass, left the bottle, and moved on.

Around her, cutlery clinked, a chair scraped over stone, a woman behind her murmured, “Ne još, čekamo još jednu osobu [Not yet, we are waiting for one more person].” 

Noa checked her phone. Nothing.

She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair.

A shadow crossed the table.

Julian stepped into view from the street, one hand sliding into his pocket as he slowed. 

“Noelle,” he said, voice low enough the sound almost got lost to the restaurant noise.

He pulled out the chair across from her and sank into it. He set his phone on the table, screen down, the edge clicking softly against the wood. His cuff brushed the water glass as he adjusted the chair, and he caught it with two fingers before it tipped.

“You found it,” she said.

“I did,” he answered, glancing around. “You beat me.”

He looked at her again, longer this time,  “You look….”

She laughed once under her breath. “I walked here. It's hard not to look like I’ve been outside.”

He gave a quick smile, gesturing his hands in mock surrender, “Fair enough. I’m not complaining.” 

A server appeared at the table. “Will you be having lunch?”

Julian gestured for Noa to go first. She opened the menu, eyes scanning words she barely processed.

“Štrukli,” she said. “And… the salad.”

The server nodded.

Julian handed his menu back without looking at it. “Same for me,” he said. “And a glass of white. Graševina, if you have it.”

“We do.”

The server left.

Julian rested both elbows lightly on the table, fingers steepling. He silently studied her for a moment.

He tapped the edge of his glass with his thumb. “So,” he said, “tell me about the morning you’ve had walking through half the city.”

“I doubt we’ve come all the way to Zagreb to talk about my morning.” 

He leaned back, letting his chair settle. “Alright,” he said, not pushing it. “You want to tell me why you’ve been dodging my calls since Scotland?” 

A gust of warm air moved through the terrace, fluttering a napkin off a nearby table. A server caught it midair without breaking stride.

Noa inhaled, but something caught in her throat — Theo.

The way she’d left things. The way she hadn’t even processed any of it before stepping into this moment with Julian. Her chest tightened.

Julian’s eyes flicked to her face, reading it instantly.

“Noelle,” he said quietly, tone shifting, “where did you just go?”

Her phone buzzed once in her bag.

She didn’t reach for it but they both heard it. 

Julian watched her. “You can get that,” he said.

She shook her head.

Another buzz.

Julian exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “You’re going to ignore your phone during lunch with me?”

She finally reached into her bag, pulled it out, set it face-down on the table.

“That work for you?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slowly, like this version of her — conflicted, present, walled and unwalled at once — was more interesting than anything they could order.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “That works.”

The server arrived with their water refills. Julian leaned back, giving space, but his eyes stayed on her.

As if he already knew the phone buzz hadn’t been about him. 

As if he already knew who it was.

My Palms Are Your Reference by Yumi Zouma 

Pod Zidom, Zagreb 

The terrace had filled around them, a breeze lifted the edge of the tablecloth, brushing against Noa’s wrist as she steadied her water glass.

A server appeared with their plates before either of them had said anything more — two steaming bowls of štrukli, golden and bubbling at the edges, and the salads. He set them down gently.

“Graševina?” he asked Julian.

Julian nodded once, eyes still on Noa.

The server poured — the thin stream of white wine catching a glint of afternoon sun — then refilled Noa’s water. She murmured a quiet “Hvala,” barely above a whisper.

When the server left, Noa didn’t touch her fork, neither did Julian. She inhaled, slowly, eyes on the condensation sliding down her water glass, then she raised her eyes to him.

“Julian… I need you to listen to me, and not… try to fix it. Or soften it. Or make it poetic.”

She let out a breath.

“I should’ve said this a long time ago. But no time like the present,” she said with a quiet laugh.

“In London… London was when I first realized I liked you. Like — liked you liked you. And it surprised me. Because I wasn’t expecting to feel anything for anyone. You were easy to talk to. Smart. Charming. You saw me before I saw myself. This was serendipitous timing. I had done the work, and I was being rewarded… with something new.”

She tapped her thumb against the table once.

“In Paris, I thought maybe it was magic. You made things feel… cinematic. Better than real life. Like it tricked me. I felt… safe? Seen? I don’t know. You made everything feel easy. But that was the problem — it started to feel like I only knew how to be with you in stolen time. Perfect time.”

She swallowed.

“In Barcelona, I thought it was me messing everything up. Not because anything was wrong with you — but because something was wrong with me.”

Her voice softened.

“I wanted to meet you where you were. I wanted to fight for us — for the chance to be an us — something new. I really did. Except I wasn’t beginning anything. I wasn’t honest. And there was someone else in my head — someone I didn’t want there, but he was. He is. And I couldn’t fight for you — for the chance of you—”

“But the truth is—”

She laughed under her breath, quietly and painfully.

“It was never about you.”

She finally met his eyes.

“It’s that I don’t want this. I don’t want you like that.”

“I care about you. That’s real. But it’s not the right kind. And I’ve known that for a long time, even before Barcelona. Dublin. Before Scotland tried to convince me otherwise.”

She leaned back.

“You kept showing up, and I kept thinking maybe I’d catch up to you. Maybe if we were in the right city, the right moment, the right anything… it would click.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“It didn’t. It won’t.”

Her voice quieted.

“I don’t want the version of us we keep hoping for. And trying to pretend is unfair to both of us.”

She sat forward, palms flat on the table.

“I’m ending it. Because it should’ve ended a long time ago.”

Julian’s fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass, knuckles whitening. He leaned back slowly, breath leaving him all at once, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. He sat there, silently, shoulders drawing in. 

“Okay,” he said.

Then, after a long pause, “Thank you. For saying it out loud.”

He swallowed once, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“I wanted to be someone you could want,” he added softly. “I think a part of me always knew I wasn’t. But I would’ve chosen you,” he said quietly. “Every time. In London, Paris… all of it.”

He didn’t smile, he looked at her like he would remember this moment forever.

“But wanting you and being right for you aren’t the same thing. I get that now. You deserve someone who meets you where you are, Noelle… and I hope, one day, you let him.”

He traced his thumb along the condensation on his untouched glass. He lifted it in a small, almost invisible acknowledgment. The plates between them had cooled completely.

A server passed by, hesitant. “Everything alright?”

Julian nodded without looking up. “Yes. Thank you.”

When Noa pushed her chair back, Julian reached for his wallet without even thinking.

“No—really, you don’t have to—” she began.

“I know,” he said softly. “Let me, anyway.”

He slid a card to the server with a small nod as she stood. 

Noa stood too. 

For a moment, they faced each other in the narrow space between tables, the noise of the terrace swirling around them.

“Noelle,” he said, almost under his breath. 

“Julian,” she replied, holding his gaze just long enough to show gratitude, not regret.

He gave a tiny nod, a very, very faint smile.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmured.

“You too.”

She stepped away first, weaving between tables, sunlight hitting her shoulders as she moved toward the street.

Julian stayed where he was, hand braced on the back of his chair, watching her go.

Barricade (Matter of Fact) by Yumi Zouma 

As soon as Noa turned the corner she pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered for a second before she typed.

Theo: 8pm tonight. Dua, like you said. I’ll be there. Noey

She hit send before she could take it back. Her pulse jumped in her chest and her hands shook a bit, but she shrugged it off. 

The walk back to the Westin felt lighter than her morning walk into the city. When Noa turned onto Masarykova, the street shifted immediately. They were narrower, busier, with bakeries, kiosks, and shops selling everything from handmade soaps to soccer jerseys. 

A bakery worker pushed open the door with his hip and slid a tray of hot burek into the front window as steam fogged the glass. At the kiosk beside him, a man slapped a twenty-kuna note on the counter.

“Jedan filter, i kartu za tramvaj [One filter, and a tram ticket],” he said.

The vendor slid both toward him without looking up. Sugary air drifted from the pastry shop next door. A kid pressed both hands against its window, staring at the top shelf stacked with kremšnite.

Above Noa, a balcony door creaked open. A man leaned over the railing with a watering can. A few drops hit the awning of the pharmacy beneath.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he called down.

The woman passing under him lifted her eyes just enough to say, “Sve u redu [Alright],” and kept walking, tapping at her phone.

Upstairs in the suite, she kicked off her sandals, peeled off her clothes, and stepped into a cold shower. She let the water hit her face, her shoulders, her lungs. When she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she grabbed her phone and thumbed. 

Harper.

Noa sat at the edge of the bed, towel knotted tight at her chest.

Harper picked up instantly — hospital beeps in the background.

“I did it.”

“…did what?” Harper asked, distracted but instantly alert.

“I ended things with Julian. Finally,” Noa said, softer now. “I actually did it.”

Harper exhaled, a gasp-laugh, like she’d been holding her own breath all day.

“Oh my god. Okay. Okay. Start talking right now. What did he say? Did he cry? Did you cry? Do I need wine? Do YOU need wine?”

Noa fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, breath finally settling.

“Shush,” she waved to the ceiling, “No wine. Just… just let me tell you.”

Harper shifted in her chair, “Go. I’m here. Start from the beginning.”

Noa closed her eyes, “I told him the truth.” 

And for the first time all day, since she’d walked out of the hotel that morning, she felt like she could actually breathe.

For a few hours she just lay there, towel still wrapped tight around her, the ceiling blurring softly above her.

Then she sat up.

She had to move. She had to get out. She had to… go.

She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, and escaped into the city.

Overhead, tram lines crisscrossed the sky, a blue tram screeched to a stop, doors snapping open. Inside, a teenage boy nudged his girlfriend and lifted one earbud toward her. She grinned and leaned closer to hear whatever he was playing.

Noa rounded the corner to Maximilian Street. A boutique owner dragged a rack of dresses outside. A few steps later, a florist sprayed a row of peonies and the mist landed on Noa’s arm as she passed. She brushed it off and sidestepped when a cyclist cut between her and a cluster of tourists, shouting, “Pozor [Attention]!”

Ahead, a busker crouched over his guitar amp, twisting a knob until the speaker hummed. He plucked a few notes, and started into a bright melody. A little girl ran toward him, opened her fist, and dropped a coin into his case.

“Hvala, mala [Thank you, little one],” he told her, giving a small salute.

Noa stepped into the open square and the Croatian National Theatre filled her vision — yellow stone catching the sun, flags shifting overhead. On the steps, a group of schoolkids arranged themselves for a photo; one boy kept jumping forward, making the others shove him back, all of them talking at once.

To the right, an older couple sat with Vincek cones. The man tried to keep his from dripping down his wrist. The woman laughed and handed him a napkin.

Across the square, a stroller wheel thumped over a loose stone, while a small dog in a pink harness lunged toward a cluster of pigeons, barking twice before its owner tightened the leash.

A tram bell pinged from behind her, she heard the low rumble of it pulling away toward Ilica. Noa left the square behind and cut across the small park in front of the theatre. A group of teenagers sat on the grass, sharing a bag of chips. One girl brushed crumbs off her shorts and said, “Daj, daj meni još malo [Come on, give me some more],” while another swatted her hand away, laughing.

A man on a bench scrolled through his phone with one hand and held a cigarette in the other. He didn’t seem to notice the ash that dropped on his shoe. 

Noa followed the path toward Gundulićeva, where a delivery van blocked half the sidewalk. The driver jumped out, swung the back doors open, and started unloading crates of water bottles, each slam of plastic echoing off the buildings.

She stepped around him and crossed the next street. The light flipped to red behind her as two cyclists rolled through anyway. 

Open by Rhye 

Theo’s Restaurant, Dua, Zagreb — Entrance + Tour

Noa spotted the restaurant before she realized she had. The narrow street curved, and then there it was a soft light glowing through the windows, the sign still half-covered in brown butcher paper. A small handwritten note on the door read, “Closed for private service.”

Theo was standing just inside, talking to someone near the bar. The sound of construction noise carried from the back, Noa heard a drill whining once, then immediately stop. Soft Italian guitar filtered through the speakers from an old playlist. Theo lifted his head at the sound of the door, like he’d been checking for her every few seconds. His eyes found her instantly. He excused himself and walked over. 

“Noey,” he said quietly.

He wore a cream linen suit, the sky-blue shirt open just far enough that she could see the line of his collarbones and the start of his chest. His skin looked gold-brown under the restaurant lights, his beard sharp. A small gasp left her lips before she could stop it. Her fingers tightened once on the strap of her bag, and she looked at his mouth. 

“Ahem.” 

Theo cleared his throat quietly and adjusted his jacket. His gaze flicked down her dress once before she caught him. He held her eyes when she did, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a slow, cocky smirk before he looked away again. His jaw flexed, subtly, like he was steadying himself.

Her gold heels brought her nearly up to his chest. Her olive dress pulled clean along her waist when she stepped forward, and one of her necklaces shifted, catching the light. His eyes dropped again, his throat pulsing. He breathed out through his nose, slowly as he stepped back, and held the door for her.

When she moved, her hair brushed her arm and he watched that too, his throat tightening again before he looked ahead.

The door clicked shut behind her, muting the noise of the street. The moment she crossed the entryway, it hit her — lemon, garlic, grilled herbs, finishing in the kitchen. There was a low buzz from a fridge, a pan sizzling on metal, and repeated clatter of someone shelving plates, it was cozy instead of chaotic.

Theo stepped in close enough that his cologne — clean, warm, woodsy— reached her before his voice did. Noa kept her eyes forward, but she felt him looking at her again. There was a slight choking sound that left his lips before he shifted his weight like he needed to break the moment.

A narrow vestibule opened into a small host stand to the right: old wood, edges worn, a lone notebook on top. To the left: rustic chairs stacked two-by-two, shelves lined with cookbooks, their spines faded and mismatched. One wall sconce flickered low, and Theo reached past her shoulder to tap its switch, his hand brushing the air just inches from her arm.

The motion pulled his rolled cuff higher on his forearm. The muscles there tightened briefly as he hit the switch. Her perfume lifted when she shifted — something soft and floral — and she watched the muscle in his neck pull tight as he caught it.

The place wasn’t entirely finished. One corner of the tile was still raw. There were several half-sanded chairs. A small stack of plates sat dusty waiting to be washed and shelved. A ladder stood open near the back, a paint tray sat abandoned beneath it.

“You—” she started, but he was already looking at her, waiting.

“This is new,” she said finally.

“It will be,” he answered, voice low. “Soon.”

“Come here,” he said, softer. “Let me show you.”

He stepped to her side, close enough that she couldn’t breathe anything but his scent. She felt him glance down at her again, a quick flick of his eyes before he looked ahead and started walking.

When she stepped after him, the olive dress pulled smooth along her back, and she felt his attention catch for half a second before he looked away.

She caught a glimpse of chest, warm against the blue. She blinked hard, her eyes dragging up from his spine to the back of his neck before she forced herself to focus on the room instead.

​​He led her through the front room, running a thumb along the raw tile, shifting a chair slightly with his foot, stopping once to steady a bar shelf that didn’t need steadying. Her eyes focused on the way his hands spread wide over the wood, palm flat, and she bit her lip when he ran them across it like he needed to feel it. He moved like someone who’d been in the space for months, comfortable but keyed-up, adjusting things out of habit, not necessity.

“Front dining room,” he murmured, nodding toward the long farmhouse tables. “Gonna do family-style here. Big groups.”

She traced a finger along the nearest table. Theo watched that finger drag the grain before he looked away.

“It’s very you,” she said.

“This part’s going to be a wine wall,” he said, tapping the wood lightly. “Still figuring out if I want Croatian bottles only or a mix.”

“You should do both,” Noa said, stepping closer to look. Her shoulder brushed his arm on the way, a clean, accidental slide that made him shift his stance. “Feels more… you.”

Theo let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, titling his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re authentic. A Croatian restaurant without Croatian wine?” Noa mock gasped, “What ever would Theodore Aldridge-Wells do,” she laughed. “Plus your teammate, Puli, would kill you.”

Theo laughed. “Yeah. He would.”

He stepped past her to straighten a crooked frame on the wall.  It remained crooked.

“You framed that?” she teased.

He made a face, nose scrunching, brows pulling in, before he lifted one large hand and tried to nudge the corner again, failing.

She reached into her bag, pulled out a small printed photo from their weekend in Venice, their heads close, blurry from movement.

“Here,” she said. “You should go ahead and frame us since we seemed to be framed in every one of your restaurants.”

Theo inhaled as he took it. His fingers brushed hers when he reached, slow enough that she felt the drag of his skin before he pulled the photo fully from her hand. He held it a second longer than he needed to.

He hung it inside the crooked frame. 

She snorted. “Still crooked.”

He dropped his head, smiling, and his hand came to rest briefly on his thigh like he needed to ground himself.

Noa quietly stepped forward, “Here,” she slowly slid her body in front of his, arms stretched out toward the frame. “Let me help you.” 

She felt Theo’s body press against hers, his suit jacket brushing her lower back where her dress dipped low, tracing the line of her curves as her back flexed. Theo moved his arms over hers to center the frame as he dipped his head into the crease of her neck. “Right… there,” he whispered, his deep baritone, softened by that faint lisp, brushing against her skin and sending heat low in her body.

BANG. 

A pile of stacked mismatched chairs tumbled to the floor interrupting the moment. 

Noa’s shoulders flew up, Theo’s chest pressing fully against her back for a split second, shielding her. Her breath shot out in a sharp gasp. His hand found her waist by pure reflex before he yanked it away.

“Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath, the corner of his mouth tugging up. His heartbeat felt like it was still racing in his chest.

Noa laughed, breathless and embarrassed. 

A contractor carrying a crate brushed past them, muttering a quick, “Oprosti,” before disappearing into the kitchen. 

Theo scrubbed a hand over his jaw once, trying to play it off. “Shall we?”

Noa nodded, lips pressed together, shoulders still lifted like she wasn’t done recovering from the jolt, taking his hand to continue the tour.

His eyes flicked down in surprise to their joined hands for half a second before he matched her stride.

When the space narrowed, Theo’s hand hovered at her back but didn’t touch her. His palm stayed open, inches from her spine, following the line of her waist as she moved ahead of him.

He pointed toward the raw tile in the corner. “This was supposed to be done last week.”

“Why isn’t it?” she asked.

Theo hesitated, rubbing along the unfinished edge. Dust clung to the pad of his thumb and he wiped it against his linen trousers leaving a faint smudge. The fabric pulled tight across his thigh as he bent closer to inspect the tile, his shirt loosened another inch with the movement. Noa swallowed and quickly looked away.

“Because it took three extra weeks to get the permit.”

They moved toward the bar — a narrow oak top, shelves behind it lined with bottles and glasses still wrapped in paper. Theo stepped into her space to reach overhead, his forearm passing just behind her shoulder. The heat from him came first, then the shift of air when his arm lifted, brushing her hair lightly. His wrist hovered by her cheek, the scent of clean linen and his cologne mixing with the steam drifting from the kitchen.

She felt his warmth again, and his shirt, open a button lower than usual. His breath hitched when he stepped back down, his hand rested on the counter’s edge, fingers spread, knuckles sharpening as he shifted his weight, like he almost said something back and swallowed it instead.

Verse by Rhye 

Theo’s Restaurant, Dua, Zagreb — The Kitchen, The Terrace, The Pantry

Steam rose from a pot behind the half-wall, hissing near a towel hung half-off a hook, and a pan scattered with herbs left cooling on the stove as Theo guided Noa into the kitchen.

He reached for the pot lid with his bare hand. 

“Tss—shit,” he hissed, snatching his fingers back with a sharp “Ow—fuck.”

“Idiot,” he muttered, shaking out his fingers.

Noa smirked. “Still not using oven mitts, chef?”

He shot her a look, half embarrassed, half amused, then reached for the drawer with his hip. It slid open smoothly and he grabbed two forks.

“Here,” he said. “Taste this.”

He held out a forkful. 

She leaned in, opening her mouth slowly as she closed it around the tines.

She licked the sauce from the edge. 

Theo’s hand slackened on the drawer, knuckles going limp. His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Fuck,” he breathed, a low sound he didn’t catch in time, before he tore them away. He turned, unnecessarily, adjusting a pan that didn’t need adjusting.

Noa quietly watched the way his broad chest rose as he inhaled and exhaled, repeatedly, like he was trying to steady himself. His shoulders rolled as if he was physically talking himself down.

So… she stepped into his space. Close enough that she heard the hitch of his breath through his nose as his eyes flickered closed.

He froze when she touched his chest, right where his shirt was open, Brunello-Cucinelli-soft fabric sliding under her palm, her gold bracelets warm against his skin.

“Noey…” he warned, already losing the ability to control his voice.

She rose onto her heels.

Her fingers curled behind his neck.

And she pulled him down and kissed him.

She traced his lower lip with her tongue.

“You said… ‘Come to Zagreb.”

“No games. Just me and you.”

She took her hands and caressed his face. 

“You told me… Put me on the roster.’”

She murmured against his lips, breath brushing his mouth. “Mhmmm.” 

“You promised me your bed… your hands… your mouth…”

She moaned in his mouth. 

Theo kissed her back once, like he was trying to memorize her mouth. He inhaled and pulled back to breathe, forehead against hers, his chest rising under her hand.

“What are you doing?,” he groaned, flexing his hand once at her waist, fighting himself.

Noa swallowed, breath shaking, mouth still close enough to graze his. “I’m here, Theo. I came.”

Theo’s eyes flickered closed, feeling every word like a punch in his gut. 

Her eyes lifted to his as he took a step back, only one though, because if he didn’t, they wouldn't leave the kitchen.

“Noey…” he whispered.

He couldn’t say anything else.

He physically couldn’t.

Theo stepped back that single inch, barely breathing, as Noa let her hands fall from his chest, slow, steady, like she didn’t want to spook him. His jaw flexed, dragging in one long inhale through his nose.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The kitchen filled the silence — tchk–tchk of the simmering pot, a soft hissss from the hood, the sharp ping of a cooling pan.

Theo swallowed, eyes still dark.

“Come on,” he said quietly, voice hoarse. “There’s more.”

He turned first, and she followed, her hand grazing the counter to steady herself.

His shoulders rose and fell once, resetting. 

Her lips were still parted from the kiss.

They pretended not to notice.

He walked her toward the back of the restaurant, candlelight softening the corners of the half-finished space. The wine alcove, the mismatched stacks, the raw wood, all of it blurred under the thrum still buzzing between them.

The door stood there, iron handle, old wood, the grain catching the warm light.

Theo brushed his fingers along the frame. “The terrace,” he murmured, pushing it open.

The air shifted immediately, it was cooler and quieter. 

The terrace itself was small, unfinished, spread out beneath a half-hung string of twinkle lights, some lit, some dark, swaying gently. 

The vines he’d planted curled along the railing like they weren’t sure yet if they belonged. Two unpainted iron tables sat against the wall, next to a few folded chairs leaned together. Potted rosemary and thyme lined the ledge and lifted in the breeze, wafting across a single candle stub sat on one table, melted into its glass.

The sky above was barely visible between the buildings, a narrow sliver of blue-black with one stubborn star.

A gust lifted a strand of her hair. Theo’s fingers twitched like he almost reached for it eyes tracked the curl, chest rising again like he felt it on his own skin.

“I saw the GQ article, by the way,” she said softly, moving her fingers along the doorframe, then across the table, then the wall, touching everything like she wanted to know every texture he’d chosen.

Theo’s jaw ticked. He breathed in too slowly, eyes flicking away before he forced them back to her.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah.”

“The comments were… surprisingly nice.”

He huffed a laugh. “Didn’t think you’d read it.”

“I did.”

She stepped forward, eyes flicking to the night sky outside, the shadows, the flickering lights.

“You looked good.”

Theo lifted his glass — where had he even picked it up? — and took a slow sip, lips wrapping around the rim a second too long.

“Didn’t know if you’d…”

His eyes dropped.

“If that is what you’d…”

Noa abruptly turned around, stopping Theo in his tracks. Her dress caught the breeze, curving around her thigh as she looked up at him.

“I was… surprised,” she admitted, shoulders rising as she swung back toward the terrace, and the wind caught the hem again.

She glanced over her shoulder and winked.

“But I thought it was tastefully done.”

She turned and reached for his hand. 

“Come on, Aldridge-Wells — what did it say? ‘Building this life off the pitch.’”

She took a slow step deeper into the space, voice dropping.

“I just wasn’t supposed to see it yet.”

She nudged him with her hip.

“Now get me a drink. I don’t know how you have one and I don’t,” she pouted. 

She ran her finger along the inside edge of the door as they headed back in.

“And you didn’t have to send the coat.”

Theo’s eyes closed for half a second, a smile crossing his face. 

He slowly dragged his thumb along his jaw,  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I… know.”

But the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth said he wasn’t sorry. 

Not even a little.

“Wine cellar is this way,” he said, nodding behind her. “Come on.”

He grabbed his glass, placing it on a nearby table as she followed inside from the terrace toward the narrow passage that connected the kitchen to the back room bar, the cool air fading behind them as the door clicked shut. 

The warmth of the restaurant returned immediately from the candlelight, and pots simmering in the kitchen.

“This way,” he murmured, his arm brushing hers just barely as he pointed out a stack of unfinished plates.

He stepped in first, shoulders nearly touching both walls.

The corridor tightened almost immediately, barely more than a sliver. Theo had to turn slightly to fit his shoulders through. Noa followed, one hand brushing the wooden frame, the other smoothing down her dress as she stepped close — too close for a space this tight. Her hip grazed his jacket as she slipped in behind him.

Copper pots hung low, jars lined the shelves, a square window no bigger than Noa’s hand letting in the faintest glimmer of moonlight. It smelled like flour and herbs and dust motes drifted in the single shaft of light.

CLINK. 

One of the copper pans swung slightly from their movement and Theo’s arm came up fast, palm flattening against the metal just inches from her cheek, steadying it with one large hand.

“Careful,” he rasped. 

“Thanks,” she whispered, halting behind him. 

His back rose under her hand. She felt him take a slow, tight breath before his chest lowered it again.

They were too close.

Close enough that her breath hit the back of his neck.

Close enough that she could smell clean linen and heat coming off his skin.

Close enough that he had to plant a hand on the shelf to steady himself.

She hadn’t meant to touch him again, but her fingers stayed there, barely hooked at the seam of his blazer.

Theo didn’t turn right away.

He exhaled, head tipping forward, like the warmth of her hand was pouring straight down his spine.

“Noey…,” barely shaped at the back of his throat.

He stood there, chest rising once, slowly, like the decision hit him all at once.

Noa swallowed behind him. “Are we close?”

Theo let out one quiet exhale that vibrated in the air between them.

Then he turned, just enough that his chest brushed hers in the cramped space — like he was giving her time to stop him and knowing she wouldn’t.

Enough that her heel caught the wall behind her to stay balanced as her back hit the pantry wall. 

Enough that neither had anywhere to go.

He looked down at her, eyes darker than they’d been all night.

“Noey.”

She looked up at him, lips parting just a little.

The low pantry bulb glowed over his cheekbone, cutting light behind him and shadow across his collar. 

He swallowed.

Her eyes traced the line of his throat, the open collar, the warm column of skin there. Her hand drifted up, feather-light, touching the edge of his shirt where it parted. Her fingers found his chest, spreading over the open part of his shirt, the fabric giving easily under her touch. She rose onto her toes, gold heels clicking softly on the tile as she dragged her fingers over the skin. 

“Mhmmm,” Theo’s inhale shook the walls.

Then he leaned in, slowly, the way someone eases into warm water, forehead grazing hers first. He waited there, breath mingling with hers, letting her feel the intention long before the touch.

His lips brushed hers once, testing, before he pressed in deeper, a warm, steady kiss.

His other hand slid up the wall beside her head, forearm brushing her shoulder as he guided the angle of the kiss just slightly, just enough.

His hand dropped to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

His mouth met hers hungry, deep, like he’d been holding this one back for too long.

A surprised, thrilled, gasp escaped her throat and Theo swallowed it, pressing closer.

Her hands traced his beard, fingers brushing warm skin. 

Theo groaned — a low, broken sound he couldn’t hide — and pressed her harder into the wall.

“Fuck,” he breathed against her lips, forehead nearly touching hers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She laughed and kissed him again, hands sliding behind his neck.

His thumb traced the curve of her waist, slow, reverent, like he was memorizing every inch.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.

It was because he had to.

His chest was rising fast. 

Her lipstick smeared slightly at the corner of his mouth.

His hand was still on her waist like he forgot to move it.

“Noey…” he whispered, voice frayed.

He swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have—”

She cut him off, brushing her thumb along his jaw.

“You should’ve,” she breathed.

Theo closed his eyes for a second. He was pained, undone, trying to pull himself back together in the narrow heat of the pantry.

But when he opened his eyes again, they were darker.

The copper pans swayed above them, clinking softly like they knew what happened.

His hand found the wall beside her head, bracing himself as if he needed it.

Theo’s thumb brushed the fabric at her hip, a slow drag he didn’t seem aware he was doing.

His voice was barely there.

“Dinner,” he murmured, whispering against her cheek, low and regretful in the best way.

He stepped back a single step, giving her space to breathe again.

Then he led her into the golden room, sleeves rolled, breath uneven, pretending nothing had happened while his lips were still pink from her mouth.

And when she brushed his chest on her way out, he inhaled sharply and followed her like he couldn’t help it.

Song for You by Rhye 

Theo’s Restaurant, Dua, Zagreb — Dinner & Walk Home 

Theo led her out of the pantry with that one-step distance he gave himself, sleeves pushed to his elbows, breath still uneven, pretending he hadn’t just had her pinned against the pantry wall with his mouth on hers.

He reached the entryway to the back room first and paused like he needed one extra second to force his pulse down.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, palm lifting toward the doorway.

Noa stepped through.

The room glowed immediately, low golden bulbs, low ceilings, a banquette stretched along the back wall, fabric still unsteamed. Theo watched her take it all in. He didn’t even try to hide it, watched how she absorbed the space, watched her face soften. He didn’t mean to stand that close to her, but he couldn’t help it.

“This is…” she started, turning slowly.

He braced a hand on the doorframe, voice low. “Yeah?”

“Actually really beautiful, Theo.”

Theo cleared his throat once, dragging his palm down his face.  “I, uh— your wine. I didn’t… we left it.” His voice cracked on the word. “Shit.”

He glanced back toward the pantry like he needed a task to get his sanity back in order.

Noa laughed under her breath, covering it with her hand. “You’re falling apart, chef. No Michelin star for you.”

“Mm. You did that, not me.” 

He moved past her towards the bar. His fingertips grazed the slit near the side of her thigh. The jolt made his hand twitch — right when her soft moan slipped out.

At the counter, he grabbed her glass and a bottle from the stone alcove, pouring with hands that weren’t quite steady. The wine hit the glass with a soft glug-glug before he steadied his wrist.

He slipped her wine into her hand carefully, fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second too long. She accepted it without moving her eyes from him.

Theo cleared his throat hard and grabbed two water glasses and headed to the table. 

The table in the center was raw oak, uneven leg, candle stub in a cloudy glass, salt cellar with no spoon, knives that didn’t match.

“This is homey as hell,” Noa blurted out, taking a sip of wine.

Theo’s eyebrow shot up.

“In the good way,” she added quickly.

Theo burst out laughing, a low, deep rumble that shook the glasses, a tiny clink-clink as they bumped together in his hands, as he set one in front of her.

“I thought this place wasn’t open,” she said.

“It’s not,” Theo answered. “But it’s close enough. This is a special room. I haven’t decided what I am going to do with it yet, but I figured you’d like some privacy.” 

The candle flickered between them.

“You hungry?” he asked, sliding into a seat across from her. 

“A little,” she said, sitting down and smoothing out her dress. The fabric whispered against her legs. Theo’s eyes flicked down and snapped away just as quickly.

A small smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.

A man who was clearly not a server, probably a contractor conscripted into playing one, carried out two plates. Handmade pasta, tomatoes blistered from the pan, basil torn on top.

Theo nodded, “Grazie,” as the man disappeared like a ghost.

Noa twirled a forkful and took a bite. 

The groan that escaped her throat was soft and unintentional. “Oh my god….”

Theo didn’t move at first, like he was waiting for a harshest judgment then he exhaled, quiet and relieved. “Yeah? Good. Pasta—”

“Pomodoro,” she finished. “The first dish you learned to cook when you moved to Italy,” she didn’t look up from her plate, “I watched an interview.”

Theo smirked, but he kept quiet.

He stabbed a tomato, paused, then finally ate it, like that made it official.

They ate in that quiet stretching silence for a while. Even made it halfway through the meal before Noa nudged him with her foot.

“So. Are you gonna ask me what I thought of dinner,” she said, “or are you just assuming you nailed it?”

Theo glanced sideways, eyes warm. “You liked it.”

“That’s not a question.”

“It’s all I needed.” He shrugged lightly. “If you hated it, you would’ve said something.”

Noa scoffed. “Bold of you to assume I’d spare your feelings.”

Theo smirked; slow, one-sided. “You didn’t spare them in Venice.”

She opened her mouth to counter, but her phone buzzed in her bag. She frowned and pulled it out.

Mom.

Her thumb hovered.

Theo watched her expression shift. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

Noa exhaled through her nose. “My mom. I forgot to call her back.”

Theo looked back toward the restaurant, then to her. 

“She’s with my mum,” he said softly.

Noa looked up, phone still clutched in her hand, brow furrowed. 

“What?”

“My mum called earlier,” he said. “Asking about some restaurant she wanted your mum to take her to?”

“So this is, like, a regular thing?,” Noa asked, silencing her phone and dropping it back into her bag. 

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Didn’t ask.”

Noa stared at him. “You could’ve fooled me. GQ seemed to know. So clearly you could’ve told me.” 

“I was busy,” he said, lips pulling into a crooked line, his gaze trailing her body from head to toe. “You were… distracting,” he reached his hand under the table and dragged his fingers painstakingly slow along Noa’s buttery-smooth thigh,” he smirked.

Noa ignored him even though her breath hitched with each movement. 

“So what about your day,” Noa asked, tilting her wine-filled warmth toward him. “Or did you forget how to talk unless we’re pressed against a wall?”

Theo groaned under his breath. “Jesus, Noey—”

“I’m just saying,” she teased, “this is the thing you came here for.”

“One of them,” he replied.

She glanced up.

He was watching her, serious, steady, not trying to impress her just letting her see how serious he was. Her knee brushed his under the table as he continued to stroke her thigh. 

He ran a hand over his jaw, clearly trying to reset. “Fine. Today? I had three contractors quit, two deliveries show up late, and a health inspector threaten to report me because of a wobbly stair.”

“Which stair?”

Theo pointed behind them. 

She gasped. “So it was dangerous.”

Theo snorted. “You were staring at my shirt. Not the stairs.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it, she was caught.

A man walking his dog passed them, leash scraping the concrete, oblivious.

“Well,” she murmured, “your shirt is open an unnecessary amount.”

Theo shrugged without denying it.

Noa regained her composure with a dramatic exhale.

“I like this place… but I need to try the other 1700 restaurants you have,” she teased, trying to change the subject. 

Theo looked down at his plate, then back at her. “You should.” 

His shoe nudged the uneven table leg to stop its tiny wobble.

A light breeze whispered in from the terrace door and the lights flickered once somewhere in the back, when a contractor hammered a cabinet back into place.

Noa rested her elbow on the table. “You circled something on the menu.”

Theo’s mouth twitched. “That wasn’t for tonight.”

“For what then?”

He shook his head. “Later.”

She watched him too long. His fingers curled once around the stem of his wine glass, like he needed something to hold.

The man returned with dessert, two spoons, one bowl, something whipped and citrusy.

“We’re… splitting?” she asked.

“It’s the only one they finished testing,” Theo said. “Unless you want your own.”

She shook her head. “This is fine.”

She reached for the bowl at the same time he did.

Clink.

Her spoon tapped the back of his. 

She froze but he didn’t. Her fingers brushed his knuckle as she adjusted her grip but neither one of them said anything.

She tasted. 

He followed.

The soft scrape of spoon against ceramic filled the room instead of their voices. Once, their hands met again, when they both reached toward the same side of the dish but neither or them moved their hands or moved away.

When they finished, Theo wiped his thumb along the edge of the dish, inspecting the glaze, then pushed it aside.

“You want coffee?” he asked.

“No. If I drink it, I’ll be up all night.”

Theo’s eyes flicked up fast, his breath caught in his throat before he forced his gaze away.

“I’ll walk you,” he said.

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already reaching for his jacket.

He held the door for her again, hand braced on the frame, waiting for her to step out first.

When she did, the cool night air hit both of them at the same time, carrying the tail end of the dinner hour, the distant sound of trams, the clatter of late-night cafés closing.

Theo locked the restaurant door behind them.

The street outside was a had strip of light and a bunch of rumbling from the tram. Theo stood there for a second, like he wasn’t sure the night should keep going but he also wasn’t ready for it to end.

Noa lifted her brows.

“What?” she teased. “Didn’t expect me to be the best part of Zagreb?”

Theo huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head.

“Come on,” he said, voice lower now. “Walk with me.”

He didn’t make the mistake of touching her back this time. He let her lead, but his steps matched hers perfectly.

Shops lined the path — a stationery store with its door propped open, a seamstress pinning a dress in the window, a tiny market where a cashier scanned peaches while chatting to a woman digging for coins in her bag. Theo walked half a step beside her, hands in his pockets, pace matching hers without thinking.

At the intersection with Ilica, the city noise got louder. A tram rattled toward the stop, brakes squealing as it slowed. People crowded forward trying to enter. One man stuck his arm in the closing doors and forced them back open, nodding at the driver as he squeezed inside.

A woman beside Noa lifted her toddler onto her hip and said, “Drži se [Hold on],” before weaving through the crowd.

Theo glanced at the toddler, then at Noa, a tiny breath of a laugh escaping him. “Chaos,” he murmured. She didn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth lifted.

They reached the crosswalk. The green light glowed on their skin as traffic zoomed by. A cyclist zipped past with a muttered, “Pardon!”

Theo stepped closer, just close enough that Noa felt the shift of heat. He looked down at her, eyes lingering at her mouth for one second too long.

“Noey?”

The light flipped red.

Noa waited for the cars to stop, then they crossed Ilica with a group of tourists clumped around a guide holding a little red flag. He pointed toward the Funicular and said, “Oldest in the world still running,” and half the group raised their phones at once.

On the other side, a man sold bags of cherries from a folding table. He held one up by the stems toward a passerby and said, “Slatke, slatke, probaj [Sweet, sweet, try it],” before popping one into his own mouth.

Theo slowed for half a second, eyeing the cherries, then leaned toward her, “Bet those stains are worse than wine.” It wasn’t a joke, not really, it was terrible, but she bumped his arm lightly with hers, in acknowledgment.

They turned down a narrower street that angled slightly uphill. The chatter from Ilica faded, as buildings rose closer together, balconies hung with laundry, and café chairs scraped against stone as staff set up for lunch.

A waiter wiped down a table and greeted an older couple walking past with a “Dobar večer [Good night].” The woman answered back and squeezed her husband’s arm as they continued on.

Theo’s hand brushed Noa’s but they kept walking.

Farther ahead, two teenage boys leaned against a wall sharing a plate of cevapi from a takeaway container, picking at the onions with plastic forks and arguing quietly over who should get the last piece.

Theo watched them for a minute. “Some things are universal,” he said. “Sisters. Best friends. Fighting over food.”

Noa hummed in agreement, her eyes forward, following the street until it opened into a small square. A man tuned a tamburica under the shade of an umbrella, plucking the same note twice, then adjusting the peg with a frown. A group of British tourists stood nearby debating directions, one tapping Google Maps and saying, “It should be right here… somewhere.”

“He’s close,” Theo said quietly, listening.

“Almost,” she murmured.

Near the base of the cathedral stairs, a woman in a floral dress adjusted the lace mantilla covering her hair before posing for a photo. Her friend stepped back, framed the shot, and said, “Okay, smile. No, hold on, one more.”

A priest walked past them carrying a stack of bulletins, pages shifting in the breeze, he pressed them down with and continued toward the side entrance.

Theo exhaled, slow. “Long day?” 

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

Theo nodded too, like he’d expected that.

“Alright.”

He didn’t push. He just kept walking beside her, shoes hitting the stone in the same quiet rhythm as hers, the city noise thinning as they approached the hotel block.

As they reached the hotel entrance, Theo stopped just before the steps.

“Noey… I’m really glad you texted.”

Noa held his gaze for a second, unsure what to do. A car rolled past behind him, headlights sweeping briefly across his face — and for a second she caught something in his expression, she wasn’t exactly sure, but it was quick and unguarded, before he looked away.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” she said. 

“But…thank you. For coming.”

The sincerity in it dropped somewhere inside her chest.

She swallowed. “You asked me to.”

Theo looked at her, like he was memorizing the night in case it was the only one he got.

“Are you sure you want to go up alone?”

“Yes,” she said. “ — I should.”

Theo nodded immediately. “Okay.”

He stepped back, giving her space, hands sliding into his pockets like he didn’t trust them not to reach for her.

Noa hesitated. 

“Theo…”

His gaze narrowed and he raised his eyebrow.

“I ended things with Julian.”

He froze.

Noa noticed the tiny lift of one eyebrow, a slow, measured inhale, how his throat worked once as he swallowed.

But he didn’t look away.... and that was his tell.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

She noticed the slight flex of his jaw, as she pushed the revolving hotel door.

Theo didn’t follow her. He stayed there on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching until she disappeared into the lobby.

Ain't Got Nothing on You by Leon Bridges 

The Berlin Wall, Merrick & Co. — The Line Between. 

Cold, rainy air cut across Noa’s skin as she crossed the street. LED lights glowed behind her as music from the warehouse spilled out. Her pulse hadn’t caught up, and her head was still spinning from the rush of adrenaline — half from the presentation — the other half from the tension between her and Vaughn. 

She followed her phone map, barely aware of the city shifting around her. Her thoughts dragged, still buzzing with everything she hadn’t said. By the time she reached the installation, she was on autopilot.

A single strip of the Berlin Wall split the courtyard. The sound hit her first, it was a low, looping hum of broadcast static layered beneath soft ambient strings. Then, light fractured beams illuminated by projectors of archival Cold War footage flickering across concrete slabs of the original wall. Soldiers blurred in motion, crowds fled, a woman clutched a suitcase to her ribs, crying. Beneath Noa’s feet, torn, frayed, and uneven deconstructed turf stretched for miles. 

Elijah stood still at the center of it all, hands in coat pockets, collar turned up against the chill, tall enough that the fractured beams of light broke against his broad shoulders before spilling to the ground. 

Merrick & Co. — The Line Between

The projection shifted across him and washed over the planes of his coffee-brown skin catching the sharp line of his jaw, high cheekbones, the faint shadow of a close shave, and the steady set of his shoulders. 

Noa’s steps slowed, her body registering his presence before her mind caught up. She watched him quietly for a moment, under the lavender dusk. He looked regal without speaking. She admired the quiet attention he gave the installation as if he were listening to something inside it.

He shifted when he heard her footsteps soften on the turf. His short brown cropped locs caught the breeze in a fluid, athletic movement.

“Elijah Merrick,” she smirked. 

“Jameson,” he grinned, crossing the turf toward her, “You made it,” his grin widening as if he’d been holding it in until she arrived.

Noa laughed. “Barely.”

“Funny thing,” Elijah said, stepping closer. “I don’t really get nervous. Ever. But standing next to you?” His mouth curved, slightly. “Feels a bit like standing in a Cold War exhibit, innit? He gave a small shrug, catching her gaze. “You don’t know what’s going to break the stalemate first, but you feel it.,” he laughed. 

The rustle of the wind seemed to catch the moment her stomach dipped. 

“Tension where there shouldn’t be any,” she took a small step forward, “Pressure lines no one talks about,” she smirked, stepping a bit closer.

“I’ll have you know — as another non-nervous person — Merrick, the metaphors you spin like Rumpelstiltskin make even me feel… unsettled,” she laughed, taking another step forward.

“That’s the point, innit,” Elijah smirked.

Noa laughed. “Maybe. But… flattery won’t get you free concept work, Merrick. MARCHAND is just as successful as Merrick & Co.”

“I’d never dare,” he replied, placing a mock hand to heart. His eyes dropped briefly to the outline of her silhouette underneath her jacket, then back up. 

She gestured toward the exhibit entrance, “Shall we?”

“Absolutely,” he smiled, enveloping her hand in his. His palm was surprisingly warm, and she felt the contact all over her skin.

They walked wordlessly at first, side by side, shoes gliding across the turf. Shadows from the footage moved over their jackets and hands — ghosts of another era.

Every few steps, his long arm lightly brushed hers, and each time, she felt the slightest hitch in his breath. She looked straight ahead, choosing not to react and he silently matched her restraint. 

“This is beautiful… in an unresolved history lesson kind of way,” she offered. 

“Ah, I knew I could count on you to get it,” Elijah chuckled, sliding his hands in his pockets.

“Merrick & Co. took this on as a study in the spaces between people. Borders you can see, and the ones you can’t,” he said as they continued walking. 

He hesitated for a second before gesturing to the flashing footage washing over the wall.

“My team usually works with future-focused projects. Tech, architecture, innovation. But sometimes… sometimes you need to take one good passion project with no real plan to see what you’re made of.”

“You’re good at this.” 

“At?”

“At… understanding spaces... knowing when to take leaps.”

He smiled, dipping his head slightly to reach her gaze. “Sometimes. It’s not always as easy as you think.”

Their steps slowed at the same time.

“I know. But two things can be true,” she said, walking closer to the projector as it shifted.

Trains, families, barbed wire, a boy running toward a border flashed on the screens.

Elijah kept his hands in his pockets, but his arm brushed hers again and this time and he let it linger there for a moment.

This was peaceful and grounding, the first time all day Noa felt like the world wasn’t spinning. She let herself match his breathing without meaning to. 

Elijah slowed as the footage shifted again — grainy clips of families divided along the border, a woman passing her child through a window before soldiers pulled her back. Noa caught the way his jaw tightened like he was trying to shake off a personal memory.

“You know why I love this installation?” he said, quietly. 

Noa glanced at him. “Why?”

He lifted his chin toward the fractured strip of Wall. “Most memorials try to tell you what happened. This one makes you feel what it costs.”

The next projection flickered to a man pacing the fence line. You could see the tension, the weight, the panic in the grainy film.

“You know… I met this woman up with my mum,” he started before looking at her, “Mrs. Thatcher. Do you remember her from Scotland?” 

Noa nodded. “Yeah, from the Highlands event.” 

“Yeah, that’s the one. Well…. She told me stories about her aunt. How her family split across two sides of Berlin during the war. Her latest documentary is about how her family spent 28 years writing letters they couldn’t send.” 

“Wow.” 

“When the Wall fell, they found each other again. It’s called "Same Bloodline, Two Governments.” 

Noa softly exhaled. “It’s not easy to return to someone after decades and expect things to immediately go back to normal. Life is cruel that way.” 

“It’s human.” He shrugged, moving in front of a nearby projector.

“People can be separated for years, and still feel connected. And the hardest part wasn’t breaking the wall...”

He nudged a piece of broken turf with his shoe.“It was what they did after.”

Noa quietly watched him, her eyes studying him, silently encouraging him to continue. There was a gentleness in her gaze he wasn’t expecting, one that made him straighten a little, as if he suddenly wanted to be worthy of it.

“So yeah… when Mrs. Thatcher mentioned her hope to showcase the film at next year’s Berlin Film Festival. I thought it would be cool if Merrick & Co. could help get her there, support the film in small showings across the city as a lead up,” he said, before turning to catch Noa’s gaze. 

“But mostly… I wanted you to see this with me.”

Noa gave a mock gasp. “Savannah, I do declare thee to be a good man,” she laughed, quickly breaking her fake southern accent.

"Elijah Merrick, how do you always find a way to not only be the most innovative person in a room but the kindest,” she teased, swatting his arm. 

Elijah burst out laughing, half-smiling. “You do the same. Kindred spirits we are.”

“True,” Noa said, starting up toward the next projector, "But why me?”  

Elijah took one big stride to get back in step with her. He held her gaze long enough to hear the stutter of a projector to the left of the memorial,  as it cleared the reel for the next set of footage. 

“Because you’re one of the few people I know who actually sees where story, identity, and international influence meet... and how to translate movement, emotion and lived experiences into storytelling that resonates.” 

“Wow. You make me sound incredible.” 

Elijah paused to look at her. Noa’s breath caught in her chest. It felt like he was memorizing her like a soldier leaving a lover off to war. The way someone studies an answer they’re afraid to get wrong. 

Elijah’s eyes dipped briefly, to her mouth. She hoped the hum from the shifting projector could hide the slight thump in her chest when he stepped closer and leaned down, just enough for the warmth of his breath to graze her cheek. 

“Jameson,” he murmured at last, baritone deep and calming, “I could never make you sound like anything.”

The words landed with more force than he intended, as he shyly stepped back. Noa blinked, surprised by the gravity of something unguarded slipping through his tone. It felt heavier than the grounding detachment he usually carried.

His lips parted like he might say something else, something riskier, but he shut it down at the last second, shifting his gaze toward the wall, pretending to study the projection.

He inhaled, steadying himself, jaw tightening as he cleared his throat, brushing his knuckles along it, composure back on.

The archival footage on the nearby projector shifted again  — a young soldier, barely older than a teenager, glancing both ways before helping someone cross the border under cover of night.

“But honestly… I value your eye for campaigns,” he murmured, “Especially something like this....”

“Passion project,” Noa said.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling his shoulders trying to reset himself.

“Okay, so let me tell you what I think,” Noa blurted out, shifting gears. 

“Please do,” he said, dramatically gesturing to an imaginary floor. 

Noa laughed.

Elijah’s head tilted slightly, savoring the sweetness in her laugh.

She stepped closer to the nearest projector, watching a teenager help someone across the border. The flickering grain lit her face, and when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but sure.

“Here’s what I think,” she said.

“Everyone builds memorials that look backward. But this—” she gestured at the wall, at the static, at the boy frozen mid-run— “this is about the present. About the tension that still lives in people, the kind you don’t see until you’re standing close enough to feel it.”

Elijah turned toward her, brow raised. “Do go on… don’t let me interrupt. Watching a master at work is a pleasure which I enjoy.”

Noa smirked before she continued. 

“You didn’t take on a passion project,” she said.

“You took on a mirror. And that’s why it works. Because it forces people to ask themselves where the walls in their lives are. The borders they cross, the lines they blur, the ones they avoid and the ones they wish someone would meet them at.”

Noa nodded at the woman passing her child through the window.

“That’s not history. That is the now. The present reality. Families divided by migration policy, political lines drawn through a living room television, every person who’s ever loved someone on the other side of an impossible choice.”

She turned to him fully, lifting her chin slightly, eyes catching the shifting light in his hazel-toned eyes.

“And this footage? It’s textured. This is an emotional pattern people can step into. You feel the stakes before you even know the story.”

Elijah stayed quiet, watching her, the way someone watches light move across glass, but then something in his expression changed, his jaw eased, his shoulders dropped.

He looked away for half a second, down at the turf, then toward the edge of the wall, anywhere but her.

“So if you want to know where this could go?” she continued.

“Berlin Film Festival is the catalyst. What you have here is a traveling dialogue. You could take this to cities still healing from border histories — Seoul, Belfast, Johannesburg, Jerusalem, Tijuana. Anywhere a line once cut through people."

Her voice softened.

“You could come to the Balkans with me.” 

“Oh really?,” he looked down at her, brow raised. 

“Yes! On a transformative journey, Merrick!" she squealed.

"I am co-leading UEFA + UN’s “Bridges Over Borders” initiative. A multi-country, post-conflict sports diplomacy program using football and surf to heal ethnic divides and empower youth leadership across the Balkans."

She glanced up at him.

"And I could put in a good word for you,” she winked. “Friend of a friend discount and all.” 

“This is culture-shifting work, Merrick! You built a space where people can actually feel. That’s rare. And… It's important. You understand what it costs people to carry history inside them and everything you’ve been doing with Merrick & Co. — putting your stamps everywhere — it’s inspiring."

She immediately went quiet giving the moment a slight reprieve.

Elijah slowly exhaled, like he needed to release something before he could trust himself to speak again. Then, slowly, the pearly white teeth melted into that handsome megawatt smile.

“Jameson,” he murmured, his voice low enough to almost disappear beneath the hum of the projectors, “you have no idea what you just did to me.”

Before she could answer, Elijah stepped forward, as if making a decision on the spot.

“Come with me,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers along her wrist just long enough to guide her toward the far side of the courtyard.

Around a bend in the broken wall was a small, tucked-away annex. A low wooden platform, two lanterns, and the tiktiktik of the reel from a tiny portable projector looping the director’s cut of—

“Good Bye, Lenin!?”

Elijah smiled, watching Noa’s eyes light up as they scanned the space. But instead of letting her sit with her thoughts, he moved with quiet, courageous purpose. He was on a mission. He’d been saving this all day.

“Alright,” he said, stepping past her with a grin, “let me show you my very professional set-up.”

He crouched beside a neatly folded cashmere blanket.

“First, premium sitting equipment,” he announced, giving it a small dramatic shake.

He looked back at her. “No animals were harmed in the making of this product.”

Noa laughed, the sound echoing softly between the wall fragments.

Next, he picked up a thermos and unscrewed the top, releasing a fragrant steam.

“Turkish tea,” he said. “Proper tea.”

He poured a bit into the cap and handed it to her.

She took a sip, eyes widening. “Oh wow. This is—”

“—dangerously good?” he finished, smug. “Correct.”

Finally, he lifted a warm, foil-wrapped box from the side table.

“Now this,” he said with theatrical reverence, “is the crown jewel. The reason I just might accept your invitation to the Balkans. Behold—” he opened the lid in a gentle flourish— “Bülent Börek.”

The cheese stretched as he pulled out a slice, a golden, buttery ribbon dripping back into the box.

“I haven’t had a Börek in ages!,” she said, excitedly. 

“Mediterranean cheese blend,” he said, offering her the piece. “I mean… look at that pull. Stringy texture, award worthy.” 

She took a bite, and her eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my God.”

Elijah grinned, delighted. “See?”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Elijah Merrick. You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Technically,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath, “this was the real reason for the invite tonight... but only in the sense that this isn’t a real ‘date’ date.

Noa laughed softly, settling beside him as he spread the blanket over the platform.

“It’s the pre-date.”

“Exactly.”

They sat side by side, watching the movie. Her knee brushed his every few minutes, accidentally at first, then not so accidentally. His phone buzzed twice. He ignored it accidentally at first, then silenced it, not so, accidentally. 

“That transition shot? Absolute genius,” Noa whispered.

“Yeah, but this scene here.” Elijah tapped her elbow lightly, pointing at the frame, “This is what kills me every time. Nobody does it like this.”

Noa leaned in closer. “I know. So good, right.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, scooting her closer into his arms in the blanket. 

He reached for another piece of Börek and held it out without looking away from the screen.

“Open,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes but leaned in anyway, taking a bite.

A small smile stayed on his face for a long moment after. 

As the film shifted into its final scene, lines furrowed across Elijah’s forehead like he was debating something. Noa let her pinky brush his, and he quietly inhaled.

He was surprised but didn’t pull away, his hand slowly turned, offering his palm. Noa slipped her fingers into his and leaned closer. 

When the closing credits rolled, a low, lilting Macedonian folk song filled the speakers, its strings layered beneath a gentle, almost yearning melody.

Elijah stood and extended a hand toward her, brows raised with mischief. “Dance with me?”

“Here?” she whispered.

“Here."

His tone, warm and unguarded, made something in her chest loosen and she let him pull her up. He guided her into a slow sway, one hand warm at her waist, the other carefully holding her fingers. 

“You know I quite like dancing with you,” he said.

“Me too. Reminds me of Monaco...”

“Sitting on the dock of the bayyyyyy,” he sang quietly.

“Watching the tiiiidddeee roll away….” she joined in unison.  

They laughed, swaying against the faint brush of his thumb against her hip.

“So,” Elijah said eventually, hands brushing behind her back, “we still need to consider having a real date. One that isn’t me showing you a good time... on company time.”

Noa huffed a laugh. “So you actually don’t like mixing business with pleasure. Noted.”

“I can,” Elijah said. “I have.”

He looked at her sideways, a quiet smirk forming across his face. “I think we have.” 

He let the words hang there for a moment, watching the way Noa’s eyes widened at the truth wrapped in a tease. 

“But…. it never ends well. Making it official would ruin the anticipation,” he smirked. 

She stepped a little closer, tilting her chin up. Their bodies aligned, still swaying, like the music had arranged them that way.

“So what exactly am I anticipating, Elijah Merrick?”

His gaze dragged slowly to her lips before coming back to her eyes. He didn’t disguise the flicker of hunger for her this time. She let him take it, watched the way he tried to clear his throat as a proxy for his head. 

“Make a list and send it to me,” he murmured. “I’m eager to please Jameson.”

She swatted his arm, laughing, as she felt a full, steady pull, his palms broad against her back, chin lowering to her temple, as if memorizing her.

Noa let herself sink into him for a moment, his heartbeat was slow, solid, grounding against her ear. His coat brushed her cheek, smelling faintly of cedar and black tea. 

The wind pushed a ripple through the projected footage, casting their shadows long across the broken turf breaking the spell of the moment. 

Elijah cleared his throat. “Shall we get you to your next destination?” 

He stepped back, reaching for her hand, guiding her out of the installation. The night air hit them as they exited the annex. It was crisp, wet with rain on concrete, and carried the low vibrations from distant U-Bahn trains.

A private taxi idled nearby, headlights painting the street in pools of yellow. Elijah reached forward, opening the taxi door, gesturing Noa inside. 

“Until the next intersection, Jameson,” he whispered against her forehead before pressing a slow, soft kiss to her cheek.

“Until the next intersection, Elijah Merrick.”

Noa exhaled, sinking into the taxi, fingers brushing against the leather as she watched him close the door and fade into the night.

She absently typed on her phone while the car rolled forward. 

Soft Shock by Yeah Yeah Yeahs 

“Good evening, Grill Royal please,” she murmured to the driver, almost as if speaking would make the memory of him slip away.

Up front, the driver spoke, his voice low, German, and gravelly. Noa didn’t catch the first word, looking up from her phone, she leaned forward, repeating herself before...

Klaus Meineke. 

Lined face, deeply wrinkled skin, thin white hair frizzed like Einstein’s.

Noa scanned the taxi. The pine tree air freshener still swung from the mirror. The faint scent of tobacco lingered from a recently lit cigarette. The paperboy cap still rested on the passenger seat beside a folded newspaper.

“Better this time, huh? More refreshed? Still not too alert?,” he smiled, turning to greet Noa. “Nice to see you again Miss—” 

“Jameson. Noa Jameson.”

“Miss Jameson,” he repeated, turning back to the wheel, and accelerating the gas. 

At a little before eight, the taxi rolled to a smooth stop on the Friedrichstraße. 

“Grill Royal,” Klaus announced, pointing,  "It is on the water, the banks of the River Spree. Walk down the street there, take the set of steps, and you will arrive.”  

Noa nodded, reaching for the door handle, “Danke, Klaus.” 

He gave a small nod, shifting the clutch to his next fare.

Doin’ Me by Amber Mark 

Grill Royal glowed like a glass jewel against the river, filled with warm lights, fancy silverware, and conversation. People in coats smoked outside near the railing, flicking ash into the wind, and a couple laughed too loudly as the river rippled beneath them, catching strips of neon from a passing tram. 

Inside the private dining alcove, the table was already set. Tall candles, deep red wine, and the scent of charred steak drifted through the room as waiters moved fluidly between tables, balancing trays like dancers in black aprons.

Tessa lifted a hand. “Look who made it,” she said as Noa approached. 

“Missed me?” Noa winked.

“Desperately,” Thomas Bradley deadpanned around a mouthful of bread.

Noa slipped into her seat. Vaughn sat across from her, elbow draped over the back of his chair, tattoo sleeve shimmering under the light, eyes fixed on her with that unreadable calm that somehow made her skin buzz in all the wrong ways.

He didn’t say anything, but the way his gaze dropped, to her eyes, her lips, her coat, her shoulders as she shimmed it off. The way her silhouette accentuated her outfit, her heels, and again. He snapped his eyes forward. It was enough to knock the air in her chest slightly off-center.

A waiter approached, his footsteps soft on the wood. “Evening. May I get you started with something to drink?”

“Cabernet for me,” Tessa replied. 

Thomas Bradley waved a hand. “Red for me too. And water.”

He looked up at Noa. “Same?”

“Yes, please.”

Vaughn gave a small nod at the waiter but hesitated, eyes flicking toward Noa. “Red for me too,” he then said quietly.

The waiter left the table and reappeared with a stainless steel pitcher of water, pouring wine for the group, the candlelight catching in each handed glass.

“Would you like to begin with any starters?,” he asked, placing menus held at his chest onto the table.

Tessa nodded. “Yes, just the starters for now. Pulled Beef Kroketten, Burrata, and oysters to share please." She looked up. "But we are expecting an additional guest. Do you mind leaving another menu?"

“Of course,” the waiter replied, placing an additional menu on the table.

Tessa exhaled hard enough to blow the napkin closest to her on the table as the waiter glided away. Her eyes darted to Noa’s, then to Vaughn’s, then to the candle flame sinking in the middle of the table. 

Thomas Bradley glanced over at her. “Okay,” he huffed. “Clearly you have something to share with the group.”

Tessa folded her napkin, unfolded it, folded it again, fingers brushing the soft linen as if it could steady her nerves.

“So... since we have a bit of time,” she began, “You all should know my contract leaked.”

No one reacted with surprise and that silence made Tessa’s shoulders tighten.

“You already knew,” she said flatly.

“Everyone’s been talking about it,” Thomas Bradley quietly shrugged.

Vaughn’s jaw ticked. “You should have called me.”

Tessa sat forward, elbows on the table, fingers pressed against her forehead like she’d been holding something in for hours.

“Noa,” she said quietly, “I called you all weekend for a reason.”

She rubbed her forehead, addressing the group. “I called Noa because she knows the landscape. And because I didn’t want to hear another man at the club tell me what to do.”

Noa’s posture shifted immediately, answering before she could stop herself.

“I know. I apologize. Vivian gave me the weekend off and I spent it in the Dolomites...and Venice...” 

Vaughn cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, eyes narrowed in on Noa.

She glanced at him before continuing. “I really needed to unplug, Tessa.

She lifted her glass and swirled the wine, the ruby liquid catching the candlelight. “Can I pour water for everyone?”

“Yes please,” Tessa and Thomas Bradley replied in unison. 

Vaughn nodded but stayed silent, calculating every gesture, every shift in Noa’s posture.

Noa stood and poured water for the table, keeping her eyes on Tessa. “Tes… I’m so sorry. But I am here now and we should discuss.”

Tessa exhaled, leaning back, eyes flicking to each of them before landing on her wine glass.

“The contract leaked,” she said. “What am I going to do?”

Her fingers tapped against her thigh, the soft rhythm grounding her as tension bubbled in her chest. “It’s been an onslaught of sports news all week,” she said.

“Racist comment after racist comment. The bullshit ‘market metrics’ excuse for paying me less. Off the record “sources” meetings where management told me I was ‘too outspoken.’ The games I should’ve started but didn’t. Fabrizio ‘here we go’ updates every twenty minutes.”

Vaughn’s jaw locked. “That’s not just a leak. That’s sabotage.”

“Tell that to Nike,” Tessa muttered. “They called me three times today. They’re ‘monitoring the situation.’ Which is code for: don’t make any sudden moves that piss them off or jeopardize my sponsorship.”

The waiter returned moments later, sitting down a platter of Pulled Beef Kroketten, arranging each like a miniature sculpture, burrata draped elegantly over cherry tomatoes with a drizzle of basil oil, and Fine de Claire oysters on crushed ice, each lemon wedge angled perfectly.

Thomas Bradley inhaled a whiff of the dishes before chiming in.

“They’re nervous because if you switch clubs, you switch kit sponsors. And Adidas owns your front-runner, the North London club that must not be named.”

Tessa nodded. “Exactly. Anfield wants this quiet. Nike wants control. And the club already thinks I’m a problem because I became the story instead of being captain during a title chasing year.”

Noa topped off her glass before sitting back down, “You becoming the story is exactly why you need to protect yourself.”

Vaughn shot her a look. “Hold on.”

And there it was, the beginning of the clash she knew was coming.

He placed his glass down firmly, the stem wrinkling the table cloth.

“Leaving during the transfer window? That’s what they want people to think players like you do? Walk the second it gets tough.”

Noa groaned. “This isn’t ‘tough.’ This is systemic. And she’s been dealing with it for over a year.”

Tessa rubbed her temples. “Guys—”

“No, Tess. You’re Captain,” Vaughn said, firmly. “You walking sends a message. Not just to them, to everyone. Especially being the first Black English captain for a team that historically is white and working class. It means something, to every fan out there that looks like us.” 

Tessa reached for a kroketten, the warmth of the golden crust against her fingers, the rich beef aroma drifting upward.

Noa shook her head.

“Well. It tells women, especially Black women, that staying silent and swallowing bullshit is the price of ‘leadership.’ And I’m sorry but that is not what Tessa or any Black woman should be standing for."

Her eyes narrowed in on Vaughn.

“Quite frankly, any woman. Or man.” 

Vaughn ignored her. He dramatically selected an oyster from the tray, delicately lifting it to his lips. He heard the tiny hitch in her breath, catching her gaze as she scanned the length of his Adam’s apple. The way it bobbed as he slowly, and intentionally savored the taste. She nearly knocked over her wine glass when a small groan erupted from his lips.

“This is delicious. You should try one of these, NJ. Everything they say about them is true,” he winked.

“Vaughn!" Tessa blurted out. “Focus. This is about me.” 

“What,” he laughed. 

Noa stayed quiet watching Thomas Bradley reach for his third piece of Burrata. 

He was choosing to purposely ignore what was happening around him.

“But Tess, Nike is concerned. If the wrong headline lands, your brand visibility, your leverage… it could all go away,” Thomas Bradley said before taking a bite. 

“Well, I want you to stay,” Vaughn said flatly. “As captain, as a teammate, as someone who knows the locker room. Anfield needs you.”

“NJ?” Tessa prompted.

Noa exchanged a look with Vaughn. “You need to explore options,” she said. “Because it’s out there, and because you’re a Black woman, it’s going to get messy. Public opinion, media framing. It's already in motion and it won’t be kind to you.”  

Noa took another sip of her wine and a deep exhale.

“I could…. I could call Damien Cole. Senior FIFA rep.” 

Vaughn scoffed and rolled his eyes. “And what is he going to do?” 

“If Damien helps, this could be controlled. He has reach. And you won’t know which side of the narrative will stick unless you’re cut throat and resolute. Damien could help frame it before Nike panics, FIFA butts in, or the press spins it.”

Vaughn raised his eyebrow but kept silent. 

Tessa exhaled slowly, running a hand along the edge of her menu. “I just… I want to handle it level-headed. But I also don’t want to close doors before I know what’s possible.”

“Listen, Tessa. You don’t have to pick sides right now. But know that every step you take will be dissected. I learned the hard way,” Thomas Bradley said. 

Vaughn leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table now, fingers steepled. “I get the politics. But Anfield Red’s locker room, the men’s and women’s side. It's a family. And you leaving, Tess, it shifts things.”

Tessa nodded. “I know. I just want to make the right call. For me, for the team, for… everything. I am just vexed, that’s all,” she sighed.

Thomas Bradley let out a low laugh.

“Vexed? Well, get over it, luv."

He grabbed another piece of bread. "Time to fight back. Racist teammates, management telling you to ‘tone it down,’ benching you after you outperformed half the starting eleven. And my personal favorite, the pay gap they justified with ‘market value metrics.’”

He tapped his free hand on the table. "You can’t let the bloody bastards win.” 

“Have you talked to Nike? Anfield Red?” Noa asked. “Like after the presentation tonight?” 

“Oh, they’ve talked to me,” she said. “Three calls yesterday. One from some VP I’d never even met.”

Her jaw tightened. “They're concerned about ‘brand alignment.’ Which is corporate for: Don’t you dare switch to a team sponsored by Adidas. But no one dared speak up to me after the presentation.” 

Thomas whistled under his breath. “Classic.”

“It’s not even about loyalty,” Tessa snapped. “They just don’t want the optics of their golden girl running off to the competition. Never mind that the environment at Anfield has become toxic for the women’s side.”

Tessa’s throat bobbed as she glanced down at her glass.

“I want to play,” she muttered. “I want a team that actually wants me. I want to not wake up every morning wondering whose offhand comment I’m supposed to ignore today.”

“Then switch,” Thomas said. 

“It’s not that simple,” Tessa breathed. “If I walk out now, Nike could cut my contract. Or freeze it. And switching to an Adidas-backed club?” She shook her head. “That’s like starting a public brand war.”

“No one can blame you for protecting you,” Noa said. “Least of all a sponsor who claims they’re all about empowerment."

"We’ll sort it,” Noa said, calm and sure. “But you’re not doing it alone.”

Tessa blinked hard, swallowing. “Thanks. I appreciate you.”

Noa leaned back slightly, meeting Vaughn’s gaze across the table. Both of them knew this conversation wasn’t over, but the first real move had been made.

Location by Khalid 

At that moment, the curtain to the alcove shifted. 

Kez. 

Chocolate skin glistening in the candlelight, buzz-blonde haircut catching the glow, petite 5'3" sashaying in curves that carried command of the room. She wore a structured black blazer over a shimmering top and dangling gold hoops, offering a quick, warm smile.

“Sorry, babes. Traffic was a nightmare,” she said, sliding into the empty seat beside Tessa. Her fingers squeezed Tessa’s arm as she settled in, “Don’t tell me I missed the drink order.”

“Never. Always perfect timing,” Tessa said. 

“That’s what I like to hear, dahhhlllinggg.”

The waiter, noting the full party now present, stepped forward handing a fresh glass for Kez and lifting the menu. “Shall we proceed with the mains?” he asked. 

Tessa glanced around the table, then nodded. “Yes.” 

“Perfect,” Kez said, eyes twinkling as she leaned back slightly, tucking one leg under the other.

The waiter stepped in closer, attentive, pen ready.

“Filet Mignon for me,” Tessa said. “Thomas Bradley, we’ll share sides. And could I have an order of sweet potato fries and spinach please?”

Thomas Bradley licked his lip and clapped his hand. “Sounds like a feast.”

Noa burst out laughing, turned to the waiter and added, “I’ll take the Grilled Sea Bass with seasonal vegetables, please.”

“Chuck Flap,” Vaughn added, gaze flicking briefly to Noa.

Kez caught it and smirked at him. 

Thomas Bradley tapped the menu. “Dry-Aged Prime Beef. Medium rare.”

"Ribeye, medium rare. And the truffle mash. I need that, please,” handing the menu back.

The waiter nodded, describing each cut as he wrote — the 28-day aged filet, the marbled Chuck Flap grilled over flame, the dark-edged ribeye, the sea bass brushed with thyme and lemon, the Prime Beef carved thick. Excellent. I’ll bring everything out shortly.”

“So, how is everyone? Noa, did you have a good time at the Merrick & Co. Berlin Wall installation with Elijah Merrick?" Kez asked, eyes dancing with mischief. 

Vaughn nearly choked on his glass of wine. Thomas Bradley snickered and Tessa smirked at him. 

“I heard it doesn’t officially open until next week….  Soooo jealous you got a chance to see it up close and personal,” Kez teased.

“It was lovely, Keziah. Thank you for asking,” Noa replied, eyes narrowed on Kez daring her to speak further. 

“Ooof, tough crowd,” Kez laughed, taking a sip of her wine as the waiter reappeared. 

The waiter placed each plate carefully on the table. Tessa’s Filet Mignon came with white and green asparagus and morel cream; Vaughn’s thick Black Angus Chuck Flap Steak was cooked just past medium-rare; Noa’s Grilled Sea Bass rested on a bed of seasonal vegetables — laid in the center of the table alongside sweet potato fries and spinach. 

Tessa picked up her knife, the handle cool in her hand, and quickly cut into the Filet Mignon, “I am starvingggg.” 

Noa poured more wine for everyone, while Thomas Bradley stacked his plate with sweet potato fries and spinach.

She glanced at Vaughn across from her, his Chuck Flap perfectly seared, the juices spilling across his plate as he carved a thick slice.

The first bites were taken in near silence, the room filled with the soft scrape of knives, the clink of forks, and satisfied groans, all under the warm candlelight.

“This is… just perfect,” Tessa murmured, “and not just the food."

Her gaze narrowed on Vaughn’s silent concentration on a particular piece of chuck flap. 

He caught her staring, lips quirked in a half-smile, eyes locked on hers, “Glad to hear it.” 

Thomas Bradley took a bite of his Dry-Aged Prime Beef, letting the meat rest on his tongue a moment before chewing, slowly savoring it.

“You know,” he said, glancing around the table, “sometimes you lot are actually fun to be with. You too Kez, you are a riot on an empty street.”

“Thanks?" Kez laughed.

Noa’s eyes darted between Tessa and Vaughn, exchanging conspiratorial glances between each other, as the citrus from her Sea Bass squirted into the air when she cut into it.

Kez, meanwhile, dug into her Ribeye, the knife cutting through the dark-seared edge with resistance, truffle mash sticking to her fork every time she took a bite.

Somewhere between the ribeye and the second bottle, Vaughn and Noa reached for a sweet potato fry at the same time. His fingers brushed against hers for a fraction of a second, enough to make her pulse skip. 

“Ladies first,” he smirked, passing her the plate.

“.....So…. Elijah Merrick,” he said, clearing his throat. “You two seem… coordinated.”

He held the plate as she pulled fries, gaze boring into her averted one. 

“No more than any other partnership,” Noa replied. “Professional. Respectful. Clear Boundaries. Unlike some clients I know.” 

He smirked. “Didn’t know you liked things so tidy.”

Kez set down her knife slowly, eyes flickering between the two of them. 

Tessa cleared her throat and quietly grabbed her wine glass. 

“I do,” Noa said, sitting back down with her plate. 

Vaughn's eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, quietly studying her.

He sat back down, manspreading his muscular thighs in the chair, and push more of her buttons.

“Must be a difficult life to act like you feel nothing,” Vaughn said, voice tighter now, “ Like nothing gets in.”

Their eyes locked for a moment too long. 

Thomas Bradley’s eye widened mid-chew. 

“Sure, Vaughn,” Noa said. 

Kez finally stood abruptly, breaking the moment in dramatic flair.

“I need to use the ladies room. Tessa, join me.” 

“Absolutely,” Tessa blurted out, leaping from the table and inching to the hallway. 

“I guess I need to go somewhere too. Anywhere!" Thomas Bradley said, standing up. “Five minutes max, you too. I want dessert,” he said, before storming off.

“What is your problem, Vaughn,” Noa seethed.

“I don’t have a problem,” he casually shrugged, “I just think that if you’re supposed to be working for Anfield Red, ignoring Tessa for an entire weekend in ‘the Dolomites’ and going with Merrick to his installation, when her contract is on the line… is also…. a little ‘unprofessional’ that’s all.” 

“Good thing it’s not up to you to decide what is professional,” Noa snapped back, rolling her eyes. 

The waiter reappeared then, and began clearing the table quietly, the scrape of plates and clink of cutlery punctuating the charged silence between Noa and Vaughn as he carried the empty wine bottles and plates back to the kitchen. 

Noa leaned back, watching him, but her gaze kept drifting to Vaughn.

“You know,” Vaughn said quietly, almost under his breath, “It’s actually none of my business what you do NJ. You actually work for me. I need to remember that.” 

Noa’s fingers curled around her wine glass, his voice was soft, but his words landed like a punch in the gut. 

Buzz. 

Their phones vibrated on the table just as Tessa reappeared from the bathroom, slightly frazzled, smoothing her hair and letting out a long sigh. 

Fabrizio. Another ‘here we go.’ 

Tessa swiped to silence it, jaw clenched. Across the table, she noticed a camera flash and she flinched. The reality of being watched right now made her stomach churn. 

“Tes…,” Noa said gently, “are you okay?”

Tessa nodded, but didn’t meet her eyes. “I’m… fine.”

‘We’ll sort this Tess. Even if it takes me and NJ the entire trip.” 

Vaughn stood, crossing the table to wrap her in a hug. 

They took their seats just as Thomas Bradley raced to the table.

“Tess I am sorry the bastards are winning but right now we need to get dessert. I’m not wasting my breath on a Fabrizio fabrication right now when we are in a fancy restaurant with delicious pastries.”

He plopped in his seat, clapping his hands like a child, as the waiter reappeared with a selection of teas and treats. 

Kez finally returned from the restroom, eyes darting between her phone and the group.

“Alright, kiddos,” she said, “It is time for me to skedaddle. Keziah Clarke is a highly in demand and wanted woman.” 

She moved close to Noa, leaned down, and whispered. “I’m not telling you what to do but… if you don’t kiss him, he will combust. I’m just stating facts.”

Noa turned to stare at her, incredulous. “Kez—”

“Nope. Facts. And… also? You might combust too.” Kez’s grin was devilish as she left them to stew. “Ciao everyone!” 

Vaughn’s gaze flicked toward Kez as she walked away, catching part of her words. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. His restraint only added to the tension.

The waiter returned one last time with the check, placing it neatly in the middle of the table. 

“I’ve got it,” Vaughn said, reaching for it and settling it with the waiter. 

Thomas Bradley let out a theatrical sigh.

“Thank goodness! Not all of us make four-hundred thousand dollars a week!” He abruptly stood.

“Well, I have a rave to go to tonight so I will see you all later,” he said, and practically ran toward the door, waving over his shoulder. 

Tessa exhaled, running a hand over the table. Vaughn nudged her shoulder slightly in a silent offer of support, as she stood to gather her coat.

“I think it’s time for me to head out as well. I am going to take my own taxi back to the hotel if you all don’t mind. I need to be alone for a bit.” 

Outside, the cold river air smacked them in the face as the three of them waited to chauffeur Tessa into the cab. 

“Text us when you get back, yeah?,” Noa said, giving her a big hug before she slid into the seat. 

As the taxi sped off, Noa shivered lightly. Vaughn stepped behind her and leaned down, draping his coat over her shoulders without a word.

“Cab?” he asked.

“Yes.” 

By The End of The Night by Amber Mark 

When Noa unlocked the taxi door, she didn’t look back, but she held it open.  It was a quiet invitation, a breath of space carved just for him. 

For Vaughn, it was enough. 

The street still glistened with the remnants of rainfall, puddles reflecting neon signs from the buildings across the Spree. Water dripped steadily from the taxi’s roof, tapping the doorframe. As cars passed their tires splashed water against the curb.

Vaughn ducked and climbed in behind her into the rear passenger seat. The city lights skimmed across his face, catching on the hard angles of his jaw, softening the shadows beneath his eyes.

His thigh brushed the seat before settling, the fabric of his pants shifting with the leather. His gaze flicked briefly to her before settling on the window. 

When he closed the door, the taxi lurched forward. Berlin blurred past the car windows, bridges glowing in white and orange, late-night cyclists crossing streets with hoods pulled tight, the distant rumble of trams. 

Noa tugged Vaughn’s coat tighter, her arm brushing his arm each time the cab swayed. The warmth from his arm seeped through the fabric, and when she adjusted slightly, her hip bumped the seat closer to him.

They stayed silent in the taxi. He kept checking his phone while she ignored hers, hands tucked under the coat, shoulders pulled up, leaning against him for warmth.

“Been a long day,” he murmured, voice roughened by hours of pretending everything was fine.

“It has,” she whispered.

A tram groaned past, its lights strobed over them — flash, shadow, flash — brakes squealing somewhere in the distance. 

Vaughn exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself.

“I miss signs,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could catch them. “Or maybe… I pretend I do.”

Noa turned toward him. Her posture loosened, arms folding gently across her torso as if bracing for what would come next. Her knee angled slightly toward his without her meaning to.

He stared out the window, Adam’s apple shifting.

“Lieke and I…” His jaw flexed. “I stayed because leaving felt like a failure. Because I felt guilty. Because—”

He paused, watching the rain as it tapped against the window. His fingers tightening briefly around his phone, knuckles whitening before he eased his grip.

“I don’t know," he said, shaking his head. "I didn’t know how to walk away from someone who deserved better than the version of me she got.”

Noa didn't interrupt. She watched the forlorn set of his features, the way he took deep breaths trying to regain composure. A small crease formed between her brows, her breath softened, chest rising slower, unconsciously matching his pace.

“And maybe,” he continued, voice quieter, “maybe I broke things on purpose. Because it was easier than saying I was scared.”

Noa sat silently letting him gather his thoughts. 

His voice trailed into the skrrt of tires from the truck next to them at the light. Noa swallowed, the sound barely audible, her throat tight. 

“I’ve been trying to…” She hesitated, eyes dipping. “Force myself into clarity…  If that helps.”

He finally looked at her.

She tilted her head and held his gaze. The confession hung in the air like a warm breath on a cold window. Vaughn’s lips compressed into a line when he realized she was waiting for him, surprised that she wasn’t going to share more.

He understood more than she wished he did.

Her arm brushed his again as the taxi curved around a corner. This time, neither moved away. His breath hitched, before evening out. Her arm lingered against his, and something sharp and electric ran up his spine, catching in the muscles of his back.

The city buzzed around them but inside that moment, it was quiet. The space within the taxi had gone impossibly still.

When the it glided to a stop outside the hotel, the marble entrance glowed gold across the hood. Doormen in black coats shifted to open the revolving doors. Noa reached for the door, hand sliding across the seat, grazing Vaughn’s fingers. He felt the contact like a pulse in places he couldn’t share. 

Inside the hotel lobby, Vaughn followed Noa down the hall towards the elevator, the click of her heels on the stone countered by the faint tap of his shoes.

When she reached the gold doors, she hesitated for a second, hand hovering over the button. Vaughn stepped close enough that his 6’5 frame enveloped her and his chest brushed the back of his coat she was wearing. 

She felt the slight rise of his breathing against her spine, steady but heavy. She shifted slightly, but he stayed close, the space between them tight, before he reached over, hand slid just above hers along the panel. 

His long fingers glided just above hers as he pressed it. The warmth of his hand lingered between them for a moment before he lowered it. The small gap between their hands narrowed until there was none. 

Her breath stilled as she glanced up at him. 

He smirked.

DING. 

The small elevator reflected them in polished metal, fluorescent overhead light making their shadows stretch long and thin. Noa turned slightly but Vaughn didn’t step back. Instead, he closed the distance. The space between them shrank until she could feel the heat of him, the quiet pulse of his breath brushing her neck. 

She should have pulled away. Should have said something — anything — but she didn’t. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, nails grazing her palm. His shoulders squared, as if holding himself still took effort.

DING. 

The elevator doors slid open onto the hallway. Light from sconces fell on the patterned carpet. Vaughn followed her side by side, quietly to her suite. She didn’t ask him to walk her and he wasn't asking for her permission.

Their footsteps fell in sync, the carpet muffling sound but not tension. Noa’s grip on the keycard shifted, the plastic bending slightly between her fingers.

Outside her suite, her hand hovered over the keycard.

She took a deep breath. Her voice was steady, but her pulse was loud enough that she was sure he could hear it. 

“Good night, Vaughn. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She paused, turning to look up at him.

"You should take this back,” she said, shifting on her heel, moving to shed his coat.

The collar brushed her neck as she began to slip it off.

“NJ,” he smirked, biting his bottom lip. His voice was deep and raspy, Dutch lilt filling the small entryway, pressing against her chest. 

“We both know you don’t want that.”

He stepped close enough that the warm smell of his sandalwood choked her. Close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Her breathing shortened, each inhale smaller than the last.

Their fingers brushed again, a delicate drag that sent a shiver up her arm. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, it was small, but enough to bring her closer by an inch.

She lifted her chin and he watched the movement like it was a decision she made just for him. He lowered so that their faces hovered inches apart. His exhale ghosted across her lips, warm, careful, wanting.

His nose grazed hers, barely a touch, testing her.

Something in her finally stopped resisting.

She clicked the lock.

And let him lean in first.

The line she’d been gripping between control and chaos snapped quietly with inevitability.

Wicked Games by The Weeknd

“We shouldn’t—”

“No. But we are.”

It shifted in a second. 

Vaughn pulled Noa him toward her in a deep kiss as he backed her into the suite, pressing one hand to the door behind them, nudging it shut with his shoulder so it clicked into the frame, leaving one hand free to grip her waist as he moved them towards the bed. 

Mouths open, tongues tangled together, breath caught. The faint scent of his cologne lingered as the ding of the elevator outside drifted through the closed door.

His hands gripped her hips and thighs, steadying her against his chest as he pressed her back. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight as she landed, springs groaning softly beneath them. His hands moved quickly, as he stripped them of their clothes, delicately removing her heels and sliding out of his shoes. 

“We should not be doing this,” she breathed out in between kisses. 

"We’re just having a good time, yeah?,” he whispered into her mouth, gripping her face and tongue kissing her. 

Noa nodded, her heart racing, feeling out of control.

The room spun as they came together, their bodies still aching from the emotional walls they built between them — crashing in real time.

“Vaughn—”

Noa’s fingers dug into the sheets as he lowered over her, nails scratching lightly, grounding herself against the soft dip of the mattress.

“Shh,” he murmured, eyes dark, pupils blown. “Let me.”

She obeyed, already trembling. The bed was soft and cool under her, but she was on fire. 

He spread her legs, fingers firm around her thighs, dragging her closer to the edge of the bed until there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He snatched her panties off and lowered his boxer briefs before dropping to his knees. 

She gasped when he kissed the inside of her knee, then again higher, higher—

And then—

His tongue was on her.

He licked her like he was starving, groaning into her pussy — wet, slick. 

Her knees buckled.

“Higher,” he growled against her, voice low and ruined. “Let me see you.”

She moaned, lifting her leg up, bracing it against his shoulder. He used his thumbs to spread her wide.

He tongued her entrance, slow at first — taunting. 

Then deeper. 

Fucking her with his tongue until she was shaking, sobbing — head thrown back and pressed deep into the mattress. 

“Fuck, Vaughn—fuck—”

He didn’t stop — pinning her, tongue relentless; licking and swiping, nose nudging her clit as she started grinding on his face, losing rhythm, losing breath.

He held her open like he owned her body — like he knew it better than she did.

 And when her legs started to collapse? He caught her.

He slid two fingers inside, slow and firm, curling them just so—right there.

Her body jerked.

“Right there?” he asked, voice soaked in filth.

She couldn’t answer. She could barely breathe.

Then he did it again, fingers stroking that spot with perfect pressure while his tongue circled her clit — 

She screamed. “Ohhhhhhmmyyygawwwddddd.” 

 Her orgasm hit her like a tsunami wave. A cry tore through her lungs.

Vaughn’s hand brushed over the nightstand, pulling the little leather travel box from the drawer as she thrashed across the mattress. He grabbed one, but didn't tear it open right away.

“How did you —,” Noa gasped out as he pressed his fingers back inside of her and strummed her clit. 

“Hotel concierge courtesy. Every room has them.” 

He took his tongue and dragged it up and down her neck, pressing his fingers deeper. Noa jolted from the bed —

“Oh, yeah, Oh yeah, OHHHHH, FUCK.” 

His other hand steadied her against his chest. He shifted, lifting her effortlessly, muscles tight beneath her as her legs wrapped around his waist. 

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as his hands gripped her thighs to stabilize her mid-air and move her across the suite toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The moonlight caught the sheen of their skin, their weight shifted with every step, the carpet muffled the sound of his feet.

Noa pressed against him, nails grazing his shoulders as he navigated around the low armchair and small desk, careful not to bump them. He kissed her deeper, like a man starving, as she clawed at his muscular back leaving scratch marks.

The glass was cool against her butt cheek, grounding her as he pressed her against it. 

Vaughn’s hands gripped and roamed her body as his breath came in short exhales. She reached for him, dragging her mouth from his collar bone, lightly biting his neck, swirling her slick tongue in his ears. 

“Mhmmmmmm,” he growled.

 His breath was ragged, eyes dark, gaze narrowed into hers, desperate to slide deep inside of her. 

“You ready? 

She nodded.

“You sure?”

“Mhm hmm,” 

“Noelle Jameson — I need you to say it.” 

“Yes.” 

The sound of the condom being ripped from the foil and slid on, echoed through the quiet room. One arm under her thighs, the other braced against her back. Vaughn studied Noa, his eyes glazed over in lust. Her skin glowed, steam-slick and flushed. Her breath caught when he kissed her collarbone, slowly gliding his tongue over and over her sweet spot. 

“Yeahhhhh, yeahhhh, right there. Mhhmmmm. Fuck.” 

She whimpered as he slowly guided his long, thick, dick inside of her.

A hot, thick stretch made her cry out, cheeks against the window, eyes blown wide.

“Fuckkkkkk,” they both cried out in unison.

The soft click of the window latch echoed faintly, sounds of the traffic, faint rain drops, and intermittent guts of wind slipping past the sealed panes. Vaughn’s breath was ragged against her neck, mingling with the faint scent of her perfume.

He held her briefly, letting her weight settle against the window, foreheads touching, chests heaving. 

He pressed upward into her. 

“Unhhhh.”

He groaned, her slick coating his dick. 

“They can probably hear us.” 

 Noa gasped, clutching his shoulders, meeting each stroke.  

The window vibrated slightly under each thrust. Sweat dripped down in rivulets and fogged the glass.

“Then they’ll know how good I make you feel.”

He held her hips like he owned them, drilling into her over and over, with a sharp, punishing rhythm.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“Mhmmmmm.” 

Her eyes flickered closed, “Yes, yes, yes, yessss,” head lolled back, mouth gaped open as drool trickled out and slid down her face. 

“Look at me” he growled, ramming into her. “Watch how I fuck you.”

She tried to look away. 

He gripped her chin. “Don’t. Look at me.”

Noa’s heart cracked open as her glassy gaze landed on Vaughn. She felt herself fall apart as she  watched him wreck her with every thrust, every sharp slap of hips and breath and heat, beads of sweat dripping from every inch of his skin. 

And then—

He spun her, hands catching her thighs as he dropped into a chair next to them.

“Ride me.”

Noa swung her leg over him, thighs pressing against his sides, and settled into his lap, not breaking her gaze. 

The chair creaked under their combined weight. Her arms circled his neck, fingers digging into the nape of his hair, grounding both of them as their lips collided. 

His hands pressed into her hips, steadying her with tight thigh muscles beneath her palms. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply, the taste of spit and sweat colliding. 

She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Mhmmm.” 

Then his jaw. 

A groan erupted from his chest. 

Then his collarbone.

“Yeahhhhh,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

For a brief moment, they froze, foreheads brushing, chests rising and falling against each other. The soft squeak of the chair filled the pause before she lowered herself. A gasp spilling from her lips as she guided him inside with a slow, steady roll of her hips. 

“So fucking wet,” he rasped.

His breath hitched and caught in his throat, as she slid off his dick and slowly slid back down. Her hands braced on his chest. His slid up her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh to ground himself.

“Fuck… you feel—”

Noa rolled her hips again, eyes fluttering, head lolled back as she bit her lip. 

“Mhmmmm, yeahhhh.” 

“Ride it how you need it, baby. I’m right here,” he whispered in her ear, leaning forward to suck on her neck. 

“Mhmmmm. Mhmmmm. Mhmmmm,” Noa moaned over and over.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Vaughn’s throat tightened, closing his eyes trying to work to silence filthy sounds he didn't want to make out loud.

Noa leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Eyes on me.”

Vaughn's eyes flew open. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Noa mewled, rolling her hips back and forth. 

Suddenly, Vaughn grabbed her thighs and leaned forward. He gripped her hips and drilled up in her, clenching his jaw to suppress another groan bubbling in his chest as another orgasm ripped through Noa.   

“Yesssssssssss. OHHHHHHH. Mhmmmm. Fuckkkkk.” 

“Just like that,” he smirked, forehead pressed to hers, lips barely brushing. “Take what you want.”

She snapped. 

Noa moved like she had something to prove, arched her back, sweat dripping around them, thighs trembling as she chased the edge again.

“FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.,” she screamed over and over, jolting forward, gripping Vaughn’s shoulders until they turned a deep red. 

He paused briefly on the chair, letting her legs dangle slightly as he slid her back down on his dick, foreheads brushing. Chests heaving, he braced her thighs firmly, one hand under her hips, the other across her back, muscles stretching as he lifted her from the chair. 

She rested her head on shoulders catching her breath as he navigated the open space of the suite. They passed the desk and armchair to the table. Dishes rattled slightly as he pushed them aside, her legs still slightly trembling from orgasmic aftershocks. 

“Want to see that back arch,” he grunted.

Noa turned, her back, arching naturally, as she bent across the wood the table supporting her weight as he pressed into her from behind. One hand anchored between her shoulders, the other gripping her hair, holding her steady. 

Sweat-slick skin met with skin, as he grabbed her hips and drove into her from behind — hard, unrelenting. Wood groaned under the pressure as her hands gripped and clawed at the edge of the table for dear life, moans, ragged, raw.

The slap of skin on skin echoed off the wall, obscene and addictive. 

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Vaughn’s hand wrapped around her throat, lightly holding it, grounding them both.

“Look at you. Taking it like that. Fuck.”

Noa pushed her ass back against him and Vaughn nearly lost it.

He steadied himself by pressing one knee lightly against the table’s edge, muscles flexing under the movement. His other hand gripped her sweaty face firmly, tilting her gently toward him. 

“Don’t look away,” he growled. 

She moaned, palms banging against the table with each thrust as she tried to keep herself steady. He pulled back slightly for a breath, then slammed in again. 

His thrusts got deeper. 

Rougher. 

The wood creaked beneath them. Noa could barely keep her eyes open, barely hold herself upright. He grabbed her hips and pulled her back pussy juice swallowing his dick as he continued fucking into her so deep she sobbed again.

Then—

With a firm grip under her thighs and across her back, Vaughn lifted her smoothly, guiding her across the suite back to the bed. Her body swung slightly, but his steady hold prevented any wobble. 

He spun her, letting her weight settle across the mattress, fingers brushing the sheets as she hit the bed. 

“Face down. Arch your ass,” he commanded, pressing a hand lightly to steady her hips. 

The mattress dipped beneath her weight, springs groaning softly, as her knees sank into the mattress. Her fingertips clutched the sheets as she adjusted to his weight behind her — arms trembling from how hard she needed it.

“Give it to me,” she moaned. 

He pressed into her, steadying himself on his knees, muscles flexing beneath her — parted her, and—

Tongued her.

She gasped as his tongue found her. 

“Ohmyyyyygoood. Yes.” 

One long lick, then another. 

Wet sounds mixed with the soft squeak of the mattress and her ragged breathing. She writhed. Cried out. He groaned against her like she was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

And then he was inside her again — fucking her, deep and hard, panting against her shoulder, catching her mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth as he reached his free hand around to finger her. Sweat and skin and the slap of bodies, the press of lips and the sound of breathless sobs.

And finally — finally—

He flipped her.

Pinned her beneath him onto her back in one fluid motion, dragging her to the edge of the bed. Her legs dangled, spread for him. His hands parting her thighs, his mouth on her again — relentless, hungry, working her open — in and out — in and out. She arched off the bed, one hand fisting in his bun, the other braced behind her.

“Oh my god—don’t stop. Vaughn—fuck—”

His eyes darkened at the sound of her voice, the way it cracked with need, and he growled into her sweaty skin, a low, possessive sound that sent a shiver down her spine. 

His body shifted, pressing closer, hands reaching for her, guiding her movements with careful control, but there was nothing controlled about the way she was responding to him.

Her head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as he drove deeper into her, his breath hot against her ear.

Her fingers found their way into his hair, tugging him closer, the weight of his body on top of hers making her feel like she’s drowning in him. 

“Mhhhhmmmm.” 

It was overwhelming, and in the best way.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“Say my name.”

She heard the edge of demand in his voice that made her pulse race even faster.

“Vaughn... Vaughn… Vaughn,” she whimpered over and over.

His lips crashed against hers again, silencing any other words, consuming her in a kiss that was messy and desperate. His hands gripped her hips tighter, pulling her into him as he moved with an unrelenting rhythm. 

Slap. Slap. Slap. 

“Vaughn —please —”

Slap. Slap. Slap. 

“I’m about to —,” he grunted.

He sped up, drilling into her. 

Over and over. Over and over. Over and over. Faster. Faster. Faster. 

He jolted. His whole body spasmed. “Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk.” 

Hot cum sprang out from his dick, twitching deep inside her wet plush walls as his breath caught against her skin. 

“Yesssss,” she moaned.

His body stilled for a second, just to breathe her in, fingers pressing lightly against her ribs to ground himself, as his heart rapidly beat in his chest. 

The Morning by The Weeknd

And then, he pulled back. Slowly. Reluctantly. His hands lingered on her thighs, fingers tracing the ridges of the marks he’d left, sweat beading along the skin, a faint musky heat filling the space between them. 

Vaughn leaned forward. He pressed his forehead to hers briefly, lips brushing skin before sliding beside her, pulling her into the crook of his arm. Their chests rose and fell together, as he rested his head against the pillow beside her, brushing a few strands of lingering coiled hair from her forehead. His fingers traced lazy patterns along her arm.

He let the silence linger between them because he didn’t want to be the first to speak.

And he knew Noa wouldn’t. 

And she didn’t. 

Of course she didn’t. 

The faint hiss of the radiator and the irregular echo of distant traffic from outside filled the hushed suite. Their heartbeats hammered in the quiet, one slow and steady, the other erratic. Vaughn’s chest tightened. He couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or frustration, only that he couldn’t believe she made him feel so many things at once.

He cleared his throat. A soft, almost inaudible rasp. “So, are we sitting in silence all night, or talking so I can get us cleaned up?”

He shifted, rolling onto his side, knees bending slightly so he could face her more fully, catching her gaze as she blinked against the dim light of the bedside lamp.

Noa shifted, propping herself up on one arm, mattress creaking softly under her weight. Her fingers trailed down his chest, fingertips brushing over the skin, tentative, searching.

She swallowed, throat tight, her eyes met his. She swallowed once more, unsure of how to say it, but needing to.

“We can’t do this again?” Her voice was low, dipped in uncertainty, but her eyes held a sharp insistence. Her whisper was small but firm.

Vaughn didn’t answer immediately. He leaned in slightly, chin tilted, scanning her face like he was tracing the lines of a map, studying her quietly, waiting, reading her.

“Is that a question or a statement?,” he demanded, voice firm, jaw tight, fingers twitching slightly as they hovered near her arm, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

He reached for her cheek, thumb brushing along the curve of her jaw. His eyes softened as his fingers lingered there, watching the way her body softened into him.

“Vaughn,” she said, closing her eyes, exhaling slowly, breath catching in the small pause between them. 

“I don’t want to go tonight. Let me stay,” he whispered, leaning forward, lips grazing hers for a fraction of a second, then down her neck, brushing over the collarbone with featherlight pressure. She tilted her head slightly to the side, giving him access, chest rising faster as a faint shiver ran down her spine. 

“Mhmmmmm —” Her breath hitched, a small moan escaping as warmth bloomed across her chest, rolling down to her toes. Her hands gripped the sheet beneath her, digging into the fabric as she craned her neck to the side,letting the warmth from his lips control her.

He was pulling her deeper. She felt the weight of him shift, his thigh pressing against hers as he eased up on the mattress, the springs groaning softly under the movement. It was surprising and frightening and intoxicating all at once. She closed her eyes and slowly sank back into the mattress, as Vaughn shifted to lower himself over her.

He lifted his hand and brushed his thumb over her lips, tracing them slowly as if memorizing the shape, lingering just long enough to catch her breath

“This wasn’t a mistake,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “I don’t think it was. I think you needed something. And I needed something too. It wasn’t a mistake,” he repeated, firmly. 

Noa’s breath caught as her eyes searched his face, flicking to his mouth, his jaw, his eyes, looking for any hint of doubt. 

“Get cleaned up with me. Just be. With me. Tonight.” He leaned down to kiss her, it was soft but insistent. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”

She allowed herself to rise, legs folding beneath her as they moved toward the bathroom. 

Water hit the tile floor in a steady rhythm, droplets echoing off the walls. Steam fogged the mirror, condensation dripping in thin lines. Vaughn’s hands grazed her back, her shoulders, water sliding over their skin, hands brushing, nudging, holding, shifting. The scent of soap mixed with their sweat in the humid air. 

Towels rustled as they stepped back, wrapping themselves quickly. Their feet padded across the floor, sheets crinkling under movement. Vaughn eased onto the bed first, sinking into the mattress with a soft groan. Noa followed, curling against him, the sheet tangling over their legs, arms draped across each other. 

His fingers traced lazy circles along her back. She shifted slightly, sighing as the contact sent shivers down her spine.

The room quieted: radiator humming low, street traffic distant, occasional car passing. The rise and fall of chests and the light tapping of rain against the window were the only markers of time, drifting them to sleep.

Call Out My Name by The Weeknd 

Early light pushed through the tall shutters of the Hotel de Rome, a slight breeze moving the curtains. The sunlight landed across Noa’s cheek, waking her, bedsheet twisted around her ankle. For a moment she was unsure where she was. The room was quiet, besides the low hum of the radiator and distant traffic from Bebelplatz.

Vaughn was asleep beside her.

He lay on his side, his tattoo sleeved arm under the pillow, the other near his chest. His jaw slack, a little frizz escaping from his usually perfect manbun, also unraveling from the ponytail. The rise and fall of his caramel colored back was slow, steady. He looked heavier asleep, limbs long, lashes sprawling across his high cheekbone. Even asleep, he looked unfairly beautiful despite soft, uneven snoring every few breaths.

Noa eased herself out of the sheets, the parquet floor cool under her feet as she gathered her clothes in her arms and tiptoed to the bathroom without turning on any lights. She pushed the door to the bathroom closed with her hip, crossing to the mirror still slightly fogged from last night. Her hair was mashed on one side from forgetting her bonnet. 

She pressed a finger gently against her cheekbone and let out a slow breath. 

“What am I doing,” she whispered.

She grabbed a shower cap and stepped into the shower. Hot water hit her shoulders fast, drumming against her skin in rivulets. She closed eyes and tilted her head back, trying not to think. 

Vaughn had woken the moment the shower started, a slow, sinking awareness settling in his chest. His body felt too warm against the sheets she’d just left. 

He sat up, feet touching the cool parquet, and reached for his boxers, pants and shirt, pulling them up his legs, raising his arms and pulling on his t-shirt. As he tugged on his shoes he glanced toward the frosted glass, outline of Noa inside, head tipped back, arms lifted as she lathered her body. His breath caught, sharp and involuntary. 

He stepped back before he let the moment pull him in. 

He picked his watch off the nightstand, slipped it on, grabbed the note pad and scribbled a note to her. He placed it on her side of the bed, smoothing the crease with his thumb, taking a long exhale. 

He quietly padded out the door, not allowing himself another look, as the door clicked shut behind him. 

When she shut off the water, the silence confirmed it.

Vaughn had left. 

Wrapped in the heavy white hotel robe, Noa walked back into the bedroom. 

A folded note sat on the edge of the bed: 

NJ — It was not a mistake. Not for you. Not for me. I wanted to give you your privacy. We’ll keep everything normal. See you tonight at dinner with the team. — Vaughn

She held the note between both hands, thumb tracing the edge.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. 

“Room service.”

Noa pulled the robe tighter and opened the door. A staff member in a navy suit wheeled in a polished silver cart. The wheels barely made a sound as he pulled it to the nearest window, where sunlight stretched across the table in thin lines, as he lifted the domes: Eier Benedict, slices of Speck, Pfannkuchen stacked neatly with a dusting of sugar, a bowl of warm berry compote. A pot of Hibiscus tea and a carafe of orange juice. 

“Der Tagesspiegel,” he said, placing the newspaper down by the tray. 

“And this arrived for you.”

He handed her a copy of GQ magazine.

Once he left, Noa sank into the chair by the window and poured a cup of tea. She held the mug with both hands, warming her fingers, staring out at Bebelplatz. A bicycle bell rang faintly from below.

After a moment, she picked up the magazine. 

READ THE FULL GQ ARTICLE HERE

Theo.

There he was.... full-page.

Sharp suit, clean background, the Milan skyline behind him. The coat — the Loro Piana coat he sent to her yesterday. The way the light hit his smooth light brown skin, the tilt of his head, his deep brown eyes and megawatt smile. Looking at him brought a pang in her chest.

Her stomach dipped. She set the mug down, cut a corner off a Pfannkuchen, thumbing open the article.

She read each page not believing her eyes. 

“The calm, quiet, fiercely protective, yet soft 6 '3 romantic. At the time of this article, he was just photographed in Amsterdam with long-time love Noa Jameson — but we won’t race to that part of Aldridge-Wells’ eclectic and electric life.”

She froze, the fork hit the plate with a small clink.

It said her name. 

Out loud. 

On paper.

She turned the page.

“It’s early evening in Milan. Blue hour. Just after sunset, as the sky slides into the twilight blue hue. The coat he’s wearing sold out before it ever hit shelves. It was part of a Loro Piana capsule designed by Copenhagen’s own Niko Nozuka-Lindberg, fresh off his Copenhagen Design Week debut. Keziah Clarke styled the campaign.”

Her eyes went wide. She leaned closer, eyes narrowing, reading the line over and over. 

“Keziah Clarke?” she whispered. “Are you fuck— you styled this?”

She flipped again, breathing too fast.

“Neither name is dropped by Theo. Not until I press.‘Kez? Yeah. She was in Berlin for another job, and flew in for this. She gets it,’ he shrugs, ‘I’ve known her for a long time — mutual friends, innit.’He doesn’t mention Noa Jameson. But I know. And so, I think, does he.”

She pushed her chair back slightly, the legs scraping soft against the wood.

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

Next page.

“The walls are a curated gallery in themselves. One holds a framed photo of the Aldridge-Wells family in Treasure Beach, Jamaica. Everyone barefoot, sun-soaked, smiling.Noa Jameson is there, wrapped in Theo’s embrace as he kisses the top of her head.”

She slapped her hand over her mouth.

He kept that photo? He put it on display? In a RESTAURANT??? In HIS restaurant???

Next page.

“‘Any correlation to Noa Jameson?’‘If I said no, you wouldn’t believe me. If I said yes, you’d ask me too many follow-up questions and twist my words,’ he smirked…”

She groaned.

“Theo. Stop.”

The room felt too small.

She stood and walked to the bed. Then she walked back to the chair. She picked up the magazine. Then sat it down. She rubbed the frown lines from her forehead and picked it up again.  

Then kept reading.

“Wimbledon was where Theo saw Noa again for the first time in years. He probably will tell you it wasn’t planned. But it wasn’t avoided either.”

Her knees buckled, and she collapsed in the chair. 

And then:

— Zagreb: “In Zagreb, the restaurant isn’t open yet. But it’s ready. The back room is dim and golden, filled with mismatched chairs, and an unfinished corner of tile that’s been left bare. When I ask why it isn’t complete, he says: ‘It’s not time yet.’ There’s a playlist loaded on the sound system. The first song: Nice to Each Other by Olivia Dean. Later, I find a printed menu on the host stand. One course circled in pencil.”

She let the magazine fall open on the table, chest rising and falling too quickly.

“At a private villa just outside Navigli, where Architectural Digest is staging a cross-feature with Loro Piana, timed to launch with: Theo’s debut as interim England captain for their World Cup qualifier The debut of Loro Piana’s new Storm System™ hybrid outerwear And, quietly… the release of this very article.

Niko Nozuka-Lindberg is on set again. The Copenhagen wunderkind who designed Theo’s original storm-grey coat is back as head designer for this new Loro Piana drop: a limited run of Storm System™ sustainable cashmere outerwear, blending technical fabric and light performance tailoring for a fashion-sport crossover. It’s a bit sleeker than the last drop.”

“Oh my god. Niko too,” she whispered, standing and pacing once, twice.

She exhaled, clutching the page, as she stared out at the sunlight on Bebelplatz.

“‘So,’ I ask, ‘did you finally build it? The life you wanted?’He shrugs… ‘Maybe.’And then, quieter: ‘Depends on if she seizes it.’I couldn’t decipher whether he meant ‘see’ or ‘seizes.’”

Her phone sat on the table.

She stared at it.

Then reached.

Scrolled.

Tapped.

Kez.

She pressed the phone to her ear as the dial tone filled the quiet, sunlit room.

Close Up by Olivia Dean

ZAGREB — Dua “Love”

Theo unlocked the restaurant before the sun had fully cleared the rooftops. Cobblestones were still damp from the morning, shutters drawn, streets empty. Inside, the back room smelled faintly of sawdust and citrus cleaner. The walls were freshly painted, the floor scrubbed but still dusty in corners. One section of tile near the prep area was left unfinished, gray, rough, edges jagged against the polished wood. Mismatched chairs were arranged around raw oak tables. 

Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching in the dust motes.

The room was buzzing with a cacophony of sound, saws whining as they bit into wood, drills firing in short bursts, ladders thudding as they shifted against the walls. A contractor’s toolbox lay open by the doorway, metal pieces clinking whenever someone brushed past.

One worker crouched low at the unfinished tile, dragging the grout float in slow, deliberate strokes, grit catching under the edge. 

“Careful with that tile,” he said, his voice low but firm.

“Yes, yes,” one contractor replied, eyes down on the grout.

Another checked the alignment of the bar shelves, on tiptoe, adjusting bottles and glassware until everything sat straight. A tape measure snapped back; a tray rattled as it hit the counter. A hammer tapped softly from the corner.

“Drži to ravno, molim te! (Keep it straight, please!)” one contractor barked. “I can’t mark it if you keep moving.”

“Smiri se, čovječe (Calm down man),” another muttered, shaking out his hands. “It’s early.”

Theo moved through the room, checking each table, lifting chairs, brushing dust from the corners. Every corner demanded his attention. He paused at the host stand, glancing at the printed menu with the pencil-marked course. 

Buzz. 

He glanced at the screen. Luka. From the Zagreb team.

“There was a pause on the other end, and then, ‘It’s Luka.’”

Theo’s jaw tightened. He stepped to the terrace door, opened it, letting in the morning air. Cool and crisp, it brushed his arms. The terrace was ready, tables in place, umbrellas folded, the cobblestones swept. He closed the door with a soft click and ran his hand along his beard. 

“Yeah. Go ahead,” he said.

“The city granted the permit,” Luka beamed. “I am five minutes away.” 

“That’s good news. I have a couple of things I need your eye on.” 

“Cool. Food?”

“Nah,” he laughed. The restaurant is open yet. Need that permit.” 

“On the way, boss.” 

“Safe.” Theo hung up without another word. Then he turned back inside.

He muttered, half to himself, “Three weeks… three weeks.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

He didn’t check it.

He wasn’t ready to know whether she’d seen the article yet.

Not yet.

READ THE FULL GQ ARTICLE HERE

The Weight of My Words by Kings of Convenience

Noa’s Room 505, Dormitory 5th Fl, Prishtina

“Faleminderit, shumë,” Noa said, swapping her heels for flip flops.

She slid out of the sedan and flicked the door shut, legs propelling her up five flights of steps, breath rising and falling with each step.

She raced to 505, clicked the door open, and moved to the suitcase, tossing things into the bag — shirt, dress, hoodie, pants, toothbrush, charger.

She turned and opened Messages on her phone. 

Noa: Coming home. 

Deleted. 

Theo.  Coming home. 

She exhaled and deleted the sentence again.

Typed again.

Home?

Deleted again.

“Ugh.” She flopped on the bed, slightly shifting the suitcase as her back dipped into the mattress. With outstretched arms, she thumbed and deleted at least five times.

Theo broke me. Home. Theo broke me. Can I come home? Theo. Can I come home? Theo hurt me.

She rolled on her side and opened Notes instead, thumbing a list. 

Istanbul logistics

Saudi follow-ups

Basel prep

She typed three words.

Deleted them. 

Her chest tightened as the first tear fell. 

She quickly swiped it away and opened 

Contacts. Mom.

“Hello.” 

A wail erupted in waves across the line, heavy breathing, and deep exhales before another shrill cry mounted and leapt out. 

“I know.” 

Her mom’s voice echoed softly through the line.

Viv, I read your email and will have the materials ready for Istanbul. Will connect when I land. Noa 

“Ticket to New York, please,” she said, sliding her passport across the desk. 

So Mi Like It by Spice 

Noa’s Hood, Brooklyn

The cab slowed to the curb of a multi-story brick apartment building just inside the crosswalk as the light blinked red. Dogs jerked owners forward on multicolored leashes, tires screeched as cars zipped from parked positions, joggers anxiously shifted weight from left to right, glancing down at FitBits on wrists. Cars lined along the curb under lush green arbors, shielding the bright blue sky with thin, wispy clouds.

“Thanks,” Noa murmured, tapping her phone to the stationed kiosk on the plastic window. She quickly thumbed her signature across the screen before clenching the door handle and stepping outside.

She slid her duffel from the worn leather seat and moved toward the aged red and tan brick building. Black metal fire escapes ran vertically along the building. An arched entranceway with light-colored stucco framing. A low black metal fence bordered a narrow strip of grass with a DO NOT PARK YOUR DOG HERE sign directing the concrete sidewalk running parallel to parked cars.

“Of course they didn’t fix this.” She sighed, glancing up at the small exterior light fixture mounted above the doorway missing a light bulb.

She hoisted the bag further up her shoulder, digging for her keys. She twisted the silver key into the metal-and-glass front door and walked through the arch.

Yes a so mi like it.

“Every mawnin’, same ting,” a voice called out from 1A. “Mi sweep, mi greet, mi deh yah.”

An intense aroma of sweet, spicy, smoky scents zapped her nostrils as bass boomed into the rectangular lobby.

Look pon mi body, yo mi wine it.

“Hey, Mr. Lenny,” Noa waved.

“Been a long time, yuh know. Yuh a ghost round here, NJ,” he grinned, tapping his broom against the off-white stucco wall. He shuffled closer, arms wide. “Come yah.”

Cinnamon, apricot, pungent garlic and ginger swirled up toward the high ceilings, bass thudding through the exposed beams.

How mi kotch it and a wine it.

“Let mi see yuh good,” he said, lifting his glasses from his chest and squinting at her face. He pulled her into a tight hug. “Yuh look good… but too quiet. Dat nuh right.”

Bubble and a siddung and a wine it.

A loud thud shook the chandelier, a voice shouted, “Turn it down, Shanice!”

“Mind yuh business!” Shanice yelled back, laughing, the bass cranking louder. “Is Saturday!”

From the other side of the hall, a woman’s voice rose clear and steady.

“Take me to the Kinggggggg—”

“Lawd,” Mr. Lenny muttered. “Everybody got dem own soundtrack, yuh know.”

Noa’s sneakers squeaked across the newly polished geometric tiled floor; dusty pinks, greens, creams, and black outlines — as she moved toward the row of mailboxes. Mr. Nelson’s rusty black metal bike leaned crookedly against them, dust puffing up as she brushed past.

Yes a so mi like it.

“Mr. Nelson,” she groaned, nudging the handle aside with her foot.

CLICK.

A sea of white and brown envelopes burst free, skidding across the tile.

“Yuh never in di building,” someone sucked her teeth behind her. “Mail a come every day, yuh know.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Trudy,” Noa said, turning toward the woman in the multicolored dashiki.

At that moment, metal clanged loudly. Mailboxes flew open and shut in quick succession.

“Y’all have got to start checking your mail!” Marcus called, already sorting. “Same time, every day. And it’s still full from yesterday.” He turned, eyes narrowed in on Noa. He kissed his teeth and kept sorting. 

Noa rolled her eyes and ignored him. 

“Marcus, yuh too serious,” Ms. Trudy said.

“It’s my job Ms. Trudy,” he replied, “Gots to do my job,” keys jangling as he moved down the row.

Ms. Trudy looked Noa up and down. “Yuh nuh look good, yuh know. Too skinny.” She kissed her teeth.

“Ms. Trudy.”

“Tuh!” Ms. Trudy waved a hand. “Mi a mek jerk chicken an rice an peas. “Come get a plate tonight. Nuh argue wid mi.”

Ms. Trudy caught her reflection in the antique gold-trimmed mirror above the mailboxes, adjusted her earrings, then glided down the hall, the chandelier trembling with bass as she went.

Noa moved toward the three-step landing where the hallway narrowed.

“Ugh,” she groaned.

ELEVATOR BROKEN AGAIN. — scratched out and replaced with — THIS ELEVATOR ALWAYS FUCKING BROKEN. WHAT IS NEW!

She half-laughed as she climbed toward the fourth floor.

She was home.

Jean Robson in 3B was already arguing with someone through his door, “Tiara. You were tweeting on Twitter! You are lying.,” he screamed, soca blasting, the smell of soup joumou drifting up the stairwell.

She burst out laughing, shaking her head as she made her way up the last flight of stairs, her head pounding, legs cramping, bag sliding lower on her throbbing shoulder. 

Homesick by Kings of Convenience 

Noa’s Apartment, Brooklyn

She twisted the key into the lock, stumbled into the door, bag on her shoulder, phone clutched in the other. 

“You look tired,” her mom said, already reaching for a hug. 

Woof. Woof. Woof. 

A large, slender, brown and black dog, ears the shape of cheesy Doritos, skidded across the floor, his entire back end wiggling like Slinky from Toy Story.

“Basil,” Noa cooed. 

She untangled her body from her mom, slid her bag to the floor and crouched down to pat her dog. 

Her mom was already halfway toward the kitchen, steam rising through the apartment dragging the smell of hibiscus. 

“Tired ain’t the word,” Noa said, flopping on the couch, Basil curled at her feet, already snoring. 

 “I am bone weary,” she exhaled, just as her mom returned to the room with a steaming mug, “But this smells good, thank you!,” she grinned, taking the mug and a tiny sip. 

“Yolanda found it on sale,” her mom smiled. “Grabbed us each a bag and I put half in your cabinet,” she nodded toward the kitchen. 

Her mom quietly slid into a nearby chair, gaze narrowed and examining. 

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“You eat?”

“Barely.”

“Hmm.” Her mom nodded. 

Noa sipped her tea, set the mug down, and stood. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, hugging her mom again.

Her mom held her a second longer, then let go.

Noa slept so long she never felt her leave.

The apartment smelled faintly of jerk chicken, rice and peas, and stale red wine. 

Noa lay stretched across the couch in Rossoneri Milano sweats, a half-empty bowl of chips balanced on her stomach. Basil slept at her feet, twitching occasionally in his dreams.

“…marriage didn’t kill him. Divorce finished the job.”

DUN. DUN.

The theme music swelled softly, then cut back to voices.

Noa didn’t change it.

“…I’ve got a body that says one thing and a witness that says another.”

She hadn’t changed much of anything.

Basil lifted his head and whined.

Noa didn’t answer him at first. 

Woof. Woof. Woof. 

Basil loomed over her, brown eyes locked on her. 

“Okayyyyy,” she sighed, pushing herself off the couch. “Let me shower first,” she said, and padded to the bathroom.

Basil’s leash lay coiled by the door.

Noa stood there longer than necessary before picking it up.

They crossed the doorway, Noa lagging a step behind as Basil darted out into the hallway. 

Just then a brown wire haired pointer sprinted from the top stair, skidding in front of Basil. 

Woof. Woof. Woof. 

Barks echoed through the hallway, bouncing off the marble floor and stucco walls. 

“Ernest Fiorenza!,” a voice called out. 

Basil and Ernest circled each other in a duel, jumping from left to right. 

Seconds later, a blonde woman with glasses rose from the staircase, breathing in shallow breaths. 

Woof. Woof. Woof. 

“Jesus, Ernest, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

She gestured, reaching to tug his leash, “Come here.” 

“Hey, Jen, long time,” Noa said, pulling Basil’s leash. 

“Hey NJ.” 

Noa laughed. “Mr. Lenny has converted you too, huh?” 

“It just rolls off the tongue, don’t you think,” she winked, crossing the adjacent door to Noa’s, unlocking the door. 

“You sticking around this time?” 

“Few days.” 

“I wish I had such an interesting life,” Jen sighed.

“Sometimes it is,” Noa smiled, “Come on Basil, let’s go,” she pulled him forward toward the staircase. 

Jen leaned out of the door, “Prospect Park play date when you’re finally back?” 

“Of course,” Noa called, descending the stairs. 

Little Kids by Kings of Convenience 

Prospect Park, Brooklyn 

They headed across the street toward the park, Basil pulling through the sidewalk, straining forward, tail high, nails clicking against the pavement. Kids on scooters cut too close, wheels rattling, one shouting “Watch it!” without slowing. A basketball thumped somewhere off to the right. Laughter spilled from a stoop, then dissolved into music.

“Basil!” a voice called.

His ears perked instantly, tail wagging hard enough to throw his hips sideways.

They waited at the light as the bus hissed to a stop, doors folding open, bodies spilling out in a rush. Someone bumped her shoulder.

“My bad,” he muttered without stopping.

Across the street, a guy in shorts held four leashes looped over one wrist, a loose pack circling his legs — Maggie, the English setter, whining; Hank, the Bluetick coonhound, sniffing; Lulu, the Great Dane, standing solid and patient at his heel; Dini pacing tight figure-eights, alert and vibrating with energy.

“Hey, Mike,” Noa called, lifting a hand as they crossed the street. 

“Didn’t know you were back,” he said, grinning as Basil trotted toward them. “Man’s been missed.”

Basil barked once, scooting closer to the group. Maggie answered immediately, pulling against her leash. Lulu just watched, tail thumping once against the curb.

“The pack wants you back, Base,” Mike added, looking down at Basil. “Adventures await.”

“For sure,” Noa said. “Soon,” she smiled, tugging Basil forward before he could drag her into the tangle of leashes.

Reggae drifted from an open car window. At the corner, a woman paced in tight circles, phone held out in front of her.

“No, the train is not running at that stop,” she snapped, eyes fixed on the screen.

Basil veered toward a dropped bag of chips. “No,” Noa said. He huffed, offended.

Down the block, the subway roared beneath the street, a low thunder she felt more than heard. Basil pulled forward again, tail high.

At the bodega, Noa ducked inside for a drink.

DING.

A gray cat lounged on top of the freezer, eyes narrowing as Basil crossed the threshold, her hiss cut through the air.

Basil barked, startled, lunging once before Noa yanked the leash back.

“No,” she said firmly, crouching to steady him.

“Relax, Wilhelmina,” the guy behind the counter said, amused.

“You see her,” he said, glancing up now. “She don’t move.”

Wilhelmina’s tail flicked.

“He hate that.”

Noa laughed. “Always.” She grabbed a cold bottle from the cooler. “Hey, Omar.”

Basil growled at Wilhelmina, as Noa slapped bills on the counter.

“You back?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t be stranger.”

She nodded and was back outside before the bell finished ringing.

Basil surged forward, dragging her the rest of the way down the block, tail high, ears alert. Ahead, music spilled through open doors, bass slipping out onto the sidewalk in uneven bursts.

“Back again?” a neighbor called from a folding chair on the stoop, beer balanced between his knees.

“For a minute,” Noa said, lifting the bottle in acknowledgment.

Her phone buzzed as Basil tugged toward the curb.

She glanced down long enough to catch the name at the top.

Star Wars Pup Reunion (12).

She slid the phone back into her pocket without opening it and followed him.

Waiting in Vain by Bob Marley

Miss Mavis: Wallace & Basil, Theo’s Restaurant, Brooklyn